“May I lay it on the ground, please? The hammer—”
“Take it easy, fellows,” a new voice said with authority.
Britton saw two more Philly policemen, a captain and a sergeant. He had not seen another car drive up, but now noticed there were four police cars on Churchill Lane. The wail of sirens in the distance announced the imminent arrival of others.
“Hello, Jack,” the captain said.
Britton now recognized him. He had been his sergeant, years ago, when Officer Britton was walking a beat in the Thirty-fifth District.
“If I drop this gun, the hammer’s back, and—”
“Holster your weapons,” the captain ordered firmly. “I know him. He’s one of us.”
When the police officers had complied with the order—and not a second before—the captain walked to Britton and squeezed his shoulder in an affectionate gesture that clearly said,
“Jesus, Jack, they shot the car up, didn’t they?”
“It’s not even two months old,” Britton said.
“What the hell happened here, Jack?”
“Sandra and I were at the Rosewood Caterer’s, on Frankford Avenue, at the Northeast Detectives Christmas party. I thought I was being followed—2002, 2003 Chrysler Town and Country, pale green in color. I didn’t get the tag.”
“Tommy,” the captain ordered, “put out a flash on the car. . . .”
“Black males, maybe in Muslim clothing,” Britton furnished, “armed with automatic AKs, last seen heading west on Wessex Lane.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. He grabbed the lapel mike attached to his shirt epaulet, squeezed the PUSH TO TALK button, and began to relay the flash information to Police Radio.
“Kalashnikovs?” the captain asked, shaking his head. “Fully auto ones?”
Britton nodded. “And they got the gas tank.” He pointed.
The captain muttered an obscenity and then turned to the young policemen.
“Put in a call to the fire department—gasoline spill,” he ordered, and then looked at Britton.
“Well, although I thought for a minute they weren’t following me, they were,” Britton said. “They came around the bend”—he pointed—“just as Sandra and I got inside the fence. I tackled her behind the wall and then all hell broke loose. . . .”
“She all right?”
“She’s in the basement. Shook up, sure, but all right.”
“Why don’t you put that horse pistol away, and we’ll go talk to her?”
“Jesus,” Britton said, embarrassed that he hadn’t already lowered the hammer and put the Smith & Wesson in its holster.
The captain issued orders to first check to see if anyone might have been injured in the area, and then to protect the scene, and finally gestured to Britton to precede him into his house.
Sandra had left the cellar and now was in the living room, sprawled on the couch. There was a squat glass dark with whiskey on the coffee table, and she had one just like it in her hand.
“You remember Captain Donnelly, honey?”
“Yeah, sure. Long time. Merry Christmas.”
“You all right, Sandra?” Donnelly said, the genuine concern of an old friend clear in his tone.
“As well—after being tackled by my husband, then having those AALs shoot up our house and our new car— as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“AAL is politically incorrect, Sandra,” Captain Donnelly said, smiling.
“I can say it,” she said, pointing to her skin. “I can say African-American Lunatics. I could even say worse, but I’m a lady and I won’t.”
“Take it easy, honey,” Britton said.
“I thought Jack was finished with them,” Sandra said. “Naive little ol’ me.”
Britton leaned over and picked up the whiskey glass.
“Can I offer you one of these?” he said to Donnelly.
“Of course not. I’m a captain, a district commander, and I’m on duty. But on the other hand, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?”
“I’ll get it,” Sandra said, rising gracefully from the couch. “I moved the bottle to the kitchen knowing I would probably have more than one.”
Donnelly looked at Britton.
“Tough little lady,” he said admiringly.
“Yeah. Those bastards! I understand them wanting to whack me, but . . .”
“Jack, let’s get a few things out of the way.”
“Like what?”
“I heard you left the department, but that’s about all I know. You’re still in law enforcement?”
“I guess you could say that,” Britton said, and took a small leather wallet from his suit jacket and handed it to Donnelly, who opened it, examined it, and handed it back.
“Secret Service, eh?”
“Now, if anyone asks, you can say, ‘The victim identified himself to me by producing the credentials of a Secret Service special agent . . .’ ”
“ ‘... and authorized to carry firearms,’” Donnelly finished the quote. “You guys carry Smith & Wesson .357s?”
“I do.”
“What have they got you doing, Jack?”
“I’m assigned to Homeland Security.”
“That’s what Sandra meant when she said she thought you were through with the AALs?”
Britton nodded, then suddenly realized: “And speaking of Homeland Security, I’m going to have to tell them about this before they see it on Fox News. Excuse me.”
He took his cellular telephone from its holster and punched an autodial number.
[FOUR]
The Consulate of the United States of America
Parkring 12a
Vienna, Austria
2105 24 December 2005
The counselor for consular affairs of the United States embassy in Vienna, Miss Eleanor Dillworth, was aware that many people—including many, perhaps most, American citizens—were less than thrilled with the services the consular section offered, and with the very consular officials who offered them.
An American citizen who required consular service—for example, having pages added to a passport; registering the birth of a child; needing what amounted to notary public services—could acquire such services only from eight to eleven-thirty each morning, Monday through Friday—
Consular officials could not be troubled by being asked about the status of a visa application by anyone— including, for example, but not limited to, an American citizen wondering when his foreign wife was going to get the visa that she not only had applied for but was entitled to under the law.
