“I saw it.”

“You’re not Secret Service, are you?”

“No, sir. Private security.”

“Uh-huh. That explains why you just asked an FBI agent to surrender his weapon. That’s a big no-no where I come from.”

“It’s standard procedure, sir.”

“For you maybe; not for me.”

“I’m sorry—there are no exceptions.”

Donovan stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. “Look—I know you’ve got a job to do here, and I can see that you’re a real eager beaver, but I need to explain something to you: I’m an FBI agent, and an FBI agent will not hand over his weapon to you or anyone else. So what do you want to do now?”

The man never changed his expression. “We seem to have a small difference of opinion.”

“Maybe I should just go,” Donovan said. “Then you can go to your boss and tell him that the FBI agent he specifically requested was here, but he left—because you wouldn’t let him in. Try that—see how it goes over.”

The security guard hesitated, then slowly stepped aside.

“Thanks,” Donovan said. “I knew we could work out our differences if we just put our heads together.”

He knocked softly on the door and without waiting for a response opened it and stepped inside. The office interior was larger than he’d expected, almost like a second foyer, and it sounded like the DC Metro compared to the tranquil waiting area outside. He counted at least eight staff members chattering into Bluetooth headsets, scribbling notations on wall-mounted whiteboards, or clipping columns from the newspapers that seemed to cover every flat surface in the room.

“Senator Braden?”

The senator glanced up from his desk. “Yes?”

“Special Agent Nathan Donovan. You sent for me, sir.”

Braden stood up behind his desk. “Oh, yes, Mr. Donovan—come in. Please, take a seat. Brad, I’d like you to stay for this.”