Chapter 8

The deputy director of Central Intelligence sat in his air conditioned office, calmly reading a novel on human psychology while he awaited the arrival of his guest. He'd just received a phone call that this guest would be arriving by plane into the District of Columbia, shortly, with escorts from a multitude of agencies outside the C.I.A. and from a great distance away. This guest had known the deputy director for a fair portion of both their careers in intelligence until, approximately three years ago, the other man's career had ended.

In his office, the sunlight flowed through multiple bulletproof, ceiling-to-floor windows gently covering his desk in the soft glow of day. His photographs of all the men who'd fought beside him during all the great operations he'd been through reflected the sunlight at odd and skewed angles all across the room. As he stared at the photographs, he remembered his pivotal roles in a multitude of his guest's operations.

He picked up one photograph, staring at the man who worked for MI6 grinning like an idiot in it. As he recalled, the man was ingenious when it came to developing easily concealed weaponry. His name was eluding the deputy director, but he knew the man was known as Mr. Derek Smithers in MI6 now. He kept quiet about most of his past operations, just as the deputy director liked.

He gently set the photograph down, only to pick up another. This one showed a young woman who always wore her jet black hair cropped well above her shoulders, but not too short, and dark skin. She wasn't attractive, but she'd never tried to be. She used to be in the same position as Mr. Byrne himself, until recently Mr. Alan Blunt had retired, rather abruptly and forcibly. It was at this time that Mrs. Tulip Jones had assumed control of MI6.

Again, he set the photo in his hands down, shortly before he proceeded to turn towards the window. The tall panes of glass seemed so intangible from his perspective yet he knew they were there. He slowly eased himself up from his chair and walked over to the windows, staring at the city below. He slid his hands silently and smoothly into his pockets as he allowed his mind to drift through all of his years in the agency.

He remembered so many battle torn countries he'd infiltrated. So many warlords he'd murdered in the name of "promoting democracy and liberty internationally". So many innocents he'd seen burn in the flames of war. Wars he'd created to increase America's influence world-wide.

Suddenly, he heard a popping sound as something struck the glass soundly, attempting to break into the room. Calmly, the deputy director looked toward the now spider-web fractured glass. In the center of the spider-web of cracks, a single lead bullet sat, frozen in time. As he stared at the bullet, he heard a second one hit the window only a foot away. One more shot and the glass would be shattered.

Calmly, the deputy director pressed a button on his desk and walked from the room to hear a final thud hit the window before it shattered. Some of his colleagues in the vicinity were frozen at the spectacle, mouths agape. Some stared at the him as he left the room, curious if he was suicidal or just didn't care that he'd been shot at.

As he walked down the corridor, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Leisurely, he pulled the device from his pocket, and answered it.

"Hello?" he said calmly.

"Target sighted," a voice sounded from the other end of the line.

"Eliminate," he replied with a mechanical lack of hesitation.

Over the line he heard a loud pop as the sniper on the roof eliminated the would-be assassin.

"Target eliminated sir," the sniper sounded.

"Good work."

Joe Byrne hung up his phone before walking to his back-up office. There, he found his secretary awaiting him with a cup of black coffee and a pile of files for him to read and ensure the proper protocols were being adhered to. He walked into the room, sitting in his soft chair, much more comfortable with the office with no windows.

"You know," he told his secretary, a young woman with red hair and freckles as well as large glasses and a very professional long skirt and long-necked sweater. "I'm going to make this my primary office."

"Sir," she replied, "you've already done that."

"Anyway, what's on the agenda today?"

"You have a call on line three, sir," she said before dropping the files on his desk and walking away.

He lifted the phone to his ear and pressed the button for line three.

"Hello, sir," an agent from the FBI said, formally.

"What is it?"

"We have him here sir. We're on our way up."

"Alright. Thank you."

Only moments later, the agents escorted the deputy director's guest into the room. Once there, the deputy director ushered the men out. He poured two glasses of scotch from his private collection in his large bottom drawer on his right side. Once he filled the second glass, he returned the stopper to the top of the bottle and slid the second scotch to his guest.

"Still keeping the scotch in the right bottom drawer, huh?" his guest asked with a slight smile.

"You always did know me, Blunt," Joe Byrne said with a cocky glance.

Alan Blunt lifted the glass of scotch to his lips tentatively, taking in the aroma as well as the smoothness as it slid down his throat into his stomach.

"Ah," he sighed, satisfied. "You always did have good taste in scotch."

Joe Byrne set his glass down beside him on the desk.

"So," the deputy director said, coming to the point. "Where is she?"

"I'm certain I don't know who you're talking about."

"You know damned well who I mean."

"I'm not certain..."

"Where the fuck is Jack Starbright, Alan?" Byrne shouted furiously.