Balance of Power

by Richard North Patterson

  Sober, the others seemed to ponder what this might involve. "How was your meeting with Chuck Hampton?" Cole asked.

  "Chuck has his concerns," Kerry replied calmly. "Five or six senators who still think I'd screw up a two-car parade, if only out of recklessness."

  "Maybe we can help him out," Cole suggested. "Throw in some stuff that'll never pass, like licensing and registration, then let Chuck's waverers strip them off the bill. That would allow them to stand up for the gun rights of ordinary citizens, and still vote for what we really want."

  Kerry shook his head. "That builds in more delay, which is what Fasano wants. We need to propose the law we mean to see enacted and build pressure to pass it quickly."

  Cole considered this. "Then the best way to do that, Mr. President, is to frame this as anticrime legislation. We're keeping bad guns and bad bullets away from bad people. Period."

  Kerry smiled faintly. "Sounds simple, doesn't it. Accomplish that, and we'll deserve the Nobel Peace Prize." Turning to Sanders, he asked, "How do we manage that?"

  "Universal background checks, to start. On every gun sold in America."

  Kerry nodded. "At the least, a criminal shouldn't be able to break out of jail, walk across the street to a gun show, and buy a Lexington P-2. As I intend to tell a joint session of Congress, very soon."

  "You're rolling this on national TV?" Sanders asked. "That raises the stakes, Mr. President."

  "So did Bowden," Kerry answered softly. "With a little help from you guys, I think I can find the words."

  The sense of consequence, and the pressure it placed on Kerry, seemed as sobering to the others as it felt to Kerry himself. "I can reemerge in public only once," he told them. "When I do, I'd better light up the switchboards. Or this is going nowhere."

  The room was silent. "Lara will be with me," Kerry continued. "My speech to Congress should be the beginning of a national campaign— meetings with victims and cops, going to any state or district where the senator or congressman is susceptible to pressure. And if that doesn't work, we'll hold hostage whatever pet project they most want."

  "Hardball," Cole cautioned the President, "could cost us down the road."

  Kerry stood, restless. "We've got no choice, Alex. In the Senate we'll have to crack a filibuster—all Fasano and the SSA will need is forty senators to keep this law from coming to a vote. To pass it I have to impress—or buy—at least sixty-one senators. Failing that, we'll be forced to make our appeal somewhat more Darwinian."

  Without pause, Kerry turned back to Sanders. "Just draft a law that works," he directed. "No guns for people like Bowden. No guns that accept forty-round magazines. No Eagle's Claw bullets for anyone. I'll take it from there."

  * * *

  After the meeting, Kerry and Clayton sat alone.

  "You'll need absolute self-control," Clayton told him. "Calculated fury—no public displays of anger, no mistakes of the heart. Just keep up the pressure until the SSA goes radioactive.

  "This can't be about you, Kerry. Or even about Lara. You've already got all the sympathy you need, without asking."

  Kerry stared at him. "Why do you suppose I had you sit on Al Anwar's death until after we buried Lara's family? For those four days we didn't need to ask."

  For a moment, Clayton was silent. "What about Bob Lenihan?" he asked. "Do you want to see him?"

  "Invite him back for my speech to Congress. It's occurred to me he could be useful."

  Clayton studied him. "And Callister's letter?"

  Turning, Kerry gazed out the window. "It can wait," he answered softly. "I'm saving Callister for last."

  * * *

  That evening, Kerry and Lara dined alone, by candlelight. Their conversation, as so often now, was desultory and muted.

  "Has Mary talked about a lawsuit?" Kerry asked. "Or met with any lawyers?"

  "Not that I know of." Across the table, Lara gave him a querying look. "She still blames me, Kerry, and she's still just trying to cope. What made you think of that?"

  "A couple of things. Maybe you should ask her."

  ELE VEN

  At one side of the narrow hallway to the Democratic cloakroom, Minority Leader Chuck Hampton was seated in a phone booth reserved, with his nameplate, for his exclusive use. Enclosed in glass for privacy, Hampton spoke quietly to President Kilcannon.

  "An address to a joint session of Congress," he repeated.

  "Tomorrow night. Unless you think it's a terrible idea."

  And if I do? Hampton wondered to himself. "I suppose," he answered dryly, "that depends on what you're asking for."

  "Merely a law that works," the President answered. "Universal background checks. More money to enforce them. No licensing or regulation, you'll be relieved to know. If it helps, you can tell your apprehensive friends you talked me out of it."

  Hampton smiled. "How about beat some sense into you?"

  The President laughed softly. "That, too. Assuming that they'll believe it." His voice became somber. "As for what I'm asking for, tell them that I mean to win, and expect their help in doing that. This isn't just an exercise."

  By now, Hampton knew his man; roughly translated, "tell them . . . I expect their help" included, "and if I have to, I'll institute a reign of terror to get it." Despite his fear of the consequences, Hampton felt an odd exhilaration—as a matter of pure politics, the exercise of power and guile, Kilcannon's battle with Frank Fasano might well become a classic.

