The Marching Season

Montparnasse, in a drab apart-ment building a few blocks from the train terminal. Since her flight from Norfolk, she had stayed in the appalling flat most of the time, staring at French television programs she couldn't comprehend. Sometimes, she listened to news from home on the radio. The Brigade had been crushed, and she was to blame.
    She needed to get out. She picked herself off the couch and moved to the window. Gray, as usual: cold, dreary. Even Ulster was better than Paris in March. She went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. A stranger stared back at her. Her rich black hair had been wrecked by the peroxide she had used in Norwich. Her skin was yellow from too little air and too many cigarettes. The skin beneath her eyes appeared bruised.
    She pulled on a leather jacket and paused outside the bedroom door, listening to the clang of dumbbells. She knocked, and the clanging stopped. Roderick Campbell opened the door and
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    stood there, shirtless, his lean body shining with sweat. Campbell was a Scot who had served in the British army, then put himself about as a mercenary and gunrunner in Africa and South America. He had cropped black hair, a goatee, and tattoos over his chest and arms. A naked whore lay on his bed, toying with one of his guns.
    "I'm going out," she said. "I need some air."
    "Watch your back," he said. He spoke with the soft brogue of his native Highlands. "Want some company?"
    "No, thanks."
    He held out a gun. "Take this."
    The elevator was broken again, so she took the stairs down to the street. God, but she was glad to be out of the place! She was angry with Kyle Blake for sending her to a man like Campbell. But things could be worse, she thought. She could be in jail or dead like the rest of them. The cold felt good, and she walked for a long time. Occasionally, she paused in a storefront and glanced behind her. She was confident she was not being followed.
    For the first time in many days she felt genuine hunger. She went into a small cafe and, using her abysmal French, ordered an omelette with cheese and a cafe creme. She lit a cigarette and looked out the window. She wondered if it would always be like this—living in strange cities, surrounded by people she did not know.
    She wanted to finish what they had started; she wanted Ambassador Douglas Cannon dead. She knew the Ulster Freedom Brigade was no longer capable of handling the job; effectively, there was no more Ulster Freedom Brigade. If the ambassador was going to be killed, someone else would have to do it. She had turned to Roderick Campbell for help. He knew the kind of men
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    she needed: men who killed for a living, men who killed for no other reason but money.
    When the waiter brought the food, Rebecca ate quickly. She could not remember the last time she had eaten real food. She finished the omelette and washed down some baguette with the coffee. The waiter reappeared and seemed astonished that her plate was empty.
    "I was very hungry," she said self-consciously.
    She paid her bill and went out. Pulling her coat tightly to her throat, she walked the quiet streets of Montparnasse. A moment later she heard a car behind her. She stopped at a public phone and pretended to dial a number while she looked at the car: a black Citroen sedan, two men in front, one in back. Maybe French police. Maybe French intelligence, she thought. Maybe friends of Roderick. Maybe nothing.
    She walked faster. She was suddenly sweating in spite of the cold. The driver of the Citroen pressed the gas pedal, and the engine note grew louder. My God, she thought, they're going to run me over! She turned her head as the car swept past and braked to a halt a few yards ahead of her.
    The rear passenger-side door opened. The man in the back leaned over and said, "Good afternoon, Miss Wells."
    She was stunned. She stopped walking and looked at him. He had oiled blond hair, swept straight back from his forehead, and pale sunburned skin. "Get in the car, please. I'm afraid it isn't safe for us to be talking on the street."
    He had the accent of an educated Englishman.
    "Who are you?" she asked.
    "We're not the authorities, if that's what you think," he said. "In fact, we're quite the opposite."
    "What do you want?"
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    "Actually, this has to do with what you want."
    She hesitated.
    "Please, we haven't much time," the blond man said, holding out a pale hand. "And don't worry, Miss Wells. If we