Balance of Power

TWENTY-TWO

For Lara Costello Kilcannon her wedding day became a blur, beginning with a dash from St. Mathew's to form a receiving line in the East Room. But for Peter Lake the day was a series of freezeframes, safety measures checked and rechecked. The concentric circles of security stretched as far as the Washington Monument; the area above the White House was a no-fly zone enforced by fixed-wing helicopters. The demonstrators were confined to a discrete area, their bitterness, expressed in slogans like "Mr. and Mrs. Baby-killer" and "Disarm the Secret Service," kept from view of the wedding party. Snipers on the nearby rooftops trained their sights on the South Lawn; others stared out from the roof of the White House at the area surrounding it. The guests showed identification before passing through magnetometers set up at the East Entrance. The White House itself was divided into five zones, each requiring a badge to enter; all five zones were monitored by a command center beneath the West Wing. Peter stood in the sculpture garden near the East Entrance, scanning his surroundings as he monitored security on a cell phone. Today the Kilcannons were as safe as he could make them, and their secrets were safe, as well.

* * *

The airport bristled with police and National Guardsmen in combat gear, standing guard against Al Qaeda and Mahmoud Al Anwar. Passing them, John Bowden showed his ticket to a security guard before entering the magnetometers.

Somewhere in the labyrinth conveying baggage was his suitcase filled with weaponry. He had filled out a form describing it precisely; on the way to his destiny, Bowden was in full compliance with the airline's regulations. It was astonishingly simple—now he need only pray that no one who saw the form would recognize his name.

• • •

The dignitaries and other guests filed through the reception line, a tableau which, for Kerry, melded moments of warmth and friendship with the more stilted greetings of obligatory invitees.

Nowhere was this more true than among the principals in the Masters nomination. With genuine pleasure, Kerry greeted Chief Justice Caroline Masters, whom he had not seen since her investiture: as regal in appearance as her wit was arid, Caroline allowed that life on the fractious but cloistered court was rather like "The Intifada confined to a monastery." Senator Charles Hampton, the scholarly but tough-minded leader of the Democratic minority, alluded to the corrosive battle, combining his felicitations with hope that the President's honeymoon extended to the Senate. But it was Senator Frank Fasano, the new Republican Majority Leader, who brought the fallout from Caroline's nomination most vividly to mind.

Barely forty, Fasano had ascended after Kerry had engineered the political destruction of his predecessor, Macdonald Gage, for Gage's apparent role in the ruin of Chad Palmer's daughter Kyle. While colleagues in the Senate, Kerry and Fasano had barely spoken: though they were superficially alike—young, ethnic Roman Catholics from a bluecollar background—the forces which backed Frank Fasano, and now hoped to make him President, despised Kerry with a vituperation rare in public life. Beneath his dark good looks and skilled media persona, Fasano was as deeply conservative on social issues as Kerry was liberal: Fasano's genuine distaste for supporters of choice was, in the President's case, exacerbated by his belief that Kerry had betrayed Catholic teachings on the sanctity of unborn life. Shaking Fasano's hand, Kerry pondered an irony—that by eliminating Macdonald Gage, Kerry had moved up Fasano's timetable for the Presidency, making himself Fasano's target. "Congratulations, Mr. President," Fasano said. "We wish you all the joys of family. As well as the blessings."

The remark could have been a veiled, faintly ironic allusion to Kerry's failed marriage and annulment; or to Fasano's stay-at-home wife, pregnant yet again, and their five well-groomed children; or to Fasano's primacy as an exponent of the traditional family—anything, the President felt sure, save for a straightforward expression of sentiment. Pondering whether a sixth child in nine years might induce psychosis in Bernadette Fasano, tipping the scales toward infanticide, Kerry inquired dryly, "How many 'blessings' does the joy of family involve?"

Fasano flashed his teeth in a smile which managed to convey their differences. "As many as God wishes, Mr. President."

The President returned his smile. "I'll mention that to the First Lady," Kerry assured his putative successor.

* * *

John Bowden walked toward the gate without noticing the passengers around him. Somewhere beneath them, his suitcase moved toward its final destination. If they lost it, he could not fulfill his mission.

Stopping at the bar, he ordered one Scotch, then another.

Bowden counted on this now—the cauterizing glow which numbed his misery and narrowed his vision to the task ahead. He lapsed into a fugue state until he envisioned nothing but the agony on Kerry Kilcannon's face. He barely made his flight.

The tent was filled with flowers, food, and a corps of waiters bustling to keep glasses full. At the head table, Kerry watched his best friend rise to propose a toast.

"The New York Times," Clayton said with exaggerated self-importance, "once called me the most influential person in the White House." Smiling, he inclined his head to indicate the new First Lady. "Well, folks, welcome to the first day of the rest of my life."

There was an extended ripple of laughter. Joining in, Kerry nonetheless acknowledged the underlying truth—Clayton was still adjusting to the idea of someone as close to Kerry as only a much-loved spouse could be, let alone one as strong-minded as Lara. Beside her husband, Lara Costello Kilcannon gave Clayton her own cheerful smile of acknowledgment.

