His fund system was more art than science, he told his investors. Often the Fund, as he referred to the collective, identified value where none had seemed to exist. Pakistani salt has little to do with Sri Lankan life insurance, until you look at the shipping lane that runs from Gwadar Port directly past Colombo, Sri Lanka, and take into account which families control the salt and insurance industries there. Tin is hardly as valuable as gold unless you can access it in quantities sufficient to monopolize its supply to the world’s makers of smartphones and rocket launchers. On it went. The algorithms Krieger’s people used to price intelligence ensured that investors got what they wanted, which is to say, ensured that they got more. And if one didn’t always receive top dollar for specific information, one did receive ongoing payments that were secure and reliable. For traitors, that was more than fair.

Most of his investors were senior officials privy to top secret intelligence. Others had a single golden egg to sell. Like Fat Anthony Gatt, not all worked for a government. The Lockheed Martin engineer who stole plans for the F-35, the world’s most expensive fighter jet, needed both cash and an exit plan. Krieger’s people spent two years advising her on her investment portfolio, including a tip on a company that was about to fail disastrously. She shorted the stock and came out rich. Meanwhile, Krieger’s people laid a trail to Chinese hackers and sold the jet’s blueprints to the Saudis. The engineer still worked for Lockheed. The best exits didn’t require one to leave.

By pooling intelligence and providing a return, Krieger incentivized his investors’ behavior. By compensating them for their transgressions, he bought their silence. Anyone who invested with Krieger understood the cost of betrayal. To say that you invested your life in the Fund was not an understatement.

Krieger controlled a network of highly placed informant-investors around the world, making him constructive director of a meta-spy agency he used to package and deliver strategic opportunities to his extremely powerful clients. Commodifying intelligence worked. “Because,” Krieger liked to say with a modest smile, “I have more of it.”

•   •   •

Krieger looked at his guest. Admiral Everett Tighe was neither an investor in one of Krieger’s funds, nor a client. Tighe was a fool. Krieger was about to make him useful.

When Krieger did not respond, Tighe shifted in his chair. “All right, Terry, all right,” he said, fingering the scales of the Lady Justice statuette on Krieger’s desk. “Have it your way. Shall we . . .” He waved Mapes away.

“Shall we what?” Krieger asked.

“. . . do this in private?”

“This is private, Admiral.”

Tighe blew out his cheeks, then gestured with his cigar for Krieger to proceed.