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The San Cristobal turned her nose and entered the outer roads of the estuary of the Elbe.Sixty miles later she would be guided into Hamburg, Europe's biggest river port.In the pantry, the waitress was by now sitting, her shoulders shaking, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The expression on the face of the majordomo indicated he was not in a forgiving mood.One does not break down in front of the Chief Executive.For his part, the man from Chicago still had to remind himself that he could have anything he liked anytime of the day or night simply by asking for it."Would you raise the director of the DEA, in his home or wherever he is? A query as to private phone number produced ten digits on the screen.They referred to a handsome town house out in Georgetown. At the tenth ring, a bleary voice answered."I have the President for you, sir," she told him.
Then the operator transferred the boss of the federal agency known formally as the Drug Enforcement Administration on the line to the room upstairs. A light would tell her when the men were done and she could disconnect."Sorry to trouble you at this hour," said the President. He was assured the director of the DEA would be in the Oval Office at nine a.m. Senior civil servants, roused personally by their supreme authority at three a.m., have no choice but to think something has gone wrong. The director did not return to sleep but went down to the kitchen to fix juice and coffee and do some serious worrying. On a bleak gray and rain-slashed sea off the north German port of Cuxhaven, the MV San Cristobal took on her pilot.
So although it was his habit to rise early and put himself through rigorous calisthenics to stay in shape, he could not sleep. He had already decided the fifteen-year-old, whoever he was, would not go to a pauper's grave but to a decent burial in a proper churchyard.
But he was intrigued by the cause of death in one so young and hailing from a poor but devotedly respectable household. "I won't be long," he replied, knotted the belt and padded through to the dressing room.
The First Lady gestured to him that he should return to the soup serving.
Then she stooped over the weeping woman, who was dabbing her eyes on the edge of her apron and still apologizing.In response to a couple of gentle questions, waitress Maybelle explained her extraordinary lapse.The police had found the body of her only grandson, the boy she had raised since his father died among the rubble of the Trade Center nine years earlier when the child was six.She made no sound but the tureen in her hands began to tremble.