The Marching Season Page 27

  At the Embassy Row hotel, Delaroche had hung the DO not disturb sign outside the room and double-locked the door. For the past hour he had been listening to Elizabeth Osbourne: talking on the telephone, talking to her nanny and her children, talking to the DSS agent guarding the house. Delaroche now knew exactly when Douglas Cannon would arrive from London and when he would leave for the White House the next morning to attend the Northern Ireland conference. He also knew that the DSS agent parked in front of the house was named Brad Heyworth and that a second agent would join the detail after the ambassador's arrival.

  He heard the arrival of a cleaning woman called Maria who spoke with a heavy Spanish accent: South American, Delaroche guessed—Peru or perhaps Bolivia. He heard Elizabeth Osbourne announce that she was going for a run and would be back in an hour. He jumped as she slammed the front door on her way out.

  Five minutes later he was startled by a howling noise that sounded like the roar of a jet engine. It was so loud Delaroche had to rip the headphones from his ears. For a moment he feared some calamity had befallen the Osbournes' house. Then he realized it was only Maria, running her vacuum near the window where Delaroche had planted his microphone.

  Douglas Cannon's dinner party started out as an intimate gathering for eight, but in the aftermath of the Hartley Hall affair it had metamorphosed into a catered bash for fifty, with rented tables and chairs and a squad of college boys in blue jackets to park cars in the crammed streets of Georgetown. Such was the nature of celebrity in Washington. Douglas had lived and worked in the city for more than twenty years, but someone had tried to kill him, and that made him a star. The CIA and British Intelligence had contributed to the ambassador's sudden notoriety by spinning a tail of Douglas's calm under fire at Hartley Hall, even though he was safely tucked in his bed at Winfield House by the time the assault began. Douglas had willingly played along with the elaborate ruse de guerre. Indeed, he derived a certain adolescent delight from deceiving the barons of the Washington media.

  The guests began arriving a few minutes after seven o'clock. There were two of Douglas's old friends from the Senate and a handful of congressmen. The Washington bureau chief of NBC News came, along with her husband, who was the bureau chief of CNN. Cynthia Martin came alone; Adrian Carter brought his wife, Christine. To protect Michael, who was still a clandestine member of the Agency, Carter and Cynthia said they worked on Northern Ireland issues for the State Department. Carter wanted a moment alone with Michael, so they adjourned to the garden and stood by the pool.

  "How did things go with Bristol this morning?" Carter asked.

  "He seemed impressed with the product," Michael said. "Beckwith stuck his head in the door for a minute, too."

  "Really?"

  "He said he was pleased with the outcome of Operation Kettledrum and that the peace process was back on track. You're right, Adrian, he wants this thing bad." Michael hesitated. "So am I officially finished with Northern Ireland?"

  "When the delegations leave town, we'll turn it over to Cynthia and move you back to the Mideast section."

  "If there's one constant at the Agency, it's change," Michael said. "But I still would like to know why Monica decided to shuffle the deck now and why she wants me off the October case."

  "As far as Monica is concerned, the October file is closed. She thinks that even if October is still alive and working he poses no threat to Americans or American interests, and therefore he does not cross the radar screen of the Center."

  "Do you agree?"

  "Of course not, and I've told her as much. But she is the director, and ultimately she decides who we target."

  "A real man would resign in your position."

  "Some of us don't have the financial flexibility to take courageous moral stands, Michael."

  Elizabeth appeared at the French doors.

  "Would you two please come inside?" she said. "It's not as if you never get a chance to talk."

  "We'll be there in a minute," Michael said.

  "One other thing," Adrian said, when Elizabeth had gone. "I heard about your little portrait session with Morton Dunne in OTS the other day. What the hell was that all about?"

  "A plastic surgeon named Maurice Leroux was murdered in Paris a couple of weeks ago."

  "And?"

  "I was wondering if October may have changed his face."

  "And then killed the doctor who did it?"

  "The thought had crossed my mind."

