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Authors: Daniel Silva
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and Michael and his two retrievers. The dogs raced forward as James and Anne Beckwith disembarked from the helicopter, dressed for the country in pressed khakis and hunter-green English waterproof j ackets.
A small group of reporters—the so-called tight pool—had been allowed onto the property to witness the arrival. "Why are you here?" shouted a leather-lunged correspondent from ABC News.
"We just wanted to spend some time in the country with an old friend," the President shouted back, smiling.
"Where are you going now?"
Douglas Cannon stepped forward. "We're going to church."
First Lady Anne Beckwith—or Lady Anne Beckwith, as she was known among Washington's chattering classes—was visibly taken aback by the senator's remark. Like her husband, she was
66 Daniel Silva
a borderline atheist who detested the weekly journey across Lafayette Square to St. John's Episcopal Church for an hour of mouthed prayer and false reflection. But ten minutes later a makeshift motorcade was roaring along Manhanset Road toward St. Mary's. Soon the two old adversaries stood shoulder to shoulder in the front pew—Beckwith in his blue blazer, Cannon in a threadbare tweed jacket with holes in the elbows—belting out "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
At noon Beckwith and Cannon decided a short sail was in order, even though it was barely 40 degrees and a fifteen-mile-per-hour wind was blowing across Shelter Island Sound. Much to the dismay of the Secret Service, the two men boarded Athena and set out.
They stayed under power through the narrow channel separating Shelter Island from the North Fork of Long Island, then pulled up the sails as Athena entered the open waters of Gar-diners Bay. Behind them were a Coast Guard cutter, two Boston Whalers filled with Secret Service agents, and a half-dozen press boats. There was one mishap; CNN's rented Zodiac took on water and sank off the rocks of Cornelius Point.
"All right, Mr. President," Douglas Cannon said. "Now that we've given the media lots of nice pictures, why don't you tell me what the hell this is all about."
The Athena was flying across Gardiners Bay toward Plum Island on a broad reach, heeling nicely on its starboard side. Cannon sat behind the wheel, Beckwith in the seating compartment behind the companionway. "We were never the best of friends, Mr. President. In fact, I think the only social event we ever attended together was my wife's funeral."
"We were competitors when we were in the Senate," Beck-
The Marching Season 67
with said. "It was a long time ago. And drop the Mr. President bullshit, Douglas. We've known each other too long for that."
"We were never competitors, Jim. From the moment you and Anne arrived in Washington, you had your sights on the White House. I just wanted to stay in the Senate and make laws. I liked being a legislator."
"And you were a damned good legislator. One of the best ever."
"I appreciate that, Jim." Cannon looked at his sails and frowned. "That jib is 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
A small group of reporters—the so-called tight pool—had been allowed onto the property to witness the arrival. "Why are you here?" shouted a leather-lunged correspondent from ABC News.
"We just wanted to spend some time in the country with an old friend," the President shouted back, smiling.
"Where are you going now?"
Douglas Cannon stepped forward. "We're going to church."
First Lady Anne Beckwith—or Lady Anne Beckwith, as she was known among Washington's chattering classes—was visibly taken aback by the senator's remark. Like her husband, she was
66 Daniel Silva
a borderline atheist who detested the weekly journey across Lafayette Square to St. John's Episcopal Church for an hour of mouthed prayer and false reflection. But ten minutes later a makeshift motorcade was roaring along Manhanset Road toward St. Mary's. Soon the two old adversaries stood shoulder to shoulder in the front pew—Beckwith in his blue blazer, Cannon in a threadbare tweed jacket with holes in the elbows—belting out "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
At noon Beckwith and Cannon decided a short sail was in order, even though it was barely 40 degrees and a fifteen-mile-per-hour wind was blowing across Shelter Island Sound. Much to the dismay of the Secret Service, the two men boarded Athena and set out.
They stayed under power through the narrow channel separating Shelter Island from the North Fork of Long Island, then pulled up the sails as Athena entered the open waters of Gar-diners Bay. Behind them were a Coast Guard cutter, two Boston Whalers filled with Secret Service agents, and a half-dozen press boats. There was one mishap; CNN's rented Zodiac took on water and sank off the rocks of Cornelius Point.
"All right, Mr. President," Douglas Cannon said. "Now that we've given the media lots of nice pictures, why don't you tell me what the hell this is all about."
The Athena was flying across Gardiners Bay toward Plum Island on a broad reach, heeling nicely on its starboard side. Cannon sat behind the wheel, Beckwith in the seating compartment behind the companionway. "We were never the best of friends, Mr. President. In fact, I think the only social event we ever attended together was my wife's funeral."
"We were competitors when we were in the Senate," Beck-
The Marching Season 67
with said. "It was a long time ago. And drop the Mr. President bullshit, Douglas. We've known each other too long for that."
"We were never competitors, Jim. From the moment you and Anne arrived in Washington, you had your sights on the White House. I just wanted to stay in the Senate and make laws. I liked being a legislator."
"And you were a damned good legislator. One of the best ever."
"I appreciate that, Jim." Cannon looked at his sails and frowned. "That jib is 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
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