Balance of Power

NINE

In the chill of early evening, the President walked alone on the South Lawn of the White House, hoping to stretch his legs and breathe fresh air after too much time on Air Force One, and in hotel suites or indoor meetings and events. He and Lara needed an escape, Kerry concluded, a weekend away before the drabness of an eastern winter closed around them—somewhere with books and quiet and fewer of the artifacts of man. He paused in the descending dusk, hands in the pocket of his suit, smelling a faint, pungent odor which reminded him of burning leaves. Then he spotted the familiar form coming from the White House with a brisk, purposeful stride, and knew that his reverie was over.

"I'm closed for business," he said in mock complaint. "Whatever it is, take care of it."

Clayton's smile was perfunctory. "Even if the ATF may be closing in on the seller?"

Surprised, Kerry asked, "That maggot I confronted?"

"They don't think so. But two weeks ago, some guy on parole robbed a convenience store in Oklahoma City with a P-2 from the same stolen batch as Bowden's."

Kerry felt his weariness drop away, replaced by a new keenness of mind. "Do we know where he got the gun?"

"At a gun show in Phoenix." Clayton's voice had the suppressed excitement of a prosecutor on the verge of a potential breakthrough. "Last week there was another show in Phoenix. When the ATF took our perpetrator there, he identified the guy who sold it to him.

"Just to make sure, an ATF agent bought another P-2 from this same guy. Its serial number matched still another gun stolen with Bowden's. So the ATF got a warrant, searched the guy's truck, and found nine more stolen P-2s. That was when they busted him."

"Who is he?"

"A man named George Johnson. He's a member of something called the Liberty Force—a pack of white supremacists located in rural Idaho. The ATF's theory is that they were financing their activities by selling stolen P-2s at a premium to people who don't pass a background check— sort of like Tim McVeigh and his friends did . . ."

"Is Johnson talking?"

"Only through his public defender. As of now, he admits stealing the batch of P-2s but says that he's never been to Las Vegas. There's no evidence he ever was."

Impatient, Kerry shook his head. "Even if that's true, he's got to be the source of Bowden's gun. Either Johnson knows who put it in Bowden's hands, or—at the least—he sold to the guy who did."

Clayton folded his arms. "You know the problem. There's no record of the sale, or who had booths at the Las Vegas gun show, or even of who went there. So the evidence that Bowden bought it there is circumstantial. We're at the mercy of a racist who hates the U.S. government and, I'm sure, you."

"He doesn't have to like me," Kerry answered softly. "He just has to be afraid of spending some very long years in jail, making a few very special friends from among the more diverse elements of our populace. A grim prospect for a white supremacist from Idaho."

"There's always that." Clayton's eyes contained a fleeting, cold amusement. "Which is why, I suppose, Johnson's lawyer implies his man didn't steal these P-2s by himself."

Silent, Kerry imagined Johnson's calculations: that the ATF's questions about John Bowden meant that he might hold the key to the Costello murders and, if so, had all the leverage on the President that implied. Then, tracing the likely path of Bowden's gun, he much more viscerally envisioned the racist underbelly of America spawning the murder of Lara's family in a hothouse protected by the SSA and advertised by Lexington Arms. "What an irony," he murmured in a bitter tone. "Seven deaths, and Lexington made no money from them."

Clayton said nothing. Kerry turned from him, gazing up at a full, ascending moon in the twilight gathering around them. "I need the seller," Kerry said at length. "I don't care how."

"I think you should. For a lot of reasons . . ."

"Clayton," the President interjected coldly, "the seller connects John Bowden to the gun show, and to Lexington's ad. A paramilitary seller means that the worst forces in our society cashed in on Lexington's ads in order to sell stolen P-2s, without the background check which Lexington refused to require of gun-show promoters.

"It reinforces the case for my gun bill. It gives Dash and Lenihan the evidence they need to prove that Lexington's ad drew Bowden to Las Vegas. It even makes me wonder whether Lexington has known for months that this batch of stolen guns could lead us to the seller, and decided not to reveal that fact to Mary's lawyers or to me."

"All true," Clayton answered. "But first consider the cost of finding out. Johnson's already committed three violent felonies. That means that under the federal sentencing guidelines, he's due to get a minimum of fifteen years in a maximum security prison for theft, possession of stolen guns, and trafficking.

"That doesn't leave much leeway for a deal short of throwing out his case . . ."

"That's a lot to ask."

"There's more," Clayton continued in the same impervious tone. "Johnson's lawyer implies that the guy who sold to Bowden may be a fellow member of the Liberty Force. You may think that helps you. But I think Johnson's pitch will be that helping you puts his life in danger, in or out of prison."

Kerry turned to face him. "You mean he'll ask for a Presidential commutation. And a place in the witness protection program once he's done with testifying."

"It smells like that." His friend's stocky form seemed rooted to the ground in stubborn warning. "Think about the implications of that— legally, morally and politically. What President, you'd have to ask, would kick a man like Johnson loose."

"Maybe this one," Kerry answered. "But only if he gives me what I need."

* * *

Sarah had a date—rare since the Costello suit had propelled her around the country—and anticipation of dinner with Jeff Weitz, a longtime friend who seemed intent on becoming more had, for once, left her eager to leave the office. And so when the telephone rang she hesitated, glancing at the caller ID panel before deciding to answer.

"Private," it said. Sarah recalled her resolve to miss no calls, and the reason for it. As if the thought itself would be a jinx—as it had been for two weeks now—she answered with little hope that this call would be different.

"Is this Sarah Dash?" her caller asked.

Though she had heard it only once before, the man's high, reedy voice gave Sarah goose bumps. "Yes."

"We talked earlier." Whether from an accurate sense of his importance, or the belief of an unstable mind that his reality was central to the world's, her caller seemed to know how intently Sarah had been waiting for this moment. "I saw that film of the President at the gun show, and felt we have a bond. There are things I need to tell you."

She would be late for her date with Jeff.