  "Listen, Michael—Monica has taken you off the case. I don't want any more freelancing on your part. No surfing through files, no private operations. As far as you're concerned, October is dead."

  "You're not threatening me, are you, Adrian?"

  "Actually, I am."

  Delaroche removed his headphones and lit a cigarette. The large dinner party had overwhelmed his microphone, so that the only thing he heard was a constant hum, interrupted by incomprehensible snatches of conversation or occasional bursts of laughter.

  He switched off the tape machine and removed his Beretta 9-millimeter from its stainless-steel carrying case. He broke down the weapon and meticulously wiped each piece with a smooth rag, while he decided how he was going to kill the ambassador and Michael Osbourne.

  37

  WASHINGTON

  "Happy Saint Patrick's Day," President James Beckwith de-clared, as he stepped to the podium in the Rose Garden the following morning. Flanking him were Irish Prime Minister Bertie Ahern and British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook. Behind the President were the leaders of the province's Nationalist and Unionist political parties, including Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein and David Trimble of the Ulster Unionist Party, who was now effectively the prime minister of Northern Ireland.

  "We gather here today not in crisis but in celebration," Beckwith continued. "We celebrate the common heritage that binds us, and we will renew the commitment to peaceful change in Northern Ireland."

  Douglas Cannon sat off to the side with a group of senior White House and State Department aides who would take part in the talks. He joined in the polite applause.

  "Last month a group of Loyalist thugs—the so-called Ulster Freedom Brigade—tried to assassinate the American ambassador to Great Britain, my old friend and colleague Douglas Cannon," Beckwith continued. "It was truly the last gasp by those who wish to deal with Northern Ireland's problems with violence rather than compromise. If anyone doubts our commitment to peace, I ask them to consider one thing: Ambassador Douglas Cannon is here today, and the Ulster Freedom Brigade is but a bad memory."

  Beckwith turned, smiled at Douglas, and began to applaud. Gerry Adams, David Trimble, Bertie Ahern, and Robin Cook joined in, as did the rest of the assembled crowd.

  "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have work to do," Beckwith said.

  He turned away from the podium and, with arms extended, shepherded the politicians into the Oval Office, ignoring the shouted questions of the White House press corps.

  When Douglas returned to the house on N Street late that afternoon, Michael and Elizabeth were waiting for him.

  "How did it go?" Michael asked.

  "Better than expected. Now that the Ulster Freedom Brigade has been neutralized, Gerry Adams thinks the IRA will seriously consider decommissioning."

  "What does 'decommissioning' mean?" Elizabeth asked.

  "It means giving up their weapons and breaking up their terrorist cells and command structure."

  Michael said, "The CIA estimates that the IRA alone has stockpiled a hundred tons of rifles and two and a half tons of Semtex. And then there are the Protestant terrorist groups. That's why it's so important to keep the momentum of the peace process moving in the right direction."

  "The Protestants and the Catholics have made remarkable progress in a short period of time, but the peace process could very easily collapse. And if it does, I'm afraid the violence will be unprecedented." Douglas looked at his watch. "Now the fun begins. The Sinn Fein reception at the Mayflower, the Ulster Unionist recep
tion at the Four Seasons, and the British reception at the embassy."

  "What the hell is that?" Elizabeth said as they changed clothes for the receptions.

  "It's a high-powered Browning automatic with a fifteen-shot clip."

  Michael slipped the gun into a shoulder holster and pulled on his suit jacket.

  "Why are you carrying a gun?"

  "Because it makes me feel good."

  "Daddy is going to have a DSS agent with him the entire time tonight."

  "You can never be too cautious."

  "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "I'll just feel better when your father is back in London surrounded by a bunch of marines and Special Branch detectives who can hit an assassin between the eyes at a hundred paces."

  He smoothed the front of his jacket.

  "How do I look?"

  "Lovely." She pulled on her dress and turned her back to him. "Zip me up. We're late."

