back, "people would believe it."
McDermott felt the perspiration under his arms beginning to wet his shirt. Jesus, he did not want a public morality issue raised under any circumstances.
"That is one shitty idea," he said. "Forget it. If we don't have the facts, it'll boomerang. The press will figure out where the rumors came from."
Pug refused to back off. "We could hire a detective to see if the facts are there."
"NFW. No fucking way. Who's paying you? Boyd? Stuff like that will only lose votes if it comes out."
"Good God," Pug said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're holier than the pope."
Wanting to shift away from an escalating verbal battle, McDermott turned toward the president. "It's your call, Bill," he said. "Personally, I vote for sticking with the current game plan and tabling these ideas for now, but you're the boss."
The president rolled the issue around in his mind for a moment and wrinkled his nose. "I'm with Hugh on this. No dirty tricks. We'll win this fair and square, or we won't win."
McDermott wasn't surprised. Twenty years ago, when he was a powerful and savvy Chicago lawyer, well connected in state Republican politics, he took a young legislator, a diamond in the rough, from a small town in downstate Illinois out for a drink. Right from the start, McDermott knew that William Webster was a straight shooter, as well as having the charisma and political instincts to be governor.
"Can you stick around for a while, Hugh?" the president asked. "I've got a short call to make. Then the two of us need to talk."
"I'll be happy to. Just let me walk out with Darren and Pug for a minute. I'll be right back."
From the reception area outside the Oval Office, McDermott led Thompson into a small working room across the hall that was empty. The A.G.'s face was flushed with anger as he kicked the door shut. "Don't you try any crap like that again. I told you, run the ideas past me first."
"Okay, okay," Pug replied. "I've got the picture."
"And I'll tell you one other thing: I don't want you or anybody who works for you pulling off any of these schemes or any other stuff like that without approval from me. Is that clear?"
"I wouldn't consider it, boss," Pug said.
McDermott moved in close. He stuck out two fingers and shoved them hard against the middle button of Thompson's white shirt. "I have this campaign under control. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, if you follow orders and do things my way, Webster will get reelected and you'll get a good job in the next administration."
"I'm trying to give us a little insurance."
"We don't need it, asshole. You go off on your own, like the Lone Ranger, and you're out of the campaign on your ass. Also, I'll see to it that you never work in this town again. You can trust me on that."
Pug pulled back. "Okay. I got it. By the way, nice suntan you have, boss. Must have gone south for the weekend, eh?"
McDermott's face grew beet red. He slammed Thompson hard against the wall. "You'd better not be spying on me."
Though Pug could have knocked McDermott down with a single backhand swipe, he refused to fight back. He had done his damage verbally.
After pulling himself together, McDermott went back into the Oval Office. The president was still on the phone. "Tell him that I'll meet with the Russian ambassador at ten in the morning," Webster said. "I can't do it this evening." He replaced the phone in its cradle. "Jesus, Hugh, that was Perry in London. The Brits are anxious for me to meet with the Russian ambassador in Washington, the one whose name I can never pronounce, to get some info about Lernov, the new Russian president. But I doubt if he'll know anything. If he did, he wouldn't tell me anyhow."
"The Lernov thing's got everybody jumpy."
"What do you think I should do about it?"
"Not a damn thing until after the election. Except..."
"Except what?"
"Get some TV time one evening next week after the debate to make a speech assuring the American
McDermott felt the perspiration under his arms beginning to wet his shirt. Jesus, he did not want a public morality issue raised under any circumstances.
"That is one shitty idea," he said. "Forget it. If we don't have the facts, it'll boomerang. The press will figure out where the rumors came from."
Pug refused to back off. "We could hire a detective to see if the facts are there."
"NFW. No fucking way. Who's paying you? Boyd? Stuff like that will only lose votes if it comes out."
"Good God," Pug said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're holier than the pope."
Wanting to shift away from an escalating verbal battle, McDermott turned toward the president. "It's your call, Bill," he said. "Personally, I vote for sticking with the current game plan and tabling these ideas for now, but you're the boss."
The president rolled the issue around in his mind for a moment and wrinkled his nose. "I'm with Hugh on this. No dirty tricks. We'll win this fair and square, or we won't win."
McDermott wasn't surprised. Twenty years ago, when he was a powerful and savvy Chicago lawyer, well connected in state Republican politics, he took a young legislator, a diamond in the rough, from a small town in downstate Illinois out for a drink. Right from the start, McDermott knew that William Webster was a straight shooter, as well as having the charisma and political instincts to be governor.
"Can you stick around for a while, Hugh?" the president asked. "I've got a short call to make. Then the two of us need to talk."
"I'll be happy to. Just let me walk out with Darren and Pug for a minute. I'll be right back."
From the reception area outside the Oval Office, McDermott led Thompson into a small working room across the hall that was empty. The A.G.'s face was flushed with anger as he kicked the door shut. "Don't you try any crap like that again. I told you, run the ideas past me first."
"Okay, okay," Pug replied. "I've got the picture."
"And I'll tell you one other thing: I don't want you or anybody who works for you pulling off any of these schemes or any other stuff like that without approval from me. Is that clear?"
"I wouldn't consider it, boss," Pug said.
McDermott moved in close. He stuck out two fingers and shoved them hard against the middle button of Thompson's white shirt. "I have this campaign under control. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, if you follow orders and do things my way, Webster will get reelected and you'll get a good job in the next administration."
"I'm trying to give us a little insurance."
"We don't need it, asshole. You go off on your own, like the Lone Ranger, and you're out of the campaign on your ass. Also, I'll see to it that you never work in this town again. You can trust me on that."
Pug pulled back. "Okay. I got it. By the way, nice suntan you have, boss. Must have gone south for the weekend, eh?"
McDermott's face grew beet red. He slammed Thompson hard against the wall. "You'd better not be spying on me."
Though Pug could have knocked McDermott down with a single backhand swipe, he refused to fight back. He had done his damage verbally.
After pulling himself together, McDermott went back into the Oval Office. The president was still on the phone. "Tell him that I'll meet with the Russian ambassador at ten in the morning," Webster said. "I can't do it this evening." He replaced the phone in its cradle. "Jesus, Hugh, that was Perry in London. The Brits are anxious for me to meet with the Russian ambassador in Washington, the one whose name I can never pronounce, to get some info about Lernov, the new Russian president. But I doubt if he'll know anything. If he did, he wouldn't tell me anyhow."
"The Lernov thing's got everybody jumpy."
"What do you think I should do about it?"
"Not a damn thing until after the election. Except..."
"Except what?"
"Get some TV time one evening next week after the debate to make a speech assuring the American
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