Obama asked if Solis Doyle, Biden's chief of staff, was on the call. "Yes, I'm here," she said abashedly.

"Listen," said Obama. "Tell Joe I love him. I love him. But he can't be doing this."

A couple of days later, Obama phoned Biden and laid into him. You're supposed to have my back, he said, not be out there creating problems.

With two weeks to go before Election Day, Biden's remark was gift-wrapped booty for the McCain campaign, a ready-made TV spot. And, indeed, soon after the comment, just such an ad hit the air, complete with Biden's voice and pictures of terrorists and a frightened child. Its message spoke directly to the stubbornest doubts that some voters still had about Obama, and to their fears about the risks entailed in electing him.

More than that, though, what rankled Obama was that Biden hadn't bothered to pick up the phone and apologize. Worse, Biden didn't say that he was sorry when Obama called; he showed no remorse for his Seattle comments or understanding that they posed a real political problem.

Biden knew he'd screwed up, of course, but he went into a defensive crouch. He told his aides it wasn't really a gaffe, that he was just speaking the truth-as the Biden brand demanded. He got a little chippy.

Well, gosh, Biden said. I guess it's a good thing I didn't say anything about bitter people who cling to their guns and religion.

ON OCTOBER 22, PALIN ticked the box next to the only remaining network to which she had yet to grant a sit-down, NBC. After finishing her talk with anchor Brian Williams, she tapped out an email to the campaign's senior staff that had an air of resignation and a certain poignancy. "Was not a good interview," Palin wrote. "So hang on to your hat w[ith] the criticism and mocking that will ensue. Just a head's up-doubt anything can be done about it-the gotcha questions started right out of the shoot and as usual I was perplexed at the whole line of questioning and I'm sure that showed through."

Palin was still as rogue as ever, but the thrill was gone. The only pleasure she seemed to take was in her crowds; she worked her rope lines hungrily, for two hours at a time, lingering over every hand she touched. Otherwise, Palin was demoralized, isolated, and confused. On her plane, when confronted with an uncomfortable topic by her advisers, she was still dropping her head and refusing to respond, even as they stood there awkwardly waiting for a reply. She had no idea whom to trust anymore or really where to turn. On the day of the NBC interview, Politico broke a story that the RNC had spent $150,000 for clothing for her and her family. It was the first shoe to drop in what over the next week would become a hailstorm of expensive footwear. CNN reported that someone close to the campaign called her a "diva." Politico reported that "a top McCain adviser" called her a "whack job." The maelstrom not only eclipsed Biden's mega-gaffe but signaled the death of whatever was left of Palinmania.

The invective was the visible outcropping of a deeper fault line. McCainworld had split into internecine factions surrounding Palin and her candidacy, roughly divided between those who still had faith in Palin and those who did not. The tensions were bursting forth in the form of proxy warfare in the media, infuriating McCain. Schmidt and Davis ordered the campaign's email system searched to determine who was behind the snipes in the press. Palin's loyalists on her plane pointed at Nicolle and Mark Wallace for the "diva" comment. In fact, the source was veteran Republican fund-raiser and strategist Wayne Berman, a close friend of McCain's.

Palin had long since lost faith in McCainworld. She felt belittled and lectured to by the senior staff; whenever an aide told her Schmidt was waiting to talk to her on the phone, Palin's reflexive reaction was, "Do I have to?" She was raising so much money for the campaign and drawing such mammoth crowds, yet she received no respect in return. If I'm doing all this, she would ask, why can't I have input? Increasingly, she was a picture of isolation, either listening to her iPod or surfing cable channels on her seatback TV on her plane. When politicians or donors traveled with her, she rarely spoke more than a few words of greeting to them; she stared at her speech text and avoided engagement.

The truth was, the McCain people did fail Palin. They had, as promised, made her one of the most famous people in the world overnight. But they allowed her no time to plant her feet to absorb such a seismic shift. They were unprepared when they picked her, which made her look even more unready than she was. They banked on the force of her magnetism to compensate for their disarray. They ama.s.sed polling points and dollars off of her fiery charisma, and then left her to burn up in the inferno of public opinion.