  At the Embassy Row hotel, Delaroche removed his headphones. He quickly broke down the monitors and receivers and placed them into the duffel bag. He slipped the Beretta 9-millimeter into a shoulder holster and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting his appearance. He wore a gray single-breasted business suit of American design, a white shirt, and a striped tie. Attached to his right ear was a clear plastic wire of the type used by security officers the world over.

  He studied his face, staring into his own eyes, and said, "Diplomatic Security, ma'am. We have an emergency." It was the flat American accent of the actor on the English-language tapes Delaroche had studied at sea. He repeated the phrase several more times, until he felt completely at ease.

  Rebecca emerged from the bathroom. She wore a tailored two-piece suit and black stockings. Delaroche handed her a loaded Beretta and two extra clips, which she slipped into a black shoulder bag.

  He had left the Volvo on Twenty-second Street, just off Massachusetts Avenue. There was a parking ticket beneath the wiper. Delaroche dropped the ticket in the gutter and climbed behind the wheel.

  The limousine stopped in front of the Mayflower Hotel on Connecticut Avenue. A uniformed doorman opened the door, and Douglas, Michael, Elizabeth, and a DSS agent climbed out. They entered the hotel and walked along the ornate center hall to the grand ballroom. Gerry Adams caught sight of Douglas as he entered the room and disentangled himself from a knot of star-struck Irish-American well-wishers.

  "Thank you for coming, Ambassador Cannon." Adams spoke with the thick accent of West Belfast. He was tall, with a full black beard and wire-rimmed spectacles. Although he appeared robust, he suffered from the lingering effects of years of imprisonment and an assassination attempt by the UVF that nearly killed him. "You do us a great honor by joining us this evening."

  "Thank you for having us," Douglas said politely, shaking Adams's hand. "May I introduce my daughter, Elizabeth Os-bourne, and her husband, Michael Osbourne."

  Adams looked at Michael briefly and shook his hand without enthusiasm. As he and Douglas talked about that day's session at the White House for a few moments, Elizabeth and Michael moved a few steps away to give them privacy.

  Then, without warning, Gerry Adams placed a hand on Michael's shoulder and said, "You mind if I have a wee word with you, Mr. Osbourne? I'm afraid it's rather important."

  Delaroche parked at the corner of Prospect and Potomac streets in Georgetown and climbed out. Rebecca slid behind the wheel and lowered the window. Delaroche leaned down and asked, "Any questions?"

  Rebecca shook her head. Delaroche handed her an envelope.

  "If something goes wrong—if something happens to me or if we get separated—go to this place. I'll come for you if I can."

  He turned away and entered a sandwich shop filled with students from Georgetown. He purchased coffee and a newspaper and sat down at a table by the window.

  A moment later he saw Rebecca speed past, heading east toward downtown Washington.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Osbourne," Gerry Adams said. He had led Michael into a large room adjoining the grand ballroom. His pair of ever-present bodyguards moved out of earshot. Adams poured two cups of tea. "Milk, Mr. Osbourne?"

  "Thank you."

  "I have a message from your friend Seamus Devlin."

  "Seamus Devlin is not my friend," Michael said harshly.

  The bodyguards glanced at the table to make certain there was no problem. Gerry Adams waved them away.

  "I know what happened that night in Belfast," he said. "And I know why it happened. We would never be in this position today, on the verge of a lasting peace in Northern Ireland, if it weren't for the IRA. It is a highly professional force, not to be taken lightly. Keep that in mind next time you and your British friends try to plant a tout on the inside."

  "I thought you had a message for me."

  "It's about that bitch that set up Eamonn Dillon on the Falls Road, Rebecca Wells."

  "What about her?"

  "She went to Paris after the Hartley Hall affair." Adams raised his china teacup in a mock toast and said, "Lovely piece of work, that was, Mr. Osbourne."

  Michael remained silent.

  "She was living in Montparnasse with a Scottish mercenary named Roderick Campbell. According to Devlin, she and Campbell were in the market for a freelance assassin to finish the job on your father-in-law."

  Michael sat up sharply. "How good is the source?"

  "I didn't get into that kind of detail with Devlin, Mr. Osbourne. But you've seen his work up close. He's not a man who goes about his business lightly."

