By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“Yes, please.”

“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the Highway Patrol officer said as the car started down North Broad Street.

[SIX]

The very large Highway Patrol officer—Castillo saw for the first time he was a sergeant—was leaning against the car when Charley came out of the Warwick with his luggage.

He took the suitcase from Charley, opened the rear door, tossed the suitcase in the trunk, waited for Charley to get in, then closed the door.

The Warwick’s doorman was obviously wondering what was going on.

They were five or six blocks down South Broad Street, stopped at a light, when the officer’s cellular telephone rang.

“Hold on, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said and turned on the seat. “It’s for you, but the phone won’t go through the barrier.”

The car pulled to the curb, the sergeant got out, opened the rear door, and handed the phone to Castillo.

“Hello?”

“This is Tom Schneider.”

“I think we’ve met before,” Charley said. “I really appreciate the . . .”

“Yeah. So what are you, DEA or something?”

“Or something.”

“Well, listen good, Mr. DEA hotshot. I saw what you was doing with my sister in her car.”

“I don’t really know how to respond to that,” Charley said. “It was . . .”

“Don’t respond. Just listen. You fuck around with my sister again, I’ll break both of your legs. You understand me?”

“I hear you loud and clear, Lieutenant.”

“See if you can not come back to Philadelphia,” Lieutenant Schneider said and broke the connection.

Charley handed the cellular back to the sergeant, who had apparently been able to hear the conversation because he said, “He means it. You better pay attention.”

Then he closed the door, got back in the front seat, and the car moved into the traffic flowing down South Broad Street.

“Which airline?” the Highway Patrol sergeant said as they approached Philadelphia International Airport.

That subject had not previously been considered by Major C. G. Castillo, whose mind had, all the way down South Broad Street, been occupied with the memory of Betty Schneider’s eyes—and then her lips—on his, and the multiple ramifications thereunto pertaining.

“Not an airline,” he said. “They sent a plane for me.”

“Who ‘they’?”

“The Department of Homeland Security,” Charley said. “It’s a Secret Service airplane.”

“No shit?”

“Is there a general aviation terminal?” Charley asked. “Or something like that?”

“Beats the shit out of me,” the Highway sergeant confessed. “Let me see if I can find one of the airport guys. They got sort of a district out here.”

Halfway down the line of departing passenger gates of the various airlines, the Highway officer driving the car spotted a policeman wearing a white-brimmed cap, and blew his horn to attract his attention. When that didn’t work, he made the siren growl for a moment, which produced the desired effect. The airport detail officer trotted over to the car, to the fascination of thirty or more departing passengers.