"When I first met the groom," Clayton continued, "he was a scrappy Irish kid who threw a mean elbow in touch football games—and in the courtroom. I wasn't sure what would come of him." He smiled at his wife, a slender bright-eyed woman, still handsome after twenty-two years of marriage. "But from the beginning, Carlie and I knew that no one could be a better friend.

"When you have a friend like Kerry Kilcannon, you wish the very best for him." Turning, he raised his glass to Lara. "Today, in Lara, our wish came true . . ."

* * *

The air inside the economy cabin felt unhealthy and chill. John Bowden began to shiver. He could not ask for a second Scotch. He knew that his voice would slur, and he did not want the flight attendant to notice him.

Folding his arms for warmth, he closed his eyes. But, as in the last six days, he could not fall asleep.

* * *

"In Kerry," Lara told the guests, "my mother and sisters acquired a wonderful source of love and support, and Marie a world-class uncle."

Pausing, her smile encompassed her family. "Of course, it was a little disconcerting to see them think, 'At last—a man so kind, so sensitive, so forebearing, that he can even live with Lara.' Their sense of relief was palpable." Turning to Kerry, she added, "And so was mine."

She paused, her eyes filling with emotion. "All my life I've wanted to succeed. And now I know what true success really is for me—to share my life with you . . ."

* * *

"Being engaged while being President," Kerry told the celebrants, "is like being on an extended date with two hundred eighty million chaperones. It's truly a test of love—and ingenuity."

Amidst the laughter, Kerry's expression grew serious. Softly, he said, "I've never thought I was born to be President—that was my brother, James. But thanks to my mother I always knew what love is. So that now I can recognize in Lara the woman I was born to love . . ."

* * *

The plane landed with a jolt.

Rising, Bowden forgot his seat belt. It pulled him back; embarrassed, he fumbled with its catch. When he stood, light-headed with alcohol and sleeplessness and days of meals gone uneaten, his self-belief was shriveled.

Like an automaton, he trudged off the plane, following the others to the baggage carousel.

* * *

Just before the dancing began in the East Room, the President found a quiet moment with Senator Chad Palmer. Even amidst the babel of celebration, the press of bodies anxious for a word with Kerry, the others left them alone.

"I saw you chatting with Frank Fasano," Chad said dryly. "Weddings bring out the best in us, don't they?"

Kerry smiled. "Frank and I," he said mildly, "try to visit every five years or so. But I expect it will be more often now that he's become your peerless leader. How are things over there?"

"Different," Chad said with a trace of the enduring bitterness he held toward Fasano's predecessor. "Mac Gage was Southern-boy cagey— Machiavelli beneath the smile. But you always knew better than to trust him. This guy's like a Jesuit with a business plan: totally focused, without a single unguarded moment, and much harder to read than Gage. I have no doubt that he deeply loves his wife and children. But to Frank, you and I are less people than corporate competitors, roadblocks to the business plan secreted in the recesses of his mind."

The remark was a reminder, if Kerry needed one, of the price Chad had paid for his own ambitions. "Screw Fasano," Kerry told him. "What I wanted to say is how grateful I am you're here."

Chad's smile of appreciation was tinged with sadness. "When you dance with Allie," he requested, "tell her that. Today was hard for her."

* * *

His mouth still sour with alcohol, Bowden waited for his luggage.

The carousel kept spinning. He stared at it as if hypnotized, feet rooted to the tile, fearful of being watched: as bags arrived, and others snatched them, the clump of people around him dwindled. Soon there were only three.

When at last his suitcase appeared, moving slowly toward him, Bowden was as alone as he was in life.

* * *

At eleven o'clock, Kerry and Lara Kilcannon began climbing the stairs to the residence.

With their guests gathered at the base, Lara glanced over her shoulder, and then tossed her bridal bouquet over her head.

Turning, she saw it still rising in the air, then, to her surprise, falling in a precipitous drop at the feet of her niece Marie.

As the celebrants laughed, Marie picked it up with the confused, delighted look of a child not quite sure what she has done, but certain that it must be notable. On the stairs, Lara covered her face, laughing; she had meant the bouquet for Mary, who regarded her niece with a fond bemusement which somehow conveyed "Always a bridesmaid . . ." To Marie's mother, Lara called out, "Put those flowers in trust, Joanie. In twenty years or so, Marie can take them out again."

* * *

Bowden lay in the motel room, shades drawn, the gun resting on his stomach. In the dark, he checked the time on his iridescent wristwatch.

He did not expect to see this time tomorrow.

* * *

In the dark, Kerry held her. Her breasts rested lightly against his chest.

"I feel like we've gotten away with murder," Kerry said.

Lara laughed. "That I get to stay over, you mean?"

"For openers. Doesn't this feel different to you?"

"Yes, actually. But maybe not the way you mean."

"How's that?"

As Lara kissed him, he could feel the smile on her lips. "I'm not worrying about birth control."

With that, the President and First Lady stopped talking altogether.