“I went there,” Castillo said. “But we can’t check it out until I get the names. What about their photos? Do you still have them?”
“I had one of my guys go through the files. He brought them over here.”
“But no names?”
For an answer, Kramer shook his head and slid a manila folder across his desk—actually, that of the captain commanding the Homicide Bureau—to Castillo. It was labeled, using what looked like a broad-tipped Magic Marker, UNKNOWN MULLAHS 1 & 2.
There were perhaps twenty eight-by-ten-inch color photographs in the folder. Some showed the men, wearing robes and loose black hats—the sort of floppy berets favored by mullahs—but with creased trousers and wingtip shoes peeking out the bottoms of the robes, entering and coming out of a building Castillo presumed was the mosque where Britton was working undercover.
They had intelligent faces, and in several photographs— some of those in the folder were blowups of their faces— they were smiling.
Are these the guys?
How the hell can anybody calmly plan to fly an airplane into the ground?
He looked at Chief Inspector Kramer.
“We need their names,” he said.
“Well, the FBI must have them. If I call down there, the duty officer’ll stall me, and we can’t tell him why we want them. Or can we?”
“Can I have the number?” Castillo said. “I’ll give it a shot. If that doesn’t work, I’ll think of something else.”
“FBI.”
“Are you the duty officer?”
“Who is this, please?”
“My name is Castillo. I’m with the Secret Service. Are you the duty officer?”
“I’ll need more than that, Mr. Castillo.”
“Okay. Write it down. Castillo, I spell: Charley-Alpha-Sierra -Tango-India, Lima-Lima-Oscar. Initials: Charley-Golf. Supervisory Special Agent. Assignment, Secret Service, Washington. Verification telephone number . . .”
As he gave the number, he sensed Betty’s eyes on him and when he met her eyes she looked away.
“. . . I’ll hold while you verify,” Charley finished.
That took four minutes, during which time Sergeant Betty Schneider looked at everything in the room but C. G. Castillo.
“How may I help you, Agent Castillo?”
“On or about twelve December 2004, Chief Inspector Kramer of the Philadelphia PD Counterterrorism Bureau gave you some surveillance photographs he had made of two Muslim mullahs he considered suspicious. You ran them, identified the men, and told Chief Kramer they were okay. Somehow, Chief Kramer didn’t get the names you came up with when you made these people. He and I need them, and right now.”
“That would come under ‘Counterterrorism,’ I suppose. If we ran these people, I’m sure their names are in the file.”
“Can you get them for me, please?”
“What I’ll do is make a record of this telecon and I’ll put it on the chief of counterterrorism’s desk so he’ll see it first thing when he comes in in the morning.”
“I need these names now, not in the morning. If you can’t get into the files, how about calling this guy up and having him come in?”
“Well, I suppose I could do that, but I’m not sure if he’d be willing . . .”
“Call him,” Castillo interrupted. “Please. I’ll hold.”
“Agent Castillo? You still there?”