  "Where's Rebecca Wells now?"

  "She left Paris suddenly a couple of weeks ago. Devlin hasn't been able to pick up her trail again."

  "What about Roderick Campbell?"

  "Gone too—permanently, I'm afraid. He was shot to death in his apartment, along with a girl." Adams was clearly enjoying telling Michael something he didn't know. "It probably didn't cross your sophisticated computer screens at the Counterterror-ism Center."

  "Did Wells and Campbell ever manage to hire a shooter?"

  "Devlin doesn't know, but I wouldn't let down the guard on the ambassador right now, if you know what I mean. It would be bad for everyone involved in the peace process if a gunman acting on behalf of the Ulster Freedom Brigade managed to kill your father-in-law at this time." Adams set down his teacup, signaling the meeting was coming to an end. "Devlin hopes this makes up for any hard feelings you might have about Kevin Maguire."

  "You can tell Devlin to fuck off."

  Adams smiled. "I'll give him the message."

  Rebecca Wells sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, a half block from the front entrance of the Mayflower. She watched as Ambassador Cannon and the Osbournes emerged from the hotel, followed by the DSS agent. She started the engine, then dialed a number on her cellular phone.

  "Yes."

  "They're leaving the first stop now and moving on to the second."

  The line went dead.

  Rebecca dropped the Volvo into gear and slipped into the evening traffic on Connecticut Avenue.

  "When did you and Gerry become such good friends?" Elizabeth asked.

  "We move in similar circles."

  "What did he want?"

  "He apologized for what happened to me in Belfast."

  "Did you accept?"

  "Not really."

  "And that's all?"

  "That's all."

  Douglas said, "All right, time to cross the religious divide. To the Four Seasons for drinks with the Protestants."

  "You think these people will ever have receptions together?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I wouldn't hold your breath," Michael said.

  Ninety minutes later, Rebecca Wells was parked along a tree-lined section of Massachusetts Avenue in upper Northwest Washington. Across the street was the sprawling British embassy complex. From her vantage point she could see the forecourt of the ambassador's residence. The first guests were beginning to leave.

  Rebecca opened the lette
r that Delaroche had given her and read it by the faint light of the streetlamps. She folded the note and placed it back in her pocket. She thought of that freezing afternoon on the beach in Norfolk, the afternoon she had left for Scotland to fetch Gavin Spencer and the guns. It was hard to imagine that it was only a month ago, so much had happened since. She remembered the strange sense of serenity that had settled over her that day, walking the flat, desolate beach. She had wanted to stay there forever. And now this man with no past— this hired killer who made love to her as if her body were made of glass—was offering her a sanctuary by the sea.

  She looked up in time to see Douglas Cannon and the Osbournes leaving the British ambassador's residence. Once again, she punched in the number on her cell phone and waited for the voice of the man she knew only as Jean-Paul.

  Delaroche severed the connection with Rebecca Wells and left the sandwich shop. He walked quickly north along Potomac Street until he reached N Street. The Osbournes' house was two blocks away. He moved more slowly now, strolling along the quiet street, instinctively looking for signs of additional security.

  He had to time his arrival perfectly. The DSS agent accompanying Douglas Cannon would radio his team to alert them of the ambassador's imminent arrival. If the DSS agent received no reply he would suspect there was a problem. Which is why Delaroche was taking his time walking along N Street.

  He spotted the team of DSS agents, sitting in a parked car in front of the Osbournes' house with the front windows opened. One of them, the one behind the wheel, was talking on a handheld radio. Delaroche assumed he was talking to the agent in the ambassador's limousine.

  Delaroche walked to the car and stood next to the driver's side window.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Which way is Wisconsin Avenue?"

  The agent behind the wheel wordlessly pointed east.

  "Thank you," Delaroche said.

  Then he reached beneath his raincoat, withdrew the silenced Beretta, and shot each of the agents several times in the chest. He opened the door and pushed the bodies down onto the seat. He closed the power windows, removed the keys, shut the door, and locked it.