But Hood didn't care. Their charter was to look after the security of the United States, not to advance the reputation of Op-Center or its employees, and he took that mission very seriously indeed. He also believed that if they did the job they were supposed to do, their "rivals" couldn't lay a glove on them.

At the moment, Ann Farris didn't see the hotshot or the politician or the "Pope" sitting in the Director's chair. Her dark rust eyes saw the awkward young boy in the man. Despite the strong jaw, wavy black hair, and steely dark hazel eyes, Hood looked like a kid who wished he could stay here in Washington and play with his friends and spy satellites and field operatives rather than go on vacation with his family. If the kids didn't miss their old friends, and the move east hadn't put such a strain on his marriage, Ann knew that Paul wouldn't be going.

The forty-three-year-old Director of Op-Center was sitting in his large office at the high-security facility. Deputy Director General Mike Rodgers was seated in an armchair to the left of the desk, and Press Officer Farris was sitting on the sofa to the right. Hood's itinerary for his trip to Southern California was on the computer.

"Sharon wrests a week off from her boss, Andy McDonnell, who says his cable show can't live without her cooking-healthy segment," Hood said, "and we end up at Bloopers, the antithesis of healthy eating. Anyway, that's where we'll be the first night. The kids saw it on MTV, and if you page me there I probably won't hear it."

Ann leaned forward and patted the back of his hand, her dazzling white smile even brighter than the yellow designer kerchief she wore in her long brown hair.

"I bet if you let your hair down you'll have a blast, she said. "I read about Bloopers in Spin. Order a pickle-dog and French-fried pie. You'll love them."

Hood snickered. "How about putting that on our agency seal? 'Op-Center-- making the world safe for pickle-flavored hot dogs.' "

"I'll have to ask Lowell what that would be in Latin," Ann smiled. "We'd want it to at least sound lofty."

Rodgers sighed and both Hood and Ann glanced over. The two-star General was sitting with his leg across a knee, shaking it briskly.

"Sorry, Mike," Hood said. "I'm letting my hair down a little too early."

"It's not that," Rodgers said. "You're just not talking my language."

As a press director, Ann was accustomed to listening for the truth behind soft-pedaled words. She detected both criticism and envy in Rodgers's voice.

"It's not my language either," Hood admitted. "But one thing you learn with kids-- and Ann will back me up-- is that you've got to adapt. Hell, I find myself wanting to say the same things about rap music and heavy metal that my parents said about the Young Rascals. You've got to roll with these things."