Dark Ambition by Allan Topol Page B

in U.S. Government Service. Edward Fulton's entry was brief. It told Ben that Fulton was only thirty-two years old.
    He had been born in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and he had been a super achiever in school, graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Michigan, with a major in political science. Following graduation, he had enlisted in the marines, a fact that surprised Ben, and he rose to the rank of captain. Three years later, he entered Harvard Law School, where Fulton was editor-in-chief of the Harvard Law Review, graduating first in his class—a lot better than I did at Yale, thought Ben. But I managed to have a good time, unlike those geeks who studied night and day. He doubted whether Fulton had played as many poker games during his three years in law school. After graduation, Fulton had clerked for a U.S. court of appeals judge in Ohio and then for the chief justice of the Supreme Court. Two years ago, he had gone right from his clerkship to Jim Slater's staff as an assistant White House counsel. That didn't happen on merit alone. Somebody in the family or a friend must have had a connection with Slater or the president's party. Maybe a big contributor. Fulton was married and had two children.
    From the bio, Ben could complete the picture. Fulton was not only bright, but incredibly ambitious and hardworking. Even driven. On the fastest possible track for success. Probably arrogant as well. His family would never stop him from getting ahead. They would either support him or be brushed aside. Ben had known plenty of Washington types like Ed Fulton. It was a lonely ride.
    Ben decided to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to the FBI building. He was only a couple of pounds overweight on his nearly six-foot frame, but he could feel himself getting flabby. In response, for his fortieth birthday in April, he had bought a treadmill. So far he had used it only twice. Between his job and Amy, there was never time for exercise.
    Fifteen minutes later and out of breath, Ben arrived at the FBI. Quickly, he surveyed the scene in the fifth-floor conference room. Fulton and Traynor were sitting across a table that held a dozen half-empty cups of cold coffee and some doughnuts that were quickly going stale. Though both of them had glazed, bloodshot eyes, there was a difference in their appearances. Traynor's shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his collar was open at the neck, and his tie and jacket had been tossed on a chair in the corner. Fulton was still dressed smartly in a white shirt and a jacket and tie. He was tired, but he looked neat. That was the way Nan had always wanted him to look, Ben thought, but he rarely achieved that standard. Usually, he looked the way he did today: rumpled suit badly in need of a pressing and a food-stained tie.
    Traynor introduced Ben to Fulton, then said, "Sorry for what I look like. We've been up all night."
    "I figured as much. You guys have anything to show for it?"
    "We've found the killer," Fulton announced with pride. "We just need you to get us a search warrant."
    Fulton exuded the arrogance Ben had been expecting. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you've found?" he said to Traynor.
    Fulton didn't like being ignored. "Get us the search warrant now before he gets rid of the evidence. We'll give you the details later."
    "Wrong," Ben shot back. "It doesn't work that way. Malcolm Penn's the judge on emergency duty today. He won't sign a simple extension of time, much less a search warrant, without the whole story."
    Involuntarily, Fulton's eyes began blinking. He turned to Traynor. "I thought you said we'd be able to work with this guy. Right out of the chute, he's yanking our dicks around."
    Traynor looked at Ben and gave a slight shrug. What do you want me to do? was what it conveyed to Ben, which wasn't very helpful. Oh, well, Ben was willing to do battle alone.
    Once Traynor saw the fire flaring in Ben's eyes, he reassessed and decided to mediate, to head off a fight. "Listen, Ed,