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Authors: Daniel Silva
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in your eyes, and I wonder if you're
thinking about her again."
"I'm not thinking about her, Elizabeth."
"What was her name? You've never told me her name."
"Her name was Sarah."
"Sarah," Elizabeth said. "Very pretty name, Sarah. Did you love her?"
"Yes, I loved her."
"Do you still love her?"
"I love you."
"And you're not answering my question."
"No, I don't love her anymore."
"God, you're a terrible liar. I thought spies were supposed to be good
at deception."
"I'm not lying to you. I've never lied to you. I've only kept things
from you that I'm not allowed to tell you."
"Do you ever think about her?"
"I think about what happened to her, but I don't think about her."
She rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. In the darkness,
Michael could see her shoulders shaking. When he reached out to touch
her, she said, "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry."
"Why are you crying, Elizabeth?"
"Because I'm mad as hell at you, and because I love you desperately.
Because I want to have a baby with you, and I'm terrified about what's
going to happen to us if I can't."
"Nothing's going to happen to us. I love you more than anything in the
world."
"You don't love her anymore, do you, Michael?"
"I love you, Elizabeth, and only you."
She rolled over in the darkness and pulled his face to hers. He kissed
her forehead and brushed tears from her eyes. He held her for a long
time, listening to the wind in the trees outside their bedroom window,
until her breathing assumed the rhythm of sleep.
CHAPTER 7.
The White House.
ANNE BECKWITH HAD ONE RULE about dinner: Talking about politics was
strictly forbidden. Politics had ruled their lives in the twenty-five
years since her husband had been sucked into the GOP machine in
California, and she was determined that for one hour each evening
politics would not intrude. They dined in the family quarters of the
Executive Mansion: the President, the First Lady, and Mitchell Elliott.
Anne revered Italian cooking and secretly believed the country would be
a better place if "we were a little more like the Italians and less like
Americans." Beckwith, for the sake of his political career, had asked
Anne to keep such views to herself. He resisted Anne's desire to
vacation in Europe each summer, choosing "more American" settings
instead. That summer they vacationed in Jackson Hole, which Anne, on the
fourth day, renamed "Shit Hole."
He indulged her when it came to food. That night, beneath soft
candlelight, she had chosen fettuccini tossed with pesto, cream, and
peas, followed by medallions of beef tenderloin, a salad, and cheese,
all washed down by a costly fifteen-year-old bottle of Tuscan red wine.
Throughout the meal, as White House stewards drifted silently in and out
of the room with each new course, Anne Beckwith carefully guided the
conversation from one safe topic to the next: new films she wanted to
see, new books she had read, old friends, the children, the little villa
in the Piedmont district of northern Italy where she planned to spend
the first summer "after our sentence is over and we're both free again."
The President looked exhausted. His eyes, normally a clear pale blue,
were red and tired. He had endured a long tension-filled day. He had
spent the morning with the heads of the agencies investigating the
attack on the jetliner: the FBI and the National Transportation Safety
Board. In the afternoon he had flown to New York and met with grieving
relatives of the victims. He toured the crash site off Fire Island
aboard a Coast Guard cutter and flew by helicopter to the town of Bay
Shore to attend a prayer service for a group of local high school
students killed in the tragedy. He had a tearful meeting with John
North, a chemistry teacher whose wife, Mary, was the faculty sponsor of
the trip to London.
Vandenberg had scripted the events perfectly. On television the
President looked like a leader, calmly in control of the situation.
thinking about her again."
"I'm not thinking about her, Elizabeth."
"What was her name? You've never told me her name."
"Her name was Sarah."
"Sarah," Elizabeth said. "Very pretty name, Sarah. Did you love her?"
"Yes, I loved her."
"Do you still love her?"
"I love you."
"And you're not answering my question."
"No, I don't love her anymore."
"God, you're a terrible liar. I thought spies were supposed to be good
at deception."
"I'm not lying to you. I've never lied to you. I've only kept things
from you that I'm not allowed to tell you."
"Do you ever think about her?"
"I think about what happened to her, but I don't think about her."
She rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. In the darkness,
Michael could see her shoulders shaking. When he reached out to touch
her, she said, "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry."
"Why are you crying, Elizabeth?"
"Because I'm mad as hell at you, and because I love you desperately.
Because I want to have a baby with you, and I'm terrified about what's
going to happen to us if I can't."
"Nothing's going to happen to us. I love you more than anything in the
world."
"You don't love her anymore, do you, Michael?"
"I love you, Elizabeth, and only you."
She rolled over in the darkness and pulled his face to hers. He kissed
her forehead and brushed tears from her eyes. He held her for a long
time, listening to the wind in the trees outside their bedroom window,
until her breathing assumed the rhythm of sleep.
CHAPTER 7.
The White House.
ANNE BECKWITH HAD ONE RULE about dinner: Talking about politics was
strictly forbidden. Politics had ruled their lives in the twenty-five
years since her husband had been sucked into the GOP machine in
California, and she was determined that for one hour each evening
politics would not intrude. They dined in the family quarters of the
Executive Mansion: the President, the First Lady, and Mitchell Elliott.
Anne revered Italian cooking and secretly believed the country would be
a better place if "we were a little more like the Italians and less like
Americans." Beckwith, for the sake of his political career, had asked
Anne to keep such views to herself. He resisted Anne's desire to
vacation in Europe each summer, choosing "more American" settings
instead. That summer they vacationed in Jackson Hole, which Anne, on the
fourth day, renamed "Shit Hole."
He indulged her when it came to food. That night, beneath soft
candlelight, she had chosen fettuccini tossed with pesto, cream, and
peas, followed by medallions of beef tenderloin, a salad, and cheese,
all washed down by a costly fifteen-year-old bottle of Tuscan red wine.
Throughout the meal, as White House stewards drifted silently in and out
of the room with each new course, Anne Beckwith carefully guided the
conversation from one safe topic to the next: new films she wanted to
see, new books she had read, old friends, the children, the little villa
in the Piedmont district of northern Italy where she planned to spend
the first summer "after our sentence is over and we're both free again."
The President looked exhausted. His eyes, normally a clear pale blue,
were red and tired. He had endured a long tension-filled day. He had
spent the morning with the heads of the agencies investigating the
attack on the jetliner: the FBI and the National Transportation Safety
Board. In the afternoon he had flown to New York and met with grieving
relatives of the victims. He toured the crash site off Fire Island
aboard a Coast Guard cutter and flew by helicopter to the town of Bay
Shore to attend a prayer service for a group of local high school
students killed in the tragedy. He had a tearful meeting with John
North, a chemistry teacher whose wife, Mary, was the faculty sponsor of
the trip to London.
Vandenberg had scripted the events perfectly. On television the
President looked like a leader, calmly in control of the situation.
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