a long, narrow affair, window at the back looking out into the rose garden. kenny dumps his briefcase on the desk, shucks off his coat, removes a folder from his briefcase, turns and heads back out.
briefcase and coat in hand, kenny enters his office - and finds three men. standing there. thin-haired, bespectacled, academic-looking mcgeorge bundy, 43, the national security advisor. the two men in the background: photo interpreters.
kenny's office is a raging beehive of activity. kenny works the phone as assistants come and go with files.
kenny, sitting on his desk, taps his fingers, looks at the phone. he's kept ecker on hold long enough - and picks up.
kenny stands, drops the hard nose bullshit.
kenny nods to himself, feeling. he's done it himself.
kenny thinks fast. oh shit.
kenny turns to gaze at his little t.v. in the credenza, u.n. coverage continuing, as if he could see adlai there.
kenny rises from his chair, paces toward the t.v. he pauses.
kenny is watching exactly the same performance. zorin is masterful. kenny knows it. and when he talks to adlai, it's with the fatalism of a coach knowing he's putting his third string quarterback in against the all-pro linebacker.
kenny, at the other end of the line, stares out the window at the fall day. it seems so mild, so unlike war. and it takes him a beat before he realizes anderson's on the line.
kenny nods to himself, deeply touched by the man's faith.