The face-to-face exposure of the campaign's senior advisers to Palin was minimal in the last month before Election Day. She was on the road; they were at headquarters or with McCain, their paths rarely intersecting. But after witnessing her near-breakdown during debate prep and monitoring her subsequently by phone and email, some in the upper echelons of McCainworld began to believe that Palin was unfit for high office.

McCain was aware that his senior team considered Palin troubled and troubling, but he was shielded from the fullness of their distress. Several of his lieutenants agreed that should McCain's electoral prospects miraculously improve and winning in November become likely, they would have to confront the nominee as he started to plan how his administration would function. It would be essential, they believed, that Palin be relegated to the largely ceremonial role that premodern vice presidents inhabited. It was inconceivable that Palin undertake the duties of a Gore or a Cheney-or that, if McCain fell ill or died, the country be left in the hands of a President Palin. Some in McCainworld were ridden with guilt over elevating Palin to within striking distance of the White House.

They were hardly alone in such harsh judgments. Obama, who had cautioned his advisers not to jump to conclusions about Palin's potential when she was first selected, ultimately came to believe that the process used to pick her, the man who did the picking, and the woman who was picked were all suspect. He took to mimicking Palin's stylized "You betcha!" in front of his campaign team.

In late October, Obama's focus group maestro, David Binder, was conducting a session with a group of swing voters in a Cleveland suburb. A middle-aged woman let loose with a string of not-unfamiliar broadsides against Obama. He's a Muslim. He's soft on terrorism-because he's a Muslim. He doesn't put his hand on his heart during patriotic rituals. We're not even sure he was born in this country.

Binder was confused. This was supposed to be a group of undecided voters. If you think all these terrible things about Obama, he asked the woman, how can you possibly be undecided?

Because if McCain dies, Palin would be president, she said.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

The Finish Line.

THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND SOULS FILLED the sprawling field in Kissimmee, Florida, just outside Orlando. It was nearly midnight on October 29 and the air was shockingly cold, but people didn't seem to mind. They were there to get a glimpse of history, to feel the magic, to witness the commingling of the Democratic future and the Democratic past. They were there for the one and only joint campaign appearance of Barack Obama and Bill Clinton.

Obama and Clinton came out onstage, clasped hands in the air, and then 42 began to speak. His thirteen-minute talk was amped up to the point of being hyperactive. He flapped his arms, clenched his fists, pointed toward the sky. "Folks, we can't fool with this," Clinton said. "Our country is hanging in the balance. This man should be our president!" Obama returned the compliments, singing a song in the key of Clinton, praising his economic record, calling him "a great president, a great statesman, a great supporter," a "political genius," and a "beloved" figure "around the world."

Yet beyond the histrionics and the headline-Barack and Bill, finally side by side-the chemistry between the two still seemed less than stable, the body language awkward. Clinton's speech was formulaic, lacking a single warm personal anecdote or insight (both trademarks of his). Obama's expression conveyed no greater satisfaction than if he were being endorsed by the mayor of Kissimmee.

The subject of Clinton campaigning on Obama's behalf had come up seven weeks earlier, when the two men finally had their much-antic.i.p.ated tete-a-tete. Obama, who was in New York on September 11 for various memorial events, ventured to Clinton's Harlem office for lunch. Though he showed deference to Clinton by walking in alone-no staff, no security, no posse-and respect for his stature by asking questions about governance instead of politics, the meeting had a stilted feel. Clinton's staff and the Obamans had engaged in a tug-of-war over whether to include a Harlem stroll and photo op as part of the visit (with each side ascribing ulterior race-related motives to the other). Obama, who had a vicious stomach bug, spent much of the lunch trying not to puke on Clinton's shoes.

Clinton offered to hit the trail for or with Obama. But neither party was thrilled by the prospect. Clinton told CNN's Larry King that he planned to start "after the Jewish holidays," which he'd never been known to observe. The Obamans, meanwhile, had determined through their polling that Clinton's presence would help only in a handful of states, mainly with Latinos. (Not only would the Florida event be held in Hispanic-heavy suburban Orlando, but it would also feature actor Jimmy Smits.) Their primary interest in holding a joint event-one joint event-was to keep the press from badgering them about doing none. joint event-was to keep the press from badgering them about doing none.

