The Marching Season by Daniel Silva Read Free Book Online Page B

about it all the time,” she said distantly. “Every morning I wake up, and I wonder if this will be the day: the day it all goes away. But it never does.”
    “It takes time,” Michael said, then added, “a lot of time.”
    “Do you think he’s really dead?”
    “October?”
    “Yes.”
    “The Agency thinks so.”
    “What about you?”
    “I’d sleep better if a body turned up somewhere, but it won’t.”
    They passed through the Victorian cottages and clapboard shops of Shelter Island Heights and raced along Winthrop Road. Dering Harbor shone in the moonlight, empty except for Douglas Cannon’s sloop, Athena, clinging to her mooring, prow turned to the wind. Michael followed Shore Road into Dering Harbor village and a moment later drew to a halt at the gate of Cannon Point.
    The night security guard stepped out of the hut and shone a light over the car. Douglas was spending several thousand dollars a month on security since the assassination attempt. The Agency had offered to pay a portion of the expense, but Douglas, forever leery of the intelligence community, bore all the cost himself. Michael followed the gravel drive through the property and stopped outside the front door of the main house. The senator was waiting for them on the steps, wearing an ancient yellow sailing coat, his retrievers frolicking at his feet.
    It was The New Yorker that first likened Douglas Cannon to Pericles; while he usually professed some mild embarrassment at the comparison, he did nothing to dispel it. He had inherited enormous wealth and decided quite early in life that the prospect of merely adding to his fortune depressed him greatly. Instead, he devoted himself to his first love, which was history. He taught at Columbia and wrote books. His vast apartment on Fifth Avenue was a gathering place for writers, artists, poets, and musicians. Elizabeth, when she was a little girl, met Jack Kerouac, Huey Newton, and a strange little man with blond hair and sunglasses named Andy. Only years later did she realize the man had been Andy Warhol.
    During Watergate, Douglas realized he could no longer remain confined to the bleachers, the eternal spectator. He ran for Congress in an overwhelmingly liberal Democratic district in midtown Manhattan and entered the House as a reformer in the class of ‘74. Two years later he was elected to the Senate. During his four terms there he served as chairman of the Armed Services Committee, the Foreign Relations Committee, and the Select Committee on Intelligence.
    Douglas was always something of an iconoclast, but since his retirement from the Senate, his dress and mannerisms had become more peculiar than ever. He wore nothing but tattered corduroy trousers, aged boating shoes, and sweaters that, like the man himself, were beginning to show their age. He believed that cold sea air was the secret to longevity, and he was constantly giving himself bronchial infections by sailing throughout the winter and taking himself on endless treks along the frozen footpaths of the Mashomack Preserve.
    Elizabeth stepped out of the car, forefinger pressed to her lips, and kissed his cheek. “Be quiet, Daddy,” she whispered. “The children are fast asleep.”
    Michael and Elizabeth had a suite of rooms overlooking the water: a master bedroom, a bathroom, and a private sitting room with a television. The bedroom next door had been converted into a makeshift nursery. Elizabeth had been superstitious about doing too much planning before the twins were born, so the spartan room contained nothing but a pair of cribs and a changing table. The walls were still pale gray and the floors bare. The senator had brought up an old wicker rocker from the veranda to add some character to the room. Maggie helped Elizabeth put the children to bed, while Michael and Douglas had a glass of Merlot downstairs by the fire. Elizabeth joined them a few minutes later.
    “How are they?” Michael asked.
    “They’re fine. Maggie’s