The Red President [antikvár]

PROLOGUEJanuary 21, The Day After InaugurationThe President knew it was early, perhaps too early, but he couldn't wait. He had slept as long as possible, the covers holding him intact against the cold, peering out occasionally at the January frost mottling the second-floor windows of the White House.The digital clock alongside his bed in the family quarters read 5:45 a.m. There was no need to wait any longer, to delay as he first had, waking almost every hour during the night, staring at the intricate Federal molding on the ceiling, then moving restlessly about the room, chastising himself for his impatience.He had desjjerately wanted to get to the Oval Office yesterday, but the typed agenda thrust on him had devoured every minute. The inaugural swearing in and the parade, ceremonies in the East Room, then the round of inaugural balls had been satisfying yet peculiarly frustrating. His hands ached to hold a presidential pen, to lift a telephone of authority.By six-forty he was dressed and moving toward the Oval Office. The small private elevator took the President down to the ground floor where two Secret Service men followed discreetly as he walked the connecting corridor toward the Executive West Wing."Good morning, Mr. President."The guard's greeting at the threshold of the office brought a cheery nod from the President, now unable to repress his feelings. He was stirred by the title, democracy's approximation of nobility.It was quiet before the maelstrom he knew would soon 1