That Clinton could be of service to Obama in so few places was as much a testament to the latter's strength as to the former's weakness. By the start of the last full week of the campaign, an NBC News/Wall Street Journal News/Wall Street Journal survey had Obama up by ten points; the ABC News/ survey had Obama up by ten points; the ABC News/ Washington Post Washington Post tracking poll put the number at eleven. He was leading in every state won by Kerry in 2004, and either ahead or within the margin of error in ten states carried by Bush in the previous election: Colorado, Florida, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri, Nevada, New Mexico, North Carolina, Ohio, and Virginia. tracking poll put the number at eleven. He was leading in every state won by Kerry in 2004, and either ahead or within the margin of error in ten states carried by Bush in the previous election: Colorado, Florida, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri, Nevada, New Mexico, North Carolina, Ohio, and Virginia.

The significance of Obama's financial advantage over McCain was impossible to overstate. Armed with the tens of millions that kept pouring into O-Town over the Web, the campaign was moving cash around the country as if it were Monopoly money. Just before the Kissimmee rally, Obama and Biden had taken part in an unprecedented thirty-minute prime-time infomercial that cost $7 million and ran on CBS, NBC, MSNBC, Fox, BET, TV One, and Univision-attracting thirty-three million viewers, nearly twice the number of the top-rated network show, Dancing with the Stars. Dancing with the Stars.

By the end of October, Obama and his team were beginning to face the fact: victory was within their grasp. With Wall Street in flames and the economy falling further into recession, Obama knew that the challenges that awaited him in the White House would be daunting. On the stump, he seized the mantle of FDR, repeating the famous line, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." His aides began reading books about Roosevelt's first hundred days in office-and also, yes, Team of Rivals. Team of Rivals.

With such burdens looming, Obama put aside the petty and personal, reconciling with his running mate. The repair of the breach was initiated by Biden, whose close aide Tony Blinken figured out from his sources in the campaign that Obama was still angry over Joe's failure to apologize for his Seattle remarks. When Blinken explained why it might have gotten under Obama's skin, Biden said, "Oh, I get that."

Biden called Obama and came quickly to the point. You know what, I've gotta tell you, I was totally remiss, he said. I want you to know I understand that what I did was not only bad for me-it was bad for you and it endangered our common prospects. I never said I was sorry and I want to apologize.

Obama was grateful. Biden felt magnanimous. A warm and lengthy conversation ensued, with more to come. After weeks of distance, a partnership was taking root. Joe was a proud guy. Acts of contrition didn't come naturally to him. But this one, he admitted, was worth it. And no funny hat was required.

MCCAIN NEVER NEEDED a rapprochement with his running mate. On the upswing and the down, through the nastiest and gnarliest moments, not an ill word escaped his lips regarding Palin. If McCain was disappointed in her or in his own judgment, he hid it from even his closest intimates. He treated Palin chivalrously, inquiring regularly about her well-being and that of her family. We asked a lot of her, McCain said, and he meant it.

McCain blamed Palin's problems on the press, and on members of his team for feeding the hounds. The leak-fueled stories about her drove him so nuts that he stopped watching cable news. (His staff convinced him that leaving the TV tuned to ESPN would be a boon to his spirits.) Indeed, both John and Cindy held the media responsible for much of what had gone wrong in the homestretch of the campaign-and that was a long list. October had been a month of misery for the McCains.

The second and third debates with Obama had gone no better than the first. In Nashville, Tennessee, on October 7, they'd met in a town hall-style format that should by all rights have worked to McCain's advantage. Instead, he rattled around the stage looking slightly lost (Like a crazy uncle in search of a bathroom (Like a crazy uncle in search of a bathroom, one of his top advisers thought), making hokey jokes that fell flat, flinging edgy barbs, and telling stories that referenced Ronald Reagan, Teddy Roosevelt, Tip O'Neill, and Herbert Hoover, making him seem every bit his age and then some. Eight days later, at Hofstra University, in New York, McCain started strong and got off his best line of all three confrontations: "Senator Obama, I am not President Bush. If you wanted to run against President Bush, you should have run four years ago." But the split-screen format used for the final debate enhanced the focus on McCain's facial expressions. He smirked, glowered, scowled, rolled his eyes; he looked angry. The insta-polls after each debate told the same story. Viewers judged Obama the winner of both by somewhere between twenty and thirty points.

