I walked into one of the small interview rooms and found two scared-looking black men dressed in cammies. Terrorists? Doubtful. They looked to be in their mid-thirties, maybe early forties, but it was hard to tell. They needed haircuts and shaves, their clothes were soiled and wrinkled, and the room already stank with perspiration and worse.

"We already tol' our story," one of the men complained bitterly, screwing up his wrinkled face, as I entered the room. "How many times we got to tell y'all?"

I sat down across from the two of them. "This is a homicide investigation," I said. I didn't know whether they'd been told that, but it was where I wanted to start. "Somebody is dead upstairs."

The man who hadn't spoken yet covered his face with his hands and started to moan and sway from side to side. "Oh no, oh no, oh, God no," he groaned.

"Take your hands away from your face and listen to me!" I yelled at him.

Both men looked at me and shut up. Now they were listening, at least.

"I want to hear your story. Everything you know, every single detail. And I don't care that you told it before. You hear me? You understand? I don't care how many times you think you told it.

"Right now, you two are murder suspects. So I want to hear your side of things. Talk to me. I am your lifeline, your only lifeline. Now talk."

They did. Both of them. They rambled, incoherently at times, but they talked. A little more than two hours later I left the interview room feeling that I'd heard the whole truth, at least their sketchy version of it.

Ron Frazier and Leonard Pickett were drifters who lived near Union Station. Both were army veterans. They'd been hired off the street to run around the FBI building like the crazies that they probably were in real life. The camouflage outfits were theirs, the same clothes they said they wore every day in the park and panhandling on the streets of D.C.

Next I went into another interview room to brief two very senior agents from upstairs. They looked about as tense as I felt. I wondered what they knew about Ron Burns.

"I don't think those two know much of anything," I told them. "They may have been approached by Geoffrey Shafer. Whoever hired them had an English accent. The physical description fits Shafer. Whoever it was paid them all of two hundred bucks. Two hundred dollars to do what they did."

I looked across at the senior agents. "Your turn. Tell me what happened upstairs. Who was shot? Is it Ron Burns?"

One of the two agents, Millard, took a deep breath, then spoke. "This doesn't leave the room, Alex. Not until we say so. Understood?"

I nodded solemnly. "Is the director dead?"

"Thomas Weir is dead. Weir is the one who was shot," said Agent Millard.

Suddenly I felt weak-kneed and woozy. Somebody had killed the director of the CIA.