Addis knew better than to take Finn’s arm and guide him. Finn had memorized every foot of the West Wing. Wearing his usual wrap-around sunglasses, he steadily tapped his cane and did not brush against Addis.

“These office shuffles are murder on me,” Finn said. “Just when I know where everyone is, they up and change it all. Almost went into your old office. Heard M. T. in there. Think she was talking to a reporter. Don’t know about what.”

“Wouldn’t know, Mike,” Addis said.

“Not the time for hotheads.”

“M. T.’s fine.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Finn walked into McGreer’s suite, nodded at McGreer’s secretary, and entered McGreer’s office; Addis followed. McGreer was at his desk. Dan Carey, the consultant, was on the couch.

“Glad you could join us, Nick,” McGreer said. “Don’t want those historians to keep you too busy.”

“Not a problem,” Addis answered.

He said hello to Carey. The two did not like each other. Addis did not trust Carey. The consultant was always urging that more money be spent on polling, that more money be spent on television ads, that more money be spent on focus groups, all expenditures from which he received a sizeable cut. Carey daily tested the appeal of words and phrases and had vetted all speeches prepared for Hanover. He had worked for candidates across the political spectrum. He had advised corporations and foreign leaders, including a few whose devotion to democratic principles was weak. McGreer had brought Carey aboard in the last weeks of the first presidential campaign. Insurance, McGreer told the skeptics, including Addis. And Carey had stayed. He lived in Virginia’s horse country and commuted by limousine, sometimes by helicopter. In the first book on the administration—four had been published so far—Carey had been quoted remarking, “Nick is a waterboy who thinks he’s the President’s conscience.”

“How you doing, Nick?” Carey asked. He was wearing his customary black, Italian suit. He had a rack of them at home. Addis remembered the picture from a newsmagazine. Each one cost three thousand dollars. Is that a new wig? Addis wondered, as he looked at the matted brown hair lying above Carey’s large, sloping forehead. Like paint on a breadbox, he thought.

“Been better,” Addis replied. He turned to McGreer. “Did you know about that memo?”

“No,” McGreer said. “Too bad for Clarence. Mumfries never mentioned it to me.”

“Didn’t think so—”

McGreer held up his hand to signal, Enough, this is not on the agenda.

“We’re discussing the future not the fucking past,” McGreer said. “What to do with the Hanover Re-elect.”

“A campaign without a candidate,” Finn remarked.

“I suppose the question is, who inherits?” Carey said. The conversation paused.