Special Agent

By 6 a.m. he's at his desk, dressed in his dark suit and shoes that he shines each night before bed. His grandmother told him long ago that a man is judged first by his shoes. So he polishes and polishes.

Discipline. This is the first tool in Michael Mason's toolbox.

Files marked "top-secret" sit on his desk. A small replica of a Buffalo Soldier keeps guard nearby, and a photo of Jackie Robinson hangs on the wall.

What's one of the first orders of business for the nation's fourth-ranking FBI official before his daily, confidential meeting with the FBI director? Sending one or two complimentary e-mails. It could be to an agent working a case or a translator who helped Mason at a meeting with a foreign official. It's a habit he picked up while in college, writing each week to someone important in his life.

Kindnes s. A generosity of spirit and a respect for the contributions of others, big and small. This is his second tool.

His Glock is holstered at his side, and a quote he found in Reader's Digest is laminated and tucked in a blue leather binder that he carries.

"Attitude" by pastor Charles Swindoll: "The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than success, than what other people think or say or do. . . . I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to me and 90 percent how I react to it."

A Man of Confidence

On Nov. 2 he was standing at the front of a secure conference room inside the Denver headquarters of the FBI, where about 15 special agents in charge of Midwestern field offices listened intently. Mason's suit was set off by a blue-striped shirt and red tie. His shoes gleamed.

His voice was deep, his movements precise. His 6-4 frame towered over the podium, then he stepped away from it to speak for about 30 minutes, without notes. Resources were tight and it was critical how they managed them, he told the agents. "Asking for more just isn't going to happen. It just isn't an option."

He was smooth, confident, focused. He reminded them that he'd walked in their shoes. "My field blood has not been completely drained from me," he joked.

The night before, inside a 1903 bank vault that had been converted into a restaurant of dark cherry wood and European antiques, he and the agents met for dinner. Mason stood among the mostly middle-aged white men, a group that, back in the day, would have qualified for the FBI's old-boy network. Over Coronas and bowls of steamed Gulf shrimp, they gathered around him to talk shop and sports, even politics.

He sat comfortably among them, in a red plaid shirt and khakis, like a man who had nothing left to prove. He'd spent nearly 22 years doing that -- setting goals and working hard.