WASHINGTON D.C., YEAR 2002

Senator Michael Zord was starting to get a bad feeling about the black-suited gentleman seated across from him in his office. First of all, while Mr. Dexer's suit was certainly not off the rack, it was nowhere near fine enough to belong to the wealthy venture capitalist he claimed to be. Second, the suit barely concealed the muscle beneath—Mr. Dexer was easily seven feet tall, bigger than most of Zord’s security staff, who were already on their way to the office in response to a silent alarm triggered by an easily accessible button beneath his vast oak desk. The film of closely-shaven hair on his head further indicated Mr. Dexer was not management. Thirdly, this man was asking all the right questions, but seemed to have no interest in the answers. As soon as Zord finished speaking, Mr. Dexer would make his next query immediately, without even a pause for thought. It was almost as if this man already knew what he was going to say. Finally, the unsettling truth occurred to Zord.

“Oh shit. You work for the Agency, don’t you?” he said.

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