Balance of Power

by Richard North Patterson

  For a good while, Callister was silent. "You seem to have answers for everything, Mr. President."

  "Yes. I want this done."

  Thoughtful, Callister adjusted his glasses. "It won't be easy. Even if I think it's worth it, I'd have to persuade our British parent and my own board of directors. For that I need total secrecy." He stood, restless. "If this gets out before we're ready, any deal's dead. The SSA would have no choice but to destroy us."

  "Any leak on my side," Kerry answered softly, "and the leaker will envy Martin Bresler."

  For an instant, Callister stared at him. "I believe you."

  "Well, then?"

  Silent, Callister gazed at the valley beneath them. There were voices, and then Lara and her family appeared on the trail to the patio, Marie running ahead.

  Reaching the patio, she briefly glanced at Callister, then ran up to Kerry. "We're going swimming," she informed him. "Will you go?"

  "Absolutely." He nodded toward Callister. "Marie, this is Mr. Callister."

  Callister smiled. "Hello, Marie."

  Managing a faint "hi," Marie sought refuge from her shyness by sitting in Kerry's lap. "Hello," Lara said from behind them.

  As Callister turned, Kerry noticed—as he often did—the effect Lara's beauty and self-possession induced in others. When she extended her hand, he took it with a certain deference. "I'm George Callister," he said. "I think I'm supposed to say 'congratulations' to the President, but 'best wishes' to you."

  "That sounds about right," Kerry observed. "Or maybe just 'good luck.' "

  Lara smiled at Callister. "Thank you," she said and then, in turn, introduced Inez, Mary, and a somewhat subdued Joan Bowden.

  Callister greeted them, then allowed that he was needed elsewhere, and that they should enjoy their afternoon. "We intend to," Inez told him. "This is quite an experience."

  "For me, as well," Callister answered dryly.

  With that, he said goodbye to Lara's family. Kerry walked him to his car, two Secret Service agents trailing at a distance.

  "You have a nice family," Callister remarked. "Though I hope they forget they ever saw me here."

  From his tone, Kerry inferred that "family" carried great weight with George Callister. "Do you have children?" he asked.

  "Two. A boy, seventeen, and a girl, thirteen. And neither one much trouble." Stopping near his car, Callister added, "If it comes out that I was here, think you can get them police protection?"

  Though this was offered with a smile, its undertone was not as jocular. "From some maniac with a gun?" Kerry answered. "It's quite a world we live in, isn't it."

  Callister considered this, and then extended his hand. "I'll see what I can do, Mr. President."

  NINETEEN

  Shortly after five on the next afternoon, Kit Pace asked to see the President.

  It was a crowded day—a new tax bill; a meeting with civil rights leaders—and a long one: at nine that evening, the President and Lara would sit for a live interview on ABC. Though Kerry waved her to a chair, Kit elected to stand. "The other shoe's dropped," she said bluntly. "Carole Tisone from the Chronicle called.

  "She's got the whole story—everything on Joan and Bowden, your various conversations with the D.A. . . ."

  "Will she run it?" Kerry interrupted.

  "Yes." Kit's face and voice betrayed her frustration. "I took her through it all, off the record—protecting Joan's privacy, giving her marriage a chance, letting Bowden work out his problems in peace. When none of that worked, I argued that you and Lara shouldn't be harried for looking out for her sister like any decent family would, especially on the eve of your wedding . . ."

  "Oh," Kerry said, "that only makes the story more compelling."

  "Apparently so—they're running this tomorrow, regardless of what we say. We've got only a few hours to respond. You and Lara will have to decide how and where."

  "That's up to Joan, not us. But just for the hell of it, what do you suggest we do?"

  "Get it over with, Mr. President." Pausing, Kit sat down. "I know how you feel. But if you say nothing, the story will keep going until we're forced to comment. Just as bad, the story is what the Chronicle says it is—intervention by a President in the criminal justice system—rather than what we know it is."

  Chin propped on his hand, Kerry allowed himself a moment of depression, contemplating how unfair this was to Joan, and how it might affect her. "We'll talk to her," he said with quiet anger. "But first, get me the publisher of the Chronicle. Before they run this, he's going to have to tell me why."

  • • •

  Less than four hours later, Kerry and Lara sat with Taylor Yarborough of ABC in the Library, surrounded by cameras and sound equipment.

  It was ten minutes before the interview. Taylor, Lara's friend and former colleague, chatted easily with Kerry and Lara about her children, mutual friends, the oddity of getting married in quite so public a fashion.

