Balance of Power

her, 'I'm the safest man in America—Peter sees to that. So what is it you're afraid of?'

    'Of failing. That we'll do everything we can, but that we'll fail in the end. That people will keep on dying for nothing, like the woman we buried today. And that all this will turn to ashes.'

    This, Kerry acknowledged, was his own deepest fear—to live with failure as he was already forced to live with guilt, for the rest of his life, for the deaths that Lara suffered from even more than he. He kissed her, and returned to the West Wing.

* * *

    Looking up from his desk, Clayton was surprised to see the President.

    'Go home,' Kerry told him.

    Clayton smiled. 'Easy for you to say. You are home—I've got a couple of hours yet.'

    'Two too many. When was the last time you had a normal dinner with Carlie?'

    Clayton laughed. 'Four days ago. Who are you, Dr. Ruth? I thought you were King George.'

    'That was then. This is now.' Kerry sat, looking like a man prepared to stay. 'Between the residence and here, I had two minutes to reflect. I try to do that now and then.'

    'Bad for you, Mr. President. You should be beating up senators.'

    'Oh, I intend to. But it occurred to me to waste a little time with you beforehand.' Kerry, his friend realized, looked unusually thoughtful and self-questioning—not for the man Clayton had known long ago, but for the harder man which circumstances, and ambition, had wrought from a lonely Irish boy, his family's less favored son. 'Politicians,' Kerry continued, 'are users. Presidents are the worst. All that matters is our success, and what others do to ensure it. 'Friend' becomes an elastic term.

    'That's fine. I accept that. But not for you and me.' Kerry's tone was quiet. 'Before I ever went into this business, you were my closest friend. As Chief of Staff, you've made me a better President.' Briefly, Kerry smiled. 'Give or take the occasional screwup. But as a friend, there's only one of you. Go home.'

    Touched, Clayton did that, his gift to Kerry Kilcannon as much as to his own wife.

* * *

    'So,' the President asked abruptly when Senator Hampton answered his phone. 'Where are we on gun immunity?'

    'Rollins, Coletti, Slezak,' the Minority Leader answered crisply. 'My count says we need all three.'

    'I've done all I can with Cassie—an appeal to conscience.'

    Briefly, Hampton laughed. 'Desperate measures for desperate men. The SSA is doing more.'

    'No help for that. What about Slezak and Coletti? Did the Silent Witness demonstration make any kind of impression?'

    'Nope. To those two guys it was all sound and fury—signifying, as usual, nothing. Slezak and Coletti are both pro-choice; they figure they've already got all the women they're going to get. So their concerns are more local— and practical.

    'Coletti's got Lexington right in his backyard. He's been hearing from employees who are scared about their jobs. And he's got all those insurance companies in Hartford who feel no love for guys like Lenihan . . .'

    'And Slezak?'

    'Is just a prick. Besides that, he figures he's got elbow room on the left, but that the SSA can help him on the right. It doesn't help you that a lot of blue-collar guys in Michigan own guns.'

    'Even though I threatened him with a primary fight?'

    'I expect that worries him, Mr. President. But Michigan's a funny state. Even with you against him, he's got some careful calculations to make.'

    Depressingly, this matched Kerry's assessment. 'What else is left to offer them?'

    'Nothing. Except the chance not to piss you off.'

    'I'll remind them of that,' the President answered.

* * *

    Ten minutes later, the White House switchboard tracked down Vic Coletti.

    The senior senator from Connecticut was at the bar of the Caucus Room, having drinks with his finance chairman and two well-heeled backers. Against the backdrop of talk and laughter, Coletti spoke softly into his cell phone.

    'It's a tough vote, Mr. President, is all I can say at the moment.' Briefly, Coletti paused. 'On your gun bill, I'm with you. But this lawsuit thing? Frankly, what looks like a defendant to your sister-in-law is a major constituent to me. I hate to say so, but that's the truth of it.'

    'A 'major constituent,' ' Kerry repeated with mild scorn. 'I understand about the insurance companies. But how many of Lexington's employees voted for you in the first place?'

    'Less than half,' Coletti acknowledged promptly. 'But they've got families—wives and kids and parents—a lot of whom vote, too.' He lowered his voice still further. 'In Connecticut, Lexington's not a villain— it's a home state employer. Maybe if there were bad stuff coming out of this lawsuit, like in the tobacco litigation, I'd have a public relations counterweight. But there's nothing.'

    Kerry considered his response. 'There's something. And for Lexington, it's going from bad to worse. Keep the lawsuit alive, and it'll all come out at trial.'

    Coletti pondered this. 'What if I vote against gun immunity,' he asked, 'and Fasano jams it through anyhow? Then the lawsuit's dead, and I've got no cover. And for what? By my calculation, unless Rollins and Slezak both vote with you, my vote doesn't matter.'

    It was a reminder, if Kerry needed one, of Vic Coletti's shrewdness. 'Vic,' he said quietly, 'I mean to be here for the long haul. And over the long haul, you succeed or fail with me. I can accept a vote on tort reform. But if I lose a vote involving guns—after all of this—the balance of power will shift to Frank Fasano. If you're any part of that, I'll use whatever's left of my diminished power to ensure you pay for it.'

    In the silence, Kerry heard more laughter issuing from the bar. 'I'll think on it,' Coletti promised soberly. 'Very hard.'

* * *

    The last manhunt conducted by the switchboard, for Senator Jack Slezak, ended at eleven p.m.

    The senator was sleeping, Kerry was told, and could not be disturbed. Putting down the telephone, Kerry wondered what had made the senator from Michigan so arrogant—or so secure—that he refused to accept a call from a President who could ruin him.

* * *

    Three thousand miles away, in Beverly Hills, the telephone rang in Robert Lenihan's den.

    He was reviewing his calendar for the next three months, a tangle of conflicting demands which included a complex but potentially lucrative trial—perhaps deferred, much to the discontent of his partners, by the possible hearing in Mary Costello's lawsuit. Preoccupied, Lenihan hesitated before deciding to answer.

    'Is this Bob Lenihan?' the deep voice inquired.

    The question was asked with a tone of portent which, combined with the strange familiarity of the voice itself, made Lenihan instantly alert. 'It is.'

    'This is Charles Dane.'

    Is this a joke? Lenihan almost asked. And then, reviewing the tone of voice and the logic of events, he was certain that it wasn't. 'Are you calling to surrender?' Lenihan inquired. 'Clients usually do that through their lawyers.'

    Dane's voice held no answering humor. 'Our lawyers don't know I'm contacting you. Nor does anyone else.