NO SAFE PLACE

by Richard North Patterson

  “Or lose the primary.”

  Once more, Kerry was still. Only his questioning look betrayed surprise.

  “Lose,” Clayton told him, “and the story goes away. But if you win the nomination andthen the story comes out, you’ll be the ruined candidate who dragged his party to disaster.” Clayton’s voice softened. “Forty-two years old, Kerry, and a ghost. How many more regrets do you want to live with?”

  Kerry stared at him. After a time, he asked, “Just how do we ensure I lose, when we’re not even sure how I can win?”

  “I pull the TV ads we committed to, explaining we need the money for between now and the convention. Without more airtime, Frank Wells and Jack Sleeper think Mason wins. I agree.” Clayton gave a first bleak smile. “They’ve got their reputations to protect. Once I cancel the ads, they leak it to the press, and I become the idiot who cost you the nomination. Next time you’ll know to hire someone better.”

  Kerry tilted his head, studying him. Clayton could feel his friend thinking of what this would cost Clayton himself: two years of his life; his own pride in reputation; his hopes to be attorney general. For his own sake, Clayton realized, he wanted Kerry to lie. “You’re young,” he finished. “You’ve made a great run, when almost nobody gave you a chance. In four years, or eight years, you could run again. If you want that.”

  “And if I lie?”

  “No guarantees. ButNewsworld still has standards: does it print the story when all it has is innuendo? At least you can hope this gets pushed down a level, to papers that don’t count as much. Maybe even the tabloids, so we can call it sleaze.”

  “Even though it’s true.”

  “Give them the ‘truth,’ Kerry, and Lara loses her reputation, and her career. So do you.” Clayton’s voice became slow and emphatic. “If you don’t want to lie, lose the primary. But first ask yourself this: are you willing to sacrifice everything you’ve campaigned for, let down everyone who’s worked for you, so that whoever is trying to destroy you—Dick Mason or some Republican—can be President? Then ask yourself which sin you want to live with.”

  Kerry walked to the window, opening the drapes. A sun-streaked smog sat over Los Angeles; to Clayton, the office towers surrounding their hotel, random in their shapes and colors, looked like the careless work of a willful child. Kerry’s tone was bitter. “I can’t be with her, but I can ruin her. All because I think I’d be a better President than Dick Mason.” He shook his head, and his voice became softer, a mixture of irony and sadness. “What would my brother have done, do you suppose?”

  Twelve years ago today, Clayton reflected, James Kilcannon had been murdered. He waited a moment longer. “In five minutes, Kerry, I’m meeting with Kit, Nat, and Frank. What should I tell them?”

  Kerry did not turn. “Tell them to stall,” he said at last.

  * * *

  At six o’clock, Sean Burke stood in front of the glass door beneath the “Kilcannon for President” sign.

  The dawn was sunny; the clouds that had covered San Francisco were gone. At Sean’s back was the hum of urban traffic running normally, the squeal of brakes, the arrhythmic snarl of motors. After a moment, Rick Ginsberg, the volunteer coordinator, appeared like a specter through the glass. Then Sean opened the door and stepped inside.

  Though his eyes were bruised with sleeplessness, Rick managed a smile. “Thanks for showing up early, John.”

  Rick’s quiet words echoed; with few others there, the cavernous showroom had a shadowy hush, even more churchlike than before.

  “Come on back,” Rick said. “I’ve got the morningTimes and theChronicle spread out on the table.”

  Sean followed him. Their footsteps echoed from the Spanish tiles to the ceiling, fifty feet above. Over his shoulder, Rick asked, “Did you see Kerry’s speech last night? When he was talking to the demonstrators?”

  Even Kerry Kilcannon’s name, Sean found, made him edgy. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I saw it.”

  “I hope they understand—Kerry’s pro-choice; he’s just got his own feelings.” Rick’s voice was doubtful. “With this creep who murdered those people in Boston, you wonder who’s listening. Mason’s sure using that every way he can.”

  Sean felt his skin crawl. How much longer would it be, he wondered, until they traced him to San Francisco, put photos of the “creep” on television for fools like Rick to see. And still he had no weapon.

  The coordinator stopped by a Formica-top table covered with newspapers next to two pairs of scissors. “Start with theChronicle ,” Rick told him. “We clip out anything about the campaign, or issues, and fax it all to state headquarters in L.A.”

