The Marching Season

ends.
    "Actually, I would have thought you'd be thrilled at the opportunity to engage your old enemy," the Director said.
    "Why would you assume that?"
    "Because of Astrid Vogel. I'm astonished that you haven't killed Osbourne on your own already."
    "I didn't kill him because I wasn't hired to kill him," Delaroche said. "I'm an assassin, not a murderer."
    "Some people might see that as a distinction without a difference, but I understand your point and I respect you for it. However, Osbourne continues to be a serious threat to your security. I'd sleep better if he were no longer with us."
    Delaroche stopped walking and turned to face the Director.
    "Two weeks is not much time—especially for a job in the United States."
    "It's certainly enough time for you."
    Delaroche nodded. "I'll do it."
    "Brilliant," the Director said. "Now that you've agreed to take on the contract, there's a catch. I'd like you to work with a partner."
    "I don't work with people I don't know."
    "I understand, but I'm asking you to make an exception in this case."
    "Who is he?"
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    "She, actually. Her name is Rebecca Wells. She's the woman who survived the Ulster Freedom Brigade's attempt to assassinate Douglas Cannon in England."
    "She's an amateur," Delaroche said.
    "She's a seasoned operative, and she's been blooded. For political reasons, we believe it's important for her to take part in the operation. I'm sure you'll enjoy the opportunity to work with her."
    "And if I refuse?"
    "Then I'm afraid you'll forfeit your salary and the protection I provide you."
    "Where is she?"
    The Director pointed down the gravel footpath. "Walk that way about a hundred yards. You'll find her seated on a bench: blond hair, reading a copy of Die Welt. I'll begin preparing the dossiers and arranging your transport to America. Remain here in Amsterdam until I contact you."
    And with that the Director turned and melted into the fog drifting over the Vondelpark.
    Delaroche purchased a small map of central Amsterdam from a tourist booth in the park. He sat down on the bench next to the one where Rebecca Wells was dutifully pretending to read the previous day's edition of Die Welt. He was less interested in the woman than in what was going on around her. For twenty minutes he scanned faces, looking for signs of physical surveillance. She appeared to be alone, but he wanted to make certain. He circled a spot on the map and walked over to her. "Meet me here in exactly two hours," he said, handing her the folded map. "Keep moving, and don't arrive a minute early."
    302 Daniel Silva
    The spot Delaroche had circled on the map was the National Monument in Dam Square. Rebecca Wells remained in the Vondelpark for more than a half hour, wandering through the gardens and past the winding lakes. Once, she doubled back expertly and forced Delaroche to lunge into a public toilet for cover.
    From the park she walked to the van Gogh museum. She purchased a pass from the ticket window at the main entrance and went in. Delaroche followed her easily through the crowded museum. Van Gogh had been one of his earliest influences; he became distracted by one of his favorite works, Crows in the Wheatfield, and lost track of her. He found her a moment later, lingering before The Bedroom at Aries. Something about the colorful canvas, van Gogh's celebration of domestic peace, seemed to intrigue her.
    She left the museum, wandered through the Albert Cuyp-markt, and walked along the Singel until she reached the Amstel River. There, she jumped suddenly onto a passing tram. Delaroche flagged down a taxi and followed her.
    She took the tram to the Leidseplein and walked to an outdoor cafe near the American Hotel, where she had coffee and a pastry. Delaroche watched her from a cafe on the other side of the canal. She paid her bill and stood up, but instead of walking away along the sidewalk, she ducked inside the cafe.
    Delaroche quickly crossed the canal. In Dutch, he asked the waiter if he had seen his girlfriend-—an Irishwoman, bleached blond. The waiter nodded toward the toilet. Delaroche knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he opened it; the woman was gone. He peered through the kitchen and saw that there was
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    a service entrance giving onto a narrow alley. He walked through the kitchen, ignoring the protests of the chefs, and entered the alley. There was no sign of her.
    He took a tram to Dam Square and found her seated next to one of the