Nathaniel’s footsteps echoed in the empty corridors as he made his way toward the wing housing the Secret Service administrative offices, where Wilkie welcomed him with a broad grin. At forty, Wilkie was only two years older than Nathaniel and the youngest chief in the history of the Secret Service. He dressed in completely ordinary clothes and had nondescript hair. Only a reckless flash in his brown eyes hinted at his adventurous streak.

“There’s the man of the hour,” Wilkie said, giving Nathaniel a hearty handshake.

Nathaniel returned both the handshake and the grin, the tension from the five-month Boston assignment beginning to ease. Now that he was home, it was time to file the paperwork documenting how a gang of forgers had pulled off a million-dollar fraud by making counterfeit postage stamps. It had been a clever scheme. Fake paper money was under constant scrutiny, but who ever thought to look for fake postage stamps? The gang had made a healthy living off those counterfeit stamps for years before Nathaniel managed to track them down in Boston.

“News of the arrests has already made the local papers. Have a look at that,” Wilkie said as he tossed Nathaniel a newspaper folded open to the feature article.

Government Agent Foils Band of Scoundrels and Their Postal Depredations

“‘Postal depredations’?” Nathaniel asked. “Who writes this dreck?”

The slow smile that spread across his boss’s face was all the answer Nathaniel needed, for Wilkie had made a name for himself in the Wild West of yellow journalism in Chicago and knew how to spin the press. “I suggested a few colorful phrases to the reporter. I’m glad he took them. You’re a hero.”

“So long as they didn’t mention my name,” Nathaniel cautioned. The Secret Service was the wrong line of work for anyone craving fame or riches. While he loved the challenge of hunting down criminals and hauling them into a court of law, he’d never cared for attention.

“No names,” Wilkie assured him. “Still, it was brilliant work, and you’ve saved the government a mint. Literally. We should go out for a drink.”

“We should, except I don’t drink, and you never go out carousing this early in the evening.”

Wilkie snapped his fingers in mock dismay. “That’s right. Foiled again.”

Nathaniel and Wilkie were complete opposites, but it never hampered their friendship. Nathaniel was obsessively tidy, sober, and a rule-follower, while John Wilkie was freewheeling and hard-drinking, but they respected each other.

“Now,” Wilkie said as he returned to his desk, “about that promotion I mentioned.”

“Yes, about that.” It was hard to guess what Wilkie had in mind, for Nathaniel already occupied the top position in the counterfeit division.

“I know you hate the prospect of a management position,” Wilkie said.

Nathaniel stiffened. “Yes.”