The Marching Season

organization might conflict with your own narrow self-interests. Indeed, that is the spirit of cooperation embodied by the Society."
    "I understand, Director."
    "And if the executive council gives its blessing to this operation, you must do nothing to prevent it from succeeding."
    "You have my word, Director."
    "Very well," the Director said, looking about the room. "All in favor, signify by saying aye."
    The meeting broke up just after dawn. One by one the members of the executive council left the villa and headed back across Mykonos to Chora. Picasso remained behind to have a private word with the Director.
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    "The Hartley Hall affair," the Director said distantly watching the sun appear on the horizon. "It was a trap, wasn't it, Picasso?"
    "It was a major victory for our service. It will make it more difficult for our detractors to say that we have lost our way in the post-Cold War world." Picasso paused, then added carefully, "I thought results like that were the goal of this organization."
    "Indeed." The Director smiled briefly. "You were well within your rights to act against the Ulster Freedom Brigade in order to further your own interests. But now the Society has decided to help the Brigade carry out a specific task—the assassination of Ambassador Cannon—and you must do nothing to prevent it from going forward."
    "I understand, Director."
    "In fact, there is one thing you can do to help."
    "What's that?"
    "I intend to give the assignment to October," the Director said. "Michael Osbourne seems to have made it his crusade to find October and destroy him."
    "He has good reason."
    "Because of the Sarah Randolph affair?"
    "Yes."
    The Director looked disappointed. "Osbourne seems like such a talented officer," he said. "This fixation with avenging the past boggles the mind. When will this fellow get it through his head that it was nothing personal, just business?"
    "Not anytime soon, I'm afraid."
    "It's come to my attention that Osbourne is in charge of the search for October."
    "That's true, Director."
    "Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if he were given
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    other responsibilities. Surely, an officer of such obvious talent could be better utilized elsewhere."
    "I couldn't agree more."
    The Director cleared his throat gently. "Or perhaps it would be best if Osbourne was out of the way completely. He got quite close to us during the TransAtlantic affair. Too close for my comfort."
    "I would have no objections, Director."
    "Very well," he said. "It's done."
    Daphne wanted sun, and the Director reluctantly agreed to spend the rest of the day on Mykonos before returning to London. She lay on the terrace, her long body exposed to the sun. He never tired of watching her. The Director had long ago lost the ability to make love to a woman—he suspected it was the secrecy, the years of lying and dissembling, that had left him impotent—so he admired Daphne as one might admire a fine painting or sculpture. She was his most treasured possession.
    He was naturally a restless man, despite his placid demeanor, and by the early afternoon he had had as much sun and sea air as he could endure. Besides, he was an operations man at heart, and he was anxious to get to work. They left at sundown and drove across Mykonos to the airport. That evening, after the Director's plane had left the island, a series of explosions ripped through the whitewashed villa on the cliffs of Cape Mavros.
    Stavros, the real estate agent, was the first to arrive. He telephoned the fire department from his cellular phone and watched as flames engulfed the villa. Monsieur Delaroche had given him a Paris number. He dialed the number, prepared to break the
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    news to his client—that his beloved home above Panormos Bay was gone.
    The telephone rang once, and a recorded voice came on the line. Stavros spoke a little French, enough to know that the number had been disconnected. He punched the button and severed the connection.
    He watched as the firefighters vainly tried to put out the flames. He drove back to Ano Mera and went to the taverna. The usual crowd was there, drinking wine and eating olives and bread. Stavros told the story.
    "There was always something funny about this man De-laroche," Stavros said, when he had finished. He pulled his face into a smirk and stared into a cloudy glass of ouzo. "I knew this the moment I set eyes on him."
    32
    PARIS
    Rebecca Wells was living in