The Marching Season

were sleeping upstairs.
    70 Daniel Silva
    Michael and Elizabeth were sprawled on the overstuffed couches next to the fire. Cannon opened the wine and poured out three glasses.
    "What did you say to him?" Elizabeth asked.
    "I told him I needed to discuss it with my family."
    Michael said, "Why you? James Beckwith and Douglas Cannon have never been exactly the best of friends."
    Cannon repeated Beckwith's reasons. Michael said, "Beck-with's right. You've blasted all sides for their conduct—the IRA, the Protestant paramilitaries, and the British. You also command respect because of your tenure in the Senate. That makes you a perfect man for the Court of St. James's right now."
    Elizabeth frowned. "But he's also seventy-one years old, retired, with two brand-new grandchildren. Now is not the time to go running off to London to be an ambassador."
    "You don't say no to the President," Cannon said.
    "The President should have taken that into consideration before he asked you," Elizabeth said. "Besides, London's always been a political posting. Let Beckwith send one of his big donors."
    "Blair asked Beckwith not to make a political appointment. He wants either a career diplomat or a politician of stature—like your father," Cannon said defensively.
    He drifted to the fire and stirred the embers with the poker.
    "You're right, Elizabeth," he said, staring at the flames. "I am seventy-one, and I'm probably too old to take on such a demanding assignment. But my President asked me to do it, and goddammit, I want to do it. It's hard to be sitting on the sidelines. If I can help bring peace to Northern Ireland, it will dwarf anything I ever accomplished in Congress."
    "You sound as though you've already made up your mind, Daddy."
    "I have, but I want your blessing."
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    "What about your grandchildren?"
    "My grandchildren won't be able to tell the difference between me and the dogs for another six months."
    Michael said, "There's something else you have to consider, Douglas. Less than a month ago, a new Protestant terrorist organization demonstrated its willingness and ability to attack high-profile targets."
    "I realize the job is not without risk. Frankly, I'd like to know the nature of the threat, and I'd like an assessment I can trust."
    "What are you saying, Daddy?"
    "I'm saying my son-in-law used to work for the Central Intelligence Agency, penetrating terrorist groups. He knows a thing or two about this business, and he has good contacts. I'd like him to use those contacts so I'll know just what I'm up against."
    "I'll just be a couple of days in London," Michael said. "Over and back."
    Elizabeth lit a cigarette and exhaled sharply. "Yeah. I remember the last time you said that."
    8
    MYKONOS        CAIRO
    The whitewashed villa clung to the cliffs of Cape Mavros at the mouth of Panormos Bay. For five years it had been empty, except for a drunken group of young British stockbrokers who had rented the house each summer. The previous owners, an American novelist and his stunning Mexican wife, had been driven off by the eternal wind. They had entrusted the property to Stavros, the most prominent real estate agent on the north side of Mykonos, and fled to Tuscany.
    The Frenchman called Delaroche—at least Stavros assumed he was French—didn't seem to mind the wind. He had come to Mykonos the previous winter, with his right hand in a heavy bandage, and purchased the villa after a five-minute inspection. Stavros celebrated his good fortune that evening with endless rounds of wine and ouzo—in the Frenchman's honor, of course— for the patrons at the taverna in Ano Mera. From that moment on, the enigmatic Monsieur Delaroche was the most popular
    The Marching Season 73
    man on the north side of Mykonos, even though no one but Stavros had ever seen his face.
    Within a few weeks of his arrival, there was a good deal of speculation on Mykonos as to just what the Frenchman did for a living. He painted like an angel, but when Stavros offered to arrange a show at a friend's gallery in Chora, the Frenchman declared that he never sold his work. He cycled like a demon, but when Kristos, the owner of the taverna in Ano Mera, tried to recruit Delaroche for the local club, the Frenchman said he preferred to ride alone. Some speculated he had been born to wealth, but he did all the repairs on his villa himself, and he was known as a frugal customer in the village shops. He had no visitors, threw no parties, and took