Washington, D.C.
T
he man who calls himself Bayer stared out of his fourth floor window at the long line of headlights flowing up 12th Street Southwest toward Georgetown. He’d had better offices during his long service with various Federal agencies, but this comparative cubbyhole in the granite cracker-box that housed the headquarters of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement had advantages. He was, after a long period of running the CIA’s clandestine services, out of the Langley quagmire and concerned for once with domestic problems. The long, tangled roots of those problems admittedly extended into other nations and involved elements of foreign affairs, but Bayer was quite satisfied running projects that have a more immediate impact on the health and welfare of his country.
He was r
