The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

The door opened. Mrs. Julia Darby stood there in her bathrobe. Another woman, also in her bathrobe, stood beside her. To their side stood a man of obvious Asian extraction. The unknown woman in the bathrobe held a cell phone to her face and there was a flash.

Mason Andrews thought: I’ll be

goddamned! She just took our picture.

“Hello, Tom,” Mrs. Darby said. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. We gave at the office.”

Andrews stared at her. What did she say?

“Mrs. Darby,” McGuire said, holding out his credentials for her to see, “this is Secret Service Agent Foster, and this is Mr. Mason Andrews, the assistant secretary of Homeland Security.”

“Hello, I’m Julia Darby.”

“May we come in?” Mason Andrews asked.

“I don’t think so,” the Asian man said. “The introduction of Mr. McGuire’s credentials implies this is somehow official business of the Secret Service. The Third Circuit Court of Appeals has held that granting law enforcement officials access to a residence constitutes a waiver by the home owner of his or her rights against unlawful search and seizure. We do not wish to waive those rights.”

Mason Andrews thought: Who the fuck is this guy?

He demanded: “Who are you?”

“My name is David W. Yung, Jr. I am Mrs. Darby’s attorney.”

“And you’re refusing to let us in?”

“That is correct,” Two-Gun Yung said. “Unless you have a search warrant, I am on behalf of my client denying you access to these premises.”

“We’re the Secret Service!” Special Agent Foster announced.

“So Mr. McGuire has said,” Two-Gun said. “We are now going to close the door, as all the cold is getting in the house.”

“We’ll be back with a search warrant!” Assistant Secretary Andrews announced as the door closed in his face.

“I don’t believe that!” Assistant Secretary Andrews said in the front seat of the Yukon. He mopped at the melting snow on his bald spot with a handkerchief. “Absolutely incredible! We should have just pushed that little Jap out of the way and grabbed Darby.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Secretary, the lawyer was right. Without a search warrant, we have no right to enter those premises,” McGuire said.

“Well, we’ll get a goddamned search warrant! Where does one get a goddamned search warrant at ...” He looked at his watch. “Quarter after seven in the morning?”

“That may be difficult, Mr. Secretary,” McGuire said. “In order to get a search warrant, you have to convince a judge that you have good and sufficient reason to believe that illegal activity is taking place on a certain premises, or that a fugitive is evading due process of law—in other words, arrest—on said premises.”

“Goddamn it, we know that Darby is in there! We know he entered the country in Miami and flew here, and your own goddamned agents reported they saw him entering that house. What else do we need, for Christ’s sake?”

“Sir, we have no reason to believe that any activity violating federal law is taking place in the house. And Mr. Darby is not a fugitive; no warrants have been issued for his arrest on any charge.”

“You’re telling me there’s not a goddamned thing we can do? I don’t believe this.”

“Sir, what I hoped would happen when we came here was that Mrs. Darby, or perhaps Mr. Darby himself—we’ve been friends for years—would invite us into the house and we could discuss the location of Colonel Castillo amicably. If you want to, I can have another shot at that.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Other than that, sir, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Just stand there in the door, please, Mr. Secretary,” Two-Gun Yung said ten minutes later.

There were now two photographers inside the house, the woman who had used the photographing capability of her cellular telephone earlier, and a man now holding what looked like a professional-grade video camera.

Andrews stood in the door.