A Clear and Present Danger by Buck Sanders Read Free Book Online Page B

joke.
    “I don’t know,” Posten finally said, drying his eyes.
    “Find it.” Slayton’s tone was firm, even commanding.
    “Just a minute—”
    “Find it,” Slayton repeated.
    Posten was about to draw himself up to full height, which was some three inches more than Slayton, but knew it was a ridiculous
     gesture. Clearly, Slayton was correct to express concern. This was no time for pulling rank, no time for taking umbrage at
     the sound of a man’s voice.
    “Come on,” Posten said. Slayton followed the supervising agent to the main reception desk of the Embassy.
    “Keys to the desk,” Posten told a Secret Service agent stationed near the desk. The agent produced a ring of keys.
    From the center drawer, Posten produced a log book. He thumbed open the list of entries for January 25. Slayton checked his
     wristwatch. He calculated he had fifteen minutes before guests would begin milling about.
    Slayton’s finger ran down the day’s entries. He recognized several of the names. His eye returned to the first name, at the
     top of the list: Edward Folger.
    “This was before opening hours,” Slayton said, noting the 8:15 a.m. time of arrival at the desk. “Why?”
    Posten took a look.
    “Robbery victim,” Posten said. “See?” He pointed to the secretary’s cramped handwriting.
    “Probably slept outside overnight,” Posten explained. “It happens all the time. Kids get in trouble and head here when they
     haven’t got any cash. We get them back home and collect from their parents.”
    Slayton felt a little sick to his stomach. It passed. He had no time to be less than his most efficient.
    “We’ve got to check this one out, sir,” Slayton said.
    “I know,” Posten said.
    Slayton sat down at the receptionist’s desk and picked up the telephone. He dialed the Embassy switchboard.
    “Get me the home telephone of whoever worked at the main receptionist’s desk this morning,” he said to the operator. “And
     put a wiggle on it. This is an emergency.”
    He replaced the telephone and looked up at Posten.
    “Organize a very discreet search,” he said.
    Posten was about to say something like, “Who’s in charge here, anyway?” but thought better of it. Instead, he said, “I’m going
     to make a very quiet search throughout the building. I want you to let me know what you find out from the receptionist.”
    “Right, skipper.”
    The telephone rang. Posten scurried off to attend to his search as Slayton answered.
    “Yes?” A woman’s voice.
    “This is Agent Ben Slayton, Secret Service,” he said. “Your name, please?”
    “Naomi. Naomi Wyatt… why?”
    “You were working at the main receptionist desk in the embassy this morning at about eight o’clock?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you attended to someone named Edward Folger?”
    “Yes. What is it?”
    “Tell me about him.”
    She did as she was told, relating how the young man had been the victim of pickpockets, how he had shown up at the Embassy
     penniless and frightened.
    “How did you handle the problem?” Slayton asked.
    “In the usual way. I telephoned his parents, back in the States, and had them arrange to meet him at an airport near the place
     of residence, which in this case was, as I recall, Kennedy, in New York. Then I—”
    “Is there a record of all this?”
    “In the upper left-hand drawer. It’s a typed form, about eight-by-ten.”
    Slayton tested the keys in the lock of the upper left drawer until he found the proper one and opened it.
    “Okay, Naomi, I’ve found it,” he said. “Right on top.”
    “I told you,” she said testily.
    Slayton ignored the remark. He didn’t care about diplomacy.
    “Thomas Folger of Yonkers, New York. That’s the father’s name?”
    “Right. I remember it now. The telephone number in the States should be right there on the form.”
    Indeed it was.
    “Tell me, Naomi, what happened when you telephoned Yonkers?”
    “Well, it was the middle of the night to them, of course. I