Balance of Power

FIFTEEN

"The President's wedding," Peter Lake said dryly, "must be the nightmare of the event-planning business."

The head of the President's Secret Service detail sat in Clayton's office with those summoned to review the security for Kerry's wedding and reception: Kit Pace and Francesca Thibault from the White House; Connie Coulter on behalf of Lara. There were smiles all around, and then Francesca Thibault allowed, "It is a bit more challenging than the Easter Egg Roll."

"Or pardoning the White House Turkey," Peter rejoined. "From a security standpoint, it's more like the wedding of Charles and Diana." Surveying the others, Peter sat back, a burly, even-tempered man with a law degree, a philosophical bent, a deep spiritual commitment to his Roman Catholic faith, and, above all, a total dedication to protecting Kerry Kilcannon. "It's a unique opportunity," he continued, "for highprofile mischief—terrorists, crazies, protestors of every stripe, malcontents wanting to make a point, anyone who thinks he has a grievance against the President. We're not only telling people like Mahmoud Al Anwar the time and place, we're offering them the cover of hundreds of guests, and thousands more hoping to get a glimpse of the President and new First Lady."

Francesca nodded. "What do you need from us, Peter?"

"Lists, for openers. Every guest for the wedding and reception— name; date of birth; Social Security number; how they're getting here; how they're leaving. We'll need all that to get them in . . ."

"Hopefully," Francesca interjected pointedly, "without offending them, or making the reception look like a detention camp."

"I understand," Peter replied. "But all of you know the problem: Kerry Kilcannon is a human lightning rod. And the angry and unstable are drawn to the myth of the Kilcannons like moths to a flame.

"James Kilcannon was killed, this President nearly so. There are a thousand copycats hoping to finish the job and secure a place in history. The President excites passions other politicians don't: pro-life fanatics hate him, and a lot of hard-core gun folks are convinced he's out to get them. And now he's taken on Al Anwar.

"Every time he goes somewhere, we go there knowing that a lot of people want him dead." Facing Clayton, Peter finished, "I realize his political people are hoping for the maximum exposure. But I'm not much willing to compromise when it comes to Kerry Kilcannon."

Clayton nodded. "I'll make the President conscious of your concerns," he answered. "As far as he's concerned, he's never had so much to live for."

The Chief of Staff 's voice was bland. But the comment reminded Peter of what they knew that the others did not: that Kerry and Lara had been lovers in secret. During the California primary, three nights before Kerry Kilcannon was shot, Peter had let Lara into Kerry's room; the night after the shooting, Peter had assured a worried Lara that he would never tell anyone. Nor had he—not his superiors in the Secret Service, or even his own wife.

"What about media?" Peter asked.

Clayton glanced at Connie Coulter. "Lara's given in," Connie said. "The wedding will be televised. But nothing afterward."

This, Peter knew, was a concession—the Lara Costello he had come to know was intensely private. "Two nights before the wedding," Connie went on, "the President and Lara will do a live interview from the White House, on ABC. The night before there'll be a private dinner at the White House, for the wedding party and family." She glanced at a piece of paper. "On the eve of the wedding, Lara will move from her apartment to a suite at the Hotel Madison. Two hours before the ceremony a limousine with her family will leave the White House and go to her hotel. There'll be TV coverage of their departure and arrival at the Madison, but only the White House photographer will be allowed into the suite. From there, they'll proceed to the wedding."

"And the day after . . ."

"Lara will be taking her family out to Dulles Airport for the return trip to San Francisco. And then she'll meet the President at Andrews Air Force Base for the flight to Martha's Vineyard."

"Will the Costellos be doing any media?"

"Perhaps a few selected interviews, some with the Hispanic media." Pausing, Connie said wryly, "Very selected."

From this, Peter inferred that Lara was, as he expected, resisting the no doubt limitless requests that she offer up her family to the press. "I'll want their schedule," Peter told Connie. "Especially for whatever time they'll be spending with Lara."

"Absolutely," Connie answered, and then Clayton's telephone rang. With a puzzled expression, he rose from his chair and answered.

Placing the receiver down, he turned to Peter Lake. "As soon as we're finished, Peter, the President would like to see you."

* * *

When Peter entered the Oval Office, the President motioned him to a comfortable couch, and sat in a nearby chair.

"It's about Lara's family, Peter. I need your help."

This was said with a sobriety which suggested, to Peter's trained antennae, that the President was deeply concerned. This was underscored by the absence of the President's usual inquiries about Peter's own family, or even the casual greetings suitable to two men who spent much time together, one of whom saw the other in unguarded moments few other people witnessed. Peter Lake considered Kerry Kilcannon an extraordinary man, with a grace and kindness at odds with the coldminded politician his enemies portrayed. The President had never asked for secrecy regarding his affair with Lara, and seemed to trust him utterly. That he also had never mentioned the nearly successful attempt on his life which had occurred on Peter's watch, but instead expressed great pleasure at Peter's assignment to the White House, only intensified Peter's determination that no harm would ever befall this President.

"Anything I can do, Mr. President."

