Balance of Power

    "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, staring at the witness. "Where did you sell them?" Sarah asked.

    The witness hesitated—unwilling, Sarah guessed, to confess to more than he needed. "At a gun show in Vegas."

    "When?"

    Impatient, Gehringer shifted in his chair. "Around Labor Day."

    Sarah placed a photograph in front of the witness. The silence became so complete that it felt eerie. Except for the reporter, the others were still.

    "I show you a photograph marked 'Gehringer Exhibit One.' Can you identify this man?"

    A brief glint appeared in the pale blue eyes. "Yes."

"Where did you first see him?"

"At the gun show."

    His terseness had begun taxing Sarah's tenuous patience. More sharply, she asked, "Did you speak to him?"

    "Yes."

    "About what?"

    "Buying a P-2."

    Sarah's skin felt clammy. "Did you sell him one?"