No Safe Place (59 page)

Kerry folded his arms. “Well, things have changed, haven’t they.” His voice lowered. “Imagine how she feels tonight. What would you do, if you were me?”

Clayton shook his head, still watching him. “I only know what
you’d
do, Kerry.”

There was silence. “Tell Peter Lake I need him,” Kerry said.

Two hours later, after meeting with Bob Kerrey and Ellen Penn, Kerry sat across from Peter Lake. It was a little past eleven o’clock.

“Sorry to cut into your sleep,” Kerry said. “You and I don’t get much, do we?”

Shrugging, Peter smiled. “Sleep’s for sissies, Senator. And I needed to talk to you anyhow. About this event in San Francisco.”

Oh, that,
Kerry thought. After tonight, the rally seemed so pointless that it had slipped his mind. But despite his smile, Peter’s voice had an undertone of urgency.

“Sure,” Kerry said.

“Your advance team,” Peter continued in a flat voice, “wants the speakers’ platform facing a slough of office buildings. That way there’s a picturesque backdrop for the cameras, they think—a clock tower in front of the Ferry Building. The problem is that you’d be facing over a thousand windows, and
some terraces besides.” Peter paused, and any trace of humor vanished. “Security-wise, Senator, it’s a nightmare.”

Kerry restrained his impatience—at the moment, all that seemed important was calling Lara. “Where do
you
want the platform?” he asked.

“Against the nearest building. It eliminates most lines of sight.”

“What do my advance people say?”

“Too cramped-looking, too much glare from the glass. Bad for television.”

Though he was trying to be objective, there was an edge in the agent’s voice. Kerry felt a wave of sympathy; Peter worked hard, and the Service had already lost Kerry’s brother. They did not want to lose
him
as well.

Quietly, Kerry said, “I haven’t made things easy for you, have I?”

Peter hesitated, as though wondering how far to go. “Not too easy,” he answered with another fleeting smile. “But I guess that’s not your job.”

Kerry studied him. “Tell my advance folks,” he said at length, “that I can live with a little glare.”

Above the bruises of fatigue, Kerry could see the relief in Peter’s eyes. “Good,” the agent said slowly. “Good.”

Kerry paused a moment. “I’ve got a favor to ask you, too.”

“Sure.”

“There’s a reporter I’d like to meet with—tonight if she’s available. But the rest of the pack can’t know.” Kerry hesitated, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I need a way to see her in private. Without signing off security, I hope.”

For an instant, Peter stared at him, to assess whether he was joking. “Signing off protection,” he said finally, “is
not
a good idea.”

Kerry tilted his head. “Don’t you guys work out all the ways some psychotic with a gun could get to this floor?
One
of them ought to work for an unarmed woman.”

A trace of Peter’s smile returned. “We could probably bring her here, Senator. If that’s what you’re asking.”

Once Peter left, Kerry began pacing—arms folded, lost in thought.

What would he say to her? he wondered. How would her voice sound? How would she feel when she heard
his
voice?

He could find no speech to give, no words that gave him confidence. All he had was how he felt.

Throat constricted, he reached for the telephone.

Close to hyperventilating, Sean could not stop watching the Secret Service agent.

His name was Ted Gallagher. White-haired, affable, and alert, he sat next to the advance person, Donna Nicoletti, at the head of three tables usually reserved for phone banks. The others occupied folding chairs along both sides—three San Francisco cops; two scruffy guys in T-shirts who were sound system specialists; a representative of the event company that would set up the bleachers; several volunteers. Pinned to a sketchboard was a hastily drawn diagram of Justin Herman Plaza, with a schedule for the rally.

“11:45 a.m.,” it read. “Candidate arrives from Los Angeles.”

Nicoletti pointed to the diagram. “Here,” she said to Gallagher, “is where we want the volunteers with signs. Right behind the press pool, so they show up on TV.”

From there,
Sean thought anxiously,
he might get close enough.

Gallagher eyed the diagram. “I want a list of these volunteers,” he said to Ginsberg, “for a security check. Names, addresses, and Social Security numbers.”

Sean’s hands felt clammy. “I can give you a partial list,” Ginsberg answered. “Maybe the rest tomorrow morning.”

