The corridor was lined with black-framed photographs showcasing the beautiful state of Virginia: a determined-looking man in breeches and a red hunting coat gliding across a hedge on a chestnut mare; the mist-covered Shenandoah Valley in summertime as seen from Skyline Drive; a sprawling antebellum plantation along the James River; and, of course, the glittering jewel in Virginia’s crown—Monticello and its famous west front. They’re not making it up, Donovan thought, Virginia is one beautiful place. Whoever selected these photos could have chosen from a hundred other scenic wonders; Donovan wondered if the Patriot Center would ever be considered one of them.

The hallway widened into a large foyer, with five separate offices that opened off of it. The walls were covered in raised panels of matched-grain cherry, giving the room an incredibly rich and aristocratic feel— like the cigar room of some exclusive men’s club that Donovan would never be asked to join. There were two secretaries’ desks that faced each other, one on the left and one on the right, forming a kind of aisle-way that carried the eye directly to the door on the opposite wall—the office of Senator John Henry Braden.

The aide turned and smiled. “Mr. Donovan, how long do you expect to be with the senator this morning?” The question was worded carefully, and it was asked in an unctuous tone of voice that seemed to suggest, “How long can we hope to enjoy your delightful company?” In reality the question meant something very different: She was asking how much of the senator’s precious time Donovan intended to waste, and at what point she could interrupt and tell Donovan to take his things and clear out.

“I’m here at the senator’s convenience,” Donovan said with a smile of his own. Positioned in front of the senator’s door was a somber-looking man striking the unmistakable pose of a security guard: feet shoulder width apart, hands in front, one resting on top of the other, suspended just below the waist. He wore a black jacket with a matching crewneck shirt and slacks, which was a little over the top; a security officer should dress like an employee, not like Johnny Cash. He was thirtyish and lean, with broad shoulders and a muscular neck and jaw. He had thick black hair swept over to the side, forming a well-placed comma over his left eyebrow, and just enough length in back to allow a few curls to fall on his neck.

Man, Donovan thought, was I ever trying that hard?

He stepped up to the security guard and held up his FBI credentials.

The man gave it the barest of glances and said, “You’ll need to leave your weapon here with me, sir.”

Donovan raised one eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Your handgun—you’ll need to leave it with me.”

Donovan smiled and held his credentials a little higher. “Maybe you need to take a closer look at this.”