The rain was practically horizontal when I checked through the double gates at R2N. When I took off my jacket and emptied my pockets for the agents in the foyer, even my tie was wet.

The President's secretary offered me a cup of coffee and brought a towel with it. She closed the door behind her, which left he and I alone.

"Mr. Jenkins."

"Mr. President," I said.

"You know from prior experience that we are not in the habit of hiring contract officers, retired or otherwise." He was a big man in person, maybe bigger than I'd expected. He wore glasses, though he didn't have to, of course.

"Yes, sir."

"You went further in the process than any candidate with an IS background to date. Did they tell you?"

"No, sir."

I washed. Somewhere in the final background reviews. I had been a week into academy; I had allowed myself to believe that I'd actually done it. That I was there. Nothing else much mattered, and I wasn't sure it mattered now.

"Your case was reviewed four times before they made their decision. Four separate boards."

I kept quiet. If he was trying to get to me, he was on the verge of succeeding. I wondered if he knew enough to know, if he could tell.

"The policy remains the same as it was five years ago. But you've been reinstated."

"Sir?" You spend your career learning to make your face an impassive mask. Sometimes with me it all comes flying to the surface anyway, easy to see as daylight.

He continued. "You'll train and graduate with the current class, work a short term assignment in Indiana, then come back here to be assigned to presidential detail."

"Sir, I--" a detached piece of my brain realized I was about to argue with the President.

He interrupted, anyway. "This was my idea. Before I was elected I had extensive dealings with IS contract personnel. I've never found them to be anything but an asset."

I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to finish.

"I also know your record and reputation, both during your IS career and while you were applying to the Secret Service. It's exemplary. All of it." He rose. I rose. I was trying to figure out how this was going to be an end to the conversation.

"I'm bringing you back in because I think one or more agents on our current roster are trying to kill me," he said.

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It was true, years ago, that the more you knew the better. You researched your friends, you researched your enemies. You vigorously sought out every detail of the landscape of the job at hand. Down to the weather. Down to what the CO in the camp down the hill had for breakfast.

Now, you can lose everything by these details. Either by having too many or too static a set or simply by taking one detail into too much account.

Good beta is mostly prophylactic. It describes a boundary of consciousness which changes at every stage of a job and is always the minimum, not maximum, information necessary. On what floor is the office, at what time will the target arrive, what is the secondary route from the building if the first route fails?

Details beyond these stifle those qualities which make superior operatives: creativity, flexibilty, confidence in one's ability to order and define your own situation as the job progresses.

Some IS rely on constant contact with their beta source, that terse dialogue with their engines and routines and databases.


Some of us, on commencing work, unwire.

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