Gallagher shook his head. “It’s Saturday night. Computer
checks take longer on a weekend, and this event is thirteen hours away.”

Ginsberg put a finger to his lips. With some reluctance, he answered, “I can have someone call people at home.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to. In case we can’t complete the security check, I’ll want a couple of your people near the platform to help ID the folks who belong to you. Anyone your people don’t know, we’ll keep out.”

How, Sean wondered desperately, could he avoid giving his Social Security number? Eyes fixed on the table, he heard Ginsberg ask, “Who else should be on the list?”

“Anyone who’ll be near the candidate—onstage, backstage, or with a sign. That includes the events folks and the people running the sound system.” Gallagher looked around the table. “For those who haven’t worked with us before, all of you will be given pins with numbers and color codes, identifying who’s permitted within the various perimeters of security. That defines where you’re allowed to go and how close to the senator you’ll get.

“This event is very last-minute. We’re rushing magnetometers up here; we may not have them all in place as soon as we’d like, and some may have calibration problems. Plus, we have to sweep the area before
anyone
gets inside.” Pausing, he glanced at the events supervisor, a stocky man in a San Francisco 49ers windbreaker. “If you want this to come off on time, we’ll need the bleachers and sound system in place by seven a.m.”

“They will be,” Donna Nicoletti said, with an admonitory glance toward the sound people. “We’ve already started work.”

Sean half listened now. He had no criminal record: obsessively, he wondered how close the Boston police had come to him; whether the name Sean Burke was now on a computer or otherwise known to the Service; whether, in the next moment, Gallagher would spot him. To be so close …

“All right,” Nicoletti was saying. “Let’s go through this, step by step.

“By seven o’clock, the platform is in place and the sound system is set up. We need the sound system connected directly to the press bleachers, so they don’t pick up ambient noise.” Standing, she touched the diagram, saying with veiled
displeasure, “At the request of the Secret Service, the platform will be
here, in front of the office building marked ‘Embarcadero Four.’”

“Good,” Gallagher said blandly.

“By nine a.m.,” she continued, “the barriers for the various perimeters will be in place, as well as the magnetometers, right?”

“Hopefully. Between nine and ten-thirty, we sweep the area for guns and explosives. During that time, the plaza will be empty. At ten forty-five, we start letting people in.” He looked at Ginsberg again, pointing at an area near the plaza marked “Parking.” “I’d have your buses and car pools already here, so we can sweep them. Then we can admit these folks right away, to help minimize backup at the magnetometers.”

Next to Sean, Kate Feeney looked somewhat awed. “They’re really thorough,” she whispered.

When Sean reached for the Diet Coke in front of him, his hand shook. Awkwardly, he clutched the aluminum cylinder so hard that he indented its side, causing a metallic click which made him wince.

No one seemed to notice.

Standing next to the diagram, Gallagher traced a line from a point marked “end of Sacramento Street” to the speakers’ platform. “This chute,” he said, “is about a hundred feet long. It’ll be lined with agents and police. The only people allowed to use it are the volunteers with signs, the press pool, and Senator Kil-cannon and his party, including Senator Penn.” His finger jabbed a checkpoint near the platform. “Two agents and your two volunteers will be right here.

“At eleven o’clock, we start checking off the folks with signs. When we’re finished, your two people can join the rest. At eleven-thirty, the press pool arrives.
They’ll
have been swept before they got on the bus.”

Finishing, he turned to Nicoletti. She looked around the table for emphasis. “At eleven forty-five,” she said, “Senator Kilcannon arrives from the airport. Accompanied by Senator Penn, he proceeds from Sacramento Street into the chute, shaking hands as he goes. He’ll be surrounded by prominent women supporters, which makes for good visuals.” Pausing for breath, she continued: “The pool proceeds to the front of the
platform. At eleven fifty-five, Senator Kilcannon should be at the checkpoint.

“And at twelve o’clock, if all goes well, Senator Penn introduces Senator Kilcannon. To thunderous applause.”

Where, Sean wondered, should he be? The security seemed daunting; it was hard to imagine, especially from a mere diagram, how it would be possible to conceal a gun. Let alone assassinate Kilcannon.

“Any questions?” Nicoletti asked.

