“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way,” Gibbs protested.
“Perhaps not,” said the senator. “But no matter how you say it, that is what you mean.”
They sat uncomfortably in the office chairs, with the bright Geneva sunlight pouring through the windows.
“I presume,” said the senator, “that the party, having found I am no longer an outstanding asset, will not renew my application for life continuation. I suppose that is what you were sent to tell me.”
Might as well get it over with, he told himself grimly. Now that it’s out in the open, there’s no sense in beating around the bush.
“That’s just about it, senator,” said Scott.
“That’s exactly it,” said Gibbs.
The senator heaved his great body from the chair, picked up the whiskey bottle, filled their glasses and his own.
“You delivered the death sentence very deftly,” he told them. “It deserves a drink.”
He wondered what they had thought that he would do. Plead with them, perhaps. Or storm around the office. Or denounce the party.