McCain was frustrated and resentful. The campaign had planned to carpet-bomb Obama with negative ads in October, including some that would have used his own voice from the audio versions of his books. With the economy unraveling, however, McCainworld realized such tactics would seem cheap and hollow-and would be ineffective, to boot.

But now McCain lashed out at his opponent on his own in ways remarkable for their tone and subtext, suggesting that Obama was a dangerous, possibly corrupt, possibly Manchurian unknown. "Who is the real Barack Obama?" McCain said at a New Mexico event two days after the Times Times published its piece on Ayers. "What does he plan for America?" Forty-eight hours later, he referred directly to the former Weatherman. "He wasn't a guy in the neighborhood. [Obama] launched his political career in his living room." published its piece on Ayers. "What does he plan for America?" Forty-eight hours later, he referred directly to the former Weatherman. "He wasn't a guy in the neighborhood. [Obama] launched his political career in his living room."

Cindy McCain was equally vitriolic, a startling turnabout from a woman who for so long shunned the spotlight. Obama has "waged the dirtiest campaign in American history," she said one day. The next, she averred about the Democratic nominee's position on a war-funding measure, "The day that Senator Obama cast a vote not to fund my son when he was serving sent a cold chill through my body." A week later, she reprised her attack on Mich.e.l.le Obama before a pom-pom-waving crowd in Florida. "Yes," Cindy said, "I have always been proud of my country."

As the election barreled toward its conclusion, something dark and frightening was unleashed, freed in part by the words of the McCains and Palin. At rallies across the country, there were jagged outbursts of rage and accusations of sedition hurled at Obama. In Pennsylvania and New Mexico, McCain audience members were captured on video and audio calling the Democrat a "terrorist." In Wisconsin, Obama was reviled as a "hooligan" and a "socialist."

With the brutish dynamic apparently on the verge of hurtling out of control, a chagrined McCain attempted to rein it in. In Minnesota, when a man in the crowd said he would be afraid to raise a child in America if Obama were elected, McCain responded, "He is a decent person and not a person you have to be scared of as president." A few minutes later, he refuted a woman who called Obama "an Arab."

McCain's efforts to tamp down the furies were valorous, though they did nothing to erase his role in triggering the reaction in the first place. The civil rights hero John Lewis, whom McCain admired enormously, compared the Republican nominee and his running mate to George Wallace and said they were "playing with fire."

Another prominent African American was watching with alarm. Colin Powell had been friends with McCain for twenty-five years. The senator had been actively seeking his endors.e.m.e.nt (as had Obama) for nearly two years. Powell warned McCain that his greatest reservation was the intolerant tone that seemed to be overtaking the Republican Party. McCain's selection of Palin bothered Powell because he saw her as polarizing. He was dismayed by McCain's deployment of Ayers as an issue, perceived it as pandering to the right. And then there were the hate-soaked rallies, which he considered anti-American. This isn't what we're supposed to be This isn't what we're supposed to be, he thought.

Powell had leaned toward staying neutral, but these outbursts were all too much-and McCain had moved only belatedly to stop them. Obama, by contrast, had displayed terrific judgment during the financial crisis, Powell thought. And his campaign had been run with military precision; the show of overwhelming force struck the general as a political realization of the Powell Doctrine. On October 19, he endorsed Obama on Meet the Press. Meet the Press.

The general's repudiation was a stinging blow for McCain. Beyond their longtime friendship, Powell represented the same brand of Republicanism as McCain's. Tough on defense. Fiscally prudent. Pragmatic and nondoctrinaire. McCain had to wonder what had become of him if his current incarnation was repelling someone like Powell. He was startled by the crazies at his rallies. Who were they? Why were they there? And what did they see in him?

In the final two weeks of the race, McCain began to try to salvage something of his reputation. He put away the harshest of the personal invective against Obama and went back to talking about the economy, rash spending, and Iraq.

He seemed ever more resigned in his public comments to a graceful exit. "I've had a wonderful life," McCain told Fox News. "I have to go back and live in Arizona and be in the United States Senate representing them, and with a wonderful family and daughters and sons that I'm so proud of, and a life that's been blessed."

