Balance of Power

    Kerry stood, taking his turn at surveying the view around them. But his mind was on his next few words. "Then the only question," he said at length, "is how to ensure that doesn't happen." Turning, he gazed down at Callister. "Right now, you're like a man in a catatonic trance— perfectly aware that you could get run over, but unable to move, or even cry out for help."

    Callister's smile mingled resentment with an acknowledgment of his dilemma. "What would you do?"

    "Take control of my own fate, for better or worse." Kerry sat again, meeting Callister's gaze. "I'll think about all you've said. I'd like you to think about how to avoid lawsuits, and what Lexington needs to survive the SSA. The next time we meet, I'll have a deal to propose. If you're willing to listen."

    For a long moment Callister studied him. "I'll listen to a President," he finally answered. "I don't need the SSA's permission for that."

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 . . ."