The Marching Season

luffing a bit, Mr. President. Would you mind giving that line a pull?"
    Orient Point passed on the port side. The coastal foghorns blared in tribute. Plum Island lay directly off the prow. Cannon turned to the south, toward Gardiners Island, and placed the Athena on a gentle beam reach.
    "I want you to come work for me," Beckwith said suddenly. "I need you, and the country needs you."
    "What is it you want me to do?"
    "I want you to go to London as my ambassador. I can't stand idly by and allow a band of Protestant thugs to derail the peace process. I need a man of stature in London right now, and so does Tony Blair."
    "Jim, I'm seventy-one years old. I'm retired, and I'm happy."
    "If the peace doesn't hold in Northern Ireland, the violence will reach levels not seen since the seventies. I don't want that on my conscience, and I don't think you do either."
    "But why me?"
    "Because you're a respected and distinguished American statesman. Because you can trace your ancestry back to Northern Ireland. Because in your public statements on the conflict you have been equally tough on the IRA and the Protestant majority. Because both sides will trust you to be fair." Beckwith hesitated
    68 Daniel Silva
    a moment, looking out at the water. "And because your President is asking you to do something for your country. That used to mean something in Washington. I think it still means something to you, Douglas. Don't make me ask twice."
    "There's something you're forgetting, Jim."
    "The assassination attempt on your son-in-law last year?"
    "And my daughter. I trust a copy of Michael's memo made it to the Oval Office. Michael believes one of your biggest benefactors was behind the attack on TransAtlantic Flight 002. And frankly, I believe him."
    "I did see his report," Beckwith said, frowning. "Michael was a fine intelligence officer, but his conclusions missed the mark. The suggestion that a man like Mitchell Elliott had something to do with the attack on that jetliner is ludicrous. If I thought he was remotely involved, I'd use every ounce of power I have to make certain he was punished. But it's simply not true, Douglas. The Sword of Gaza shot down that plane."
    "If you nominate me, the GOP moneymen are going to blow a fuse. London always goes to a big contributor."
    "The best thing about being a lame duck, Douglas, is that I don't have to give a fuck what the moneymen say anymore."
    "What about the confirmation process?"
    "Pardon the pun, but you'll sail through."
    "Don't sound so sure of yourself. The Senate has changed since we left. Your party sent a bunch of Young Turks there, and it seems to me that they intend to burn the place down."
    "I'll deal with the Young Turks."
    "I don't want them breaking my balls because I smoked pot a few times. I was a college professor in New York City in the sixties and seventies, for Christ's sake. Everyone smoked pot."
    "I didn't."
    "Well, that explains a lot."
    The Marching Season 69
    Beckwith laughed. "I'll personally talk to the ranking Republican on Foreign Relations. He will be told in no uncertain terms that your nomination is to receive unanimous Republican support. And it will."
    Cannon made a show of careful consideration, but both men knew he had already made up his mind. "I need time. I need to talk to Elizabeth and Michael. I have two grandchildren. Moving to London at this stage of my life is not something I can do lightly."
    "Take all the time you need, Douglas."
    Cannon looked over his shoulder at the crowd of boats shadowing them across Gardiners Bay. "I could have used that Coast Guard cutter a couple of years ago."
    "Ah, yes," the president said. "I read about your little disaster at sea off Montauk Light. How a sailor of your experience got caught unprepared in foul weather is beyond me."
    "It was a freak summer storm!"
    "There's no such thing as a freak summer storm. You should have been watching the skies and listening to the radio. Where'd you learn to sail anyway?"
    "I was monitoring the conditions. That one was a freak squall."
    "Freak squall, my ass," the President said. "Must have been all that pot you smoked back in the sixties."
    Both men burst out laughing.
    "Maybe we should head back," Cannon said. "Prepare to come about, Mr. President."
    "He wants me to go to London to replace Edward Hathaway as ambassador," Cannon announced, as he came upstairs from the wine cellar, clutching a dusty bottle of Bordeaux. The President and the First Lady had gone; the children