He was a bland-faced medium-sized man who might have been an anchor on the six o'clock news. He had nearly every qualification for his job-a keen political instinct, the ability to generate ever-increasing budgets, a cool hand with the ferocious New York media, and a positive talent for bureaucratic management. All he lacked was an understanding of what the criminal justice system was supposed to accomplish and even the faintest ability to successfully try cases.

Karp stood in front of the desk and told Bloom that he was leaving and where he was going. To Karp's great surprise, Bloom seemed stunned and dismayed. He gestured Karp to a chair.

"What's wrong? I thought you were happy here. You got your bureau. You're doing great things…"

Karp had trouble finding his voice. At last he said, "Well, I've been here a long time. I thought it was time to move on. And the challenge… Kennedy…"

"Crane, huh? What's he paying you?"

Karp told him.

Bloom said, "Tell you what-it'll take some screwing around with personnel, but I think I can beat that."

Karp felt his mouth open involuntarily. "Um… it's not really a money thing. It's just time for me to do something else."

Bloom chomped on his cigar and frowned. "You're making a big mistake, my friend. You'll dick around down there for a year or so until they get tired of stirring the pot and they'll get you to write a fat report nobody'll read, and then where are you? Out on your ass."

"Well. I'll have to worry about that when the time comes."

Bloom shrugged and blew smoke. "Think about it," he said.

Karp said he would and walked out. The feeling of weirdness, of being in a waking dream, continued unabated. Bloom being nice to him, Bloom offering him a raise, was, more than anything he could think of, a sign that his life had irrevocably changed.

In the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia, a small group of men is sorting through stacks of paper.