Balance of Power

    Silent, Johnson glanced at his lawyer. Turning to Sarah, his eyes were veiled, and his body stiff with tension, as though fighting against his deepest instincts. In a reluctant tone between mumble and whisper, he said, "You'd have to ask Ben Gehringer. He stole the guns with me."

    Sarah, too, felt tense. "To sell at gun shows?"

    "Yes." Staring at Bowden's picture, Johnson seemed to contemplate the imponderable workings of fate. "I took Arizona, and he got Nevada."

* * *

    By the time Nolan began his interrogation, the room felt hot and stifling, and Sarah had begun imagining the smell emanating from Johnson's body as the sour stench of fanaticism.

    "You do realize," Nolan said pointedly, "that you spent this morning incriminating yourself."

    "Who defines the 'crime'?" Johnson answered with disdain. "Our 'government,' this handmaiden of Jews and mongrels? I refuse to acknowledge its authority."

    This seemed to spur in Nolan an answering contempt. "Have you made any arrangement with the government—however you might despise it—in exchange for your testimony today?"

    "No."

    Nolan stared at him. "Or discussed such an arrangement with anyone at all?"

    "When you answer that," the lawyer admonished Johnson, "exclude any conversations with counsel."

    The frustration seemed to issue from Nolan like heat. She could feel his suspicion harden to certainty—that a deal contrived by Kilcannon himself was eroding his client's defense. "No," Johnson answered in an undertone of defiance. "No one from the government. Only my lawyer."

    But he did not look at Nolan. To Sarah, George Johnson's distaste for his turncoat customer had doubled back on himself. Faced with growing old in prison, he had turned Judas, become another nail in the coffin of the white 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 P

ost 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.