Balance of Power

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.

"I expect your people polled this, Mr. President. But my favorite technique's a little less scientific. Every weekend when I'm back home, I get in my pickup truck, drive to a country store, buy coffee and a paper, and talk to whoever's there. Then I get back in the truck, throw the paper in the back, and drive to the next store to buy coffee and a paper . . ."

Kilcannon laughed. "Do you ever actually read the paper?"

"No time. Too busy buying them to read them. Last Sunday I bought six or seven."

"And?"

"You're onto something. People find it disturbing that this guy

could buy a gun. Oddly, the most pissed-off guy I talked to is a federally licensed gun dealer. He's sick of competing with folks who claim they're not in the business so they won't have to run background checks, then go around peddling their wares at gun shows or out of the trunk of their car to any deviant with money enough to buy them . . ."

"I'll take all the support I can get, Chuck, wherever I can find it. I won't quibble about motive."

Through the glass, Hampton saw Senator Vic Coletti pass by, flashing him a quick glance of curiosity. "Anyhow," he told the President, "I was a little bit encouraged. For once the SSA may have more trouble than it knows."

"If so," Kilcannon answered, "they'll start putting the screws to your list of suspect Democrats. Let me know whoever you think may need a call from me."

With grim humor, Hampton imagined the President's tender ministrations to the frightened souls whose votes would be in play. "What about the Republicans?" he asked.

"I only know what you do, Chuck. Five or six of them will wonder which way they should jump. We're going to need them all."

This corresponded with Hampton's calculations. "I guess you saw Paul Harshman's little show."

"Of course." The President's tone held the quiet calm Hampton knew to be deceptive. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

"That wasn't just the SSA, I'm sure. I'd guess it was Fasano. He's looking to give his people cover."

"Then he really should do better, shouldn't he."

"Oh, he will. If I were you, I'd hang up on me right now, and get Chad Palmer on the line."

Once more, Vic Coletti passed, quickly peering into Hampton's booth. "Palmer," the President answered, "is already on his way."

* * *

At seven o'clock, Chad Palmer entered the President's private office.

A student of history, Palmer briefly noted the early photograph of Lincoln, the cartoon caricatures of FDR and a laughing Teddy Roosevelt, the magnificent walnut table on which John F. Kennedy had signed the ratification of the nuclear test ban treaty and, more recently, the antagonists had signed the Israeli-Palestinian accord of 1993. Hand resting on the desk, Palmer mused aloud, "That seems like another time."

"It was. In far too many ways."

Palmer turned to him. "How is Lara, Mr. President?"

"Not great, as you can well imagine. But speaking out may give her something to hold on to." Waving him to a chair, Kilcannon asked, "And Allie?"

Stiffly, Palmer sat; two years of imprisonment and torture by Islamic extremists—which had ended his once-promising career as an Air Force pilot—still hampered the movement of his arms. "Some better," he answered. "She's started doing volunteer work at a school here in the District. Like Lara, I suppose, she's needing to reach out."

At this, the President lapsed into a pensive quiet. "For Lara," he admitted softly, "that could be a lifeline. Perhaps for both of us."

For a moment, Palmer thought, the President seemed a very lonely man. Chad considered what to say, then spoke from his heart. "Perhaps more than you know, Mr. President, I feel for you. In a way, Kyle's death put me where you find yourself. Allie can't help blaming my career."

Silent, the President gazed off into some middle distance, as though at a painful and uncertain future. "All I can do," he said at length, "is get up every morning. And wait this out, however long it takes."

Palmer nodded his understanding. The President, he knew, revealed his private self to very few. But Chad could not know whether, tonight, to do so was a relief, or another burden for a man about to undertake a challenge which could make or break his Presidency. Perhaps, Palmer conceded with the unsparing self-scrutiny which was his nature, he himself wished to avoid the difficult subject at hand.

"You wanted to talk about this gun bill, Mr. President."

"Yes." Abruptly, Kilcannon refocused. "I need your help, if you can give it."

Frowning, Palmer chose his words. "Maybe in time," he said in a dubious tone. "Maybe. But I can't get out front on this."

That the President's expression betrayed such open disappointment told Palmer how deeply invested Kilcannon already was—as a practical politician, the President could not be surprised by Chad's reluctance. Quietly, Kilcannon said, "Walk me through that, if you don't mind."

There was no point in mincing words. "It's pretty straightforward, Mr. President. You're a pariah to the right. Some of them have forgiven me for backing you on the Masters nomination—I suppose on the theory that losing a daughter unmoored me from sound principle. But they won't forgive me this.

"In my party, gun rights are a visceral issue. At the least I need to sound out sentiment within our caucus." Pausing, Palmer added, "And, of course, there's Frank Fasano."

"What about him?"

"He feels you coming, Mr. President. He already knows that you won't settle for a symbolic battle, or a tactical defeat."

Kilcannon cocked his head. "He's told you that?"

"In so many words. What he made quite explicit is that this is the first test of his leadership, and therefore an absolute test of party loyalty for the rest of us. If you crack us on guns, he argues, it's all downhill from there."

"Downhill for Republicans? Or merely for Fasano?"

"In Fasano's mind, they're the same. I may not give a damn about the SSA, but he does. In fact, he believes their support is essential to displacing you, and therefore to the benefit of all right-thinking Republicans." Briefly, Palmer smiled. "I'm a Republican, he reminded me. At least for now."

Kilcannon did not return his smile. "Whichever way you jump, Chad, you'll help the side you're on. A reputation for integrity will do that."

Palmer shrugged. "It's always amazed me," he answered dryly, "what getting yourself kidnapped and tortured will do for your career. Even if I wasn't a volunteer."

To Palmer, the President's smile was painfully fleeting. "Neither was I," he answered. "Like getting shot, this issue found me."

Once again, Palmer felt Kilcannon's solitude. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. President. All the way around."