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of northern Italy. In years past his strategists had warned that vacationing abroad would be politically disastrous. Beckwith simply didn’t care any longer. Close friends attributed the drift to the loss of his friend and chief of staff Paul Vandenberg, who apparently had shot himself to death on Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River a year earlier.
    The two men sat down to lunch. Tony Blair was a notoriously fast eater—a fact included in Beckwith’s briefing books—and he had devoured his grilled chicken breast and rice pilaf before Beckwith had consumed a quarter of his meal. Beckwith was famished after the morning of intense discussions, so he made the British leader sit patiently while he finished the last of his lunch.
    Their relationship had soured the previous year, when Blair publicly criticized Beckwith for launching air strikes against the Sword of Gaza, the Palestinian terrorist group blamed for the downing of a TransAtlantic Airlines jet off Long Island. Several weeks later the Sword of Gaza retaliated by attacking the TransAtlantic ticket counter at London’s Heathrow Airport, killing several Americans and British travelers. Beckwith never forgot Blair’s rebuke. Known to be on a first-name basis with most of the world’s leaders, Beckwith pointedly referred to Blair as “Mr. Prime Minister.” Blair responded in kind by always referring to Beckwith as “Mr. President.”
    Beckwith slowly finished his lunch while Blair droned on about a “truly fascinating” economic textbook he had read during the flight from London to Washington. Blair was a voracious reader, and Beckwith genuinely respected his powerful intellect. Christ, he thought, I barely get through my briefing books at night without falling asleep.
    A steward cleared away the remains of lunch. Beckwith had tea, Blair coffee. A silence fell over the conversation. The fire crackled like small arms. Blair made a show of looking out the window toward the Washington Monument for a moment before speaking.
    “I want to be very blunt with you about something, Mr. President,” Blair said, turning away from the window and meeting Beckwith’s pale blue gaze. “I realize our relationship has not always been as good as it should be, but I want to ask a very serious favor of you.”
    “Our relationship is not as good as it could be, Mr. Prime Minister, because you publicly distanced yourself from the United States when I launched air strikes against the Sword of Gaza training bases. I needed your support then, and you were not there for me.”
    A steward entered the room with dessert but, sensing the conversation had turned serious, quickly withdrew again. Blair looked down, checking his emotions, and looked up again.
    “Mr. President, I said what I said because I believed it to be the case. I thought the air strikes were heavy-handed, premature, and based on suspect evidence at best. I thought they would only increase tension and do harm to the cause of peace in the Middle East. I believe I was proven correct.”
    Beckwith knew Blair was referring to the Sword of Gaza attack at Heathrow Airport. “Mr. Prime Minister, if you had concerns, you should have picked up the telephone and called me instead of running to the nearest reporter. Allies stand by each other, even when their leaders come from opposite ends of the political spectrum.”
    The cold look in Blair’s eyes made clear that he did not appreciate Beckwith’s lecture on the fundamentals of statesmanship. He sipped his coffee as Beckwith continued.
    “In fact, I suspect the Sword of Gaza chose to retaliate on British soil because your comments led them to believe they could drive a wedge between two old allies.”
    Blair looked up from his coffee cup as though he had been punched. “You’re not suggesting I’m to blame for the attack on Heathrow.”
    “Of course not, Mr. Prime Minister. To engage in something like that would be unbecoming of good friends.”
    Blair replaced the cup