The Marching Season (33 page)

EPILOGUE

LISBON * BRELES, FRANCE

Jean-Paul Delaroche had taken a small flat in a sagging amber apartment house overlooking the harbor in Lisbon. He had been to Lisbon just once, and only briefly, and the change in setting gave new life to his work. Indeed, he experienced his most productive period in many years. He worked diligently from morning until midafternoon, producing fine works of the churches and the squares and the boats along the waterfront. The owner of an eminent Lisbon gallery saw him painting one afternoon and enthusiastically offered to show his work. Delaroche accepted his card with his paint-smudged fingers and said he would think about it.

At night he went hunting. He stood on his balcony and looked for signs of surveillance. He walked for hours, trying to draw them into the open. He went cycling in the countryside and dared them to follow. He bugged his own flat to see if anyone was entering when he was away. On the last day of November he accepted the fact that he was not being watched.

That evening he left his flat and walked to a good cafe for dinner.

For the first time in thirty years he left his gun behind.

In December, he rented a Fiat sedan and drove to France. He had left Breles, the old fishing village on the Breton coast, more than a year ago and had not set foot there since. He arrived at midday, the day after setting out from Lisbon, having spent one night in Biarritz.

He parked in town and went walking. No one recognized him. At the boulangerie, Mademoiselle Trevaunce handed him his bread with barely a
bonjour.
Mademoiselle Plauche from the charcuterie used to flirt with him shamelessly; now she joylessly carved his ham and his wedge of goat cheese and sent him on his way.

Delaroche went to the cafe where the old men passed afternoons. He asked if any of them had seen an Irishwoman around the village: black hair, good hips, pretty. “There’s an Irishwoman living in the old cottage on the point,” said Didier, the crimson-faced owner of the general store. “Where the madman used to live—
le Solitaire.”

When Delaroche pretended not to know what he meant by the last remark, Didier just laughed and gave Delaroche directions to the cottage. Then he asked if Delaroche wanted to join them for some wine and olives. Delaroche just shook his head and said,
“Non, merci.”

Delaroche drove along the coast road and parked about two hundred yards from the cottage, in a turnout overlooking the water.

He saw smoke rising from the chimney, only to be sliced away by the wind. He just sat there, picking at the bread and the cheese, smoking, watching the cottage and the waves beating against the rocks. Once, he caught a glimpse of her raven hair, passing before an open window.

He thought of the last thing Michael Osbourne had said to him that night before they parted on Shelter Island.
She deserves worse,
he had said.
She deserves to die.
Osbourne was too decent a man—too virtuous—to condemn Monica to death, but Delaroche believed he knew what was in Osbourne’s heart at that moment. It was a small price to repay Osbourne for giving him his freedom. Actually, he rather enjoyed it; she was one of the most offensive people he had ever met. And there was one more thing—she had seen his face.

Rebecca stepped onto the terrace, arms folded beneath her breasts, gazing at the setting sun. Delaroche thought, Does she want to see me? Or does she want me to stay away so she can put the entire business behind her? The easiest thing would be to turn around and forget about her. Go back to Lisbon and his work. Take up the gallery owner on his offer to show the paintings.

He started the engine. Even the distant sound made her turn suddenly and reach beneath her sweater. It was the hiding, Delaroche thought. She’s jumping at noises, reaching for guns. He knew the feeling too well.

Rebecca stared at the car for a long time, and after a while her mouth lifted into something like a smile. Then she turned away and looked out to sea again and waited for him to come to her. Delaroche dropped the car into gear and started down the road toward the cottage.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While
The Marching Season
is a work of fiction, it obviously deals with real events in Northern Ireland, past and present. Because the conflict involves the English and the Irish, there is no shortage of great writing on the subject from which to draw. Indeed, I consulted dozens of nonfiction books while preparing this manuscript. The remarkable works of Martin Dillon—including
The Shankill Butchers
and
The Dirty War
—were especially helpful, as were standards such as
The Troubles
by Tim Pat Coogan and
The Provisional IRA
by Patrick Bishop and Eamonn Mallie. Trying to catch history in the act can be a tricky proposition, but the World Wide Web and the phenomenon of on-line journalism made my task easier. Each morning, I was able to consult newspapers in London, Belfast, and Dublin to see what was happening on the ground in the Province. I wish to commend Martin Fletcher of
The Times
of London and the entire Northern Ireland crew of the BBC for their outstanding coverage of a remarkable year.

I interviewed several current and former CIA officers for this book and its predecessor,
The Mark of the Assassin.
Special thanks to the dedicated officers of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center and Northern Ireland team. They patiently answered as many of my questions as they could and gave me some invaluable insights into the way they go about their job.

Ion Trewin of Weidenfeld & Nicolson in London served as my traveling companion in Ulster and permitted me to set up shop in his Highgate study. He also offered some superb suggestions on how to improve the manuscript, as did his assistant, Rachel Leyshon.

As always, a heartfelt thanks to everyone at ICM—Heather Schroder, Sloan Harris, and Jack Horner; and to the remarkable team at Random House—Jeanne Tift, Tom Perry, Carol Schneider, Sybil Pincus, Sarah French, Andy Carpenter, Caroline Cunningham, Amy Edelman, Deborah Aiges, and Sheryl Stebbins; and at Ballantine—Linda Grey, Leona Nevler, Kimberly Hovey, Woody Tracy, Tip Tharp, Jean Fenton, Jenny Smith, Jocelyn Schmidt, and George Fisher.

And a very special thanks to Wanda Chappell for all of her help and support. She will be greatly missed.

And finally, none of this would be possible without the friendship, support, and enthusiasm of three extraordinary people: my agent, Esther Newberg; my brilliant editor, Daniel Menaker; and my publisher, Ann Godoff. You are the best.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daniel Silva’s first two novels,
The Unlikely Spy
and
The Mark of the Assassin,
were both instant
New York Times
bestsellers and were translated into more than twenty languages. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his wife, NBC
Today
show correspondent Jamie Gangel, and their two children, Lily and Nicholas, and is currently at work on a new novel.

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