  Sean placed his hands on the table, leaning forward as he scanned the papers. On the front page of the second section, he saw the headline “Kilcannon to Tour Bay Area Tomorrow.”

  Sean stared at the words. “After I’m done,” he mumbled, “I may have to go out for a while. Maybe an hour.”

  Mechanically, Sean picked up the scissors.

  * * *

  “Jesus,” Nat Schlesinger murmured.

  It was seven o’clock. Clayton sat in his hotel suite with Nat, Kit Pace, Frank Wells, and two pots of coffee; Nat’s voice was the first sound since Clayton had finished speaking. Now Clayton watched them sort out the pieces: the counselor’s memo; Nate Cutler’s visit to Lara Costello; Lara’s denial. The gloom was palpable.

  It was Frank Wells who spoke next. “Well,” he said, “this takes care of the gay rumors, doesn’t it?”

  No one smiled. Kit’s round face looked puffy, as if she had been aroused from sleep; Clayton watched her struggle to jump-start her thoughts. Carefully, she asked Clayton, “If Nate goes to him, what will Kerry say?”

  Kit, Clayton knew, would not ask if the story was true. Nor would the others; like criminal defense lawyers, they did not wish to know and would never talk of this to Kerry. That was Clayton’s job.

  “Right now,” Clayton said, “he doesn’t see why he should answer at all.”

  Kit’s coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth. As she stared at Clayton over the rim, he saw her recover. “That won’t fly,” she said bluntly. “How you deal with a scandal can make it better or worse. One way or another, Kerry has to respond.” She sipped her coffee, then added more quietly, “Deciding things has never been his problem.”

  Clayton felt the others watching. Each, he was confident, assumed that Clayton knew the truth, and was waiting for cues. “He’s had less than an hour to live with this,” Clayton answered.

  Kit put down her coffee cup, eyes veiled.So it’s true, he saw her think.

  “What about this woman?” Frank Wells asked. “The counselor who wrote the memo? Can we send someone to talk to her?”

  Clayton gave a curt shake of the head. “That makes her look more credible. IfNewsworld prints this, our visit could become part of the story. And there’s no controlling what this counselor might say about it.”

  “At least run her through the Internet,” Kit put in. “If we’re lucky, she’s a political activist or files nut lawsuits. Something we can discredit. Any way you look at it, what she’s done is shitty.”

  “Youknow the first rule,” Frank Wells said to Clayton. “If you’ve got a problem, get it out and live with it. Then hope you can find something about Mason that’s even worse.”

  “What wouldthat be?” Kit demanded. “Whoever slipped this to Cutler knows how it would look—that Kerry is so ruthless and amoral he’ll doanything to save himself.” She turned to Clayton. “That’sthe problem, isn’t it?”

  “Ithink so,” Clayton admitted, then turned to the others. “Does anyone here disagree that ifNewsworld can source this, it’s a story? Or that it would ruin Kerry’s chances to be President?”

  Narrow-eyed, Frank Wells stared into some middle distance past Clayton’s head. “Voters are more tolerant now,” he said finally. “I can imagine a candidate saying that this is an agonizing moral dilemma, one he feels he shares with thousands of others.”r />
  “You mean make thisKerry ’s tragedy?” Kit’s voice, though quiet, was incredulous. “Andhang Lara Costello out to dry? Women would hate him for it.”

  Frank spoke to Clayton. “At least we could focus-group it—quick and dirty and somewhere far away, like Massachusetts. Make the hypothetical candidate some married guy who wants to run for Congress, script a few versions of amea culpa , see what people think. Why close down our options?”

  With this, Clayton knew, the conversation had taken a decisive turn; more blatantly than Kit’s, Frank’s suggestion assumed that the story was true. “That would take a week,” Kit rejoined. “If Kerry’s still deciding a week from now, it’s the worst mistake he could make. And thisis Kerry Kilcannon we’re talking about, not some narcissist on a talk show. The confessional style just isn’t him.”

  Stress, Clayton saw, was becoming antipathy: Frank was talking past Kit to him; Kit was telling Frank that he had no grasp of the candidate. It was time to end this. “The story’s deadly,” Clayton said. “Period. Once it’s printed, there’s only one thing he could say that isn’t hopeless: ‘It’s not true.’ And if he’s waited untilthen , it’s probably too late. So let’s talk about the next few days.”

