Balance of Power

    Cole considered this. "Then the best way to do that, Mr. President, is to frame this as anticrime legislation. We're keeping bad guns and bad bullets away from bad people. Period."

    Kerry smiled faintly. "Sounds simple, doesn't it. Accomplish that, and we'll deserve the Nobel Peace Prize." Turning to Sanders, he asked, "How do we manage that?"

    "Universal background checks, to start. On every gun sold in America."

    Kerry nodded. "At the least, a criminal shouldn't be able to break out of jail, walk across the street to a gun show, and buy a Lexington P-2. As I intend to tell a joint session of Congress, very soon."

    "You're rolling this on national TV?" Sanders asked. "That raises the stakes, Mr. President."

    "So did Bowden," Kerry answered softly. "With a little help from you guys, I think I can find the words."

    The sense of consequence, and the pressure it placed on Kerry, seemed as sobering to the others as it felt to Kerry himself. "I can reemerge in public only once," he told them. "When I do, I'd better light up the switchboards. Or this is going nowhere."

    The room was silent. "Lara will be with me," Kerry continued. "My speech to Congress should be the beginning of a national campaign— meetings with victims and cops, going to any state or district where the senator or congressman is susceptible to pressure. And if that doesn't work, we'll hold hostage whatever pet project they most want."

    "Hardball," Cole cautioned the President, "could cost us down the road."

    Kerry stood, restless. "We've got no choice, Alex. In the Senate we'll have to crack a filibuster—all Fasano and the SSA will need is forty senators to keep this law from coming to a vote. To pass it I have to impress—or buy—at least sixty-one senators. Failing that, we'll be forced to make our appeal somewhat more Darwinian."

    Without pause, Kerry turned back to Sanders. "Just draft a law that works," he directed. "No guns for people like Bowden. No guns that accept forty-round magazines. No Eagle's Claw bullets for anyone. I'll take it from there."

* * *

After the meeting, Kerry and Clayton sat alone.

    "You'll need absolute self-control," Clayton told him. "Calculated fury—no public displays of anger, no mistakes of the heart. Just keep up the pressure until the SSA goes radioactive.

    "This can't be about you, Kerry. Or even about Lara. You've already got all the sympathy you need, without asking."

    Kerry stared at him. "Why do you suppose I had you sit on Al Anwar's death until after we buried Lara's family? For those four days we didn't need to ask."

    For a moment, Clayton was silent. "What about Bob Lenihan?" he asked. "Do you want to see him?"

    "Invite him back for my speech to Congress. It's occurred to me he could be useful."

    Clayton studied him. "And Callister's letter?"

    Turning, Kerry gazed out the window. "It can wait," he answered softly. "I'm saving Callister for last."

* * *

    That evening, Kerry and Lara dined alone, by candlelight. Their conversation, as so often now, was desultory and muted.

    "Has Mary talked about a lawsuit?" Kerry asked. "Or met with any lawyers?"

    "Not that I know of." Across the table, Lara gave him a querying look. "She still blames me, Kerry, and she's still just trying to cope. What made you think of that?"

    "A couple of things. Maybe you should ask her."

ELE VEN

At one side of the narrow hallway to the Democratic cloakroom, Minority Leader Chuck Hampton was seated in a phone booth reserved, with his nameplate, for his exclusive use. Enclosed in glass for privacy, Hampton spoke quietly to President Kilcannon.

    "An address to a joint session of Congress," he repeated.

    "Tomorrow night. Unless you think it's a terrible idea."

    And if I do? Hampton wondered to himself. "I suppose," he answered dryly, "that depends on what you're asking for."

    "Merely a law that works," the President answered. "Universal background checks. More money to enforce them. No licensing or regulation, you'll be relieved to know. If it helps, you can tell your apprehensive friends you talked me out of it."

    Hampton smiled. "How about beat some sense into you?"

    The President laughed softly. "That, too. Assuming that they'll believe it." His voice became somber. "As for what I'm asking for, tell them that I mean to win, and expect their help in doing that. This isn't just an exercise."

    By now, Hampton knew his man; roughly translated, "tell them . . . I expect their help" included, "and if I have to, I'll institute a reign of terror to get it." Despite his fear of the consequences, Hampton felt an odd exhilaration—as a matter of pure politics, the exercise of power and guile, Kilcannon's battle with Frank Fasano might well become a classic.