The Marching Season

Delaroche's back, the road smooth and flat, so it took him little more than a half hour to reach the city.
    He took his time making his way to the Herengracht. He entered his flat and checked his telltales to make certain no one had been there in his absence. There was another hastily scrawled note from the German girl. / want to see you again, you cock-sucker 1 . Eva.
    He switched on his computer and logged on to the Internet. He had one E-mail message. He opened it and typed in his code name. The message was from the Director; he wanted to meet Delaroche the following day in Amsterdam in the Vondelpark.
    Delaroche sent back a message saying he would be there.
    The following morning Delaroche meandered through the stalls of the Albert Cuypmarkt in the Eastern Canal Ring. He
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    meticulously checked his tail as he strolled past baskets laden with fruit, fish from the North Sea, Dutch cheeses, and freshly cut flowers. Satisfied he wasn't being followed, he walked from the market to the Vondelpark, the sprawling public gardens near Amsterdam's Museum Quarter. He spotted the Director, seated on a park bench overlooking a duck pond, the tall Jamaican girl next to him.
    The Director had not seen Delaroche since the plastic surgery in Athens. Delaroche did not enjoy games or other amusements—the isolation and secrecy of his life had robbed him of any opportunity to develop a true sense of humor—but he decided to play a prank to test the effectiveness of Maurice Leroux's work on his face.
    He placed a cigarette into his mouth and put on his sunglasses. He approached the Director and, speaking in Dutch, asked him for a light. The Director handed Delaroche a heavy silver lighter. Delaroche lit the cigarette and handed the lighter back to the Director. "Dank u," Delaroche said. The Director nodded distantly as he placed his lighter back in his coat pocket.
    Delaroche walked away along the footpath. He returned a few moments later and sat next to the Director, eating a pear he had purchased in the Albert Cuypmarkt, saying nothing. The Director and the girl walked away and sat down on another bench. Delaroche eyed them curiously for a moment; then he stood too and joined them on the next bench.
    The Director frowned. "I say, do you mind—"
    "I believe you wanted to see me," Delaroche said, removing his sunglasses.
    "Dear God," the Director murmured. "Is that really you?"
    "I'm afraid so."
    "You're quite hideous. No wonder you killed the poor bastard."
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    "I have a contract for you."
    The Director's eyes flickered back and forth as the two men moved in tandem along the footpath through the Vondelpark. He had started as a field man—he had parachuted into France with the SOE during the war and run agents in Berlin against the Russians—and his survival instincts were still sharp.
    "Have you been following the situation in Northern Ireland?" the Director asked.
    "I read the newspapers."
    "Then you know that a Protestant terrorist group called the Ulster Freedom Brigade tried and failed to murder the American ambassador to the Court of St. James's, Douglas Cannon."
    Delaroche nodded. "I read about it, yes."
    "What you don't know is that the assassination team walked straight into a trap engineered by MI5 and the CIA. The CIA officer in charge of the American end of things was an old friend of yours."
    Delaroche glared at the Director. "Osbourne?"
    The Director nodded. "Needless to say, the Ulster Freedom Brigade would like the ambassador and his son-in-law both dead, and we've agreed to do the job for them."
    "To what end?"
    "The Brigade would like to destroy the peace process and, frankly, so would we. It's bad for business. In less than two weeks' time, on Saint Patrick's Day, President Beckwith is holding a meeting of Northern Irish leaders at the White House. Douglas Cannon will be there."
    "You know this for certain?"
    "I have an impeccable source. The Americans are good at protecting their ambassadors abroad, but at home it's quite
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    another story. Cannon will be lightly guarded, if at all. A professional of your skill should have no difficulty fulfilling the terms of the contract."
    "Do I have a choice?"
    "Let me remind you that I pay you a tremendous amount of money and provide protection for you," the Director said coldly. "In return, you kill for me. It's a simple arrangement."
    Delaroche knew the Director would use whatever means at his disposal to achieve his