  There was silence again. They gazed out the window, watching the towers of the city, surreal amidst the haze. “Then we should sum up what’s going for us,” Kit said at last. “First, whatever problem is here, its not characterological. Unlike our current leader, no one’s going to claim that he’s been doing a volume business in women.”

  Clayton shook his head. “That’s not him, either.”

  “Okay. Second, Kerry’s divorced now. Adultery’s not an ongoing issue . . .”

  “What about the ex-wife?” Frank Wells asked. “What wouldshe say ifNewsworld went to her?”

  It was a good question, Clayton knew. Quietly, he said to Frank, “I don’t think Meg knows anything about this. But if someone needs to talk to her, I will.”

  The ambiguous comment hung in the air, and then Kit resumed her analysis. “Third,” she told them, “—andthis is the biggest thing—wealready know that Lara’s denied it. That’s a huge advantage: other than Kerry,she’s the only one who knows for sure. Cutler may not believe her, but even these daysNewsworld has to be ambivalent. They won’t be comfortable with one unnamed source and a memo that could be a political dirty trick. So Nate has to come to us.

  “He can’t dothat in public.” Her voice grew sardonic. “Can you imagine him shouting at Kerry along the rope line: ‘Have you fucked any NBC reporters in the last three years?’ Nate would lose his exclusive.

  “The problem is whenNewsworld goes to Lara’s friends, just like to Kerry’s ex. ‘Weknow you’re close to Lara Costello,’ they’ll say. ‘Weknow that she was having an affair with Senator Kilcannon. What did she tell you about that?’ The questions go on from there.”

  True enough, Clayton thought. “As to Lara,” he told her, “they won’t find anyone.”

  Kit sat back, steepling her fingers. “She told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, Kit dropped her crisp manner. “God, I feel sorry for her.”

  “So does Kerry. He doesn’t want us to do anything which tells Cutler that Lara came to me.”

  “How do we avoid that?” Kit asked. “Until Nate tips his hand, or Kerry decides what to do, we can’t have Kerry anyplace where Nate can corner him. And one of the things the press likes about Kerry is that he’s accessible: walking through the airplane, saying hello—”

  “It’s not that bad,” Frank Wells interjected. “Our guy’s tired, that’s all. We’ve already said that we’re saving his time for the California media. For a couple of days, at least, it won’t look like we’re singling outNewsworld .” His tone, though strained, became ironic. “With luck, they’ll think we’re waiting until Kerry’s comments on abortion die down.”

  “That’s how it’ll have to be,” Clayton said to Kit. “We need to buy him some time.”

  “Until next Tuesday, you mean? That only works if Kerry intends to deny it, or he loses. Otherwise it’s worse.”

  Once more, Clayton found himself appreciating how sharp Kit was. “He knows that,” Clayton answered quietly.

  Suddenly Kerry was a palpable presence. Clayton could feel the others imagining his conversation with Kerry; adjusting their view of the candidate; wondering how their unspoken knowledge would affect his relations with each of them. And last—because this was politics, and they were professionals—he felt their sympathy for Kerry the man.

  “Isn’t it amazing,” Nat mused. “We just accept that they can do this to him—ask it, and print it. There’s no sense of outrage anymore.”

  “Oh,” Kit responded, “I don’t have any illusions about these people. They’re not our friends, or even an audience—they’re usually not open to persuasion, and they’re too obsessed with scandal. But they’ve got their job to do, and I do my job best by respecting that. Sometimes they fuck up, but they’re generally pretty close to the mark. If this is true, they’ve got their arguments: the ethics of Lara covering Kerry, the fact he may look like a hypocrite, the ruthlessness thing. I even think Nate Cutler’s a decent guy. Why bother being pissed off?”

  “BecauseKerry Kilcannon ’s a decent guy,” Clayton answered, “and this election should be about what he offers the country.” He turned to Nat. “You know the publisher ofNewsworld , don’t you? And you’re friends with the editor in chief?”

  “Uh-huh. In fact, I was in his wedding.” Nat gave a faint smile. “Hisfirst wedding, before he dumped Janie and the kids for a reporter from theBaltimore Sun .”

