By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“To what do I owe the honor?” he demanded, then, “Hanrahan, you better have fed the kitty.”

“The kitty’s been fed, Inspector,” Captain Hanrahan said.

“Gentlemen, this is Chief Inspector Kramer, who commands the Counterterrorism Bureau,” the commissioner said. “We go back a long way. About the time of Noah’s ark, we were sergeants in Major Crimes. And this is Captain O’Brien, who heads the Organized Crime and Intelligence Unit. This is Supervisory Agent Castillo of the Secret Service and Special Agent Miller.”

Kramer examined Castillo and Miller carefully but didn’t so much as nod his head. O’Brien offered his hand to both.

“Listen carefully, both of you,” the commissioner said. “You are to give them not only whatever they ask for but whatever else—anything—you even suspect they might have use for.”

Captain O’Brien said, “Yes, sir.”

Chief Inspector Kramer said nothing.

“You heard me, Fritz?” the commissioner said. “You understand me?”

Kramer didn’t reply directly.

“You going to tell me what this is all about?” he asked.

“Mr. Castillo will tell you what you have to know. Which will not be all you’d like to know. Understood?”

Kramer nodded, just perceptibly.

“And the fewer people around here who even know they’re here, the better. Understood?”

Kramer nodded again.

“I want you to assign somebody—somebody who knows what’s going on around here—full-time, until this is over. I ordered an unmarked car sent here.”

“I get another car? This must be important,” Kramer said.

“It is, Fritz, believe me. And I don’t want to hear from Mr. Castillo that either one of you is not giving him anything he wants. And I’ve told him to call me the minute he suspects that.”

“Okay. I heard you,” Kramer said.

“We’ll be in touch,” the commissioner said to Castillo and Miller, and then, waving to Hanrahan to follow him, walked out of Kramer’s office.

Chief Inspector Kramer went behind his desk, sat down, leaned back in the chair, and put both hands behind his head.

“Okay, Mr. Castillo, ask away. What does the Secret Service want to know?”

“What I’d like to know,” Miller said, nodding at the John Wayne movie poster, “is who’s the ugly character wearing the blaze of the Tenth Group.”

Kramer’s glower would have cowed a lesser man. Captain O’Brien’s face showed clearly that he understood it was not wise to comment on the poster, or say anything that could possibly be construed as criticism of U.S. Army Special Forces in Kramer’s hearing.

“What do you know about the Tenth Special Forces Group?” Kramer asked, icily.

“He was in the Tenth,” Castillo said. “Then they found out he could read and write and wasn’t queer and sent him to flight school.”

“Two wiseasses?” Kramer asked, but there was the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

“Charley spent too much time in the stockade at Bragg,” Miller said. “His brain got curdled.”

“Delta Force? No shit?” Captain O’Brien asked.

“Delta Force? What’s Delta Force?” Castillo replied.

“The name Reitzell mean anything to you, Mr. Castillo?”