"As much as you can, I'd like you to watch out for them while they're here—if not directly through the Service, through the D.C. Police." The President leaned forward. "They're not public people, and I don't want them harassed. Worse, they'll be targets of opportunity—for Al Qaeda or whoever else. I can't let anything happen to them."

This was more concern, Peter thought, than Kerry Kilcannon had ever shown for himself. "I'll make sure they're well protected," Peter answered, and then paused before adding gently, "And the First Lady–to-be."

With a faint smile, the President considered him. "I know that. But there's something else I need your help on, in confidence."

Peter made no answer. He did not need to.

"You'll remember the problems with Joan's husband." The President steepled his fingers, eyes remaining fixed on Peter Lake. "Last month she got a court order that he stay away from her and their six-year-old daughter, and had the cops take away his gun. He's threatened suicide or even murder."

"And you think that's more than talk."

"It could be." Pausing, the President spoke in a lower voice. "This morning, he went to court on the battery charge. Joan told the court that—if he agreed to a program for batterers—she didn't want him jailed. So that's what the judge did.

"For a lot of men, these programs really help. But I can't assume that about John Bowden. The only thing I'm sure of is that he's free."

Peter considered this. "You can't be sure he won't try to get another gun. And he can always snatch Marie, with or without one."

"My problem is that I'm stuck." The President stood, hands in his pockets, as if his lack of power made him restless. "I can't ask the Service to protect them. And I can't ask the police to guard them without creating a lot of problems—including publicity, which Joan doesn't want and which might only make Bowden worse. The only recourse Lara and I seem to have is hiring private security, like everyone else. For whatever that's worth."

Briefly, Peter reflected. "There are things we can do," he answered. "If someone who might attract a violent person is in proximity to you or the First Lady, we take over. As for the rest, we can have our field office in San Francisco in touch with the police, monitoring her situation."

"I appreciate that. But it doesn't guarantee Joan's safety. Or Marie's."

"If you want to set up personal security," Peter said, "one of our exagents has a security firm in San Francisco. Anything you want—security monitors, twenty-four-hour protection for Joan, someone watching her daughter's school—my friend Tom Burns can do. It all depends on how much you want to spend."

At once, the President looked relieved. "Money's no object," he replied. "At least until this guy's calmed down."

* * *

At seven forty-five that evening, the President took a call in his upstairs office.

"Sorry I'm so hard to find," Robert Lenihan told him. "But I'm in the middle of a securities fraud trial, with close to five hundred million dollars in damages. Another corporate rip-off."

His tone was less apologetic than self-satisfied, tinged with the suggestion that Bob Lenihan's work approached in import the President's own. In recent years, his personal wealth swollen by millions wrested from tobacco companies, Lenihan and his trade association of plaintiffs' lawyers, Trial Lawyers for Justice, had become major donors to Democratic campaigns. Fueled by ideological passion and the desire for headlines—in Lenihan, Kerry had found, these motives were impossible to separate—Lenihan had recently launched a series of high-risk lawsuits against the gun industry on behalf of American cities, asserting that companies who marketed semiautomatic handguns were responsible for millions of dollars in costs incurred by public hospitals in treating the dead or injured. The kinship Lenihan felt this established with the President was only enhanced by two million dollars in television ads that Trial Lawyers for Justice had run in support of his nomination of Caroline Masters to be Chief Justice.

"You're a busy man," Kerry answered mildly, "so let me cut to the chase. With the understanding that this cannot hit the papers."

For Lenihan, Kerry knew, this request would only increase his selfesteem. "Absolutely, Mr. President."

"Clayton tells me you've got thirteen major lawsuits against gun manufacturers. Suppose I want to reach an agreement with one of the biggest, settling all of your lawsuits against it?"

This, for once, induced a momentary silence in Bob Lenihan. "In exchange for what?"

"Zero damages," Kerry said briskly. "Just a fundamental change in how this company does business—including how it sells its guns, and who it sells to." After a brief pause, Kerry added, "And, perhaps, your legal fees. Some modest compensation for time spent."

To Kerry's amusement, more silence followed. "To agree to that," Lenihan ventured, "I'd need the approval of all the cities."

"That shouldn't be hard. These suits are all uphill—and in a few states, the SSA is pushing legislation to bar them outright." Kerry's tone remained crisp. "The mayors of all thirteen cities are Democrats, and they need the assistance a President can provide. Besides, they filed these lawsuits claiming they wanted to reform the American gun industry. I'm proposing to help them."

Once more, Lenihan hesitated. When he spoke again, his tone was subdued. "You've taken me by surprise, Mr. President. I'll have to consult with my clients and cocounsel."

"You do that," Kerry said succinctly. "I need a breakthrough on guns. You need a President who looks as strong as possible. Especially for the next time the Republicans in Congress gin up some 'tort reform' bill to wipe out half your lawsuits against the corporations you sue, or cut the damages you can collect to zip."

This time, Kerry surmised, the quiet on the other line suggested not resistance, but calculation, the weighing of political costs and benefits. At length, Lenihan said, "I'll start making inquiries tomorrow."

"Thank you," the President answered politely. "This is delicate, and I don't have time to waste."