The Shooters (Presidential Agent 4)

"May I ask who you are and the nature of your business with Mr. Crawford, sir?"

Castillo handed him the credentials identifying him as a supervisory agent of the United States Secret Service.

The sergeant examined the credentials very carefully.

"And this gentleman, sir?"

"He is Detective Sergeant Mullroney of the Chicago Police Department. Show the sergeant your tin, Sergeant."

Mullroney did so. The sergeant examined the leather folder carefully and then handed it back.

"I guess I can let you gentlemen in as far as Station One, sir," the sergeant said. "I mean to the building, but not inside. I'll call Mr. Crawford from there, sir."

"Thank you."

"But you can't bring that dog into the building, sir."

"Why don't we take Max as far as Station One and then see what Mr. Crawford has to say about that?"

"I don't know, sir…"

"That was more in the nature of an order, Sergeant," Lorimer said, "than a question."

"Yes, sir," the Marine sergeant said.

There was a row of chrome-frame plastic seats in the lobby of the building, and two sand-topped, chrome-can ashtrays despite the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING! signs on two walls.

Mr. Jonathon Crawford, "commercial attache" of the embassy, appeared thirty minutes later. He was a nondescript man in his fifties whose only distinguishing characteristic was his eyes. They were deep and intelligent.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, without any preliminaries.

"If you're Crawford, I do," Castillo said, and handed him the Secret Service credentials.

Crawford examined them and looked at Mullroney.

"Show Mr. Crawford your badge, Charley," Castillo said, then turned back to Crawford. "I think you know Lieutenant Lorimer?"

Crawford examined the credentials and handed them back, but said nothing to-or about-Lorimer.

"This wouldn't have kept until morning? I have guests at my house."

"If it would have kept till morning, I would have come in the morning," Castillo said.

"That your dog?"

Castillo nodded.

"No dogs in the embassy, sorry."

"What do you want me to do, Crawford, call Frank Lammelle-or, for that matter, John Powell-and tell him that you find it impossible to talk to me right now because you have guests and don't like dogs?"

"I don't think I like your attitude, Castillo."

"Well, then we're even, aren't we? I don't like being kept waiting for half an hour while you schmooze your guests and finish your drink. Frank sent you a heads-up that I was coming. You should have been expecting me."

Crawford looked at him a long moment with tight lips.

"Make a note in your log, Sergeant," Crawford ordered, "that-over my objections-Mr. Castillo insisted on bringing his dog into the embassy."