Balance of Power

humans, doing our best in a complex world, but as targets of opportunity, accountable for every private mistake we ever made. Or which saw Kyle not as a lovely young woman, but as a pawn to use against you.'

    'Maggots.' Chad's voice was quiet with contempt. 'All that breastbeating in the media. We'll see how much this town has learned from Kyle's death. If anything.' He paused, seeming to redirect his thoughts through a sheer act of will, and then summoned a smile, which, while brief, appeared genuine. 'Anyhow, I wish you and Lara all the happiness you deserve. Or, at least, can steal.'

    Kerry considered Chad across the table. 'We have our hopes,' he said at length. 'Which brings me to what I wanted to ask.

    'This comes with a lot of caveats. I know my timing's lousy. I know that being my friend makes you no friends among those who already think you're soft on liberals. But Lara and I hope that you and Allie will come to our wedding.'

    Chad looked honestly amused. 'Attend a President's wedding? Is that what passes for courage these days?'

    'Perhaps not in itself. But being in our wedding may.' Though Kerry smiled, his eyes were serious. 'Before Kyle's death, I'd have asked you without thinking. And there's no reason, on my part, to feel any differently.'

    Chad looked away, his thoughts unfathomable. Then, reaching across the table, he rested one hand on the sleeve of Kerry's suit coat. 'We've been friends for thirteen years, twelve before you had this job. For most of that time you were stuck in an unhappy marriage—you never said that, I just knew. But now you've found this terrific woman. No matter what's happened, I'm happy for you. I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world.'

    For that moment, Kerry felt the shackles of the Presidency fall away, and he and Chad were young senators again, trusted friends amidst the tangle of ego and ambition which was the Senate. He could barely bring himself to speak.

    Blessedly, he did not have to. As they had planned, Lara appeared at the entry to the dining room, looking from Chad to her fiance.

'Am I interrupting?' she asked.

    At once Chad smiled, and stood. 'You are,' he answered, 'just in time.'

    Lara crossed the room, taking his hand. 'For me, too,' she told him. 'I just finished a meeting with Connie Coulter and Francesca Thibault. Connie had some numbers on which of the networks promises the biggest ratings for a prewedding interview; Francesca is picking an undisclosed location for us to audition wedding gowns in secrecy. I feel utterly ridiculous.'

    'You aren't,' Chad assured her. 'Just everyone else.'

    'Including Chad,' Kerry interrupted with a smile. 'He's agreed to take a leading role in this extravaganza.'

    As Kerry watched, Lara embraced Chad Palmer and then, on tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek. 'You don't know what this means to Kerry. And to me.'

    Smiling, Chad gazed down at her. 'Me, too,' he answered.

* * *

    Convoyed through sun-baked streets by the Secret Service and police on motorcycles, Kerry's limousine approached the White House, returning from a mid-morning visit to See Forever, a pioneer charter school for at-risk teens. On a secure telephone, he talked with Marcia Harding.

    'We're looking at a bail motion,' Harding told him. 'Bowden's got a public defender. We'll bring additional charges, of course, and he'll get a lecture from the Court. But usually the judge will kick him loose.'

    'What if you oppose bail?'

    'We could, but that would be unusual. Another problem's Bowden's lawyer. He knows Joan is Lara Costello's sister—if we come down on his client, he's likely to complain of prejudicial treatment, and splash this all over the papers. Bottom line we probably lose, and Joan's tomorrow's headline.'

    'What if Bowden does this again?'

    'Then it's jail, I'm pretty sure.'

    Kerry felt his frustration boil over. 'Assuming it's not too late. This guy could kidnap Marie, or do far worse to Joan.'

    There was silence, as though Harding felt stymied by her lack of ready options. 'Hopefully,' she ventured, 'Bowden's night in jail has cooled him off. And his trial for battery is coming up—unless he agrees to a program, he'll likely get some jail time. Until then, the police will come as soon as anyone calls.'

    As the motorcade slipped inside the East Entrance, the guard waved at Kerry's limousine. The iron gate closed behind him. 'Assuming they can call,' Kerry said.

* * *

    At a little past seven p.m., Clayton and the President sat on the balcony of Kerry's private quarters, reviewing the status of budget negotiations as evening shadows spread slowly across the South Lawn. Both were in shirtsleeves; Clayton drank bourbon, Kerry two shots of Bushmills on ice.

    At length they turned to Joan. 'The counsel's office checked this out,' Clayton told Kerry. 'By law, you can't use the Secret Service to protect Lara's family—you'd have to go to Congress for permission.'

    'And make it a cause celebre.'

    'Exactly. You could call the mayor, request twenty-four-hour police protection. But then what happens when some ordinary woman in the Mission District gets shot by her deranged ex-husband after five or six calls to the police? The San Francisco Chronicle charges you and the Mayor with favoritism and misuse of public resources.' Finishing his drink, Clayton put it down. 'You're in this one too deep already. I understand why, but your position's like no one else's.'

    Silent, Kerry let the peaty burn of whiskey slide slowly down his throat. 'I can't tell you,' he remarked, 'what a heady thrill it is to wind up another workday as the most powerful man on earth.'

    Clayton smiled. 'That's why the Founding Fathers created the federal system, and then gave us a free press. To tax your ingenuity.'

    But Kerry did not answer, or even return his smile. By now his thoughts were far away; Joan Bowden's home was more vivid than the majestic scene around them. 'I'll talk to Lara,' he said at length. 'There must be something we can do.'

FOURTEEN

'What I don't understand,' Kerry told George Callister, 'is why CEOs of gun companies take orders from the SSA.'

    Three Sundays after their initial meeting, the two men had returned in secret to Camp David, and now sat at the table on Kerry's patio. Callister allowed himself a thin smile. 'Is that a challenge to my manhood, Mr. President? Or a genuine question?'

    'Both,' Kerry answered bluntly. 'One day Martin Bresler comes with you to the White House. The next day he's a leper, and none of you will touch him.'

    Callister took a swallow of coffee, eyeing Kerry over the rim of his mug. 'Running a gun company,' he said at length, 'is like running a gauntlet between five competing forces. If you worry too much about one, another one will take your head off.

    'Start with the public. Maybe twenty percent believe guns are sacred. Another twenty percent—which you seem to represent—thinks guns should be melted down and turned into manhole covers . . .'