By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“I thought everyone knew that ‘Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof’ was cast into the bell,” Castillo said, piously. “How many times did you say they kept you behind in the eighth grade?”

Betty smiled and shook her head. Concealing the fingers of his right hand from Betty with the palm of his left hand, Miller gave Castillo the finger.

“I meant that they misspelled Pennsylvania, wiseass,” Miller said. “Only one n.”

Castillo looked.

“So they did,” he said. “I guess they had trouble with eighth grade, too.”

“It also says the ‘Province’ of Pennsylvania,” Betty said. “I never saw that before. I always thought it was called a ‘commonwealth.’ ”

Miller walked around the bell. Castillo looked down the plaza toward Market Street.

“What are you thinking?” Betty asked.

“It’s a beautiful day.”

“It is, but that’s not what you’re thinking,” she said.

“No,” he admitted. “I was thinking that on the tenth of September there were probably fewer than fifty people who considered suicidal lunatics crashing airliners into the World Trade Center was even a remote possibility.”

“And you think an attack here is likely, right?”

“I wish I didn’t,” he said. “And I feel a little guilty doing nothing about it but playing tourist.”

“Until Chief Inspector Kramer runs those names past everybody, including the undercover people, what else can you do?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

Miller came walking quickly back to them.

“Think of something?” Castillo asked.

“My mother,” Miller said. “I promised to call her when I knew if we could come to supper. I’ve got to tell her one way or the other. She really wants to see you, Charley.”

Castillo looked at Betty.

“Do your radios work as far as Bala Cynwyd?”

“Sure,” she replied, “and then we have this cellular phone gadget.”

“Dick, call your mommy and tell her the cops are bringing you home again,” Castillo said.

Betty chuckled and smiled at Castillo.

“Can we?” Miller asked. “What about Kramer?”

“He calls, we go,” Castillo said. “We’re not doing anything useful here.”

“She really wants to see you, Charley,” Miller repeated.

Castillo gestured in the direction of Market Street and they started to walk toward the car.

Castillo looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to four.

1550 here is 2150 in Abéché. Which means it’s dark. I don’t know what the CIA had to do to get satellites over Abéché but they probably couldn’t do it before nightfall, which means they’re having to use infrared and other exotic technology, which obviously hasn’t worked. Secretary Hall would have called to tell me what the CIA reported, one way or the other. Which means we don’t know if that goddamned airplane is—or was—there. And won’t know until daylight, when the satellites can work their photo magic. Which doesn’t always work.

Jesus, getting a call from Hall means my phone has to be working.