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collage of recent history, painted a vibrant and detailed picture of America’s enemies.
    Still, for Brad, it wasn’t enough. After two years, the Colorado native had applied and been accepted into the DIA’s Clandestine Service. It was a vastly different world than the one he had begun his career in. In the five years since, he had become somewhat of an Agency legend and a bit of a ghost. People who had known him as an analyst dismissed the stories that trickled back up to their lonely cubicles by way of the water cooler. As with all legends, much of the details were exaggerated if not completely untrue. But if anyone was going to be revered in the Agency’s tiny group of operators, the DIA wanted it to be Brad. He was the poster boy for a successful crossover into the shadowy universe of “Black Bag” operations. He was the epitome of the Service’s unofficial slogan, ‘you could be anybody, anywhere,’ and he had become it, in less than a decade.
    Brad had been mulling over his late night visit from the President’s National Security Advisor and the subsequent news of his brother’s kidnapping for hours. It was not the first time he had met Edmond Bailey. Though it was the first time the man had come to his house. It had been almost midnight, not that it mattered. His internal clock was forever skewed by hundreds of flights around the globe and endless shifting between time zones. He hadn’t been asleep.
    Something Bailey had said was gnawing at him. “I don’t know what the President is going to do but I wouldn’t expect much.”
    Brad pulled up to a guard shack several hundred yards from the entrance to the White House. A tall Marine asked for identification and then retreated back to his shack with Brad’s driver’s license and CAC card in hand. After a couple of minutes the man came back holding a clip board for him to sign. He flagged him past the shack and directed him to another station where two other uniformed men waited with bomb detecting equipment and a calm but alert German shepherd.
    The two men showed Brad to another tiny building with a set of chairs he ignored. He observed their inspection through a window in the door. They poured over the European sports car with kid gloves. One passed a convex shaped glass mirror on wheels below the undercarriage while the other inspected the engine beneath the rear deck lid. The dog waited patiently for his turn and once he was up, he was all business. Starting with the front bumper, the dog sniffed and walked the perimeter of the vehicle until he found himself back at the spot where he’d begun.
    “Take this and place it on your dashboard. You can park anywhere over here in this area.” The burly Marine said in a flat country accent as he handed Brad a temporary parking pass.
    “Have a good day sir.”
    Inside the two hundred year old mansion, there were several more layers of security; metal detectors, pat downs and general once overs. Brad had to go through the same procedures that everyone else did even though he had the Nation’s highest security clearance. He had been forced to check his gun at the front gate; he felt naked.
    “Right over here sir.”
    This time Brad was directed by a civilian in a dark blue striped suit. The President wanted to express his deepest regrets to the families of the hostages as well as assure them that everything that could be done was being done. At least that was what the aide had said on the phone. Brad knew better than to believe that everything was being done. They were going to do whatever was most prudent concerning public opinion.
    Brad stepped into a large conference room on the first floor. The room was full; the political hacks wandered about like sharks circling a victim. They were easy to spot amidst the crowd of much less pretentious family members.
    “Okay everyone,” Pinstripes said from the center of the room.
    A hush fell over the group as they awaited some details.
    “In a minute the