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know that desk,” Chris said. “That’s Teddy Roosevelt’s desk.”
    â€œOh, so you know about it,” the chief said. “Good. This is the desk every police commissioner has used since before the turn of the century. Now you sit there.”
    A little hesitantly, Chris walked around the big desk and sat in the leather swivel chair.
    â€œPut your feet up,” the chief said. Chris wondered briefly if he should take off his shoes. “Put your feet up,” Devine repeated.
    Chris pushed back the chair a little and stretched his feet up on the desk. He leaned back in the chair. He grinned.
    â€œOkay, that’s enough,” the chief said. On the way out, he put his arm around Chris. “You’ll never be police commissioner,” he informed him. “But now, when you’re talking to somebody, you can truthfully say, ‘Well, when I was sitting at the commissioner’s desk …’”
    At the Operations counter, separated from the foyer by a glass partition, Chris showed his ID and was given a visitor’s pass. Not even seasoned veterans were allowed to roam freely at the Intelligence Division, with its sensitive offices and sometimes explosive files. He was directed upstairs, to a conference room where the inspector and three other men were sitting at a long, rectangular table.
    â€œSit down, Chris,” the inspector said casually, waving him to the chair opposite him, at the other end of the table. Chris gave a kind of semisalute, to take in all the men, and sat.
    â€œI hear you speak Greek,” the inspector said.
    Chris was startled. “Uh, yeah. Yes, sir. I speak Greek. I mean, I’m Greek.”
    The inspector smiled. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. “Tell us about yourself, Chris,” he said.
    Chris was so taken aback he didn’t know where to begin. You already know all about me, he felt like saying. He was sure the file folders on the table, in front of each man, were his reports, his entire dossier. One man, in fact, was reading something from the file, not even looking at Chris.
    â€œWell, I started in Rockaway,” Chris began. He sketched over his time there, and was talking in a rambling way about cases at the 4-oh when the man who was reading from the folder looked up.
    â€œDo you consider yourself a hero?” he asked, not smiling.
    Oh Jesus, Chris thought; he’s seen that clip. He was stammering for a reply when the chief—Chris knew he was a chief from the stars on his jacket—spoke again. “We don’t want a hero,” he said sternly. “We don’t need a superstar. We just need a good man.”
    â€œWe need you , Chris,” the inspector said. “And here’s why.” He listened intently, with growing amazement, as the inspector explained. They had reason to believe that crime within the Greek community, centered in Queens, was linked with the traditionally Italian-dominated crime network. The mob. The Mafia.
    â€œWe want you to go undercover and find out how the Greek network is structured and what they’re doing with the Italians,” the inspector said. “If anything.”
    â€œWhat would I be doing?” Chris asked.
    â€œYour job would be to gather intelligence,” the inspector said. “The DA wants to know all there is to know about what’s going on among the Greeks, how they’re organizing, what they’re up to. You would go in and find out.”
    â€œWell, but—I’m really happy where I am,” Chris said. “I have a good partner and, well, I just think I’d rather stay put.”
    The inspector smiled. He was a marine captain in the reserves, Chris knew, but he didn’t look tough. He had a round chubby face and a friendly smile.
    â€œYou’ll have carte blanche,” the inspector continued, as though he hadn’t even heard what Chris had said. “You’ll have money to