Read Online The Marching Season by Daniel Silva - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Silva
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Thrillers, Espionage, Assassins, Adventure fiction, Terrorists, Northern Ireland, Terrorists - Great Britain
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agents who was posing as an arms dealer.”
“Did your agent sell weaponry to Spencer?” the Director wondered mildly.
“The talks are continuing, Director,” said Monet.
“Have you shared this information with your British counterparts?”
Monet shook his head.
“Perhaps you could see that a shipment of weapons finds its way into the hands of the Ulster Freedom Brigade,” the Director said to Monet. “Perhaps you could use your contacts within the banking community to arrange financing for the package at generous terms.”
“I think that could be handled quite easily, Director,” Monet said.
“Very well,” the Director said. “All in favor of exploring contacts with the Ulster Freedom Brigade, signify by saying aye.”
The vote was unanimous.
“Any other matters before we move on to the rest of the agenda?”
Once again it was Monet who spoke.
“If you could update us on the progress of the Ahmed Hussein case, Director.”
Ahmed Hussein was a leader of the Muslim fundamentalist group Hamas and the mastermind behind a series of bombings in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The Mossad wanted him dead, but Monet had not felt confident giving the assignment to a Mossad assassination team. In September 1997 the Mossad had tried to kill a Hamas man named Khaled Meshal in Amman. The attempt failed, and two Mossad agents were arrested by Jordanian police. Rather than risk another embarrassing failure, Monet had turned to the Society to eliminate Ahmed Hussein.
“I have assigned the job to the same operative who carried out the contracts on Colin Yardley and Eric Stoltenberg after the TransAtlantic affair,” the Director said. “He is preparing to leave for Cairo, and I expect that in a few days Ahmed Hussein will be quite dead.”
“Excellent,” Monet said. “Our intelligence indicates that the Middle East peace process cannot survive another serious blow. If the operation is a success, the Occupied Territories will explode. Arafat will have no choice but to pull out of the talks. I expect that the peace process will be only a bad memory by the end of this winter.”
There was another round of restrained applause.
“The next item on the agenda is an update on our efforts to foster conflict between India and Pakistan,” the Director said, looking down at his papers. “The Pakistanis are having a bit of trouble with their medium-range missiles, and they’ve asked for our help working out the bugs.”
The meeting ended just after dawn.
The council member code-named Picasso rode in a chauffeured Range Rover across the flat rose-colored plain separating the High Atlas Mountains from Marrakech. Picasso had entered Morocco on a false passport bearing the name Lisa Bancroft. The real passport was locked in the safe of her room at the five-star La Mamounia Hotel. Returning to the room later that morning, she punched in the code, and the safe door popped open. The passport was there, along with some cash and jewelry.
Her flight wasn’t for six hours, enough time to bathe and sleep for an hour or so. Picasso removed the items from the safe, undressed, and lay down on the bed. She opened the passport and looked at the photograph.
Funny, she thought, I don’t look much like Picasso.
CHAPTER 7
SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK
The White House advance team arrived Saturday morning and booked every available room at the Manhanset Inn, a wedding-cake Victorian hotel in the Heights overlooking Dering Harbor. Jake Ashcroft, a burned-out investment banker who had purchased the hotel with a single year’s bonus, was politely asked by White House staff to keep the matter confidential. The President’s visit was strictly private, they explained, and he wanted as little attention as possible. But Shelter Island is an island, after all, with an island’s appetite for gossip, and by lunchtime half the place knew the President was coming to town.
By midafternoon Jake Ashcroft was beginning to fear it was all a nightmare. His
“Did your agent sell weaponry to Spencer?” the Director wondered mildly.
“The talks are continuing, Director,” said Monet.
“Have you shared this information with your British counterparts?”
Monet shook his head.
“Perhaps you could see that a shipment of weapons finds its way into the hands of the Ulster Freedom Brigade,” the Director said to Monet. “Perhaps you could use your contacts within the banking community to arrange financing for the package at generous terms.”
“I think that could be handled quite easily, Director,” Monet said.
“Very well,” the Director said. “All in favor of exploring contacts with the Ulster Freedom Brigade, signify by saying aye.”
The vote was unanimous.
“Any other matters before we move on to the rest of the agenda?”
Once again it was Monet who spoke.
“If you could update us on the progress of the Ahmed Hussein case, Director.”
Ahmed Hussein was a leader of the Muslim fundamentalist group Hamas and the mastermind behind a series of bombings in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The Mossad wanted him dead, but Monet had not felt confident giving the assignment to a Mossad assassination team. In September 1997 the Mossad had tried to kill a Hamas man named Khaled Meshal in Amman. The attempt failed, and two Mossad agents were arrested by Jordanian police. Rather than risk another embarrassing failure, Monet had turned to the Society to eliminate Ahmed Hussein.
“I have assigned the job to the same operative who carried out the contracts on Colin Yardley and Eric Stoltenberg after the TransAtlantic affair,” the Director said. “He is preparing to leave for Cairo, and I expect that in a few days Ahmed Hussein will be quite dead.”
“Excellent,” Monet said. “Our intelligence indicates that the Middle East peace process cannot survive another serious blow. If the operation is a success, the Occupied Territories will explode. Arafat will have no choice but to pull out of the talks. I expect that the peace process will be only a bad memory by the end of this winter.”
There was another round of restrained applause.
“The next item on the agenda is an update on our efforts to foster conflict between India and Pakistan,” the Director said, looking down at his papers. “The Pakistanis are having a bit of trouble with their medium-range missiles, and they’ve asked for our help working out the bugs.”
The meeting ended just after dawn.
The council member code-named Picasso rode in a chauffeured Range Rover across the flat rose-colored plain separating the High Atlas Mountains from Marrakech. Picasso had entered Morocco on a false passport bearing the name Lisa Bancroft. The real passport was locked in the safe of her room at the five-star La Mamounia Hotel. Returning to the room later that morning, she punched in the code, and the safe door popped open. The passport was there, along with some cash and jewelry.
Her flight wasn’t for six hours, enough time to bathe and sleep for an hour or so. Picasso removed the items from the safe, undressed, and lay down on the bed. She opened the passport and looked at the photograph.
Funny, she thought, I don’t look much like Picasso.
CHAPTER 7
SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK
The White House advance team arrived Saturday morning and booked every available room at the Manhanset Inn, a wedding-cake Victorian hotel in the Heights overlooking Dering Harbor. Jake Ashcroft, a burned-out investment banker who had purchased the hotel with a single year’s bonus, was politely asked by White House staff to keep the matter confidential. The President’s visit was strictly private, they explained, and he wanted as little attention as possible. But Shelter Island is an island, after all, with an island’s appetite for gossip, and by lunchtime half the place knew the President was coming to town.
By midafternoon Jake Ashcroft was beginning to fear it was all a nightmare. His
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