“But we don’t have to use this in the hearings,” I interjected. I had thought this through all night after Atlas and I hung up. “We’ll go to her, backdoor, say we want our highest priorities fast-tracked once she’s in cabinet. Or else this embarrassing little anecdote might slip through our fingers, potentially complicating her nomination.”

“Blackmail?” asked Bo.

“Not blackmail.” My plan was not quite upstanding, but it certainly wasn’t unheard-of on the Hill to press in this way. “Just a kind suggestion. A helpful hint, if you will. She does something for us. We do—or don’t do—something for her.”

Miles measured me. “Bo told me what happened in Charleston,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I figured he would.” I kept a straight face.

Miles continued to look at me, steady. “I understand now why you want to win this battle against the Darleys.”

“This isn’t a personal vendetta,” I said truthfully. “Melinda Darley is all but formally confirmed. Blake will run and probably win. I’m concerned for us, for our objectives. That’s the battle I want to fight. And I’m showing up, with every weapon I have, standing behind you.”

With Miles, I knew when to speak, I knew when to wait. Now was the time for the latter. In his cheek, the evidence of his jaw clenching, unclenching. “Do it,” he told me. “Call Darley’s office. Arrange a meeting. And hope to God this works.”

As he rose from his chair, I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and begged for favorable winds, for sunny skies, for a universe that was fair and just. I dared myself to believe that this might succeed. “Your vacation is over,” said Miles, dropping the remains of the apple core in the wastebasket on his way out. “Hope you enjoyed it.”

Twenty-Eight

No one over the age of five would confuse this for professional baseball. Some players on the field were graying. Many were testing the tensile strength of their uniforms. The pitcher for each team didn’t actually throw from the mound. But the trappings were there. Big lights. Scoreboard. The mascots—Tom, Abe, George, and Teddy—ran around the edge of right field at the bottom of the fourth inning, shoving and tripping each other.

It was the annual Congressional Baseball Game for Charity. Bo, Wallis, Cricket, and I cracked peanuts and sipped light beer from our seats a dozen rows behind home plate. Next week we would be meeting with Melinda Darley, and I was gathering a certain amount of amusement watching the soon-to-be secretary strike out so hard she spun a full circle in the batter’s box.