The Marching Season by Daniel Silva Page A

was cold and damp, but he was hungry, so he hurried through the drizzle to a good restaurant he knew on the Via Borghese. The waiters brought red wine and endless appetizers: tomato and mozzarella, roasted eggplant and peppers marinated
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    in olive oil and spices, omelette and ham. When the appetizers ended the waiter appeared and said simply, "Meat or fish?" Delaroche ate sea bass and boiled potatoes.
    After dinner he went back to his hotel. He sat down at the small writing table and switched on his notebook computer. He logged on to the Internet and downloaded an encrypted file. He typed in his password, and once again the gibberish turned to clear text. The new file was an updated watch report on Ahmed Hussein's activities in Cairo. Delaroche had worked for a professional intelligence service, and he knew good fieldwork when he saw it. Hussein was under the surveillance of a top-notch service in Cairo, most likely the Mossad.
    In the morning, Delaroche took a taxi to Leonardo da Vinci airport and boarded an early afternoon Egypt Air flight to Cairo. He checked into a small hotel in downtown Cairo and changed into lighter clothes. He took a taxi to Ma'adi in the late afternoon. The driver raced along the Corniche, dodging cyclists and donkey carts, as the setting sun turned the Nile into a ribbon of gold.
    By dusk, Delaroche was taking sweet tea and pastries in the coffeehouse across from Ahmed Hussein's flat. The muezzin sounded the evening call to prayer, and the faithful streamed toward the mosque. Ahmed Hussein was among them, surrounded by his motley troop of bodyguards. Delaroche watched Hussein carefully. He ordered more tea and pictured how he would kill him tomorrow.
    The following day, Delaroche took lunch on the sun-drenched terrace cafe at the Nile Hilton. He spotted the blond man in the sunglasses, sitting alone among the tourists and rich Egyptians
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    with a large bottle of Stella beer and a half-empty glass. A thin black attache case rested on the chair next to him.
    Delaroche walked to the table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, in Dutch-accented English.
    "Actually, I was just leaving," the man said, and stood up.
    Delaroche sat down and ordered lunch.
    He placed the attache on the ground next to his feet.
    After lunch Delaroche stole a motor scooter. It was parked outside the Nile Hilton, in the madness of Tahrir Square, and it took him a matter of seconds to pick the ignition lock and fire the engine. It was dark blue, coated in a fine layer of Cairo's powderlike dust, and seemed to be in good working order. There was even a helmet with a dark visor.
    Delaroche drove south through the Garden City section of Cairo—past the fortified American embassy, past dilapidated villas, sad reminders of a grander time. The contents of the attache case, a Beretta 9-millimeter automatic and silencer, were now in a holster beneath his left arm. He sped through a narrow alley, past the back of the old Shepheard's Hotel, turned onto the Cor-niche, and raced south along the Nile.
    He arrived in Ma'adi before sunset. He waited about two hundred yards from the mosque, purchasing flatbread and limes from a peasant boy on the street corner, head covered with the helmet. The amplified voice of the muezzin sounded, and the call to prayer echoed over the neighborhood.
    God is most great.
    I testify that there is no god but God.
    I testify that Muhammad is the Prophet of God.
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    Come to prayer. Come to success. God is most great. There is no god but God.
    Delaroche saw Ahmed Hussein emerge from his apartment house, surrounded by his bodyguards. He crossed the street and entered the mosque. Delaroche gave the boy a few crumpled piastres for the bread and limes, climbed on the motor scooter, and started the engine.
    According to the reports, Ahmed Hussein always stayed in the mosque at least ten minutes. Delaroche drove half a block and stopped at a kiosk. He leisurely purchased a