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The front section of the room, arranged stadium-style, had three rows of desks with machines devoted directly to the agents in the field, although they, too, could be tied into the backup and support systems. It was possible to obtain real-time intelligence on nearly any spot on the globe here. Some came from in-place sensors; the Art Room could tap directly into the NSA’s exhaustive resources, looking or listening to raw radio transmissions, for example, or piping them through automated (and not always completely accurate) computer translators. It had real-time access to satellite data from the military reconnaissance office known as DEF-SMAC (for the Defense Special Missile and Astronautics Center) and the Air Force Space Command, as well as a system of Navy satellites used to track ships on the ocean. More important, Desk Three could launch its own “temporary” sensors from in-place satellites or drone aircraft stationed around the globe. These were controlled via a satellite system in a suite across the hall, eliminating the logistics problems the CIA had encountered in its earlier Predator program.
    For Rubens, improving what the CIA did was absolutely critical; he considered the agency his primary rival, a bigger enemy on any given day than terrorists or a foreign government. Desk Three had been carved out of traditional CIA real estate, and the agency constantly looked for ways to reclaim it.
    “Do we have Kegan’s files yet?” Rubens asked Telach.
    “Working on it,” Telach answered. “May take a bit of time to see what, if anything, is significant.”
    “Mmmm,” said Rubens. He was due for a meeting in Washington, D.C., in an hour.
    “Tommy Karr is on his way to Kegan’s house,” Rubens told Telach. “He should arrive at Stewart Airport in Newburgh in a few hours. He’s already contacted the state police who are handling the case.”
    “I still think the FBI should have gone with him,” said Telach. “This is more their field.”
    Rubens frowned at her but said nothing.
    “My bet is a lovers’ quarrel,” said Rockman from his desk at the left-hand comer of the front row.
    “A twenty-two in the back of the head isn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing,” said Telach. “Besides, if they knew each other, we’d know who the victim is. Which we don’t.”
    The Art Room supervisor continued, updating Rubens on what at the moment was a baffling and open-ended operation. Immigration records as well as missing persons reports were being checked, but Rubens didn’t think that the dead man would be identified anytime soon. At the moment, finding Kegan remained the best bet for finding out what was going on. The NSA, with some help from the FBI, and vice versa, was scouring financial records and checking on Kegan’s various associates and assistants. One man appeared to be missing—a D. T. Pound, who at twenty-two held not one but two Ph.D.’s. A multidisciplinary team of researchers headed by an eccentric mathematician—John “Johnny Bib” Bibleria—was hard at work scouring intercepts, reading papers, and thumbing through databases in an effort to track him down.
    “Very good,” said Rubens finally, convinced that Telach was doing her customarily thorough job. “If you find any information, as opposed to theories, that will be useful for Tommy, let him know. I have a meeting in Washington.”

    Roughly two hours later, Rubens stepped from his nondescript Malibu and headed toward the side entrance of a building on K Street in the shadow of Capitol Hill. Looking slightly dowdy in the row of fancier accommodations devoted to lobbyists, the building bore no outward sign of its importance, though a true insider would realize instantly that its very ordinariness was a dead giveaway. A pair of men in rumpled brown suits watched Rubens enter and, though they knew him by sight, nonetheless directed him to the large desk at the center of the lobby, where he was asked to look into a retina scan and speak