The Marching Season

up, pulled a frown, and returned to his own work.
    For several minutes Master pretended to be engrossed in his poetry, yet all the while his instructions buzzed through his mind like annoying recorded announcements in a rail terminal. The timer is set for five minutes, his handler had said during the final briefing. Enough time for you to get clear of the library, not enough time for security to do anything if the briefcase is discovered.
    He kept his head down, gaze fastened on the text. Every few minutes he would lift his hand and scribble a few notes in a small spiral-bound notebook. He heard soft footfalls around him, pages turning, pencils scratching, discreet sniffles and coughs, by-products of the eternal damp of the Dublin winter. He resisted the impulse to look at them. He wanted them to remain anony-
    The Marching Season 13
    mous, faceless. He had no quarrel with the Irish people, only the Irish government. He took no pleasure at the thought of shedding innocent blood.
    He glanced at his wristwatch—4:45 P.M. He reached down beneath his legs on the pretense of withdrawing a second volume of poetry, but once his hand was inside the musty old briefcase it lingered for a second or two longer, searching for the small plastic trigger that would arm the detonator. He gently threw the switch, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger to dampen the click. He removed his hand and placed the second volume, unopened, next to the first. He glanced at his watch, a stainless steel analog model with a sweep-second hand, and carefully noted the time he had set the detonator.
    He turned and looked at the fussy man at the next desk, who was glaring back at him as though he had been doing calisthenics. "Can you tell me where the toilet is?" Master whispered.
    "What?" the fussy-looking man said, bending his crimson ear with the end of a gnawed yellow pencil.
    "The toilet," the man repeated, slightly louder this time, though still whispering.
    The man removed the pencil from his ear, frowned again, and pointed the tip toward the doorway at the far end of the room.
    Master glanced at his watch as he walked across the room. Forty seconds gone. He quickened his pace, making for the doorway, but five seconds later he heard an ear-shattering sound, like a thunderclap, and felt a hot blast of air lift him from his feet and hurtle him across the great room like a dead leaf caught in an autumn gale.
    In London, a tall woman wearing blue jeans, hiking boots, and a black leather jacket was picking her way through the crowded
    14 Daniel Silva
    pavements along the Brompton Road. Behind her she pulled a rolling suitcase of black nylon with a retractable handle. Her code name was Dame.
    The rains over Belfast and Scotland had yet to reach the south, and the late-afternoon sky was clear and blustery: pink and orange in the west toward Notting Hill and Kensington, blue-black to the east over the City. The air was unseasonably warm and heavy. Dame walked quickly past the glittering windows of Harrods and waited with a cluster of other pedestrians at Hans Crescent.
    She crossed the small street when the light changed, slicing her way through a horde of Japanese tourists bound for Harrods, and came to the Knightsbridge entrance of the Underground. She hesitated for an instant, peering down the short flight of tiled steps leading to the ticket hall. She started down the steps, pulling the bag behind her until it rolled off the first step and crashed down to the next with a heavy thud.
    She had negotiated two more steps in this manner when a young man with thinning blond hair approached. He smiled flirtatiously and said, "Please, let me help you with that."
    The accent was middle European or Scandinavian: German or Dutch, or maybe Danish. She hesitated. Should she accept help from a stranger? Would it be more suspicious to refuse?
    "Thanks a lot," she said finally. The accent was American, flat and toneless. She had lived in New York many months and could shed her Ulster accent at will. "That would be great."
    He grasped the bag by the grip and lifted it.
    "My God, what have you got in here, rocks?"
    "Stolen gold bars, actually," she said, and they both laughed.
    He carried the bag down the steps and placed it on the ground. She took the bag by the pull handle, said, "Thanks again,"
    The Marching Season 15
    and turned and started walking. She could feel his presence just behind her. She increased her pace, conspicuously glancing at her