Balance of Power

Rodgers grinned faintly. “It was Lady Macbeth. She was encouraging her husband to murder King Duncan. He did and then the whole plot came crashing down around him.”

“Oh,” Herbert replied. He looked down. “Then that’s not the quote we want, is it?”

“That’s all right,” Rodgers said. He was still grinning slightly. “The regicide may have backfired badly but the play was a brilliant success. It all depends how you look at things.”

“As I used to tell all my clients while the jury was deliberating,” Coffey said, “trust in the system and in the people to whom we’ve entrusted it.” He was still standing by the television, staring at the screen. “Because as another great thinker once said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’ ”

Herbert looked back at the television. The sounds of gunfire seemed to increase in frequency but not in volume. The announcer made an observation about that.

Herbert still felt alive. And optimistic, because that was his nature. But there was no ignoring the shadow that had fallen over the room. The unhappy truth that what they had all been quietly hoping for had not materialized: a call or broadcast declaring that a coup attempt in Spain had ended with the assassination of its leader.

The realization that the mission had not gone exactly as planned.

FORTY

Tuesday, 5:49 A.M. Old Saybrook, Connecticut

Sharon Hood couldn’t sleep. She was tired and she was at her childhood home in her old bed but her mind wouldn’t shut down. She’d argued with her husband, read one of her old Nancy Drew books until three, then shut off the light and stared at the patterns of moonlight and leaves on the ceiling for nearly two hours. She looked around at the posters that had hung there since before she moved out to go to college.

Posters of the movie Doctor Zhivago. Of the rock group Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. A cover of a TV Guide signed, “Cherish and Love, David Cassidy,” which she and her friend Alice had waited in line three hours to get at a local shopping center.

How had she managed to be interested in all those things, get high honors in school, hold a part-time job, and have a boyfriend when she was sixteen and seventeen?

You didn’t need as much sleep then, she told herself.

But was that really what made it all mesh? Time alone? Or was it the fact that if one job didn’t work, she got another. Or if one boyfriend didn’t make her happy, she got another. Or if one group recorded a song she didn’t like, she stopped buying their records. It wasn’t a matter of energy. It was a matter of discovery. Learning about what she needed to be happy.

She thought she’d found it with that multimillionaire winemaker Stefano Renaldo. Sharon had met his sister in college and gone home with her one spring break and had been seduced by Stefano’s wealth and his yacht and his attention. But — ironically, now that she thought about it — after two years she realized that she didn’t want someone who’d inherited all his money. Someone who didn’t have to work for a living. Someone who people came to for investment capital while he, depending upon his mood, yea’d or nay’d their hopes and dreams. That kind of life — that kind of man — was not for her.

She up and left the yacht one sunny morning, flew back to the United States, and didn’t look back. The bastard never even phoned to see where she’d gone and Sharon didn’t understand how she could ever have been with him — what the hell she’d been thinking. Then she met Paul at a party. It wasn’t like being hit with a hammer. Except for Stefano, no man had ever struck Sharon that way — and Stefano’s appeal was all on the surface. The relationship with Paul took time to develop. He was even-tempered, hard-working, and kind. He seemed like someone who would give her room to be herself, support her in her work, and be a nurturing father. He wouldn’t smother her with gifts or jealousy the way Stefano had. And then one day, at a Fourth of July picnic a couple of months after they met, she happened to look into his eyes and it all clicked. Affection became love.

A branch scraped heavily against the window and Sharon looked over. The branch had certainly grown since she was a girl. That same branch used to scratch so gently against the same window.

It has grown larger, she thought, but it hasn’t changed. She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing, being able to stay the same. Good for a tree, bad for people, she decided. But change was one of the most difficult things for anyone to do. Change — and compromise. Admitting that your way might not be the only way of doing things or even the best way.

Sharon gave up trying to sleep. She’d pull another Nancy Drew from her shelf. But first she slid from the bed, pulled on a robe, and went to look in on Harleigh and Alexander. The kids were sleeping in the bunk bed that used to belong to her younger twin brothers — Yul and Brynner. Her parents had met at a matinee of the original The King and 1. They still sang “Hello, Young Lovers” and “I Have Dreamed” to one another, off-key but beautifully.

Sharon envied her parents the open affection they shared. And the fact that her father was retired and they got to spend so much time together and they seemed so thoroughly happy.

Of course, she thought, there were times when Mom and Dad weren’t so content—

She remembered quiet tension when her father’s business wasn’t going so well. He rented bicycles and boats to people who came to the sleepy resort on the Long Island Sound, and some summers were bad ones. There were gas shortages and recessions. Her father had to put in long hours then, running his business during the day and working as a short-order cook at night. He used to come home smelling of grease and fish.

Sharon looked at her children’s peaceful faces. She smiled as she listened to Alexander snore, just like his dad.

The smile wavered. She shut the door and stood in the dark hall, her arms folded around her. She was angry at Paul and she missed him terribly. She felt safe here, but she didn’t feel at home here. How could she? Home wasn’t where her possessions were. Home was where Paul was.

Sharon walked slowly back to her old bedroom.

Marriage, career, children, emotion, sex, stubbornness, conflict, jealousy — was it hope or arrogance that possessed two people and convinced them that all of those things could be melded into a working life?

Neither, she told herself. It was love. And the bottom line, however she got to it, was that as much as her husband frustrated her more than any man had or could, as much as he wasn’t there as much as she or the kids wanted or needed, as much as she was angry at him almost as much as she felt affection for him, she still loved him.

Deeply.

Alone now in the small, quiet hours of the morning, Sharon felt that she may have come down too hard on Paul. Leaving Washington with the kids, snapping at him on the phone — why the hell wasn’t she willing to cut him any slack? Was it because she was angry that he could take all the time he wanted for his career and she couldn’t? Very possibly. Was it also because she keenly remembered missing her father during the summer busy season and when he had to hold a night job? Probably. She didn’t want her kids to experience the same thing.

Sharon didn’t feel that what she’d said to Paul was wrong. He should spend more time with his family and less time at work. His job required a greater commitment than nine-to-five, but Op-Center would continue to function if he came home for dinner some nights… if he went on vacation with them once in a while. But how Sharon had spoken to him — that was a different matter. She was frustrated and instead of talking to him she’d taken it out on him. After taking his kids away, that had to leave him feeling very much alone.

The woman took off her robe and lay down on the twin bed. The pillow was cold with her sweat and the branch was still scratching. She looked over. As she did, she saw her cellular phone on the night table. The black plastic glowed in the moonlight.

Rolling onto her side, Sharon picked up the phone, flipped it open, and began punching in Paul’s private number. She stopped after the area code. She discontinued the call and set the phone aside.

She had a better idea. Instead of giving him a call — where even a small thing, like getting voice mail or