The Marching Season

before the twins were born, so the spartan room contained nothing but a pair of cribs and a changing table. The walls were still pale gray and the floors bare. The senator had brought up an old wicker rocker from the veranda to add some character to the room. Maggie helped Elizabeth put the children to bed, while Michael and Douglas had a glass of Mer-lot downstairs by the fire. Elizabeth joined them a few minutes later.
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    "How are they?" Michael asked.
    "They're fine. Maggie's going to sit with them a few minutes and make sure they stay down." Elizabeth flopped onto the couch. "Pour me a very large glass of that wine, will you, Michael?"
    Douglas said, "How are you holding up, sweetheart?"
    "I never realized just how hard this would be." She took a long sip of the Merlot and closed her eyes as the wine flowed down her throat. "I'd die without Maggie."
    "There's nothing wrong with that. You had a baby nurse and a nanny, and your mother didn't work."
    "She worked, Daddyl She took care of me and ran three households while you were in Washington!"
    Michael murmured, "Bad move, Douglas."
    "You know what I mean, Elizabeth. Your mother worked, but not in an office. Frankly, I'm not at all sure mothers should work. Children need their mothers."
    "I can't believe my ears," Elizabeth said. "Douglas Cannon, the great liberal icon, thinks mothers should stay at home with their children and not work. Wait till the National Organization for Women gets ahold of this. My God, beneath that hopelessly liberal exterior beats the heart of a family-values conservative after all."
    "What about Michael here?" Douglas said. "He's retired. Doesn't he help out?"
    "I just play boccie with the rest of the boys down in the village every afternoon."
    "Michael's great with the children," Elizabeth said. "But forgive me for saying this—fathers can only do so much."
    "And what's that supposed to mean?" Douglas said.
    The telephone rang before Elizabeth could answer.
    "Saved by the proverbial bell," Michael said.
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    Elizabeth picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." She listened intently for a moment, then said, "Yes, he is. Hold on a moment, please." She held out the receiver, covering the mouthpiece. "It's for you, Daddy. It's the White House."
    "What in God's name does the White House want with me at ten o'clock on a Friday night?"
    "The President wants to speak to you."
    Douglas pulled himself up, the look on his face a cross between bafflement and annoyance, and ambled across the room, wineglass in hand. He took the telephone from Elizabeth.
    "This is Douglas Cannon. . . . Yes, I'll hold on. . . ."
    He covered the mouthpiece and said, "They're getting the sonofabitch on the line."
    Elizabeth and Michael snickered silently. The animosity between the two men was legendary in Washington. They had been the two most powerful figures on the Senate Armed Services Committee. For several years Douglas had been the chairman and Beckwith the ranking Republican. When the GOP regained control of the Senate, the two men traded places. By the time Douglas retired, they were barely on speaking terms.
    "Good evening, Mr. President," Douglas said in a jovial, parade-ground shout.
    Maggie came to the top of the stairs and hissed, "Be quiet, or you'll wake the children."
    "He's talking to the President," Elizabeth whispered helplessly.
    "Well, tell him to do it a little more quietly," Maggie said, turning on her heel and walking back to the nursery.
    "I'm just fine, Mr. President," Douglas was saying. "What can I do for you?"
    Douglas listened for a moment, saying nothing, absently running a hand through his thick gray hair.
    "No, that wouldn't be a problem at all, Mr. President. In fact,
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    it would be delightful. . . . Of course. . . . Yes, Mr. President. . . . Very well, I'll see you then."
    Douglas replaced the receiver and said, "Beckwith wants to talk."
    "What about?" Michael asked.
    "He wouldn't say. He's always been like that."
    "When are you going to Washington?" Elizabeth asked.
    "I'm not," Douglas said. "The bastard's coming to Shelter Island on Sunday morning."
    6
    TAFRAOUTE, MOROCCO
    Snow shimmered on the slopes of the High Atlas Mountains as the caravan of black Range Rovers rumbled along the rocky pitted track toward the new villa at the head of the valley. The Range Rovers were identical: black with reflective smoked windows to shield the identity of the occupants. Each passenger had come to