Balance of Power

good as the SSA, except to help Abel Randolph.'

    'To do what, Mr. President? Operate a safety lock?'

    This time the President's laugh was rueful. 'It's a lesson to us all. I've been practicing at night.'

    His candor and capacity for humor in adversity reminded Cassie of why, as peers, she had been so fond of him. But since he had been President, and particularly since the murders, he had seemed far graver, much less inclined to laughter. 'It's certainly a lesson to me,' she admitted. 'Up in Maine, these people are playing for keeps. And they've got access to more cash than me or Abel.'

    'I know,' the President answered with droll resignation. 'So I'm forced to ask you to vote with me because it's right.'

    Alone in her office, Cassie smiled. 'Really, Mr. President, have you no respect? I was hoping you'd deem me worthy of what you dished out to Leo Weller and, rumor has it, Slezak.'

    She heard his quiet laughter. 'That's the problem.' Kilcannon's tone was serious now. 'I do respect you.'

    This was true, Cassie was quite certain. 'How many times,' she inquired, 'are you hoping I'll do what's right? Once, or twice?'

    'Twice. Hampton's amendment on gun immunity, and then my gun bill.'

    Cassie sat back in her chair, gazing out at the failing sunlight halfconcealed by her blinds. 'Twice is a lot,' she answered. 'Once is a lot. They probably weren't the rage in Newark, but have you ever been to a hunters' breakfast?'

    'No. What's that?'

    'It's a Maine tradition, passed down from father to son. On the opening day of hunting season, in town after town, men meet for a hearty breakfast at some local spot before heading off for the woods with their hunting rifles.

    'It's more than a tradition. For a lot of them it's ritual, part of the Maine mystique. Some believe that our culture may have gone to hell, but they still can hang on to their way of life as long as they've got their guns.' Pausing, Cassie tried to convey this depth of feeling. 'It's not ideological so much as it's psychological, almost mythological. Even people who don't have guns view them as woven into the fabric of who we are.'

    The President's sigh was audible as was, now, his weariness. 'I met with them, too,' he answered. 'I don't think they're a lost cause. In the end, they can't believe their way of life is about the bullet that killed Marie.'

    His tone was etched with wonder and despair. In the end, Cassie thought, politics was a very human process and—as ruthless as he could be—Kilcannon hoped to appeal to the better angels of human nature. 'I'll think on what you've said,' she promised. 'All of it.'

NINETEEN

The vice president of marketing, Mike Reiner, had worked at Lexington for twenty-one years. Now he sat across from Lenihan and Sarah in the conference room of a Hartford law firm, a barrelchested man with a pompadour of steel grey hair, a seamed face and bright blue eyes which glinted with dislike for Mary Costello's lawyers. Even his paunch seemed aggressive.

    But beneath Reiner's pose of arrogance Sarah sensed a tension similar to her own. Her attempts to reach Norman Conn had not succeeded; she feared that Conn, like Martin Bresler, had been intimidated into silence. But what Conn knew could be devastating to Lexington and to Reiner, his superior. The choice for Reiner was clear: admit facts damaging to Lexington, or lie, hoping that Conn had not—and would not— betray him. As for Nolan, he must know at the least that he was defending a problem witness. But unless Lexington had broken Conn completely, only Lenihan and Sarah knew the depth of Reiner's problems.

    'For what reason,' Lenihan asked the witness, 'does Lexington include the P-2 in its product line?'

    Sitting beside Reiner, Nolan was impassive; only his gaze, moving between Lenihan and Reiner, betrayed the importance of this witness. But Reiner's exaggerated squint seemed meant to convey the rank stupidity of the question. Bluffly, he answered, 'To expand our customer base.'

    'By what means?'

    The squint gave way to a show of white, obviously capped, front teeth. 'By making a semiautomatic handgun with features people want.'

    'What features?'

    Reiner rested both arms on the table, expanding his personal territory. 'Things like a barrel shroud. To enable you to touch the gun even when the barrel overheats.'

    'Will ten shots cause the barrel to heat?'

    Nolan's glance darted to Reiner. 'No,' the witness answered. 'It takes more than ten.'

    Lenihan leaned toward Reiner. To Sarah, they seemed mirror images of self-assertion and self-regard, save that Lenihan—with his curly hair, soft chin, and more gradually sloping belly—looked far less tough than his antagonist. 'Why is that a problem,' Lenihan inquired, 'when it's illegal to manufacture magazines which hold more than ten rounds?'

    'We can't make them,' Reiner retorted, 'but it's legal for anyone to buy them. Just as long as they were made before the ban.'

    'Why would 'anyone' need more than ten bullets?'

    Reiner shrugged. 'Why not?'

    The casual answer caused Lenihan to lower his voice. 'Aren't you concerned someone might 'need' more than ten bullets to slaughter a lot of people quickly?'

    ' 'A lot of people,' ' Reiner rejoined, 'are gun fanciers or collectors. I don't question their motives, any more than I ask why someone would want a vintage Ferrari capable of hitting a hundred eighty miles an hour.'

    'Why not retrofit the gun to only accept ten-bullet magazines?'

    'Why take on the expense? We'd have to eat it.'

    'How expensive would that be?'

    Another shrug. 'Don't know. Not my department.'

    To Sarah, the gleam in Lenihan's eye suggested a poker player sitting on an ace-high straight. 'Then I'll try to stick with what you do know. Are you aware that automatic weapons are illegal?'

    Reiner's expression conveyed both amusement and contempt. 'Yes.'

    'Would you agree that automatic weapons can be used to kill 'a lot of people' even quicker than the Lexington P-2, because they can fire multiple rounds with one pull of the trigger?'

    'Sure.'

    'Isn't the P-2 designed to be easily convertible to automatic fire?'

    Reiner covered one wrist with the meaty fingers of his other hand. 'I know some people do it.'

    Pulling out a videotape and crudely printed pamphlet, Lenihan asked the reporter to mark them as Reiner Exhibits One and Two. 'In fact, aren't this manual and tape—showing how to convert the P-2 to automatic fire— commonly sold at gun shows?'

    The squint returned to Reiner's face, but without its former amusement. 'I wouldn't know.'

    'Have you seen this manual before, Mr. Reiner?'

    'I don't recall.'