  "I expect your people polled this, Mr. President. But my favorite technique's a little less scientific. Every weekend when I'm back home, I get in my pickup truck, drive to a country store, buy coffee and a paper, and talk to whoever's there. Then I get back in the truck, throw the paper in the back, and drive to the next store to buy coffee and a paper . . ."

  Kilcannon laughed. "Do you ever actually read the paper?"

  "No time. Too busy buying them to read them. Last Sunday I bought six or seven."

  "And?"

  "You're onto something. People find it disturbing that this guy

  could buy a gun. Oddly, the most pissed-off guy I talked to is a federally licensed gun dealer. He's sick of competing with folks who claim they're not in the business so they won't have to run background checks, then go around peddling their wares at gun shows or out of the trunk of their car to any deviant with money enough to buy them . . ."

  "I'll take all the support I can get, Chuck, wherever I can find it. I won't quibble about motive."

  Through the glass, Hampton saw Senator Vic Coletti pass by, flashing him a quick glance of curiosity. "Anyhow," he told the President, "I was a little bit encouraged. For once the SSA may have more trouble than it knows."

  "If so," Kilcannon answered, "they'll start putting the screws to your list of suspect Democrats. Let me know whoever you think may need a call from me."

  With grim humor, Hampton imagined the President's tender ministrations to the frightened souls whose votes would be in play. "What about the Republicans?" he asked.

  "I only know what you do, Chuck. Five or six of them will wonder which way they should jump. We're going to need them all."

  This corresponded with Hampton's calculations. "I guess you saw Paul Harshman's little show."

  "Of course." The President's tone held the quiet calm Hampton knew to be deceptive. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

  "That wasn't just the SSA, I'm sure. I'd guess it was Fasano. He's looking to give his people cover."

  "Then he really should do better, shouldn't he."

  "Oh, he will. If I were you, I'd hang up on me right now, and get Chad Palmer on the line."

  Once more, Vic Coletti passed, quickly peering into Hampton's booth. "Palmer," the President answered, "is already on his way."

  * * *

  At seven o'clock, Chad Palmer entered the President's private office.

  A student of history, Palmer briefly noted the early photograph of Lincoln, the cartoon caricatures of FDR and a laughing Teddy Roosevelt,
the magnificent walnut table on which John F. Kennedy had signed the ratification of the nuclear test ban treaty and, more recently, the antagonists had signed the Israeli-Palestinian accord of 1993. Hand resting on the desk, Palmer mused aloud, "That seems like another time."

  "It was. In far too many ways."

  Palmer turned to him. "How is Lara, Mr. President?"

  "Not great, as you can well imagine. But speaking out may give her something to hold on to." Waving him to a chair, Kilcannon asked, "And Allie?"

  Stiffly, Palmer sat; two years of imprisonment and torture by Islamic extremists—which had ended his once-promising career as an Air Force pilot—still hampered the movement of his arms. "Some better," he answered. "She's started doing volunteer work at a school here in the District. Like Lara, I suppose, she's needing to reach out."

  At this, the President lapsed into a pensive quiet. "For Lara," he admitted softly, "that could be a lifeline. Perhaps for both of us."

  For a moment, Palmer thought, the President seemed a very lonely man. Chad considered what to say, then spoke from his heart. "Perhaps more than you know, Mr. President, I feel for you. In a way, Kyle's death put me where you find yourself. Allie can't help blaming my career."

  Silent, the President gazed off into some middle distance, as though at a painful and uncertain future. "All I can do," he said at length, "is get up every morning. And wait this out, however long it takes."

  Palmer nodded his understanding. The President, he knew, revealed his private self to very few. But Chad could not know whether, tonight, to do so was a relief, or another burden for a man about to undertake a challenge which could make or break his Presidency. Perhaps, Palmer conceded with the unsparing self-scrutiny which was his nature, he himself wished to avoid the difficult subject at hand.

  "You wanted to talk about this gun bill, Mr. President."

  "Yes." Abruptly, Kilcannon refocused. "I need your help, if you can give it."

  Frowning, Palmer chose his words. "Maybe in time," he said in a dubious tone. "Maybe. But I can't get out front on this."

  That the President's expression betrayed such open disappointment told Palmer how deeply invested Kilcannon already was—as a practical politician, the President could not be surprised by Chad's reluctance. Quietly, Kilcannon said, "Walk me through that, if you don't mind."

  There was no point in mincing words. "It's pretty straightforward, Mr. President. You're a pariah to the right. Some of them have forgiven me for backing you on the Masters nomination—I suppose on the theory that losing a daughter unmoored me from sound principle. But they won't forgive me this.

  "In my party, gun rights are a visceral issue. At the least I need to sound out sentiment within our caucus." Pausing, Palmer added, "And, of course, there's Frank Fasano."

  "What about him?"

