Free The Marching Season by Daniel Silva

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.”
    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 were sleeping upstairs.
    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