“I got an interesting letter today,” I said as we began quaffing our beers.

Dirk was instantly on guard. “Who from?” he asked darkly. Good news from anyone reminded him of his own failures, and made him depressed.

“From a CIA guy.”

Dirk’s face fell further. His first reaction, inevitably, was jealousy. What new opportunity did I have that he didn’t?

“So what did the CIA guy want?” Dirk asked. That was another strange thing about him: however much he disliked news about his colleagues’ success, he insisted on hearing all the details—almost like a form of ritual self-flagellation. It occurred to me that the more I told him, the more intensely unhappy he would become, so I began to backtrack.

“Not that much,” I answered. “I met him a while ago. I think he’s an analyst. He’s looking for a job.”

That gentle lie seemed to ease Dirk’s anxieties. Lots of people knew CIA analysts; even Dirk knew a few. I decided to drop the subject. Talking about my CIA source would be a form of torture for Dirk.

“Listen,” I said, changing gears, “we should talk about Abelard. I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do in these campaign profiles.”

“Sure.” He brightened. The notion that I needed help on something seemed to put him in a better mood.

“What are we looking for?” I asked. That question had, in fact, been bothering me ever since I got the assignment. Everything that was publicly available about Abelard suggested that he was a careful, thoughtful man. He was a relic of the old days; if the Council on Foreign Relations had been nominating a candidate, it would have been James Abelard.

“Dirt. Whatever we can find, in whatever hidden nooks and crannies of his life we can penetrate. And you know what? We’ll succeed. Because every human being on this planet has done something wrong at some point in his life. Something he’s ashamed of, embarrassed about, hoped nobody would ever discover. Something he thought the veil of privacy would surely cover. But we’ll find it and strip it away. Because that’s what we do. We are the dirt bags, into which the dirt is placed.”

The level of Dirk’s self-disgust had risen from what I remembered. “You need to see a shrink,” I said. “Meanwhile, how do we find out about Abelard? Who should we talk to?”

“Anyone who hates him. Anyone who has a grudge against him. Anyone who has run against him and lost. His enemies, basically. And then we’ll talk to his friends, to make sure the piece is balanced.”

I shook my head. “You really are sick, Dirk. What’s the matter with you?”