Heyward needed to recover at least some of that money. Because of 9/11, the news division had spent far more than could have been anticipated to deliver wall-to-wall coverage; now Heyward had to find a way to make up for those unexpected costs. In November 2001, two months after the attacks, CBS News had ordered each correspondent to cut one associate producer.

Now, four months later, Heyward was sitting in Hewitt’s office about to propose the most difficult cut of all.

“We need to start planning for the future of 60 Minutes after you leave,” Heyward told Hewitt. “And we need to start that process right now.”

The meeting did not go well. After it was over, Hewitt went to Wallace, Bradley, and other correspondents to tell them that Heyward was trying to fire him. (Heyward denies this but concedes, “He’d pass a lie-detector test; he truly believes it.”) The correspondents were conflicted about the future. They knew Hewitt was getting tired, and there were days they wanted him gone. But at other times, they reminded themselves that he’d created this show, their jobs, everything. They owed him for their huge salaries, their perks, their fame, their clout. He’d said vicious, hurtful things to all of them, but he’d always apologized, and there was no one quicker to credit their achievements or to defend their honor. They knew he would protect their secrets and their jobs and their livelihood for as long as humanly possible. Most of all, however, they didn’t like the idea of management—“the folks across the road,” as Safer referred to them—telling them what to do. Heyward and the correspondents agreed on this much: Hewitt couldn’t care less about an orderly transition and would probably be just as happy if 60 Minutes died the same day he did.

The oldest and most complicated relationship was between Hewitt and Wallace. After 35 years, it still defied explanation even by most of those who knew them well. One theory had it that Hewitt had always wanted to be Wallace’s friend and was chagrined by Wallace’s ongoing, tacit refusal. Another popular notion was that each one believed he was more responsible for the success of 60 Minutes than the other—and resented the other’s claims of credit. Others speculated that Hewitt and Wallace were competing to outlast each other at 60 Minutes, a battle to the finish line based on health and longevity. Certainly, they loved to point out each other’s medical infirmities. Wallace never lost that competitive streak and used it as a weapon against Hewitt whenever he felt like it. They had become, in the common parlance of those who worked at 60 Minutes, the quintessential “grumpy old men”—two elderly neighbors who seemed to thrive on endless battles and arguments and misunderstandings.

One night that winter in his office, Wallace was asked how he and Hewitt were getting along these days.

“I said to Don, ‘You have it all. You have all the money in the world. You have all the reputation in the world. Don’t get angry,’ ” Mike Wallace said. “For Christ’s sake, he’s a major figure in TV history. Isn’t that enough?”

“Better, these last couple of months,” he said. “Finally.”

“We were like brothers,” Wallace continued softly. “We were such good friends for such a long time. I said to Don, ‘You have it all. You have all the money in the world. You have all the reputation in the world. Don’t get angry. If people criticize you, the criticisms are like this’ ”—Wallace holds his hands close together—“ ‘and the accomplishments are like this’ ”—his hands spread wide apart. Wallace looks as though he’s about to cry. “For Christ’s sake,” Wallace says, “he’s a major figure in TV history. Isn’t that enough?”

A few weeks later, in early January, Andrew Heyward took Don Hewitt to lunch at Gabriel’s, a neighborhood favorite for CBS honchos, and told him, in amicable but definite terms, that the time had come for him to leave 60 Minutes.

It was clear to everyone, including the correspondents, that the time had come for change. And to most 60 Minutes insiders, the notion of Jeff Fager’s coming in as their new executive producer was not nearly so dangerous or destructive as Hewitt had tried to make it seem.

A year had passed since Heyward first suggested that Hewitt step aside. Scheffler had eventually agreed to retire a year later, in June 2003: That meant it was time for Hewitt to formally sign a new contract as well, spelling out the precise terms and timetable for his departure. After years of reluctance to do battle with an acknowledged giant of the TV news business, Heyward knew he must now act and accept the consequences, which would no doubt be acrimonious and ugly.

Heyward had made Hewitt a final offer: He could remain at CBS News as a well-paid consultant, but only if he agreed to cede total control of 60 Minutes to Fager at the end of the 2003–4 season. From CBS’s point of view, it was a generous arrangement; having pushed back the Scheffler retirement, the network was also giving Hewitt an extra year to make his exit. That extension also benefited CBS, in that it allowed Phil Scheffler’s successor, Josh Howard, a full year as Hewitt’s No. 2 man before his likely appointment to succeed Fager as executive producer of 60 Minutes II.

Unlike all the previous negotiations, however, this one offered no room for equivocation, no possibility for Hewitt to wangle another year at the helm of the show. The days of delicate maneuvering were over. A high-level 60 Minutes insider said he believed Heyward had threatened Hewitt with dismissal unless he agreed to CBS’s terms. In a matter of days, the tough postures were set aside: The deal was done. Hewitt would officially leave 60 Minutes in June 2004 and remain at CBS with the title of executive producer, CBS News, for ten years—at which point he’d be 90. His new contract (including an estimated $1 million salary) would retain all the perks of his current job, including health insurance, car service, and a liberal expense account.

After Heyward and Hewitt left Gabriel’s, they walked back to CBS together. Along the way, Hewitt told Heyward an amusing anecdote about Henry Kissinger and Walter Isaacson, Kissinger’s biographer and former head of CNN.

“Isaacson got a phone call from Dr. Kissinger’s assistant saying that he’d like him to come to Thanksgiving at his apartment,” Hewitt said. “Isaacson was kind of amazed. He said, ‘Let me talk to my wife.’ He was very flattered. Meanwhile, Kissinger comes back from lunch. The secretary tells him that Isaacson would be getting back to them about Thanksgiving. ‘I didn’t say Isaacson!’ Kissinger said. ‘I said Isaac Stern!’ ” The two chortled over that all the way back to the office, almost as though they hadn’t just battled over Hewitt’s future in a way that did neither of them proud.