“CIA,” Wiltkins says, shifting forward on the chair. “The NSA is keeping closed lipped about anything. I was under the impression that with the ...resident’s order on information sharing, there wouldn’t be any information withholding.”“I thought so too,” Roger agrees. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” The phone rings interrupting the two men. “Excuse me,” he says tot eh man before picking up the phone. “Cornelius.”“Roger,” Frank McMIllan, the director of the FBI says. “Was the information. I sat in a waiting chair in the lobby. I thought that the architect of that particular chair just wanted me to be uncomfortable. Me, he didn’t want anyone else to be uncomfortable, just me. I was firmly convinced of that fact as the looked around. I shifted my weight as I studied a rather sickly looking ficus. Everything I looked at seemed to be dead or dying. The guard who was presiding over the waiting room looked older then father time. I had fantasies that if I blew hard enough he would. More

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