by Daniel Silva
Marine One passed over Nassau Point and Great Hog Neck. It swept low over the waters of Southold Bay, then over land once more at Conkling Point. The crowd on Shore Road caught first sight of the President's helicopter as it hovered over Shelter Island Sound. The waterborne network news crews aimed their cameras at the sky and began rolling. Marine One floated over Dering Harbor, the beat of the rotor making ripples on the surface of the water, then set down on the lawn of Cannon Point, just beyond the bulkhead.
Douglas Cannon was waiting there, along with Elizabeth 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 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," Beckwith 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 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 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."
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 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."
"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 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 no women, even though many of the Mykonos girls would gladly have volunteered their services. His days had a clockwork regularity about them. He rode his Italian racing bike, he painted his paintings, he cared for his windswept villa. Most days, at dusk, he could be seen sitting on the rocks at Linos, staring at the sea. It was there, according to myth, that Poseidon had destroyed Ajax the Lesser for the rape of Cassandra.
Delaroche had spent the day on Syros painting. That evening, as the sun set into the sea, he returned to Mykonos by ferry. He stood on the foredeck, smoking a cigarette, as the boat entered Korfos Bay and docked at Chora. He waited until everyone had left the boat before disembarking.
He had purchased a used Volvo station wagon for days when it was too cold and rainy to cycle. The Volvo was waiting in a deserted lot at the ferry terminal. Delaroche opened the rear door and placed his things in the back compartment: a large flat case containing his canvases and his palette, a smaller case with his paints and his brushes. He climbed inside and started the engine.
The drive northward to Cape Mavros took only a few minutes; Mykonos is a small island, about ten miles by six miles, and there was little traffic on the road because of the season. The moonscape terrain passed through the yellow cone of the headlamps—treeless, barren, the rough features smoothed over by thousands of years of human habitation.
Delaroche pulled into the gravel drive outside the villa and climbed out. He had to lean hard on the door to close it in the wind. Whitecaps glowed on Panormos Bay and the Ionian Sea beyond. Delaroche followed the short walkway to the front door and shoved his key in the lock. Before opening the door, he withdrew a Beretta automatic pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his leather jacket. The alarm chirped softly as he stepped inside. He disarmed the system, switched on the lights, and moved through the entire villa, room by room, until he felt certain no one was there.
He was hungry after painting all day, so he went into the kitchen and made supper: an omelette of onions, mushrooms, and cheese, a plate of Parma ham, roasted Greek peppers, and bread fried in olive oil and garlic.
He carried his food to the rustic wooden dining table. He switched on his laptop computer, logged onto the Internet, and read newspapers while he ate. It was quiet except for the wind rattling the windows overlooking the sea.
When he was finished reading he checked his E-mail. There was one message, but when he called it up on his screen it appeared as a meaningless series of characters. He typed in his password, and the gibberish turned to clear text. Delaroche finished eating his supper while he studied the dossier of the next man he would kill.
Jean-Paul Delaroche had lived in France most of his life, but he was not French at all. Code-named October, Delaroche had been an assassin for the KGB. He had lived and operated exclusively in Western Europe and the Middle East, and his mission had been simple: to create chaos within NATO by inflaming tension within the borders of its member nations. When the Soviet Union collapsed, men like Delaroche weren't absorbed by the KGB's more presentable successor, the Foreign Intelligence Service; he went into private practice and quickly became the world's most sought-after contract killer. Now, he worked for just one person, a man he knew only as the Director. For his services he was paid one million dollars a year.
Sea fog hung over the cliffs the following day as Delaroche rode a small Italian motor scooter along the narrow lane above Panor-mos Bay. He took lunch at the taverna in Ano Mera: fish, rice, bread, and salad, with olive oil and wedges of hard-boiled egg. After lunch he walked through the village to the fruit market. He purchased several melons and placed them in a large paper sack, which he held between his legs as he rode to a deserted patch of track in the barren hills above Merdias Bay.
Delaroche stopped the motor scooter next to an outcropping of rock. He too
k a melon from the bag and placed it on a ledge of the rock, so it was approximately level with his own head. Next, he removed three more melons and placed them along the pathway about twenty yards apart. The Beretta hung in a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. He drove about two hundred meters down the path, stopped, and turned around. He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves.
A year earlier, during his last assignment, the man he had been hired to kill had shot him through the right hand. It was the only time Delaroche had failed to fulfill the terms of a contract. The shooting had left an ugly puckered scar. He could do many things to alter his appearance—grow a beard, wear sunglasses and a hat, color his hair—but he could do nothing about the scar except conceal it.
Suddenly, he opened the bike's throttle full and raced along the track, dust flying in a plume behind him. He expertly maneuvered his way through the obstacles. He reached beneath his left arm, drew the gun, and leveled it at the approaching target. As he swept past he fired three times.
Delaroche stopped, turned around, and went back to inspect the melon.
None of the three shots had hit its mark.
Delaroche swore softly beneath his breath and replayed the whole thing in his mind, trying to determine why he had missed. He looked down at his hands. He had never worn gloves and didn't like the way they felt; they robbed his gun hand of sensitivity, and it was difficult to feel the trigger against his forefinger. He removed the gloves, holstered the Beretta, sped down the track to the starting point, and turned around.
He opened the bike's throttle again and weaved in and out of the melons at speed. He drew the Beretta and fired as he passed the target. The melon disintegrated in a flash of bright yellow.
Delaroche sped away.
