There was a cheer from the crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Harry Lantz sat upright so suddenly that Annette’s teeth sank into his penis. “Jesus Christ!” Lantz screamed. “I’ve already been circumcised! What the fuck are you trying to do?”
“What did you move for, hon?”
Lantz did not hear her. His eyes were glued to the television set.
“One of our first official acts,” the President was saying, “will be to send an ambassador to Romania. And that is merely the beginning…”
In Bucharest, it was evening. The winter weather had turned unexpectedly mild and the streets of the late marketplaces were crowded with citizens lined up to shop in the unseasonably warm weather.
Romanian President Alexandras Ionescu sat in his office in Peles, the old palace, on Calea Victoriei, surrounded by half a dozen aides, listening to the broadcast on a shortwave radio.
“…I have no intention of stopping there,” the American President was saying. “Albania broke off all diplomatic relations with the United States in 1946. I intend to reestablish those ties. In addition, I intend to strengthen our diplomatic relations with Bulgaria, with Czechoslovakia, and with East Germany.”
Over the radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.
“Sending our ambassador to Romania is the beginning of a worldwide people-to-people movement. Let us never forget that all mankind shares a common origin, common problems, and a common ultimate fate. Let us remember that the problems we share are greater than the problems that divide us, and that what divides us is of our own making.”
In a heavily guarded villa in Neuilly, a suburb of Paris, the Romanian revolutionary leader, Marin Groza, was watching the President on Chaine 2 Television.
“…I promise you now that I will do my best, and that I will seek out the best in others.”
The applause lasted fully five minutes.
Marin Groza said, thoughtfully, “I think our time has come, Lev. He really means it.”
Lev Pasternak, his security chief, replied, “Won’t this help Ionescu?”
Marin Groza shook his head. “Ionescu is a tyrant, so in the end, nothing will help him. But I must be very careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow Ceau§escu. I must not fail again.”
Pete Connors was not drunk—not as drunk as he intended to get. He had finished almost a fifth of Scotch, when Nancy, the secretary he lived with, said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Pete?” He smiled and slapped her.
“Our President’s talkin’. You gotta show some respect.” He turned to look at the image on the television set. “You communist son of a bitch,” he yelled at the screen. “This is my country, and the CIA’s not gonna let you give it away. We’re gonna stop you, Charlie. You can bet your ass on it.”
2
Paul Ellison said, “I’m going to need a lot of help from you, old friend.”
“You’ll get it,” Stanton Rogers replied quietly.
They were seated in the Oval Office, the President at his desk with the American flag behind him. It was their first meeting together in this office, and President Ellison was uncomfortable.
If Stanton hadn’t made that one mistake, Paul Ellison thought, he would be sitting at this desk instead of me.
As though reading his mind, Stanton Rogers said, “I have a confession to make. The day you were nominated for the presidency, I was as jealous as hell, Paul. It was my dream, and you were living it. But do you know something? I finally came to realize that if I couldn’t sit in that chair, there was no one else in the world I would want to sit there but you. That chair suits you.”
Paul Ellison smiled at his friend and said, “To tell you the truth, Stan, this room scares the hell out of me. I feel the ghosts of Washington and Lincoln and Jefferson.”
“We’ve also had Presidents who—”
“I know. But it’s the great ones we have to try to live up to.”
He pressed the button on his desk, and seconds later a white-jacketed steward came into the room.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
Paul Ellison turned to Rogers. “Coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
“Want anything with it?”