He wanted to go out on a high note, to recapture some of the old McCain spark, but it was hard to do. On November 1, he and Cindy appeared on Sat.u.r.day Night Live. Sat.u.r.day Night Live. In a skit that cast him as a TV huckster, he fell flat. On the same day, he received the most unwanted endors.e.m.e.nt in the universe: that of d.i.c.k Cheney. In a skit that cast him as a TV huckster, he fell flat. On the same day, he received the most unwanted endors.e.m.e.nt in the universe: that of d.i.c.k Cheney.

There was no love lost between Cheney and McCain, who'd clashed bitterly over the conduct of the war in Iraq, the performance of Donald Rumsfeld, and interrogation techniques. When Cheney's friends learned about the endors.e.m.e.nt, they laughed. That wasn't Cheney saluting McCain, they thought. It was him flipping the senator the bird.

The next day, McCain traveled to New Hampshire for one last town hall meeting in the state where his presidential aspirations first took wing. The trip made absolutely no sense politically. The polls had Obama ahead there by double digits. But McCain had been agitating for the Granite State curtain call since a visit there in mid-October. To Mike Dennehy, his top New Hampshire strategist, he said, "I want to go to Peterborough." Dennehy knew that McCainworld HQ would resist. "Just call them and make it happen," McCain said.

Peterborough, population 6,100, was the place where McCain first tasted the flavor of a New Hampshire town hall, in 1999. Just nineteen people attended. Months later, the Peterborough Town House was packed on the eve of his galvanizing 2000 primary win, and the scene had repeated itself in January 2008, as he pulled off another-albeit very different-New Hampshire surprise.

And so, in the early evening of November 2, McCain made the hour-long bus trip west from Manchester airport-a lunatic expenditure of time in the final hours of a national campaign, but his superst.i.tions were in full flower. On the bus, he swapped memories with some of his old New Hampshire hands. Dennehy recalled that the first time in Peterborough they had to bribe people with free ice cream to get anyone to come. I'm glad we're going back, McCain said wistfully. We've come full circle.

Standing with Cindy onstage in the Peterborough Town House, dressed in a black jacket with its collar upturned and an open-necked shirt, McCain took questions from the packed hall for half an hour and ended with a flourish: "My friends, it's time for all of us to stand up and fight for America. America is in difficulty. We've got to fight for America, we've got to fight for our children, we've got to fight for freedom and justice, we've got to fight for the men and women who are serving in the military. We've got to fight for America, the things we stand for and believe in. Our best days are ahead of us. America never quits. America never gives up. We will succeed. We will win. Let's win this election and get our economy and our country going again."

McCain was no fool. He could-and did-read the polls as closely as anyone. But in every candidate, fatalism, realism, and hope live in delicate equipoise. McCain's pollster, Bill McInturff, was seeing some tightening in the numbers around the country. Obama wasn't over 50 percent. The electoral math was difficult, but not impossible. Some of the key battleground states seemed to be in reach; New Hampshire had closed to four, McCain had heard.

Maybe the smart set had it all wrong.

Maybe an upset was still somehow possible.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As McCain was getting off his campaign bus at the airport, about to bid adieu to the state he loved so much and that loved him so much back, he turned to Dennehy, a flash of optimism in his eyes, and asked, "How many we down by?"

Dennehy knew the truth, but couldn't bear putting it into words.

"Let's not talk about that tonight," he said.

AS MCCAIN WAS DEPARTING New Hampshire, Obama was arriving in Cleveland, Ohio, rolling up to find eighty thousand people on the city's downtown outdoor mall listening to Bruce Springsteen belt out "Thunder Road." At the end of Springsteen's set, Obama took the stage with Mich.e.l.le and the girls and shared a warm moment with Bruce, his wife, Patti, and their kids. Springsteen, who hit the trail in 2004 for Kerry, had joked earlier about being glad to be invited back, not being seen as some kind of jinx. Now Obama added to the levity. When he got to the part in his speech where he asked the crowd how many of them made more than $250,000 a year-the floor for his proposed tax increases-The One made a point of telling The Boss that he needn't bother to answer.

