The Marching Season

as "Mr. President."
    Beckwith slowly finished his lunch while Blair droned on about a "truly fascinating" economic textbook he had read during the flight from London to Washington. Blair was a voracious reader, and Beckwith genuinely respected his powerful intellect. Christ, he thought, I barely get through my briefing books at night without falling asleep.
    A steward cleared away the remains of lunch. Beckwith had tea, Blair coffee. A silence fell over the conversation. The fire crackled like small arms. Blair made a show of looking out the window toward the Washington Monument for a moment before speaking.
    "I want to be very blunt with you about something, Mr. Presi-
    The Marching Season 41
    dent," Blair said, turning away from the window and meeting Beckwith's pale blue gaze. "I realize our relationship has not always been as good as it should be, but I want to ask a very serious favor of you."
    "Our relationship is not as good as it could be, Mr. Prime Minister, because you publicly distanced yourself from the United States when I launched air strikes against the Sword of Gaza training bases. I needed your support then, and you were not there for me."
    A steward entered the room with dessert but, sensing the conversation had turned serious, quickly withdrew again. Blair looked down, checking his emotions, and looked up again.
    "Mr. President, I said what I said because I believed it to be the case. I thought the air strikes were heavy-handed, premature, and based on suspect evidence at best. I thought they would only increase tension and do harm to the cause of peace in the Middle East. I believe I was proven correct."
    Beckwith knew Blair was referring to the Sword of Gaza attack at Heathrow Airport. "Mr. Prime Minister, if you had concerns, you should have picked up the telephone and called me instead of running to the nearest reporter. Allies stand by each other, even when their leaders come from opposite ends of the political spectrum."
    The cold look in Blair's eyes made clear that he did not appreciate Beckwith's lecture on the fundamentals of statesmanship. He sipped his coffee as Beckwith continued.
    "In fact, I suspect the Sword of Gaza chose to retaliate on British soil because your comments led them to believe they could drive a wedge between two old allies."
    Blair looked up from his coffee cup as though he had been punched. "You're not suggesting I'm to blame for the attack on Heathrow."
    42 Daniel Silva
    "Of course not, Mr. Prime Minister. To engage in something like that would be unbecoming of good friends."
    Blair replaced the cup in his saucer and pushed it a few inches away. "Mr. President, I want to talk to you about Ambassador Hath-away's replacement."
    "Fair enough," Beckwith said.
    "If I may be blunt, Mr. President, I've seen some of the names you're considering, and, frankly, I'm not terribly impressed." Color rose in Beckwith's cheeks, but Blair plowed on. "I was hoping for someone a bit more talented."
    Beckwith remained silent while Blair made his points. The New York Times had published a piece earlier that week containing the names of a half-dozen candidates for the job. The names were accurate, because they had been leaked on Beckwith's orders. The list contained several large Republican donors, with a couple of professional Foreign Service officers thrown in for good measure. London was a political post by tradition, and Beckwith was under pressure from the Republican National Committee to use the short-term appointment to reward a generous benefactor.
    Blair said, "Mr. President, are you aware of the American term in your face?"
    Beckwith nodded, but his expression made clear he never used such crude street talk.
    "Mr. President, this group called the Ulster Freedom Brigade has launched its campaign of terror because they want to undo the steps toward peace that we've made in Northern Ireland. I want to demonstrate to these cowardly terrorists, and to the world, that they will never succeed. I want to get in their face, Mr. President, and I need your help."
    Beckwith smiled for the first time. "How can I help, Prime Minister?"
    The Marching Season 43
    "You can help by appointing a superstar to be your next ambassador to London. Someone all sides can respect. A name that everyone will know. I don't want someone who's going to keep the seat warm until you leave office. I want someone who can help me achieve my goal, a permanent settlement to the conflict in Northern Ireland."
    The