Balance of Power

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* * *

    Afterward, Kerry and Lara retreated upstairs. 'I'm exhausted,' she told him. 'But I'd better go find Joan.'

    Kerry unknotted his tie. 'You should.'

    Lara began to remove an earring, then paused, gazing at Kerry. 'Was that the best thing for her, I wonder? Because Mary says it's the worst.'

    'Just the only thing,' Kerry said flatly. ' 'Best' is to be left alone.'

    Lara was silent. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Kerry asked, 'How did you feel about the rest of it?'

    Pausing, she reflected. 'I'd give us a B. Sometimes we were a little too Nick and Nora Charles.'

    'We're not that clever,' Kerry assured her with a smile. 'And we don't drink nearly enough Scotch.'

    Smiling, Lara kissed him. 'I love you,' she said softly. 'I just can't wait to move in here. So that we can run away.'

    The telephone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Kerry murmured, 'Kit,' then picked it up.

    'What should I know,' Kit asked him, 'about you and Lexington Arms?'

TWENTY

At seven the next morning, workers were pitching an enormous canopied tent on the South Lawn. A few feet away, Francesca Thibault described the reception plans to the anchorwoman for Good Morning America. Clumps of early-rising tourists, the first wave of thousands, peered at them through the iron fence; Secret Service agents began staking out the perimeters intended to contain the crowds; beyond this, the networks erected platforms for their cameras and crews, vendors began hawking 'commemorative' programs with photographs of Kerry and Lara, and the initial phalanx of SSA demonstrators, some wearing military decorations, carried signs protesting the President's supposed plot to confiscate all guns. More Secret Service agents checked into the fifteenth floor of the Hotel Madison, where Lara would spend the night; others completed background checks on hotel employees; still others prepared to occupy the surrounding rooftops. At Dulles Airport, crowded with more tourists drawn to the wedding, police arrested two Egyptians with suspected ties to Al Qaeda and Mahmoud Al Anwar. In the Oval Office—oblivious to all this—President Kerry Kilcannon surveyed the early editions of the New York Times and Washington Post, spread across his desk with excerpts from the Internet editions of the San Francisco Chronicle and other major dailies. Kit and Clayton stood beside him.

    With one exception, the clips involved front-page stories regarding Joan and John Bowden, some with photographs of Joan and Marie arriving for the wedding. The tone of the articles was sympathetic: an account of Joan's domestic troubles; Lara's pleas for her sister's privacy; quotes from Kerry, Jack Halloran and Marcia Harding confirming that the President had done no more than monitor the case, in order to ensure the safety of Joan and Marie. John Bowden had been unavailable for comment. 'The stuff about Joan is as good as we could hope for,' Kit said in a tentative voice. 'And we've scrubbed today's media for Lara's family. Hopefully, it's a one-day story.'

    Kerry barely heard her. The article beneath the fold in the Washington Post read 'President in Secret Talks with Gun Company.'

    The story was crisp and accurate—detailing that Kerry and George Callister had met three times at Camp David; the scope of Kerry's proposal; and Kerry's hopes of engaging other gun manufacturers in a comprehensive settlement. The reporter cited 'sources familiar with the negotiation,' and noted that both the White House and George Callister had declined to comment. The only quote for attribution was from the president of the SSA, Charles Dane: 'We are concerned by reports that one of America's leading gun manufacturers is kowtowing to the most antigun President in our history. America's law-abiding gun owners have a right to know where Lexington stands.'

    Tight-lipped, Kerry asked, 'Where did this come from?'

    'Not us,' Clayton answered. 'No one but the two of us knew Lexington's identity.'

    'Are we still trying to track down Callister?'

    'Yes. His assistant says that he's in conference.'

    Kerry sat, anger overwhelming his frustration. 'Keep trying,' he ordered.

* * *

    Head throbbing, John Bowden listened to the saccharine voice of an airline reservationist. 'I'm sorry, sir. But that credit card has been declined.'

    'Wait.' Stomach raw, mouth tasting of bile, Bowden snatched his wallet from the nightstand, fumbling for his other credit card. 'Try this one,' he said, and gave the number.

    'Thank you, sir.'

    He had not paid this bill, either. It lay scattered with the others, thrown at the wall in a hallucinatory rage. Sweat glistened on Bowden's forehead; waiting, he knew with a humiliating certainty that the reservationist had recognized his name.

    'Thank you, sir,' she said again. 'Your reservation is confirmed.'

* * *

'Who knew on your end?' Kerry demanded.

    'Our British parent,' Callister answered. 'Our executive committee. Our general counsel. Until this morning, that was it.'

    Callister sounded depressed. 'What happened this morning?' Kerry asked.

    'We've called an emergency meeting of our board of directors, by telephone. It's still going on—I just asked for a five-minute break.' Paus ing, Callister sounded bemused. 'When I got here, there were protesters outside. One old lady saw me, and burst into tears. The rest were so full of hate they could barely speak. Except for the guy who spat in my face.

    'I've faced down some angry labor disputes, Mr. President. But I've never felt this level of hysteria and rage.'

    There was nothing to say; all too well, Kerry could remember confronting a crowd of gun fanatics, his certainty that some would gladly kill him. 'Where does your board stand?' he asked.

    'I don't know if we can stick, Mr. President. Right now they're focusing on damage control.'

    'Is there anything I can do?'

    'Yes,' Callister answered baldly. 'Say nothing.'

* * *

    At the San Francisco airport, Bowden waited in the economy class line. He had not eaten; he was no longer drunk, but nauseated. His hand trembled slightly. The one suitcase he held contained his checkbook, a shaving kit, one change of clothes, and his stack of gun magazines.

    The line snaked forward slowly, minute after minute, until staring at the neck of the old Chinese woman ahead of him made Bowden want to shoot her.

    Kilcannon. Kilcannon and Joan's bitch of a sister had stolen his wife and daughter, cost him his job, his dignity, and any reason to live. And now they had degraded him on national television.

    At the newsstand, his name had leapt out at him from the front page of the