Sean barely listened. The back-and-forth was like the drone of a television. “We’ll need to do a walk-through,” the agent was saying to Ginsberg and Nicoletti.

Sean looked up. “When?” Ginsberg asked.

Gallagher checked his watch. “Soon.”

The meeting broke into clusters, people standing, talking among themselves. Sean stayed where he was, irresolute.

As if sensing his isolation, Kate Feeney asked, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

Sean gave a twitch of the shoulders. “I just want to meet the senator.”

“You
should
.” Enthused, she squeezed his arm. “Maybe the two of us can check through the volunteers. That way we’ll be close to him.”

She was trying to look after him, Sean thought. He turned to her, confused yet touched, unable to speak. Dully, he noticed again the pale skin, the delicate features, the light down at the nape of her neck.

“Let’s talk to Rick,” she urged him.

Without awaiting an answer, she clutched his sleeve, standing. Together, they walked toward Ginsberg, who was quietly talking to Gallagher. “This is a real fire drill,” Ginsberg was saying.

The agent nodded. “We like more notice—this makes things harder. But we know how campaigns can be.”

Noticing Kate, Ginsberg turned. “What can I do for you, Kate?”

“We’d like to check the people with signs through. If we do, maybe John would meet Kerry.”

Ginsberg hesitated. “
You
know everyone, right?”

“Right.”

“Then sure.” He faced Sean. “You might not meet the senator until afterward. Is that okay?”

Sean nodded, forcing himself to speak. “Are you going to the plaza? Maybe we could go with you.”

Sean sounded the way he felt—nervous, overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility. Ginsberg frowned, eyes narrow with thought. Turning to Gallagher, he asked, “Can these guys walk through with us? There’s a lot to think about on the volunteer side, and maybe it would help if a few of us went.”

Gallagher looked at Sean, then Kate. “I’m Kate Feeney,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it, expression softening. “Ted Gallagher,” he said, and turned to Sean. “And you’re … ?”

Sean licked his lips. “John Kelly.”

To Sean, Gallagher’s eyes seemed to linger. Turning away, the agent asked Ginsberg, pleasantly enough, “You can vouch for these people, right?”

Ginsberg smiled toward Kate and Sean. “Sure,” he said. “They’re superstars.”

“Okay,” Gallagher answered. “Let’s go.”

He headed toward the others, who were already gathering at the center of the room—Nicoletti, the events and sound people, two police officers. Sean went to the corner where he had left his jacket folded in an empty desk drawer, in order to conceal the gun.

There was a soft tap on the door, then another.

Inside, Kerry stopped pacing. Pausing for an instant to prepare himself, he went to answer.

Lara stood in the doorway, with Peter Lake at her side.

Her eyes were dark pools, solemn and unblinking. Kerry made himself look at Peter.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

He turned to Lara again. It struck him that neither was able to pretend, for Peter’s sake, that this was an ordinary meeting. Then Kerry moved aside to admit her.

She hesitated a final moment, and then stepped inside. The door closed behind her.

She stood in the artificial light, dressed in jeans and a sweater, as he was. It had been almost two years, he thought again, since the last day he had seen her, fresh from the shock of discovering her pregnancy. Lara looked older—to Kerry, more beautiful than ever, but tempered by experience. She seemed quite determined to wait for him to speak.

For Kerry, a slight smile was easier.

At this, she came closer, two steps, and rested the crown of her head against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For everything.”

He clasped her shoulders, his touch light, tentative. “I came back to D.C.,” he said softly, “to ask you to marry me, no matter what you decided. But you were gone.”

Her head bowed. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Kerry, it’s too late for this. Why hurt each other more?”

Her tone was weary, helpless. She backed away from him, shoving her hands in her pockets, as if retracting her own feelings. Quietly, she said, “There was just so much.”

Kerry’s stomach was a knot; he felt constricted, as though two years of emotions had nowhere to go. “Please.” Her voice had a desperate quality. “Let’s talk about something else. We used to be able to talk.”

He gestured toward the couch. She sat at one end, facing him; he sat at the other. It was instinctive, he realized—this was how they would sit in his apartment at the end of a day, each with a wineglass, sharing whatever had happened since they were last together. Only, now she looked tentative, like a bird about to take flight.