  "I had my assistant run a search," Taylor told Lara with a smile. "He came up with several thousand articles, twice that many mentions on evening news shows, six television specials, and the covers of all four bridal magazines. There were more items on your mother, niece and sisters than on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, Mahmoud Al Anwar, and nuclear proliferation—combined."

  Briefly, Lara gave Kerry a look tinged with worry, then turned back to Taylor. "About my family," she said quietly, "we have a favor to ask."

  * * *

  Drinking vodka and orange juice, John Bowden stared at the screen. He had not eaten, could no longer sleep. The continuous hits of alcohol seemed to surge through his veins, causing the picture to focus, then blur, as though suspended between reality and dream.

  The telephone rang. Bowden did not answer. Nor did his machine: after seven messages from Carole Tisone—whoever she was and whatever she wanted—he had switched it off. The "urgent" message from his lawyer could wait; the only "urgent" matter was getting back his family. He stared at the screen, torn between numbness and rage, a sense of loss so deep he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, so profound that only death could relieve his pain.

  On the screen, the son of a bitch Kilcannon smiled at Joan's ice queen of a sister, the television prima donna. Her sorority sister—the overpaid bottle blonde—kept up the cheerful patter. "How," she asked the ice queen, "has your family enjoyed getting to know the President?"

  Lara took Kilcannon's hand. "They adore him," she said lightly. "But then, who wouldn't?"

  Kilcannon smiled. "Should we start with the U.S. Senate?"

  Bowden took another swallow of vodka. Start with me, you little prick.

  The chirping from the screen enraged him now. He stood, staggering, and went to the refrigerator for more vodka. Returning, he stopped to snatch The Defender from his pile of gun magazines.

  On the screen, no one was smiling.

  "The Chronicle story is forcing us to talk about a very personal matter," Kilcannon said. "But I honestly don't know who it serves."

  Lara touched his hand. "Joan's dealing with the challenges in her marriage," she told the blonde, "in large part thanks to Kerry. But not everyone has a former domestic violence prosecutor in the family to guide them through the legal system. All we can hope for now is that other victims of domestic violence, as well as their abusers, find the help they need . . ."

  Bowden stopped, staring at Kerry Kilcannon. The glass trembled in his hand.

  * * *

  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 r
eflected. "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 Chronicle: John Bowden, weakling. When at last he reached the desk, he could not look at the woman who asked for his ID.

  She looked at his driver's license, then at him—for far too long.

  "Thank you, sir," she said.

  * * *

  At four o'clock, after delivering a speech on health care, Kerry returned to the Oval Office and took a call from George Callister.

  "This is a lousy wedding present," Callister said without preface. "But I can't go down this road with you, Mr. President."

  Kerry slumped in his chair. "So the SSA," he said with muted anger, "is calling the shots for Lexington Arms."

  Callister was silent. "It's a lot of things," he responded at length, "that I'm not free to talk about. Suffice it to say that we're putting out a statement, denying any intention to reach an agreement with your administration." Pausing, Callister sounded tired. "Before this, I had my hopes. But the board feels there's no way to deal with you, and assure peace for Lexington Arms."

  For a moment, Kerry was silent. "There will be no peace, George. For any of us."

  "Maybe so. But I don't expect they'll shoot me now, or drive us out of business. That seems the most we can hope for."

  "It's not enough," Kerry said. "Not for me. Not even for you."

  On the other end of the line, Callister drew a breath. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. And I enjoyed working with you. I think you're an honest man, and I credit your convictions."

  More quietly, Kerry answered, "And I yours."

  "Thank you. For whatever it's worth, best wishes for your wedding day, and for married life thereafter."

  Kerry thanked him, and got off.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On the morning she was to be married, Lara's family came to her hotel suite.

  As they arrived, the bearded White House photographer was photographing Lara with three of her bridesmaids—Anna Chen, a colleague from NBC, and her roommates from Stanford, Linda Mendez and Nakesha Hunt—who, collectively, had dubbed themselves "Lara's Rainbow Coalition."
"Who'd have thought," Nakesha was saying to Lara, "that you'd be the first to get married?"

  Lara smiled. "Not me. But then who'd have thought that I'd be unemployed?"

  "Are you complaining?" Inez demanded.

  Lara gazed up at her mother and saw, beneath the humor, a woman who still worried about her daughter's capacity for happiness. "No, Mom," she said gently, and then looked at the others—Joan, Mary, and Marie, her hair braided, as beautiful in her frilly pink dress as a six-yearold could possibly be. Lara felt her heart fill with love. "All of you look lovely," she told her family. "Before I go and change my life, can I have a few moments with you?"