Balance of Power

ONE

At five the next morning, Clayton was at the White House, preparing to move the Presidency to San Francisco. The C-130 had landed in Martha's Vineyard; Air Force One awaited at Logan Airport in Boston. The President and First Lady would stay at a private home in Pacific Heights, joined by the Secret Service, the White House physician, the military aide in charge of the codes for responding to a nuclear attack, and a small support staff headed by Clayton himself. Closer to the time of the funerals, Kit would arrive. The President's schedule would be limited to his daily national security briefing; to protect the First Family's private time, all other communications would go through Clayton.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Clayton stopped to watch CNN.

On a glistening day on Martha's Vineyard, Lara and Kerry walked across the tarmac toward their plane. Lara wore dark glasses. Exhausted, she leaned against Kerry who, to Clayton's eyes, looked weary and tormented. The clothes they wore—Kerry's windbreaker and polo shirt, Lara's summer dress—were a sad reminder that this once had been their honeymoon. Only Clayton had talked with them. Only Clayton knew of the President's haunting request—that all files of his dealings with Joan Bowden and her husband be shipped to San Francisco.

The President and First Lady, the anchorwoman said, will fly to Andrews Air Force Base to commence the long, sad journey to California—where, thirteen years ago, Senator James Kilcannon was murdered by an assassin.

President and Mrs. Kilcannon were first informed of the tragedy at around nine-thirty yesterday evening, and since then have been in seclusion. At seven this morning White House Press Secretary Kit Pace issued the following statement:

"The President and First Lady wish to express their heartfelt thanks for the thoughts and prayers of the American people at this time of deep anguish for their family, and for the three other families who lost loved ones in this senseless tragedy. In order to accompany the First Lady to San Francisco, the President has canceled his schedule for the next several days. He intends to remain in San Francisco with Mrs. Kilcannon and her surviving sister until after the interment of her mother, sister, and niece. No statement from the President or First Lady is forthcoming at this time."

On the screen, Kerry and Lara climbed the metal stairs to the C-130, Kerry's arm lightly resting on her waist. Even now, Clayton reflected, Kerry's instincts remained sound: this tableau of grief required no words from him. To the public that might seem a decision made by default, reflecting a President too shaken to express his emotions. This was partly true; speaking to Clayton, Kerry had seemed disjointed, his sentences trailing off into fragments. But then Clayton—because he must—had called to tell him that Mahmoud Al Anwar had just been killed in a cave in the Sudan. "At least they're ninety percent sure," Clayton explained. "The face is unrecognizable. But everything else, including height, says it's him."

There was a long silence. "Who knows?" Kerry had asked.

"A tight chain. Our people on the ground, General Webb, and the Secretary of Defense."

"Tell them to sit on it until after the funeral," the President had ordered coldly. "Any way you can. I don't want anyone thinking about anything but this."

As Clayton watched, Kerry and Lara vanished inside the plane. In Washington, the anchorwoman said, sentiment is already growing that these shocking murders may change the terms of the gun control debate, feeding demands for the tougher gun laws which President Kilcannon has so urgently called for . . .

* * *

"We need to put out a statement," Charles Dane began. "And then we need a strategy."

The president of the Sons of the Second Amendment sat in the conference room of the four-story glass building on K Street, one symbol of its power. To either side of him, the Legislative Director, Carla Fell, and the Communications Director, Bill Campton, drank coffee from SSA mugs. Fell was a petite strawberry blonde, Campton cherubic and sincere; part of their duties was to soften the SSA's public face, and Dane had never needed them more than now. The sheer volatility of the moment complicated the fixed imperatives of Dane's world—maintaining the SSA's daunting image of power; raising the money needed to fuel it; pleasing a board of true believers so alarmist that nothing put their minds at ease—and added a new one: ensuring that the murders changed nothing.

Putting down his mug, Campton began reading from a typed page with interlineations in red pen. " 'Our sympathy goes out to the victims of the massacre at SFO. The President and First Lady are in the prayers of all decent, law-abiding Americans, including the over four million responsible gun owners who constitute our membership . . .' "

"Cross out 'massacre.' " Lean, dark-haired and saturnine, Dane spoke in a resonant, commanding baritone which, even when muted, sounded as though it could fill a hall. "It sounds like melodrama from some bad military history—the kind of portentous pap liberals think we stay up nights to read."

With a sheepish smile, Campton inserted "tragedy" for "massacre," and then continued: " 'We hope this terrible loss of life will engender a common commitment from all spectrums of our society to reduce gun violence by enforcing existing law. What is needed is not more laws, but a new resolve to punish lawbreakers who misuse guns to commit a crime . . ."

"The problem," Fell broke in, "is that this guy's already punished himself."

Dane turned to her. "Then the law should have punished him first. Bowden was a wife-beater—the Kilcannons said so on live TV. If they'd locked him up, no one would have died."

"Do we know where he got his gun?" Fell asked. "Or who made it?"

"Not yet. Pray that it's foreign-made, and that Bowden bought it on the street." Dane turned to Campton. "Look for some gun law on the books that Bowden violated. There's always something."

Nodding, Campton returned to his draft. " 'We must never diminish the constitutional right of all Americans to self-defense . . .' "

"Careful how you phrase that," Dane instructed. "We can't be heard as saying the First Lady's mother should have been better armed."

As Campton made corrections, Dane turned to Carla Fell. "What about Congress?" he inquired.

