He sat up—conscious of the dawn sunlight coming into the bedroom, the sky beyond the window cloudless and blue and unspoiled—and picked up the receiver, fumbling it in his sleepiness. He expected to hear his mother. She was given to the eccentric habit of making calls at odd hours from wherever she might be; an addicted traveler, she had called in her time from Tokyo, Edinburgh, Munich, unaware of the subtleties of chronological differences. But it was not his mother. “You better get in here,” Farrago said. “Jesus,” Thorne said. “What time is it?” “Six on the morning of the sixth,” Farrago said. “Did I interrupt you at your … activities?” “What’s going on?” Thorne said. “Bannerman wants you to come in. Like now.” Thorne watched Marcia. The telephone had not wakened her. She slept deeply, her mouth slightly open, her breathing regular. “Now?” Thorne said. “This is the White House,” Farrago said. “The White House never sleeps. Didn’t you know that?”
