By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Davenport went to it and waited until Stevenson hoisted his parachute and then connected it to him. Then he sat down on the floor and, reaching beside him, placed a bag connected to his harness on the stairs in front of him.

One by one, the others took their places behind him. The next-to-last man connected Stevenson’s parachute to his harness and then got in line. Finally, Stevenson got in the line of jumpers.

“Everybody ready?” Colonel Davenport asked.

Everybody checked in.

“Pilot?” Davenport inquired.

“About two minutes, Colonel.”

“Two minutes,” Davenport responded.

“You ready, Colonel?” the pilot inquired.

“Ready.”

“Fifteen seconds, thirteen, eleven, nine, seven, five, four, three, two, one.”

Colonel Davenport walked awkwardly down the steps and then pushed himself off and into the air. The slipstream caught his body and hurled him away from the airplane.

It would take him five seconds, maybe a little more, until he could gain control of his fall and assume the position— facedown, legs and arms spread—that he would keep until he popped his parachute.

The object was to get out of the deadly cold troposphere before the toaster battery ran out of juice and the Oh-Two flask was empty. Otherwise, you died.

As quickly as they could, the others waddled under the weight of their equipment to the steps and went down them and into the night.

“Everything go all right?” the pilot radioed.

When there was no answer, he repeated the question.

When there was no answer again, he said to the copilot, “Michael, get on the horn and give them, ‘Mail in the box at seventeen-twenty-two.’ ”

Then he reached for the control that would retract the stairs and door into place. When the green lights came on, he tripped the lever that would pressurize the rear cabin.

[FOUR]

Philadelphia International Airport Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1345 9 June 2005

“That’s him,” Mr. Terrence Halloran said, indicating with a nod of his head a guy in a white Jaguar XJ-8 pulling up to the hangar.

“Finally,” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, softly and bitterly. They had been waiting for him since quarter to twelve.

A very large African American in his late thirties got out of the car. Not without difficulty. He was as tall as Miller but at least fifty pounds heavier. Castillo had the unkind thought that this guy didn’t get in the Jaguar; he put it on. He was wearing a green polo shirt, powder blue slacks, alligator loafers, and a gold Rolex, and had gold chains around his neck and both wrists.

“What the hell is so important, Halloran?” he greeted them.

“These people need to talk to you, Ed,” Halloran said. “Mr. Castillo, this is Ed Thorne, who owns Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc.”

“I’m with the Secret Service, Mr. Thorne,” Castillo said and held his Secret Service identification folder out to Thorne.

Thorne examined it and then pointed at Miller and Sergeant Schneider.

“And these two?” he asked.

“I’m Sergeant Schneider of the Philadelphia PD,” Betty said.

“My name is Mill