Obama brought up McCain's endors.e.m.e.nt by Cheney, noting that the VP had said he was "delighted" to support the GOP nominee. "You've never seen d.i.c.k Cheney delighted, but he is! It's kinda hard to picture, but it's true!" As Obama giggled, the skies grew dark and it began to drizzle. "Did you notice that it started when I started talking about d.i.c.k Cheney?" Obama joked. "That's all right. We've been through an eight-year storm, but a new day is dawning. Sunshine is on the way!"

The next morning, November 3, Obama woke up in Jacksonville, Florida, to the heaviest of all weather: on the last day of his presidential campaign, his grandmother Madelyn Dunham had died at eighty-six.

The news came as no surprise to Obama. Dunham had fought a long battle with cancer, and had been at death's door for months. Ten days earlier, Obama had briefly absented himself from the trail to fly to Hawaii to see her, knowing all too well that it could be for the last time. Dunham had been Obama's guardian for much of his youth, while his mother lived in Indonesia. He called her Toot; she called him Bear. He wanted desperately for her to make it to Election Day, to live to see him achieve his dream.

Obama betrayed no emotion in Jacksonville. His speech at Veterans Memorial Arena that morning was rousing. He recalled that, on September 15, McCain had appeared in the same venue and declared that "the fundamentals of our economy are strong."

"Well, Florida, you and I know that's not only fundamentally wrong, it also sums up his out-of-touch, on-your-own economic philosophy," Obama said, "a philosophy that will end when I am president of the United States of America."

Obama's next stop was in Charlotte, North Carolina, late that afternoon, where twenty-five thousand people gathered to see him in a field opposite Duke Centennial Hall at the University of North Carolina. The weather had been fine all day long, but as soon as Obama's jet touched down, the skies began to threaten. As the crowd waited for him, the heavens opened up and a vicious downpour began.

On the way to the event, Obama stopped by his Charlotte HQ to shake hands with volunteers and call a few voters. When one of the voters raised the subject of health care, Obama turned away from the pool reporters and said into the phone, "Obviously this is happening in my own family . . . my grandmother stayed at home until recently." When he turned back, Obama was visibly deflated, looking drawn and tired.

When he finally arrived in the field at UNC, the rain had stopped, the crowd was drenched, and they were ready for him. He stepped to the lectern and began his speech with a remembrance of his grandmother. He said, "She died peacefully in her sleep with my sister at her side, and so there's great joy as well as tears." He said, "She has gone home." Haltingly, he said, "I'm not going to talk about it too long because it's hard to talk about."

Even so, Obama wanted everyone to know a little about Toot. He called her a "quiet hero," like a lot of quiet heroes in the crowd and in the country. "They're not famous," Obama continued. "Their names aren't in the newspaper. But each and every day, they work hard. They watch out for their families. They sacrifice for their families. . . . That's what America's about. That's what we're fighting for."

As Obama said all this, his voice was mostly steady, but tears were streaming down his cheeks-the first time he had wept publicly since taking the national stage. Obama reached inside his pocket, pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and carried on, returning several times to the woman who had shaped his character as much as anyone in the world.

A few hours later, Obama and his traveling crew pulled into the Prince William County Fairground in Mana.s.sas, Virginia, for his final campaign rally. The scene was surreal, mind-boggling, like something out of a movie. The buses rolled up into a muddy parking lot behind the stage. The floodlights illuminated a swirling mist rising into the dark night sky. Beyond the camera risers surrounding the stage were a pair of trucks with uniformed, heavily armed, Secret Service tactical teams standing on top, scanning the horizon through their binoculars. And beyond the trucks were some ninety thousand Obama fans on a gently sloping hillside, stretching literally as far as the eye could see.

How fully Obama understood the alchemy or the tides of history, the collision of man and moment, that brought him to that place, putting him on the verge of winning the White House, was impossible to know. But he seemed to grasp the need for closure. At the end of his speech, he returned to the story of Edith Childs, the city council-woman in Greenwood, South Carolina, who early in his campaign bequeathed to him the rallying cry that marked his breakthrough in the Iowa caucuses: "Fired up! Ready to go!"