  Kit Pace emitted a brief, somewhat harsh laugh. “Touché,” she said to Nat.

  “So,” Clayton asked him, “what would you say to your highly moral friend once Cutler knocks on Kerry’s door?”

  “That they’ve got one off-the-record source. That a topflight newsmagazine needs a higher standard of proof—something like ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’—before it effectively decides the most critical primary election in recent memory. That in these times of media feeding frenzy they’re all the more obligated to get it right. That there’s still time between the convention and the general election to do more checking.”

  Nat paused, looking at the others, then spoke with new force. “That if they print this story now, as thin as it is, they’re deciding that they want Dick Mason over Kerry Kilcannon. That they’d turn the campaign into the kind of mudslinging nightmare that requires us to retaliate against Mason or the other guys any way we can. And that the public is so sick of thatand them only half of us vote now, and this ‘scandal’ would be one more step toward flushing presidential politics down the toilet.”

  All of them had moved past shock, Clayton thought; the conversation was both feeling and practical. “Then maybe you fly to New York,” he said to Nat, “as soon as Cutler comes to us, and tell them so.”

  Nat leaned forward, graying and rumpled, a man who had seen it all and still hoped for the best. “But Kerry has to deny this, and the denial has to stick. Otherwise it’ll boomerang on us with a vengeance.” He drew a breath. “It’s the old gotcha game. Nobody’s going to admit to fucking their dead grandmother, but once they ask the question and youlie , the press has an absolute obligation to expose you as a liar. I can hear theNew York Times right now.”

  “TheTimes editorial page,” Kit said with quiet contempt. “The epicenter of conventional wisdom.” She turned to Clayton. “If Cutler gets sat on, he could leak enough dirt to a lesser paper to havethem print it. Then Nate can printhis more complete story withoutNewsworld being responsible for breaking it. I’ve seen reporters do that.”

  Clayton saw Nat Schlesinger’s rueful shake of the head; he was sixty, Nat’s expression said, and had entered journalism in another age—in Nat’s opinion, a better one.

  “A question,” Clayton said to him. “Who fed this to Cutler in the first place?”

  Nat fro
wned. “The GOP. It’stheir issue, after all.”

  Frank Wells shook his head. “Mason. It fits with the past two days.” He turned to Clayton. “Which gets me back to my cynical question: Are our oppo-research people looking for the magic bullet we can use on Dick?”

  “That’s what they’re for. But all we’ve found are rumors. Although they’re bad ones.”

  Clayton heard the others stir. Frank raised his eyebrows. “About what?”

  Clayton shook his head. “If they’re more than that,” he said firmly, “I’ll let you know. But if they’re not, this is something that could backfire.”

  There was silence, acceptance. “All right,” Clayton said. “Let’s sum this up. For now, Kerry avoids Cutler by avoiding the press. If Cutler wants to see him in private, Kit demands to know what it’s about. And once Cutler pops the question, Nat goes toNewsworld . But only if Kerry’s prepared to make a firm denial.”

  The others nodded. “When you talk to Kerry,” Nat said softly, “emphasize the last part.”

  No response, Clayton knew, was necessary. With equal quiet, he said, “Then I’ve got one more thing to say.

  “What we’ve talked about today is Kerry’s political future. It’s also personal, and involves my closest friend.

  “Your first obligation is to look upbeat, as if nothing has happened. The second is to say nothing about this to anyone. To me, that’s not just loyalty—it’s morality.

  “Mymoral distinction is not between one decision Kerry might make or another. It’s between campaign consultants who are loyal to their candidate and those who leak. The culture of Washington rewards disloyalty: a political consultant is never wiser than when he’s screwing his boss. Show me the consultants with the best reputations among the press, and I know who the treacherous pricks are.” Now Clayton looked directly at Frank Wells. “Of course, thereal art form is to leak and spin simultaneously—to dump on your candidate for not doing all the things you recommended and then suggest how badly that reflects on his judgment, and how well on yours.

  “I don’tever want to see that happen to Kerry Kilcannon. Especially about this.” Clayton’s tone grew softer yet. “But if it does, whoever leaks this meeting had better bury him. Because if Kerry becomes President, no one will have to worry about how longmy memory will be.”