By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“You took action based on faulty intelligence someone gave you, action that I had to correct.”

“I don’t think I follow you, Mr. President. What action did I take?”

“You relieved for cause your station chief in Luanda, the causes including a serious breach of security, exceeding his authority, and . . . Jesus Christ . . . conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. What the hell was that? Making sure the spikes held him to the cross?”

“Obviously, sir, you’re making reference to Major Miller.”

“Yes, I am.”

“My information came from his immediate supervisor, sir.”

“Well, giving any kind of classified information to my personal representative doesn’t constitute a breach of security of any kind,” the president said.

“No, sir. Of course not. I was apparently misled.”

“Yeah, you were. Miller didn’t make a pass at that woman; she made a pass at my man.”

“If those are the facts, sir, I will . . .”

“Those are the facts,” the president interrupted.

“. . . take immediate steps to rectify the situation.”

“So far as Major Miller is concerned, that won’t be necessary, ” the president said. “I’ve done that myself. And as far as rectifying the rest of it, I’ve always found it useful to be able to trust the people who work for me.”

The president locked eyes with Powell for a moment. “Would you ask the others to come in now, please?” he said.

[FIVE]

West Seltzer and West Somerset Streets Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1925 9 June 2005

Castillo could see much better out of the deeply tinted windows of the five-year-old, battered and rusty BMW sedan Betty Schneider had selected from the cars lined up in the Internal Affairs Division garage than he thought he would be able to.

“Nice neighborhood,” he said, looking at litter-strewn streets and sidewalks and the run-down brick row houses, many of them with concrete blocks filling their windows.

Betty had told him she had used the car before but didn’t think anyone had made it.

“It was a forfeiture,” Betty said. “But from a customer, not a dealer. It looks like something a less than successful dealer would drive, but no dealer is going to make it. Or, so far, none has.”

“What’s the drill?” Dick Miller asked.

He was in the backseat, now dressed in a torn and soiled light blue jumpsuit, a light zipper jacket, and a well-worn pair of white Adidas shoes. He had the general officer’s model pistol in the side pocket of the jacket; he would have to keep his hand in the pocket to conceal the outline of the pistol, but there was no other place to put it. His cellular telephone was in the chest pocket of the coveralls.

“We’ll loop through here again,” Betty said. “This time, when we’re at the corner I’ll stop and you get out. Quickly, and don’t slam the door. The turn-the-interior-lights-on thingamajib in the door has been disabled. When you’re out, walk quickly away in the opposite direction. Go to the corner, stop, look around, then walk slowly back toward the corner and either lean against one of the buildings or sit on one of the stoops. Our guy is supposed to be in one of the buildings. He’ll wait to see if you attract any attention.”

“Has he got a name?”

“He knows your name is Miller and he has a description. Let him make the approach. You don’t talk to anybody. Okay?”

“Got it. Then what happens?”

“You go where he takes you; more than likely, into one of the bricked-up buildings. You tell him what you want and he may

or may not be able to help you. When you’re finished, you call. He’ll show you how to get back on West Seltzer and then go on his way. You go back to the stoop, or leaning on the wall, and when I come by you get in. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“If something goes wrong, there’s an unmarked Counterterrorism car somewhere around here and a Highway supervisor —actually, my brother—in the area, probably parked near the North Philadelphia Station. Either or both can be here in a minute or so. But the real name of the exercise is not blowing the cover of our guy. Understood?”