By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Waters picked up o

ne of the telephones on Powell’s desk.

“Get me the American embassy in . . . Jesus, what the hell’s the capital of Suriname?”

“Paramaribo,” Powell furnished in a quiet voice, suggesting to Mrs. Leonard that he was about to lose his temper.

“Paramaribo,” Waters told the operator. “Put the call in to the ambassador—

“All right, the consul general. But I’ll talk to anybody. I’ll hold.”

He looked at Powell.

“No embassy. Consulate general.”

Powell nodded but said nothing.

Thirty seconds later, Waters ended the call with a stab of his finger to the switch hook and quoted, furiously, “ ‘Good morning, this is the consulate general of the United States. Our office hours are, . . .’ Goddammit!”

He slammed the handset into its cradle and picked up another and punched several keys.

“This is Waters,” he said. “We have a man in Paramaribo, Suriname. I don’t know his name. I need his home phone number. And while you’re at it, get me the home phone of the consul general—I don’t know his name, either. I’ll hold. But I’m in the DCI’s office if we get cut off.”

Mrs. Leonard looked at DCI Powell. He was looking at the satellite imagery.

“Ground fog!” he said, very softly. “Fucking ground fog!”

“Mr. Peterson,” Waters said, two minutes and thirty seconds later. “My name is J. Stanley Waters. You know who I am?—

“If I told you I was calling from Langley, Virginia, would that give you a clue?—

“Yeah, that J. Stanley Waters. Now listen carefully. Just as soon as you hang up the phone, I want you to get out to Zandery airfield and get me the numbers, the registration numbers, of any Boeing 727 you see sitting out there—

“It’s an airliner, three engines, one of them in the vertical stabilizer—the big fin in the back. I’m sure you’ve seen one of them. Now, don’t take pictures, just get the numbers, write them down, go back to the consulate general—do you have satburst capability?—

“Then get on the telephone and call Langley. Ask for me or Mrs. Mary Leonard. The switchboard will be expecting your call. Got it?—

“Good. Now, how long do you think that’s going to take you?—

“Why the hell should it take two hours?—

“Then break the goddamned speed limit! You’ve got diplomatic immunity! Jesus H. Christ! Get your ass out to the airport and get those goddamned numbers and get them now!”

He slammed the handset in its cradle.

“The airport is thirty-five miles from Paramaribo,” Waters said. “And there’s a strictly enforced thirty-five-mile-per -hour speed limit.”

“Mr. Director,” Mrs. Mary Leonard said, “why don’t you go with Mr. Jartmann and see if they can’t do something to further enhance the photos we have? Or maybe there will be some others they can work on.”

The DCI looked at her and said, very softly, “I think that’s probably a very good idea, Mrs. Leonard.”

He stood up and walked deliberately to the private door of his office and went through it. Jartmann followed him.

“I’ll deal with the switchboard,” Mrs. Leonard said to Mr. Waters.

“What that dumb sonofabitch is likely to do is take his camera with him—just to be sure—and get himself arrested for photographing a Suriname military installation. I’m sure they’re concerned with terrorists in Suriname.”

“He’ll get you the registration numbers, Stan,” Mrs. Leonard said with a conviction she didn’t at all feel.