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Slack.com slash DHQ. I think that the holidays feel like frozen noses. I love walking with

the dog for long periods of time, hopefully it's snowing, and you've got to wrap up warm.

So I think a frozen nose is a sweaty armpit because your wrap top is so warm but then

you're climbing hamps and heath and you get to the top and you're like, oh, and then

you can see the breath, but then your nose is still freezing to top.

Join in every sip with red carp's now back at Starbucks.

It's June the 17th, 1972, just after midnight.

The Howard Johnson Motel in Washington, DC lies in darkness. A weather warning has been

issued for the entire eastern seaboard, so the streets are deserted. But Hurricane Agnes

is not the biggest storm that is brewing tonight. A man called Alfred Baldwin sits in a motel

room on the 7th floor. The air feels muggy and charged. His window has a clear view of

an office block known as the Watergate Complex. Baldwin is a spotter, a lookout for a criminal

gang. But at this moment, he's not looking out.

While 20 is showing one of Baldwin's favorite horror movies, Attack of the Puppet People,

he puts down his two-way radio to turn up the volume and grab a soda. Across the street,

inside the Watergate building, another man is doing his job rather more diligently. Frank

Will's, a security guard, is patrolling the vacant corridors. Frank takes the stairwell

...