The journalist said: “What do you think about Senator McCarthy’s campaign?”

He was talking not about the notorious Senator Joe McCarthy, who had hunted down Communists in the fifties, but a completely opposite character, Senator Eugene McCarthy, a liberal who was a poet as well as a politician. Two months ago Gene McCarthy had declared his intention of seeking the Democratic nomination, running as the antiwar candidate against Johnson. He had already been dismissed as a no-hoper by the press.

Now Bobby replied: “I think McCarthy’s campaign is going to help Johnson.” Bobby still would not call Lyndon the president. George’s friend Skip Dickerson, who worked for Johnson, was scornful about this.

“Well, will you run?”

Bobby had lots of ways of not answering this question, a whole repertoire of evasive responses; but today he did not use any of them. “No,” he said.

George dropped his pencil. Where the hell had that come from?

Bobby added: “In no conceivable circumstances would I run.”

George wanted to say: In that case, what the fuck are we all doing here?

He noticed Dennis Wilson smirking.

He was tempted to walk out there and then. But he was too polite. He stayed in his seat and carried on making notes until the breakfast ended.

Back in Bobby’s office on Capitol Hill, he wrote the press release, working like an automaton. He changed Bobby’s quote to: “In no foreseeable circumstances would I run,” but it made little difference.

Three staffers resigned from Bobby’s team that afternoon. They had not come to Washington to work for a loser.

George was angry enough to quit, but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to think. And he wanted to talk to Verena.

She was in town, and staying at his apartment as always. She now had her own closet in his bedroom, where she kept cold-weather clothes she never needed in Atlanta.

She was so upset she was near tears that evening. “He’s all we have!” she said. “Do you know how many casualties we suffered in Vietnam last year?”

“Of course I do,” said George. “Eighty thousand. I put it in one of Bobby’s speeches, but he didn’t use that part.”

“Eighty thousand men killed or wounded or missing,” Verena said. “It’s awful—and now it will go on.”

“Casualties will certainly be higher this year.”

“Bobby has missed his shot at greatness. But why? Why did he do it?”

“I’m too angry to talk to him about it, but I believe he genuinely suspects his own motives. He’s asking himself whether he wants this for the sake of his country, or his ego. He’s tormented by such questions.”

“Martin is too,” Verena said. “He asks himself whether inner-city riots are his fault.”

“But Dr. King keeps those doubts to himself. You have to, as a leader.”

“Do you think Bobby planned this announcement?”

“No, he did it on impulse, I’m sure. That’s one of the things that make him difficult to work for.”

“What will you do?”