Obama hadn't uncorked this riff in months, but he turned on the turbochargers in Mana.s.sas and delivered it with gusto, coiling his body, bouncing up and down, sweeping his arms, tracing with his fingers in the air. By the time he got to the end-"One voice can change a room, and if it can change a room, it can change a city, and if it can change a city, it can change a state, and if it can change a state, then it can change a nation, and if it can change a nation, it can change a world; come on, Virginia, let's go change the world!"-the crowd let loose a roar that shook the ground beneath their feet.

Returning to the airport, Obama boarded his jet and prepared to head back to Chicago. He made his way down the aisle and into the rear cabin, where the press corps mingled. He thanked the reporters for having accompanied him on his astonishing ride. He gave a photographer a birthday kiss. He shook every hand on the plane.

"Okay, guys, let's go home," Obama said. "It will be fun to see how the story ends."

Epilogue.

Together at Last ON THE MORNING OF November 5, Barack Obama had breakfast with his family, saw his kids off to school, donned sungla.s.ses, and went to the gym. The previous night, the nation's first African American president-elect had secured a victory that was as dazzling as it was historic. His 53 percent of the popular vote was the largest majority secured by a Democrat since Lyndon Johnson. He swept the blue states, captured the battlegrounds of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Florida, and picked up red states across the country: Colorado, Indiana, North Carolina, Virginia. He dominated among black voters (954), Hispanic voters (6632), and young voters (6632). His share of the white vote, 43 percent, was higher than what Gore or Kerry had attained-and among whites age eighteen to twenty-nine, he trounced McCain, 6831.

Obama made his way to his transition headquarters on the thirty-eighth floor of the Kluczynski Federal Building in Chicago's Loop. Sitting down with Biden; his soon-to-be chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel; his three transition co-chairs-Jarrett, Rouse, John Podesta-and a handful of others, he began examining the possibilities for his Cabinet. Most of the names on the lists were predictable, but one was not. Obama was leaning heavily toward Hillary Clinton for secretary of state.

Among those most intimate with Obama, it came as no surprise. Since the summer, he had been telling Jarrett and Nesbitt that he wanted to find a role for Clinton in his administration. Obama's inclination was abetted by Podesta, whom he'd appointed to run a kind of pre-transition planning effort after securing the nomination (and whom Clinton had tapped, albeit prematurely, to handle the same task). At the first Podesta-led meeting to discuss potential Cabinet picks, in Reno, Nevada, in late September, Hillary's name was on the lists for State and Defense. The next morning, Jarrett asked Obama, "Are you serious about Senator Clinton?"

Obama replied simply but emphatically, "Yes, I am."

Obama shared his thinking with few people before Election Day, but when he did, his praise for Clinton was effusive. She's smart, she's capable, she's tough, she's disciplined, Obama said again and again. She wouldn't have to be taught or have her hand held. She wouldn't have to earn her place on the world stage; she already had global stature. She pays attention to nuance, Obama told Jarrett, and that's what I want in a secretary of state, because the stakes are so high. I can't have somebody who would put us in peril with one errant sentence.

Three other names were raised in the meeting at the Kluczynski Building: Daschle, Kerry, and Richardson. Daschle and Richardson were on the short list only as courtesies; Obama had other things in mind for both of them. Kerry was eminently qualified and desperately wanted the job. But he would have been a predictable pick-there was no wow factor with Kerry. Choosing Clinton would send a powerful message about Obama's bigness.

Much of Obama's campaign brain trust was resistant to the idea. The suits were skeptical that Hillary would be, could be, a loyal team player. The arguments against her varied among them, but all were forcefully and fully aired. She would pursue her own agenda. She would undermine Obama's. She would be a constant headache. She came attached to her globe-trotting, buckraking, headline-making husband, whose antics were the very ant.i.thesis of the no-drama-Obama way of doing business.

Jarrett was wary, too, though her worries revolved around the question of the chemistry (or lack thereof) between Barack and Hillary. "You'd better really make sure that you two can work together," Jarrett advised the new president-elect, "because you can't just fire her."

Obama listened to the objections and more or less dismissed them. Sure, he needed to sit with Clinton and get comfortable. Sure, the Bill problem needed to be dealt with. But Obama shared none of his brain trust's lingering animus over the campaign. It was time to saddle up and get down to governing-and he saw Clinton as an invaluable a.s.set. He told his quailing advisers to keep their eyes on the prize. More than once he calmly rea.s.sured Jarrett, "She's going to be really good at this job."

