He decided nothing could be as strange as his uncle, but didn’t feel like getting in a stranger’s car. Unless this was how the CIA recruited, he really wanted nothing to do with them. He turned as if to push past the men, only to have a heavy hand with an iron grip fall on his shoulder.

“We really must insist, Mr. McCandles,” the man said, and squeezed with his hand.

Griffen fought back a yelp, this man was strong! So much for Uncle Malcolm’s comments about tough skin, Griffen felt like his shoulder socket was about to be ground to dust. Of course, he realized grudgingly, that had little to do with the skin.

With an offhand shrug, he tried to shake the hand off. Tried, and failed. The other man nodded pointedly to the limo, squeezed once more, then let him go with a little push. Straightening, Griffen tried to maintain some dignity, and walked over to the limo. As he did, the back door opened as if in greeting. Not breaking stride, he stepped into the air-conditioned interior and sank into the nearest seat.

“Mr. McCandles. So good of you to join me.” A warm, resonant voice came to him from the depths of the vehicle. “I don’t believe we’ve had the opportunity to talk before.”

Griffen was so surprised, he barely noticed the two suits entering behind him and closing the door before the limo eased into traffic. He wasn’t particularly up on news and politics, but one would have to live in a barrel not to recognize the man addressing him.

“Senator Langley,” he said, inclining his head in a polite nod. “An honor to meet you, sir.”

“Ah, so you know who I am.” The man beamed, flashing the smile that the newspapers and TV cameras loved.

“It would be hard not to, considering your distinguished career,” Griffen said. “I’m just a little surprised that you know who I am…or care, for that matter.”