High above the Encino Reservoir, streets curl like ribbons atop the Santa Monica Mountains. Evergreens shield the well-tended lawns from prying eyes. On a sleepy afternoon in February 2006, a white pickup rolls to a stop near the peach-colored house where a prosperous electronics importer lives with his wife and their son. The truck is an ordinary 1992 Dodge. There's nothing unusual about the driver who exits the vehicle and moves toward the family's home. He is clean-cut and darkly handsome, with intense eyes and the physique of a middleweight boxer. He wears running shoes, board shorts, and a sun visor. He could be a contractor, a gardener, or a houseguest. He could pass for a man in his twenties or thirties. He could be just about anyone, and that is precisely the impression he wants to leave.
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