Switching off the speaker, Kerry picked up his telephone. "Hang on," he said to Joan, and stared at Clayton. In silent inquiry, Clayton raised his eyebrows.
"I'm on with Joan," Kerry snapped. "What is it?"
Clayton's brusque nod was, Kerry knew, meant to telegraph his concern about Joan Bowden. "Sorry to interrupt," Clayton answered, "but Martin Bresler's on the line, sounding close to suicidal."
Kerry frowned. While useful, Martin Bresler struck him as someone whose sense of disproportion might lead him to deem every internecine skirmish worthy of a President's attention. "Try Jack Sanders," Kerry instructed. "He's Bresler's contact person."
"I suggested that. Bresler says he has to talk to you. Do you want to just say no, or set another time?"
Pausing, Kerry thought of Joan. "How much time do I have right now?"
"The AIDS activists have been waiting for ten minutes. After them you've got the National Security Council."
Kerry glanced at his watch. "Tell the AIDS people I'll be with them in five, and put Bresler through."
Clayton briefly disappeared, giving instructions to Kerry's secretary. With fresh urgency, Kerry said to Joan, "Please, hang in there until the hearing. Keep calling to check in."
"Okay." She sounded unsettled and unsure. "It's just so hard . . ."
Distracted, Kerry motioned Clayton to take a seat. When Joan said a wan goodbye, he picked up his second line.
"Martin?" he asked. "What's up?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. President. The gun-show deal's off."
Bresler sounded jangled, like a man who had drunk too much coffee with too little sleep or food. "Why?" the President asked.
"They just did it." Bresler's speech was rapid. "I really can't talk about that. I just wanted to tell you myself. I was proud to work with you, Mr. President. But now I've got no job . . ."
"Is there something I can do?"
"No." Bresler's voice lowered. "You've got no idea how much they hate you."
Kerry did. But there was no point saying that to a man in extremis. "What if you expose what the SSA is doing . . ."
"That would ruin me, Mr. President." Abruptly, Bresler summoned a belated dignity. "I just wanted you to know, and to thank you for your courtesies."
Feeling anger overwhelm his pity, Kerry repeated, "If I can be of any help . . ."
"I wish you could." With these last dispirited words, Bresler thanked him again and got off.
Kerry slammed the phone.
Clayton stood. "What is it?"
"The SSA. Somehow they got Bresler, though he won't say that directly. It's their message to anyone who tries to deal with me on guns." Belatedly, Kerry stood as well. "They must have put the screws to the gun companies. Maybe the antitrust division should take a look at this."
Clayton folded his arms. "Hardball's not illegal—if it were, you'd be in jail. Bring in the Justice Department, and you'll be the overreaching proto-dictator the right wing says you are."
"In my dreams, Clayton."
"Maybe in your second term. In the meantime, it's enough to try and conquer AIDS."
At this reminder, Kerry headed for the door. But he could not let go of his anger. "We'll conquer AIDS," he said over his shoulder, "before we ever stop slaughtering each other with guns. AIDS doesn't have the SSA behind it—at least officially." Opening the door, he turned and ordered, "Track down that guy George Callister, from Lexington Arms. I'd like to have a word with him."
ELE VEN
On the following Sunday, two days after the public announcement of Kerry's wedding date, the President met in secret with George Callister.
The date and place were carefully chosen. A weekend offered Kerry some relief from press vigilance, and a chance for seclusion; on this weekend, the prospect of a presidential wedding—setting off a spate of stories and a headlong competition for interviews with Lara, Kerry, or both—consumed the media's attention. Thus it seemed only natural that, on a balmy Sunday morning, the President would seek respite at Camp David. The press did not know that, an hour before, George Callister had arrived.
Among the White House staff, only Clayton and Jack Sanders knew of this meeting—Callister, as he assured the President, had told no one but his wife. "Unlike you," Callister observed dryly, "even the devil himself doesn't want to confiscate our guns." For Kerry's part, he had determined to go slowly—it was enough, in this first meeting, to take the measure of George Callister.
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."