Something was terribly wrong with Frank Wisner. The titular head of the CIA’s clandestine services, he was known for his long-winded speeches, his attention to detail, as well as his desire to micro-manage and have complete control over his operations, but he now appeared to be experiencing mental collapse. Friends and colleagues had for years begun to notice the out-of-place intensity, how he could look right through them, eyes glazed, and it was becoming impossible to ignore his bizarre behavior at work. His secretary, Billie Marone, handed him a stack of paychecks he had never bothered to cash; a sign either of his instability or independent wealth. “Here. Go buy yourself an Oldsmobile,” she told him in a stony manner.