When I was a child, the FBI was everywhere in my world and I loved my world more for that. My first remembered experience of entertainment — one could even say of story — was listening on the radio in the late forties to The FBI in Peace and War, and I can still hum its theme. My older brother Joe and I, and then Brian, too, when he came along, huddled together by the old Philco, riveted because those tales of gangbusters, spy catchers, and G-men evoked the world of our father, who was himself an FBI agent. He was rarely home by the time we went to bed, and so those radio programs filled that primordial need of ours to draw close to him at night before daring to close our eyes against the dark. With such protection, how could we be afraid? With a father engaged in such noble, dangerous, and important pursuits — saving lives and countries — how could our mere loneliness for him deflect the pride we felt
