Balance of Power

    Now, in the wooded seclusion of the Catoctin Range, the two men toured Camp David. Hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, Callister stopped on the wooded trail to breathe in mountain air, cooler by degrees than in the flatlands of the capital. "I grew up in Minnesota," he told the President. "My father and I spent weekends in the woods, fishing and hunting. The things his father taught him."

    Kerry did not miss this implicit statement of their differences. "I'm a city boy," he answered. "I grew up liking sun and ocean and beaches. Sometimes Camp David's so quiet at night that I imagine hearing the Manson family."

    Callister looked at him wryly. "But it's secure. And very private."

    "It is that. We're in the middle of a national park, with absolute restrictions on overhead flights and unauthorized visitors, surrounded by a double cyclone fence, attack dogs, sensors, concrete barriers, the Secret Service and at least one hundred Marines. We're safe from Mah moud Al Anwar and the New York Times." Kerry paused a moment, adding, "Even the SSA."

    Callister did not take the bait. "Still, you don't like it."

    Kerry looked about him. "There's a lot I do like. There's so much history here—Roosevelt and Churchill planning the Normandy invasion, Carter brokering the peace agreement between Begin and Sadat." Pausing at a rise above the trees, Kerry pointed at the valley below, a sequence of rolling hills which softened in the distance of a sun-streaked mist. "It's hard not to appreciate views like that. The White House is a gilded cage—elegant, but hardly private. Here Lara and I can open the front door and walk out in the yard, or play a mediocre game of tennis completely unobserved." As they began walking again, Kerry added, "When I was a kid, I couldn't imagine having a vacation home of any kind. Even on loan from the government."

    Callister gave him a sideways glance. "Neither of us had money, Mr. President. Like you, I worked my way through school."

    Kerry nodded. "That's not all bad, of course. But law school was a little short on leisure time."

    "Did you ever hunt?"

    "Shoot Bambi? No thanks. To me, hunting is the only sport where your competition doesn't know they're playing. I've never even fired a gun, though my father wanted to teach me." Kerry stared at the trail wending toward his lodge. "He was a cop, I guess you know. He used to carry a Lexington Peacekeeper."

    Kerry left the rest unsaid—that he associated his father's gun with mindless brutality, the questionable killing of a black man who had "resisted arrest." But Callister paused once more to look at him. "With respect, Mr. President, how can you understand a product you've never used?"

    Kerry turned to him. "It's true," he answered in level tones. "I've never shot a gun. But I've been shot, and I've lost a member of my family. So have a lot of other Americans. We have reason, you and I, to try to narrow our differences."

* * *

After breakfast, they sat beside a swimming pool near Kerry's cabin. Once more Kerry was struck by Callister's midwestern solidity and unflinching gaze. A man not given to artifice or flattery, or saying what he did not mean.

    Callister put down his mug of black coffee. "My industry isn't a big moneymaker, Mr. President. Most of us are in it because we know and appreciate guns and respect the craft of making them.

    "I've been in this business twenty years. Of all the manufacturers, Lexington may have the proudest history—we've been arming our military and police going back to the Civil War. When I took this job six months ago, it wasn't to get rich but to help this company survive."

    The President nodded. "I've got no quarrel with that, George. But Lexington makes weapons no law-abiding civilian needs, like handguns good only for killing people quickly. Cop-killer bullets, too. I'm wondering why."

    Callister shrugged. "A gun, Mr. President, is only as good or bad as the man who uses it. But the weapons you're complaining about all preceded my arrival." Pausing, he fixed Kerry with a steady, inquiring gaze. "Just how much do you know about the business of selling guns?"

    "Not as much as you."

    "Well, guns are like Singer sewing machines—treat them right, and they don't wear out. Some of our revolvers from the Civil War are still in circulation." Callister allowed himself a brief, sardonic smile, as if amused by the President's need for this tutorial. "In short, guns aren't consumable. There's no such thing as obsolescence. All we can offer is newer and better.

    "Our problem is 'to whom?' The times are running against us—there are still hunters out there, and sport shooters, but fewer of them. Maybe women are becoming a bigger slice of the consumer pie, but not for us . . ."

    "Unless you scare them to death."

    Callister gave Kerry a keen look. "Yes, we market self-defense to women—to everyone. It's their right to protect their homes and families."