By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“I’d rather you stayed,” Netty said.

Frau Erika nodded.

“Netty,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m going to try to impose on your friendship, and your husband’s friendship, in dealing with a matter of some delicacy.”

“I can’t imagine you imposing,” Netty said.

Oh yes I can.

“And I’m sure my husband,” Netty continued, “would be honored to try to do whatever you asked of him.”

“Thank you,” Erika said. “A little over twelve years ago, it was on February thirteenth, a child, a boy, was born out of wedlock to an eighteen-year-old girl.”

“That’s always sad,” Netty said.

Five-to-one Daddy’s an American.

“The father was an American,” Erika said. “A helicopter pilot.”

No fooling? How many thousands of times has some GI knocked up a German girl and promptly said, “Auf wiedersehn! ”

Pastor Dannberg slid an envelope across the table to Netty.

“That’s the boy,” he said. “He’s a fine young man. Very bright.”

Netty opened the envelope and took out a photograph of a skinny blond boy of, she guessed, about twelve.

Hell, she said, “. . . over twelve years ago.”

The boy was wearing short pants, knee-high white stockings, a blue jacket with an insignia embroidered on the breast pocket, a white shirt and tie, and a cap, sort of a short-brimmed baseball cap with red-colored seams and the same insignia.

That’s the uniform of Saint Johan’s School, as I damn well know, for all the marks I spent sending two of mine there.

Okay. So this poor kid—not poor, unfortunate: Saint Johan ’s is anything but cheap—is in Saint Johan’s. Which explains why Pastor Dannberg is involved.

“Handsome child,” Netty said and slid the photograph to Elaine.

“Beautiful child,” Elaine said.

“It has become necessary for the mother to get in contact with the boy’s father,” Erika said.

“A question of child support?” Netty said. “I’m sure my husband will do whatever he can . . .”

“No. Not of child support.”

“The father’s been supporting the boy?”

I’ll be damned. A horny sonofabitch who’s met his obligations.

“I don’t think . . . I know . . . he doesn’t know the boy exists, ” Erika said. “No effort was ever made to contact him.”

My God, why not?

“May I ask why now?” Netty said.

“The boy’s mother is very ill,” Erika said. “And there is no other family.”

“Oh, how sad!” Netty said.