"The problems are worst in the Senate," Fell answered. "We've got four or five wobbly Republicans, like Palmer." Pausing, she took a last quick swallow of coffee. "If I know Kilcannon, he's already calculating how to use this. He's as cold-blooded a politician as ever passed through Washington. His former colleagues may not all love him, but he scares the hell out of most of them."

"So do we," Dane answered. "We can't let them forget that."

The telephone rang. "Speaking of which," Fell informed the others, "that's our conference call with Frank Fasano."

Dane pushed the button for the speakerphone. "Charles?" Fasano began.

"Good morning, Frank," Dane said to the Senate Majority Leader. "If you can call it that under the circumstances. This is a tragedy, and a threat to gun rights."

"I'll be making a statement shortly, saying just that. Except the part about the threat." Fasano's voice was sober. "Imagine losing most of your family. I feel for them—her especially."

"Kilcannon will want more laws," Dane responded. "He'll use her to get them."

Fasano was silent. "He may well succeed," he said at length. "Before he does, we should consider whether there's something symbolic we can give him."

It was time, Dane decided, to be blunt. "We expect you to stand firm, Frank. We've spent a lot of time and money keeping you in the majority."

"I haven't forgotten," Fasano answered with equal directness. "But let me give you some advice—disappear. This is the President's moment: he can say whatever he wants, but you can't be seen as playing politics with the First Lady's misery. Lie low, Charles—your moment will come in time."

"How long?"

"Kilcannon can't move too fast—it would look unseemly, like he's exploiting his wife's dead relatives. I control the Senate agenda, so I can string this out. The more time passes, the more passions will cool."

"What about Chuck Hampton?" Carla Fell inquired.

"The Democrats have problems, too," Fasano answered crisply. "If some of Hampton's people never have to vote on a gun bill again, they'd bow and kiss his feet. Or mine."

Glancing at Fell, Dane slowly shook his head. "Kilcannon may not let them off the hook," he said. "The folks who say all liberals are wimps forget to account for him."

Over the speaker box, Fasano's laugh was low and humorless. "That's how I got my job—the last one to get in Kerry Kilcannon's way was Macdonald Gage. In twenty-four hours Mac went from the third most powerful man in America to a walking corpse. It took him almost that long to fathom he was already dead." Softly, Fasano finished, "Don't worry, Charles. My reflexes are sharper."

With that, Fasano got off.

* * *

In the kitchen of his Vermont farm, Senator Minority Leader Chuck Hampton ate bacon and eggs and monitored MSNBC. As he finished, the picture became a live shot of Kerry and Lara Kilcannon boarding Air Force One.

The President and First Lady are expected to arrive in California at twelveseventeen, Pacific Daylight Time . . .

As always, Hampton reflected, Air Force One was an icon of speed and power, a symbol of Presidential authority. The White House Military Office planned each flight to the minute, and its arrival never failed to create a sense of occasion. But he could not easily imagine the nature of this flight. It triggered a series of memories which had begun when Hampton was twelve: the flight from Dallas, when Jacqueline Kennedy, her coat stained with blood, accompanied her husband's body; the terrible majesty, five years later, of the funeral train for Robert Kennedy; the day, one year after Hampton entered the Senate, when the Presidential campaign of James Kilcannon ended with a funeral watched by millions.

On this day, Chuck Hampton felt more depressed than at any time in his public life. And, perhaps, more worried. It was too soon to contact Kerry Kilcannon, either to convey his condolences or his concerns. But soon enough to call Senator Vic Coletti of Connecticut—as Kerry Kilcannon once remarked, for Vic Coletti, politics, like rust, never sleeps.

"What are you going to do?" Coletti asked.

Hampton gazed out the window at the green fields behind his farmhouse. "Express sympathy, of course. Just watching this has made me sick."

"What about substance?"

"A general statement—that we need to do more to stop gun violence. But I don't know exactly how this happened, and I can't get ahead of our members."

"I wouldn't," Coletti said soberly. "I've already talked to five. They feel terrible for the President and Lara, of course. But we've been making points on the stuff ordinary citizens care about most—health care, education, jobs. They don't want this shooting to swallow our agenda whole."

"And you?"

Coletti hesitated. "I don't mean to sound callous, Chuck. But, politically, I don't think we need this."

Listening, Hampton heard what Coletti did not say expressly: that Connecticut was the home of several gun companies—including Lexington Arms, vulnerable to SSA pressure after its meetings with Kerry Kilcannon. "What about your gun industry?" Hampton asked.

"I don't care about the guns. I care about the jobs. The people who hold them tend to vote." Coletti's tone became admonitory. "It's not just me—you'll hear this from our members in the South and Rocky Mountain states. The SSA's like the Communist Party—deviate from the party line, and they put you against the wall and shoot you."

"Our pro–gun control members," Hampton countered, "will want to strike while this is hot."

"Well, that's a problem, isn't it. Remember how you got your job— Carter Grace forgot he was from Tennessee, and came out in support of gun control and Kerry Kilcannon. The voters called him home."

Hampton frowned. "Tell me about it—whenever I want to discourage the President from charging ahead on this, I always mention Carter. But this could change things."

"He'll do something," Coletti mused.

"Well," Hampton agreed, "he pretty much has to now, whether he wants to or not. But the problem is he'll want to. The only question is what."

For a moment, Vic Coletti was quiet. "Depending on the answer," he warned his leader, "there'll be hell to pay in the Senate. And in both our lives."