The bad weather that dogged him virtually ever since he left home was there with a vengeance as Dick Nixon climbed into a car in Vienna bound for the refugee camps near the Hungarian border. A thick mist scummed the windshields as the 39-car motorcade rolled eastward under the grey sky toward Andau, a scant kilometer from the border. The mud was ankle-deep along the roadside, and the heavy mist was raw and penetrating. The weather failed to daunt the 300-odd refugees gathered at the camp, and it equally failed to daunt...
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