Senators loved naming buildings after their own.

When the limo stopped at the Dirksen SOB’s western entrance, the SPS security officer in the front seat jumped out and darted inside to alert the Capitol Hill Police officers on duty that two VIPs were arriving. Jones and Storm would not be delayed by security checks. There would be no walk-through metal detectors, no searching of briefcases and emptying of pockets. Instead, both men were quickly escorted to Senator Windslow’s office, where a secretary immediately led them into the senator’s inner chamber.

As with most other things on Capitol Hill, senate offices were doled out based on seniority and power. The bigger the office, the more important the senator. Windslow had been assigned the largest office in the Dirksen. His private domain had fifteen-foot-tall ceilings, ornate carved wooden bookcases, and thick carpet. Expensive brown leather sofas and overstuffed chairs faced an executive desk made of polished mahogany that had clearly not come from some General Services Administration warehouse. One wall was covered with framed photographs that showed the senator posing with foreign presidents and dignitaries. It was proof that Windslow relished his power and clearly enjoyed taxpayer-funded junkets to exotic locales. Another wall was decorated with the Texas state seal and a pair of mounted longhorns from a Texas steer.

The senator rose from behind his desk but made no effort to walk forward and greet them. He let them come to him with outstretched hands.

“About time you got here, Jedidiah,” Windslow snapped, as he shook the CIA spymaster’s hand. “You’ve kept me waiting ten minutes.”

Windslow looked at Storm, and the two men immediately sized each other up, like two schoolboys squaring off during recess.