Balance of Power

Anglo-Saxon race. Had he led them to Gehringer? Sarah saw Nolan wonder. Then she watched Nolan realize, swiftly, that Sarah had not asked this, and thus must already know.

    'Where,' Nolan asked in a low voice, 'is Mr. Gehringer now?'

    Johnson sucked in his hollow cheeks. 'I hear the government's got him,' he said tonelessly, and, for Nolan, the realization of what had happened was complete.

SIXTEEN

From the start of his meeting with Chuck Hampto , Frank Fasano was caught between opposing forces.

    The first, captured on the front pages of this morning's Post and Times, was Leo Weller's defection, creating the perception—which could well become reality—that Kerry Kilcannon might seize the balance of power. The second, known only to Fasano, was new pressure from the SSA to hold an early vote on tort reform.

    On the telephone, Dane had sounded edgy. 'When's the vote?' he had demanded to know.

    'I was planning on the week after next,' Fasano answered. 'But Cassie's still not on board, and Leo's left us at least two votes short on gun immunity. Why bring it to the floor when you don't know if you'll win?'

    'Because Kilcannon's scoring points. Back off now and it's an admission of weakness.'

    In tone and substance, Fasano thought, Dane sounded too simplistic, too demanding, too forgetful of the deference due Fasano himself. 'There's no deadline,' he answered coolly. 'At least not in the Senate. Is there some problem in the lawsuit?'

    The sudden thrust induced silence, confirming its accuracy. For the first time, Fasano found himself wishing that he had access to the depositions in the Costello suit. But the judge had ordered them sealed, and Dane seemed unwilling to pass on whatever the lawyers were telling him. 'Look,' Fasano persisted, 'if there's some disaster lurking in that case, I need to know before I put our party at risk to kill it.'

    'If you kill it,' Dane retorted, 'there is no risk. If you can't get to Rollins, we will. The rest is up to you.'

* * *

    As a courtesy, Hampton came to Fasano's office. 'It's time for a vote,' Fasano told him.

    With the trace of a smile, Hampton inquired, 'On the President's gun bill? It's surely time to stop the killing.'

    The ease in Hampton's manner induced the opposite effect in Fasano—a wary suspicion that Hampton, as well as Dane, knew something Fasano did not. 'To bring up tort reform,' Hampton added, 'you need the unanimous consent of all senators. Right now you don't even have mine.'

    'Quit playing games,' Fasano answered testily. 'You can force me to file a motion to proceed with the tort bill, and then debate the motion. But you'll lose the vote, and what will you gain in the meanwhile? A delay of maybe three days, four at most.'

    Hampton sipped his coffee. 'Which you seem desperate to avoid. What's the problem, Frank—hearing the President's footsteps? Or is it the SSA?' Abruptly Hampton's amiable tone was replaced by one of tough practicality, all the more impressive for its quiet. 'Every week brings a fresh harvest of children dead from guns. Until we vote on the President's bill, all I can do is bring their pictures to the floor. A poor substitute for action.

    'Give us a vote on Kilcannon's bill. If we don't get it, I mean to propose every piece of it that the SSA doesn't like as a separate amendment to your tort reform bill, along with a few ideas of my own: universal background checks; a ban on making or selling Eagle's Claw bullets; mandatory safety locks; and a provision to close the gun- show loophole.' His smile flickered. 'You did see the news clips of that gun show in Las Vegas, right? They were selling AK-47s.

    'I'm going to force you to cast vote after vote, and let people like Cassie Rollins decide between the SSA and commonsense measures the public wants. After ten votes or so, your caucus will look like whores for the gun lobby—at least the people who stick with you. And if you're still up for a fight, I'll throw in some more amendments which will make terrific issues in the next campaign: a raise in the minimum wage, prescription drug benefits for seniors, maybe a patient's bill of rights . . .'

    'Do that,' Fasano cut in, 'and the Senate will be a bloodbath, with relations across the aisle so poisoned the public will end up hating us all. What about this President makes him worth all that?'

    'It's not just Kilcannon,' Hampton answered easily. 'You've been trying to roll us. I'll blow this place up before I'll let that happen. Your choice is this—compromise with me or start defending the Eagle's Claw, and prepare your people to pay their debts to Charles Dane with some of the worst votes they've ever cast.'

    Fasano fought back his disbelief. Either he had missed the steel in Chuck Hampton, or events were turning this scholarly pragmatist into someone harder and far less predictable. 'Compromise?' Fasano repeated.

    'A straight-up vote on the tort reform bill—no filibuster from us. But only after a vote on my amendment stripping gun immunity out of the final bill.'

    To Fasano, this was no surprise. The one way that Hampton—and the President—could beat back gun immunity was to force a vote on that alone. 'The only way I'll ever consider that,' Fasano answered, 'is if we vote on tort reform before Kilcannon's gun bill.'

    'How long before?' Hampton parried. 'I want a date certain.'

    'If we can bring up tort reform the Tuesday after next, we'll bring up the President's gun bill two weeks after that. But only after we vote on our gun bill.'

    'A poor thing,' Hampton observed with a smile, 'but all the SSA allows.' After a moment, he stood, extending his hand. 'Deal.'

    'Deal,' Fasano answered, and the two men shook hands.

SEVENTEEN

To Sarah, much of Ben Gehringer's appearance had the otherworldly aspect of a high school nerd—thick glasses with fleshcolored frames; thinning, slicked-back brown hair; the posture of a comma on a frame so thin it looked unhealthy; pale skin with strawberry blotches on his cheeks, seemingly untouched by sunlight. But any innocence had been cauterized by fanaticism and distrust; behind the glasses, his blue eyes had the feral keenness of a bird of prey. Knowing she was poised at the edge of a breakthrough, Sarah felt tense.

    The setting, a stark room in a federal prison in Idaho, resembled that for the deposition of George Johnson, and the cast of characters was much the same: John Nolan, Harrison Fancher, a court reporter, and a federal public defender, this one a stout, fortyish man in a shapeless grey suit. But this time her adversaries were prepared.

    'For the record,' Sarah asked the witness, 'when were you arrested?'

    'A week ago.'

    'And the charges?'

    'Trafficking.' His answers were terse and grudging, as though every word were a precious coin. 'Stealing a crateload of Lexington P-2s.'

    'Where did you steal them,' Sarah prodded, 'and with whom?'

    'Phoenix. With George Johnson.'

    He spoke the name with the contempt of someone spitting on the sidewalk. Nolan placed a pen to his lips,