By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“That’s not nearly as offensive in mixed company as ‘fucking,’ is it?” Kramer asked, innocently.

“And what did you tell the fing FBI?” Castillo asked, smiling.

“The fing truth. I didn’t have a fing thing on Lease-Aire, Inc.”

The four men were now smiling at one another.

“But maybe you should go out and have a talk with them. I’ll send one of my people with you,” Kramer said.

“Makes sense,” Miller said. “Thank you.”

“Who’s that young woman?” Castillo asked.

O’Brien and Miller followed the nod of his head.

A good-looking young woman in a skirt and sweater, which almost, but not entirely, concealed the Glock semiautomatic she wore in the small of her back, was bent over the second drawer of a filing cabinet.

“Why do you want to know?” Kramer inquired.

“I think I met her last night,” Castillo said.

He saw the look on Miller’s face, which said, Jesus Christ, Charley. We lucked out and got to play the Special Forces card with this guy and now you and your constant hard-on are going to fuck it up big-time!

“It’s no

t what you think, Dick,” Castillo said, the response to which was another facial distortion that meant, Oh, bullshit!

“Schneider!” Kramer boomed. “Get in here, please!”

The brunette walked to the office door, her face registering mild surprise at seeing Castillo, and stopped.

“Inside, Sergeant,” Kramer ordered, “and close the door.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and complied.

“I understand you’ve seen this guy before,” Kramer said. “But somehow I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced. Sergeant Betty Schneider, this is Supervisory Special Agent Castillo, of the Secret Service. Sergeant Schneider works for Captain O’Brien.”

“He told me he was in the food-catering business for oil well rigs, or whatever they call them.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I was waiting for my boyfriend,” she said.

“Tell him what you were really doing. He has the commissioner ’s personal blessing, and, more important, mine.”

“Tony Frisco and Cats Cazzaro were having a sandwich at the Warwick bar with two characters from the Coney Island Mafia . . .”

“That’s the Russian mob, Mr. Castillo. Really nice folks,” O’Brien explained.

“The table was wired. They were giving me the eye, so I made a play for . . . this gentleman.”

"Get anything?” O’Brien asked.

She shook her head.

“You think they made you?” he asked.

She shook her head again.