"Nick Pollotta - Bureau 13 - Damned Nation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pollotta Nick)

of the sergeant was legendary. With just a stern glare, the big Irishman had once made a mule burst into
tears.Scary stuff .
 Raising the tray high, Joshua maneuvered past a colossal packing crate with labels from France. This
collection of boxes was just the most recent purchases for Mrs. Lincoln's planned renovations of the
Executive Mansion. President Buchanan had been a fine man, but a total slob, and the mansion had been
an absolute pigsty when the Lincolns moved in. Incredibly, the new First Lady had gotten Congress to
loosen its purse strings and grant her thirty-thousand dollars to repair, rebuild, and redecorate the
Presidential abode. To anybody with even the slightest dollop of political savvy, that was a miracle equal
to the parting the Red Sea, and Mrs. Lincoln had wisely moved fast on the repairs before Congress had
gotten sober and rescinded their outrageously generous offer.

Every day another crate arrived with more furniture, curtains, or fixtures; a chandelier from Paris,
dinnerware from New York, rugs from Madrid, or crystal from Moscow. Wherever that was located.
But even more importantly, an invading army of carpenters had done a splendid job repairing the creaky
old mansion. The windows could now be opened without resorting to the use of a crowbar, the banister
on the main stairs no longer threatened to collapse, and everybody was delighted that the furnace was
working again. Sans the usual тАШblack fogтАЩ of escaping coal soot.

Sidestepping a sideboard from Sweden, Joshua grimly reminded himself that there was still the problem
of the basement rats that needed attending to. There were several rooms below that the maids steadfastly
refused to enter without pitchfork and burning torch. On his first day, Joshua had declared war on the
indigenous rodent population. But the rats seemed to thrive on the arsenic-laced cheese he put in the
traps. Only hot lead stopped the little monsters, and while Joshua was slowly becoming rather a good
shot, the home of the President of the United States was as divided as the nation itself, with humans ruling
the upper floors, but the Potomac River rats the uncontested masters of the dank basement.

Softly, the distant cannonfire continued to thump in the background, the beat quickening.

Spotting a tilted picture on the wall, Joshua scowled and placed the serving tray on top of a packing
crate from Luxembourg. Whatever the box might contain, the butler was positive that it could not
possibly be as useful as a bloodthirsty farm cat. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lincoln did not want any animals in
the mansion out of a fear that they might scratch the new furniture.Pennywise, pound foolish .

"There you go, sir,тАЭ Joshua said politely, leveling the frame. тАЬAll better."

In the flickering light of the ceiling lanterns, the unfinished portrait of George Washington seemed to wink
in reply. The butler chuckled as he took up the tray once more. Amazing how a man could imagine such
things late at night.

Traversing one last barricade of crates and barrels, Joshua slowly approached The Shop, the private
office of the president. Angry voices could be heard through the closed door.Oh dear, what was wrong
now?

"Poisoned bullets?тАЭ a deep voice growled, footsteps pounding along the floor. тАЬWhat does that madman
Lee think he's doing?"

A gruff voice replied, тАЬBah! What could we expect from rebel scum?"

"By God, that's inhuman!тАЭ President Lincoln sputtered furiously. тАЬAre our spies sure about this?"