Richard Patterson - Balance of Power

"These concerns are real, Mr. President. The SSA will tell you that your smart gun will never be safe, and that some bad guy with a good old-fashioned American weapon will blow you and your loved ones clean away. The technology just isn't there for us yet."

"You'll get there a lot quicker," Kerry responded evenly, "with a twenty-million-dollar research grant from my administration."

Callister raised his eyebrows. " That's part of the deal?"

"There's more. You're worried about a boycott. By law, I can't make promises. But I'm confident you'd be seriously considered to get a much larger share of military weapons purchases, as well as by the FBI, the ATF, and the Secret Service. For what it's worth, all thirteen cities have committed to arm their cops with a greater percentage of guns from whoever signs off first."

Callister emitted a long, silent breath. "You've been busy," he said slowly. "What else are you prepared to offer?"

"A complete settlement of all thirteen lawsuits, for ten million dollars in fees for the plaintiffs' lawyers." Briefly Kerry smiled. "For everyone but your lawyers, it's a bargain. You'd spend more on them in a year."

Callister's eyes held an answering amusement. "Any other incentives?"

"Several. While Lexington is transitioning to smart guns, its agreement to limit capacity, ban cop-killer bullets, and plug the gun-show loophole will all minimize future lawsuits. This administration won't sue you either. Between the thirteen settlements, and a whole new customer base, you'll become the envy of your peers." Kerry's tone became cool. "At some point, one or two of them will stop toeing the SSA line. And then we'll break those bastards for good and all. Before they take you with them."

Callister sat back. "In your brave new world, Mr. President, more people will wind up owning more Lexington guns. Is that really what you want?"

Kerry shrugged. "If they're not the wrong people, and their guns are safer, I can live with that."

For a good while, Callister was silent. "You seem to have answers for everything, Mr. President."

"Yes. I want this done."

Thoughtful, Callister adjusted his glasses. "It won't be easy. Even if I think it's worth it, I'd have to persuade our British parent and my own board of directors. For that I need total secrecy." He stood, restless. "If this gets out before we're ready, any deal's dead. The SSA would have no choice but to destroy us."

"Any leak on my side," Kerry answered softly, "and the leaker will envy Martin Bresler."

For an instant, Callister stared at him. "I believe you."

"Well, then?"

Silent, Callister gazed at the valley beneath them. There were voices, and then Lara and her family appeared on the trail to the patio, Marie running ahead.

Reaching the patio, she briefly glanced at Callister, then ran up to Kerry. "We're going swimming," she informed him. "Will you go?"

"Absolutely." He nodded toward Callister. "Marie, this is Mr. Callister."

Callister smiled. "Hello, Marie."

Managing a faint "hi," Marie sought refuge from her shyness by sitting in Kerry's lap. "Hello," Lara said from behind them.

As Callister turned, Kerry noticed—as he often did—the effect Lara's beauty and self-possession induced in others. When she extended her hand, he took it with a certain deference. "I'm George Callister," he said. "I think I'm supposed to say 'congratulations' to the President, but 'best wishes' to you."

"That sounds about right," Kerry observed. "Or maybe just 'good luck.' "

Lara smiled at Callister. "Thank you," she said and then, in turn, introduced Inez, Mary, and a somewhat subdued Joan Bowden.

Callister greeted them, then allowed that he was needed elsewhere, and that they should enjoy their afternoon. "We intend to," Inez told him. "This is quite an experience."

"For me, as well," Callister answered dryly.

With that, he said goodbye to Lara's family. Kerry walked him to his car, two Secret Service agents trailing at a distance.

"You have a nice family," Callister remarked. "Though I hope they forget they ever saw me here."

From his tone, Kerry inferred that "family" carried great weight with George Callister. "Do you have children?" he asked.

"Two. A boy, seventeen, and a girl, thirteen. And neither one much trouble." Stopping near his car, Callister added, "If it comes out that I was here, think you can get them police protection?"

Though this was offered with a smile, its undertone was not as jocular. "From some maniac with a gun?" Kerry answered. "It's quite a world we live in, isn't it."

Callister considered this, and then extended his hand. "I'll see what I can do, Mr. President."

NINETEEN

Shortly after five on the next afternoon, Kit Pace asked to see the President.

It was a crowded day—a new tax bill; a meeting with civil rights leaders—and a long one: at nine that evening, the President and Lara would sit for a live interview on ABC. Though Kerry waved her to a chair, Kit elected to stand. "The other shoe's dropped," she said bluntly. "Carole Tisone from the Chronicle called.

"She's got the whole story—everything on Joan and Bowden, your various conversations with the D.A. . . ."

"Will she run it?" Kerry interrupted.

"Yes." Kit's face and voice betrayed her frustration. "I took her through it all, off the record—protecting Joan's privacy, giving her marriage a chance, letting Bowden work out his problems in peace. When none of that worked, I argued that you and Lara shouldn't be harried for looking out for her sister like any decent family would, especially on the eve of your wedding . . ."

"Oh," Kerry said, " that only makes the story more compelling."

"Apparently so—they're running this tomorrow, regardless of what we say. We've got only a few hours to respond. You and Lara will have to decide how and where."

"That's up to Joan, not us. But just for the hell of it, what do you suggest we do?"

"Get it over with, Mr. President." Pausing, Kit sat down. "I know how you feel. But if you say nothing, the story will keep going until we're forced to comment. Just as bad, the story is what the Chronicle says it is—intervention by a President in the criminal justice system—rather than what we know it is."

Chin propped on his hand, Kerry allowed himself a moment of depression, contemplating how unfair this was to Joan, and how it might affect her. "We'll talk to her," he said with quiet anger. "But first, get me the publisher of the Chronicle . Before they run this, he's going to have to tell me why."

• • •

Less than four hours later, Kerry and Lara sat with Taylor Yarborough of ABC in the Library, surrounded by cameras and sound equipment.

It was ten minutes before the interview. Taylor, Lara's friend and former colleague, chatted easily with Kerry and Lara about her children, mutual friends, the oddity of getting married in quite so public a fashion.

"I had my assistant run a search," Taylor told Lara with a smile. "He came up with several thousand articles, twice that many mentions on evening news shows, six television specials, and the covers of all four bridal magazines. There were more items on your mother, niece and sisters than on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, Mahmoud Al Anwar, and nuclear proliferation—combined."

Briefly, Lara gave Kerry a look tinged with worry, then turned back to Taylor. "About my family," she said quietly, "we have a favor to ask."

* * *

Drinking vodka and orange juice, John Bowden stared at the screen. He had not eaten, could no longer sleep. The continuous hits of alcohol seemed to surge through his veins, causing the picture to focus, then blur, as though suspended between reality and dream.