I cleared my throat, dimpled the Windsor knot in my tie and knocked. A TV blared on the other side of the door. It was January 20th, 1981, 5 pm. I was at a Ramada Inn, Phoenix. Arizona, and had just gotten off work from my day job as a Superior Court investigator. A week earlier I’d received a letter to my employment inquiry instructing me to meet this day, this time, a Mr. Jenkins: Central Intelligence Agency Recruiter. The television volume was lowered; the door swung open.