Balance of Power

    Ruckles squinted at his Diet Coke. "Right now that's too close to call—a few votes one way or the other."

    Fasano agreed. With a sigh of resignation, he said, "Let's start from the beginning—who's still in play; who needs campaign money; who wants a new committee assignment; who's vulnerable to the SSA; or anyone we can get to."

    Ruckles considered him. "That's all well and good, Frank. But you have to make this vote a test of your leadership. If our people know that crossing you is a personal affront, it'll be hard for them to say no. They have to succeed in this place, and that pretty much depends on you.

    "What Kilcannon's depending on is emotion. But we've both heard our colleagues give speeches which would bring tears to your eyes and didn't change a vote. Survival cuts deeper than sympathy."

    Fasano smiled at this, though perhaps for different reasons than Ruckles imagined. To make this vote a test of leadership would raise the stakes immensely. Losing it might leave Fasano more vulnerable to a challenge from Ruckles. Winning would strengthen Fasano among the party's most fervent financial and ideological backers, strengthen his claim to the Presidency, and clear a path for Ruckles in a congenially bloodless way. As to that, their interests were the same.

    "Dave," Fasano answered, "I think it's a test of us both."

    This made Ruckles smile as well. There was a certain cynical comfort, Fasano supposed, in such a seamless mutual understanding. "If we can make this an up-and-down vote on a final bill," Fasano continued, "with gun immunity still in it, we'll probably win. Getting the votes to beat Hampton's amendment is where the fight will be. On our side, that comes down to a handful of undecideds—Dick Stafford, Kate Jarman, John Smythe, Cassie Rollins."

    "Smythe is gone," Ruckles opined. "He's the price we pay for electing a Republican from Rhode Island. But Stafford's a probable, and Kate Jarman won't go off the reservation again—not after voting for Caroline Masters . . ."

"This time Palmer's on our side. He gives the moderates cover."

    Ruckles nodded. "That brings us to Cassie. This morning I only caught her briefly. But I don't think yesterday helped."

    Fasano sipped his Coke. "She's taking too long," he said at length. "The longer she's in play, the more danger there is of losing her—like we did on Masters. It's time to make this one a matter of her survival."

NINE

In the chill of early evening, the President walked alone on the South Lawn of the White House, hoping to stretch his legs and breathe fresh air after too much time on Air Force One, and in hotel suites or indoor meetings and events. He and Lara needed an escape, Kerry concluded, a weekend away before the drabness of an eastern winter closed around them—somewhere with books and quiet and fewer of the artifacts of man. He paused in the descending dusk, hands in the pocket of his suit, smelling a faint, pungent odor which reminded him of burning leaves. Then he spotted the familiar form coming from the White House with a brisk, purposeful stride, and knew that his reverie was over.

    "I'm closed for business," he said in mock complaint. "Whatever it is, take care of it."

    Clayton's smile was perfunctory. "Even if the ATF may be closing in on the seller?"

    Surprised, Kerry asked, "That maggot I confronted?"

    "They don't think so. But two weeks ago, some guy on parole robbed a convenience store in Oklahoma City with a P-2 from the same stolen batch as Bowden's."

    Kerry felt his weariness drop away, replaced by a new keenness of mind. "Do we know where he got the gun?"

    "At a gun show in Phoenix." Clayton's voice had the suppressed excitement of a prosecutor on the verge of a potential breakthrough. "Last week there was another show in Phoenix. When the ATF took our perpetrator there, he identified the guy who sold it to him.

    "Just to make sure, an ATF agent bought another P-2 from this same guy. Its serial number matched still another gun stolen with Bowden's. So the ATF got a warrant, searched the guy's truck, and found nine more stolen P-2s. That was when they busted him."

    "Who is he?"

    "A man named George Johnson. He's a member of something called the Liberty Force—a pack of white supremacists located in rural Idaho. The ATF's theory is that they were financing their activities by selling stolen P-2s at a premium to people who don't pass a background check— sort of like Tim McVeigh and his friends did . . ."

    "Is Johnson talking?"

    "Only through his public defender. As of now, he admits stealing the batch of P-2s but says that he's never been to Las Vegas. There's no evidence he ever was."

    Impatient, Kerry shook his head. "Even if that's true, he's got to be the source of Bowden's gun. Either Johnson knows who put it in Bowden's hands, or—at the least—he sold to the guy who did."