The Marching Season by Daniel Silva

they’re out to punish all parties to the peace process.”
    “Exactly,” Graham said. “The Irish government, the British government, Sinn Fein. And I think the leaders of the Protestant parties who signed the agreement had better watch their back as well.”
    “What about the Americans?”
    “Your Senator George Mitchell brokered the Good Friday agreement, and the Protestant hard-liners have never been too fond of the Americans. They think you’ve clearly sided with the Catholics and want the North to be united with the Irish Republic.”
    “So the American ambassador to London would have to consider himself a potential target.”
    “The Ulster Freedom Brigade has demonstrated quite clearly that they have the will and the expertise to carry out spectacular acts of terrorism. Given their accomplishments thus far, taking out an American ambassador would seem to be a reasonable proposition.”
    An hour later they met Graham’s wife, Helen, at a French restaurant called Marcello’s in Covent Garden. Helen wore black: a tight-fitting black sweater, a short black skirt, black stockings, black shoes with impossibly thick heels. She went through phases like a teenage girl. The last time Michael was in London, Helen had been in the midst of her Mediterranean period—she had dressed like a Greek peasant and cooked only with olive oil.
    After a long absence from the workforce she had recently taken a job as art director for a successful publishing house. Her new job came with a coveted space in the company car park. She had commandeered Graham’s BMW and insisted on driving to work each morning, listening to her ghastly alternative rock CDs and screaming at her mother over her mobile phone, even though the trip would take half the time by tube. She was the kind of wife who turned heads at Personnel. Graham indulged her because she was beautiful and because she was gifted. She possessed a fire for life that the Service had long ago extinguished in him. He wore her like a loud tie.
    Helen was already seated at a table next to the window, drinking Sancerre. She rose, kissed Michael’s cheek, and held him tightly for a moment. “God, it’s marvelous to see you, Michael.”
    Marcello appeared, all smiles and bonhomie, and poured wine for Michael and Graham.
    “Don’t bother looking at the menu,” Helen said, “because I’ve already ordered for you.”
    Graham and Michael quietly closed their menus and surrendered them without protest. Helen’s return to the workforce had left her no time to pursue her great passion, which was cooking. Unfortunately, her talent ended at the doorway to her PS50,000 modern Scandinavian kitchen. Now, she and Graham ate only in restaurants. Michael noticed that Graham was beginning to put on weight.
    Helen spoke of her own work because she knew Michael and Graham could not speak of theirs. “I’m trying to finish the cover for a new thriller,” Helen said. “Some beastly American who writes about serial killers. How many different ways can you illustrate a serial killer? I produce a cover, we send it across the Atlantic, and the agent in New York rejects it. So bloody frustrating sometimes.” She looked at Michael, and her bright green eyes turned suddenly serious. “My God, I’m being such a crashing bore. How’s Elizabeth?”
    Michael looked at Graham. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Graham routinely flaunted the regulations of the Security Service by telling Helen too much about his work.
    “Some days are better than others,” Michael said. “But overall she’s doing fine. We’ve turned the apartment and the Shelter Island house into fortresses. It helps her sleep better at night. And then there are the children. Between her work and the twins, she has little time to dwell on the past.”
    “Did she really kill that German woman—oh, God, Graham, what was her name again?”
    “Astrid Vogel,” Graham put in.
    “Did she really do it with a bow and arrow?”
    Michael