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, on November 13, Hillary met with Obama in his transition office in Chicago. She had some theories about why she was there, but being offered secretary of state was not among them. Two nights earlier, over dinner in New York with her and Bill, Terry McAuliffe had asked about the rumors swirling in Democratic circles that the gig might be tossed her way. It's the craziest thing I've ever heard, Hillary replied.

Not that she thought a job offer was out of the question. But she expected it to be a token unity gesture, something both sides knew she would almost certainly turn down-maybe Health and Human Services. When the chatter about State picked up, she a.s.sumed that the Obamans were floating it and was suspicious about their motives. Why are they putting my name out? she asked her friends. How does it help them? What game are they playing?

But now here she was, sitting alone with her former nemesis, and Obama was talking about the job in earnest. You're head and shoulders above anyone else I'm considering, he said. Obama made it clear that they would have to come to terms regarding Bill's foundation and library-funding, as well as his money-making ventures. He explained how he envisioned their relationship if she took the post: one president, one secretary of state, no overlap. He didn't formally offer her the job, but he left no doubt that she was his choice.

Obama knew that Clinton would be reluctant, that he'd have to do some wooing. But at the same time he was selling, he was also evaluating. Do we click? Will she respect the fact that I'm the president? Can she work for me? Do we click? Will she respect the fact that I'm the president? Can she work for me? By the time the meeting was over, all those questions had been answered to his satisfaction. The conversation confirmed his instincts. He was surer than ever that he wanted Clinton, and he would do what it took to get her. By the time the meeting was over, all those questions had been answered to his satisfaction. The conversation confirmed his instincts. He was surer than ever that he wanted Clinton, and he would do what it took to get her.

Hillary's head when she flew out of Chicago was in a different place. I'm not taking this job I'm not taking this job, she thought. And I'm not going to let anyone talk me into it-anyone. And I'm not going to let anyone talk me into it-anyone. But she also remembered a formulation that James Carville was fond of: "Once you're asked, you're f.u.c.ked." But she also remembered a formulation that James Carville was fond of: "Once you're asked, you're f.u.c.ked."

That was precisely how Hillary felt for the next few days. She had less than zero interest in working for Obama-for doing anything other than going back to the Senate, licking her wounds, and putting her energies into paying down her multimillion-dollar debt. She was looking forward to reclaiming some semblance of the life she'd had before the campaign. Going to the theater. Dining out. Spending time with Chelsea. She was sixty-one years old and staring down the likelihood that she would never be president. And she was tired-oh, so tired.

The pressure on her to take the job was enormous, though, and all the more so because the whole drama was playing out in public. Hillary had flown commercial from New York to Chicago and been spotted on the plane. Then the press pool saw her three-SUV motorcade pulling out from the garage of the Kluczynski Building. Everyone Hillary encountered had an opinion-or, rather, they all had the same opinion, which was that she should accept. Being America's amba.s.sador to the world at a hinge-of-history moment was a job commensurate with Clinton's skills, they argued. Biden was on the phone with her making that case persistently; so was Podesta.

Emanuel took a more aggressive tack. He told her she'd be making a big mistake if she turned it down. That a refusal would wound Obama before he even took office. That she had to play ball for her own sake as well as the party's. The conversations occasionally got heated. Voices were raised. Phones were slammed.

There were other reasons for Clinton to say yes. The Senate wasn't proving as welcoming as she'd hoped, not by a long shot. She had come back thinking that her campaign had enhanced her status, that she could snag for herself some kind of plum position-a subcommittee chairmanship, a specially created health care panel, something. But Kennedy shot her down on health care, and Reid sidestepped her other requests. (Behind the scenes, he and Schumer were beseeching the Obamans to take Hillary off their hands.) The conspiratorial whisperers in the Senate were no longer whispering. They were telling her not to get ahead of herself, to take a seat, take a number.

There was the Bill Factor, that unremitting source of speculation far and wide. The conventional wisdom held that the former president would be the death knell of the Madame Secretary scenario. Would he open the books and reveal the donors to the William J. Clinton Foundation and the Clinton Global Initiative? He'd always fought that tooth and nail. Would he accept restrictions on his travel, his speaking, his business activities? Please.