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in his saucer and pushed it a few inches away. “Mr. President, I want to talk to you about Ambassador Hathaway’s replacement.”
    “Fair enough,” Beckwith said.
    “If I may be blunt, Mr. President, I’ve seen some of the names you’re considering, and, frankly, I’m not terribly impressed.” Color rose in Beckwith’s cheeks, but Blair plowed on. “I was hoping for someone a bit more talented.”
    Beckwith remained silent while Blair made his points. The New York Times had published a piece earlier that week containing the names of a half-dozen candidates for the job. The names were accurate, because they had been leaked on Beckwith’s orders. The list contained several large Republican donors, with a couple of professional Foreign Service officers thrown in for good measure. London was a political post by tradition, and Beckwith was under pressure from the Republican National Committee to use the short-term appointment to reward a generous benefactor.
    Blair said, “Mr. President, are you aware of the American term in your face?”
    Beckwith nodded, but his expression made clear he never used such crude street talk.
    “Mr. President, this group called the Ulster Freedom Brigade has launched its campaign of terror because they want to undo the steps toward peace that we’ve made in Northern Ireland. I want to demonstrate to these cowardly terrorists, and to the world, that they will never succeed. I want to get in their face, Mr. President, and I need your help.”
    Beckwith smiled for the first time. “How can I help, Prime Minister?”
    “You can help by appointing a superstar to be your next ambassador to London. Someone all sides can respect. A name that everyone will know. I don’t want someone who’s going to keep the seat warm until you leave office. I want someone who can help me achieve my goal, a permanent settlement to the conflict in Northern Ireland.”
    The intensity and the honesty of the younger man’s arguments were impressive. But Beckwith had been in politics long enough to know that one should never give away something for nothing.
    “If I appoint a superstar to London, what do I get in return?”
    Blair smiled broadly. “You get my unequivocal support for your European trade initiative.”
    “Deal,” Beckwith said, after a brief show of thought.
    A steward entered the room.
    Beckwith said, “Two glasses of brandy, please.” The drinks appeared a moment later. Beckwith raised his glass. “To good friends.”
    “To good friends.”
    Blair sipped the brandy with the caution of one who rarely drinks. He replaced the snifter carefully and said, “Do you have any candidates in mind, Mr. President?”
    “Actually, Tony, I think I’ve got just the man for the job.”

CHAPTER 5

SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK

    For many years, little about the grand white clapboard house overlooking Dering Harbor and Shelter Island Sound had suggested that Senator Douglas Cannon owned the property. There were occasional guests requiring Secret Service protection, and sometimes there were large parties when Douglas was running for reelection and needed money. Usually, though, the house seemed like all the others along Shore Road, just a little larger and a little better cared for. After his retirement, and the death of his wife, the senator had spent more time at Cannon Point than in his sprawling Fifth Avenue apartment in Manhattan. He insisted the neighbors call him Douglas and, rather awkwardly, they complied. Cannon Point became more accessible than ever before. Sometimes, when tourists stopped to stare or take a photograph of the estate, the senator would appear on the manicured lawn, retrievers scampering at his heels, and stop to chat. The intruders had changed all that.
    Two weeks after the incident the police had allowed the senator to repair all visible reminders of the episode, thus wiping out the last of the physical evidence. An off-island contractor that no one had ever heard of—and no