  "He feels you coming, Mr. President. He already knows that you won't settle for a symbolic battle, or a tactical defeat."

  Kilcannon cocked his head. "He's told you that?"

  "In so many words. What he made quite explicit is that this is the first test of his leadership, and therefore an absolute test of party loyalty for the rest of us. If you crack us on guns, he argues, it's all downhill from there."

  "Downhill for Republicans? Or merely for Fasano?"

  "In Fasano's mind, they're the same. I may not give a damn about the SSA, but he does. In fact, he believes their support is essential to displacing you, and therefore to the benefit of all right-thinking Republicans." Briefly, Palmer smiled. "I'm a Republican, he reminded me. At least for now."

  Kilcannon did not return his smile. "Whichever way you jump, Chad, you'll help the side you're on. A reputation for integrity will do that."

  Palmer shrugged. "It's always amazed me," he answered dryly, "what getting yourself kidnapped and tortured will do for your career. Even if I wasn't a volunteer."

  To Palmer, the President's smile was painfully fleeting. "Neither was I," he answered. "Like getting shot, this issue found me."

  Once again, Palmer felt Kilcannon's solitude. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. President. All the way around."

  TWELVE

  In his commodious office at the SSA, Charles Dane watched CNN, waiting for Kerry Kilcannon to enter the House of Representatives.

  With him were his legislative and communications directors, Carla Fell and Bill Campton. Silent, they watched as television cameras swept the chamber, crowded with congressmen and senators, members of the cabinet, the Supreme Court, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Even had he not known the circumstances, Dane would have sensed that this occasion was extraordinary. The chamber was unusually hushed, the assembled dignitaries forgoing the whispered asides and knowing smiles of those accustomed to pomp and power, instead choosing, on this night, to sit silent and somber. Briefly, the cameras caught Frank Fasano, his hooded gaze inscrutable, and then Lara Costello Kilcannon, sitting in the gallery with her sister, Mary, and the families of the other victims. Beside the First Lady was a black teenager whom Dane could not identify, but was grimly confident had lost a relative to gunfire.

  Mr. Speaker, the Sergeant at Arms called out, the President of the United States.

  The door of the chamber opened, and Kerry Kilcannon entered.

  Save for his brief statement before the funeral, the President had not been seen in public. Almost none of those assembled had spoken to him since the wedding. Now they stood, the applause swelling and supportive. As he moved, unsmiling, down the aisle to the rostrum, Kilcannon paused to accept the condolences and good wishes of senators and congressmen, some of whom touched his arm or whispered their remarks. The aisle became crowded; Kilcannon stopped repeatedly, making no effort to hurry. The applause kept rising, mingled with cheers.

  This, said Wolf Blitzer on CNN, will no doubt be remembered as one of the more remarkable moments in the recent history of Presidential addresses to Congress.

  On the screen, Chad Palmer stepped forward, giving Kilcannon a firm handshake and a brisk word of support. Then the President continued on, turning one way, then the other, as legislators crowded around. The camera captured Kilcannon's perfunctory handshake and quick nod to Frank Fasano and then, just before he proceeded to the rostrum, a much longer moment with Senator Chuck Hampton. Bracing the President's shoulders, Hampton spoke softly; head lowered, Kilcannon listened, nodding, and then briefly grasped Hampton's arms, a display of warmth which seemed so genuine that Dane found it unsettling.

  "The key," he told Carla Fell, "may be how hard Chuck Hampton works for him."

  "Maybe so," she answered, "but in the end it'll all come down to Palmer and Fasano."

  Kilcannon reached the rostrum, to be greeted by Speaker Thomas Jencks, a stocky, grey-haired Republican, and Vice President Ellen Penn. Silent, he handed each of them a copy of his message. For almost five minutes, the respectful applause continued unabated, with Kilcannon utterly still, eyes downcast in an attitude of deep reflection and humility. Only when, at last, the sound slowly receded did Thomas Jencks speak the ceremonial greeting.

  Members of Congress, I have the high honor and distinct privilege of presenting to you the President of the United States . . .

  Those attending rose as one.

  * * *

  From the rostrum, Kerry Kilcannon watched them, his chest tight with emotion. He recalled like yesterday the tumult as he accepted his party's nomination, the chill day of his inaugural address, but never a speech so fraught with moment. As the silence fell at last, he remembered Inez Costello, then Joan, and finally Marie, smiling with delight as he danced with her at the wedding. And then, stepping forward to the rostrum, he looked up at his wife.

  * * *

  On television, Lara Kilcannon's lips moved, as though in a silent encouragement only he could hear.

  "They're certainly milking this one," Bill Campton said to Dane. And then Kilcannon began to speak.

  Thirteen years ago, the President said in quiet tones, my brother James Kilcannon died of a fata
l gunshot wound. Thirteen days ago, three more members of our family were murdered with a gun . . .

  Dane stared at the screen in wonder. "This is a mistake. He's making it all about them."

  * * *