The Marching Season

wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."
    From Montparnasse they drove to an apartment building in the Fifth Arrondissement, on the rue Tournefort overlooking the Place de la Contrescarpe. The blond man disappeared in the Citroen. A balding man with a florid face relieved her of Roderick's gun and escorted her into a flat that had the air of a seldom-used pied-a-terre. The furnishings were masculine and comfortable: black informal couches and chairs grouped around a glass coffee table; teak bookshelves with histories, biographies, and thrillers by American and English writers. The remaining portions of the wall were bare, with faint outlines where framed paintings had once hung. The man closed the door and punched a six-digit code into a key pad, presumably arming the security system. Wordlessly, he held out his hand and led her into the bedroom.
    The room was dark, except for a patch near the window, which was illuminated by rainy light leaking through the partially open blind. A moment after the door closed, a man spoke from the darkness. His voice was dry and precise, the voice of a man who did not like to repeat himself.
    "It has come to our attention that you are looking for someone capable of assassinating the American ambassador in London," the man said. "I think we can be of assistance."
    "Who are you?"
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    "That's none of your affair. I can assure you that we are perfectly capable of carrying out a task like the one you have in mind. And with much less mess than that affair at Hartley Hall."
    Rebecca trembled with anger, which the man in the shadows seemed to detect.
    "I'm afraid you were duped in Norfolk, Miss Wells," he said. "You walked straight into a trap engineered by the Central Intelligence Agency and MI5. The man who ran the operation was the ambassador's son-in-law, who happens to work for the CIA. His name is Michael Osbourne. Do you wish me to continue?"
    She nodded.
    "If you accept our offer of assistance, we will waive our usual fee. Let me assure you that normally it is quite steep for a job like this—I suspect well beyond the means of an organization such as the Ulster Freedom Brigade."
    "You're willing to do it for nothing?" Rebecca asked incredulously.
    "That's right."
    "And what do you want from me?"
    "At the appropriate time, you will claim responsibility for the act."
    "Nothing more?"
    "Nothing more."
    "And when it's over?"
    "You'll have no further obligation, except under no circumstances are you ever to discuss our partnership with you. If you do discuss our arrangements, we reserve the right to take punitive measures."
    He paused for a moment to allow his warning to take hold.
    "You may find it difficult to move about when this is all over," he said. "If you wish, we can provide services that will help you remain at large. We can provide you false travel documents. We
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    can help you alter your appearance. We have contacts with certain governments that are willing to protect fugitives in exchange for money or favors. Once again, we would be willing to supply these services to you at no charge."
    "Why?" she asked. "Why are you willing to do this for nothing?"
    "We are not a philanthropic organization, Miss Wells. We are willing to work with you because we have mutual interests." A lighter flared, revealing a portion of his face for an instant before the room was in darkness again: silver hair, pale skin, a hard mouth, wintry eyes. "I'm afraid it's no longer safe for you to remain in Paris," he said. "The French authorities are aware of your existence here."
    She felt as if iced water had been poured down the back of her neck. The thought of being arrested, of being sent back to Britain in chains, made her physically sick.
    "You need to leave France at once," he said. "I propose Bahrain. The head of the security forces is an old colleague of mine. You'll be safe, and there are worse places to be than the Persian Gulf in March. The weather is quite glorious this time of year."
    "I'm not interested in spending the rest of my days lying next to a pool in Bahrain."
    "What are you trying to say, Miss Wells?"
    "That I want to be a part of it," she said. "I'll accept your help, but I want to be there to watch the man die."
    "Are you trained?"
    "Yes," she said.
    "Have you ever killed?"
    She thought of the night two months earlier—the barn in County Armagh—when she had shot Charlie Bates. "Yes," she said evenly. "I've killed."
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