Balance of Power

    Hampton hesitated. "Is there any way to force Slezak to tell the truth? After all, if someone saying he was the president of the AFL-CIO had really called Slezak's office, wouldn't his receptionist remember?"

    "I've thought of that," the President answered. "But imagine the reaction if I turn the FBI loose on Slezak's office? The most his receptionist will say is that he or she doesn't remember a call from one of the most important figures in the country. Implausible to you and me, but an absolute dead end. Slezak's told the perfect lie—a phone call which never happened, which no one can disprove.

    "Maybe the press will get this counselor to say who she gave her notes to. Maybe in that sphere I could even get the FBI involved, and try to trace this story to its source. But whoever is involved will lie as well, and the columnist who printed it will never reveal his source. In the meanwhile, I'd be accused of unleashing the Gestapo to distract attention from my sins. As a matter of practical politics, I have to save the FBI for later." Kerry began to pace. "Even if we let them loose, I doubt the FBI could trace the story before the vote to override my veto. Or even the vote on my gun bill." Pausing, Kerry finished, "That's happening next, I suppose."

    "We think so." Hampton's tone was sardonic. "Fasano may be deeply saddened by what's happened to you, but he's adjusted rather quickly to its uses."

    Kerry was quiet. What had saved him from dwelling on his own personal humiliation, and Lara's, was to focus on its political aspect, the fight to regain his standing in time to save his veto. Now his feelings overwhelmed him. "You know," he said, "I could have never imagined how this would be for Lara, or for me. Or how it would feel to have it define my Presidency."

    Hampton was silent. Kerry guessed at his thoughts: that, burdened by this secret, Kerry should not have run for President; that Hampton had gone out on a limb for him, not knowing what could happen; that Hampton's life as Minority Leader would be brutal, arrayed with a wavering caucus of Democratic senators against an implacable Frank Fasano and a now more compliant group of Republicans, and supported only by a President perhaps too wounded to survive. "Mr. President," Hampton said evenly, "I don't blame you for where we are. Frankly, you've been a better President than I thought you'd be—better, I'm now convinced, than Dick Mason would have been. You've given us more reason to be proud of our party than we've had in a good while."

    For twelve years in the Senate, Kerry reflected, he and Hampton had been colleagues, but not friends. Now Kerry wondered why he had underrated Hampton's mettle, and undervalued his decency. "When you were my leader," Kerry told him, "I should have been a better soldier."

    Softly, Hampton laughed. "Good soldiers," he said, "don't always make good Presidents. Chad Palmer used to tell me that before he mislaid his soul."

    At this mention of his friend and rival, Kerry faced again the dimensions of his problem. "We needed Chad on this," he said. "It would have helped."

    "So it would have."

    They both had spoken in the past tense, Kerry realized. He thanked the Minority Leader, and got off.

* * *

    When her private line rang, Cassie Rollins picked up the phone herself. "Cassie," her caller said quietly, "it's Lara."

    Startled, Cassie blurted, "I'm so sorry about what's happened."

    "So am I," Lara replied. "I've been sorry for years, and now I'm even more sorry for Kerry than I was. He didn't want it to begin with."

    At this revelation, so personal and painful, Cassie suppressed a sigh—the meaning of "it" was unmistakable. "I'd guessed as much," Cassie said. "Not that it matters to me."

    "That's why I called you. Better than most people, I understand the pressures you're under. I can't make them disappear, or even help. But what's happening is wrong, and we both know it."

    "We do," Cassie agreed. "But it's also the world we seem to live in, I'm afraid."

    "But should it be?" The First Lady stopped abruptly, taming the note of protest in her voice. "He doesn't know I'm calling, Cassie. I'm not even sure what I'm asking you to do. But it makes no sense to vote down Kerry's gun bill, or wipe out Mary's lawsuit over this."

    "I understand," was all Cassie could say, except to wish the President and First Lady well. And so she did.

* * *

    When, Fasano wondered, had Leo Weller begun shrinking? Perhaps the process had started with the trial lawyers and asbestosis, but a half hour with Charles Dane had left his colleague so stripped of his usual bluster that he seemed, quite literally, smaller. Even the residual shrewdness in his eyes reminded Fasano less of a crafty politician than a woods animal cornered by a predator.

    Although he knew the answer, Fasano asked, "How was your talk with Dane?"