This coffee tastes like shit, I finally realize.

It's acrid tang assaults my taste buds once more as I take another sip from my mug, the thin, dark liquid washing over my tongue before it meets and scathes the back of my throat with it's scalding heat. I force myself to swallow the coffee down, and force down the cough that threatens to protest its subpar quality. Once it's down the hatch, though, my senses offer no protest save for the lingering taste of bitter black coffee coating the inside of my mouth as I set the mug down on the wooden table I'm sitting at with a soft clink.

Bitter, indeed; although I hold no love for sweet food or drink, I am beginning to see how some people utterly refuse to take their coffee without milk or sugar. This cafe needs to learn that there is a difference between coffee that is bitter and coffee that tastes bitter. That is the number one mistake that these types of establishments make; thinking that coffee, while having different types of beans to choose from, is all the same in the end.

This is not even a uniquely American phenomenon, this low standard of product. I have been to more cafes, authentic ones as opposed to these Yankee frauds, in Europe than I can count with every finger on both my hands, and even there this… this laziness existed. Granted, quality coffee beans are hard to come by in this day and age, so you can take what you can get, but really, they could at least try to put in some effort of making, at the very least, mediocre coffee.

The interior of the cafe is second rate as well; the dusty, brick walls are bare, save for where the establishment has elected to hang pieces of postmodern art on the walls, and the glazed wooden floors are worn with shoe prints and caked with the grime of the streets. A chalkboard hangs above the length of the wooden bar, where the menu is written in flowery, flowing white chalk that is tinted a light tangerine, and then filmy brown when viewed through my green sunglasses, by the metal ceiling lights that hang from the industrial-style ceiling. The members of the regular crowd, small as it may be, sit at the various tables and booths, immersed in their own worlds, while a few more bohemian customers try their hand at the row of computers at the back of the cafe as the spare employee mills about in dim light behind the bar.

There's not much to say about this place, nothing much to describe in great detail beyond that barest scenery, save for that this cafe has seen better days, or maybe never saw them at all. Although I don't care to remember the name of this hole in the wall, both because I shall never return to this meeting point again and because it has earned my ire personally for having such bad coffee, that is the one thing I shall remember; that although some coffee may be bad, it will never be as bad as that one small cafe in Washington, D.C.

Nevertheless, after a few more seconds, I raise my mug and take another sip of my coffee, and stomach the bad flavor again. Alas, that is perhaps the most egregious price of this job; being forced to stomach all the poor tastes of the places I visit. Doubly worse so due to the fact that I, for one, actually enjoy the things I decide to eat and drink. At least my expenses are paid for on business trips, so I'm not losing any skin in the game.

My mark must be, though, given how much he likes visiting this cafe. Oliver Walsh, former Budget Analyst employed by the United States Department Of Energy: Western Area Power Administration, is an easy enough man to track once one has figured out his routine. Humans are creatures of habit, after all, no matter how hard they try to shake things up; they'd go insane without knowing what to and where to go.

Myself included, of course.

I take a glance down at the silver analog watch wrapped around my right wrist, tilting it towards me so that the line shies away from its glass face. Twelve-twenty-two PM, eastern standard time; Oliver Walsh has never been this late, and I don't know if I can stand to order any more of this terrible coffee. God forbid that I might have to order what they call food around here. I've paid my dues, though, and it's not like the one pimple-faced teenager they have working the register is going to kick me out when no other customers are coming in.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I elect to slide my mug of coffee towards the other end of the table, it's faux-porcelain base of ceramic scraping dully against the furnish of my booth's table as I cast the nasty liquid away from me, and reach for the newspaper at my side. The grim face of the Washington Post's front page stares up into my shades as I unfold it, detailing the announcement of presidential campaigns for next year and other, more minor developments in the city. I ignore that, then ignore the reports on whatever humanitarian tragedy or economic fluctuation or political strife has happened in far flung parts of the world this particular April as I page through the paper for my true target: the crossword puzzle.

What is a thirteen letter word for a Chardonnay-based wine, is the question I find myself with when I hear the door chime jingle and the ambience of cars rushing through the streets flood into the cafe. I rustle my paper once more, and then set it down as I feign a yawn. The nice thing about sunglasses is that you can look just about anywhere, and people won't know where your eyes are pointed. Mine are currently looking in the direction of this cafe's front door, and then down towards my watch when I realize that Oliver Walsh has finally decided to show up.

Twelve-forty-three PM, eastern standard time; something must have happened, for him to be nearly an hour late. Maybe Oliver Walsh is finally on to me. Maybe not, because he slides up to the counter and orders a espresso, waits until it's done and receives it from the counter boy and then meanders inconspicuously over to the booth I'm seated at before murmuring-

"Mind if I sit here?"

I give him a non-committal hum as my answer, like I always have, and Oliver Walsh takes that as his cue to take a seat. I tip my newspaper down, taking in his haggard outfit of slacks and a short sleeve button-up, mussed dirty-blonde hair and the bags underneath his chestnut-shaded eyes, and say-

"What's a thirteen letter word for a Chardonnay-based wine?"

Oliver Walsh looks taken aback by my question, his frantic eyes widening in surprise before they harden into something more opaque as he remembers who he's dealing with. His body language is still as open as a book, meaning that I can read him like one, and I am once again reminded why I don't like to work with amateurs who fancy themselves fixers or whistleblowers.

Not that I was even really working with him in the first place, though, so I suppose he doesn't really serve as a proper example.

"Busy day?" I ask innocently, and Oliver Walsh's eyes narrow as he prepares to settle into the song and dance of code-phrases.

"No interviews, but I've been getting job offers from all over the place."

Hmm. The DHS must be keeping as close an eye on him as we are, then. Maybe FBI, if I'm lucky. There goes washing my hands of this operation easily. They might even have a file on me already. Dealing with jurisdiction friction between the local agencies and us is easily the worst part of this job, second to being served bad coffee. At least Oliver Walsh hasn't realized that I'm not actually from the FBI; it'll be a whole lot easier to explain all of this to the Americans without him flinging accusations everywhere and getting the public involved if I need to sit down with them.

Not that I ever have, before. I wouldn't be kept around by the Committee if I wasn't at least halfway decent at what I do.

"What about your salary range? Are you still keeping that fixed?"

My question almost seems to excite Oliver Walsh, because I can see how he leans forwards as his muscles stiffen at the mention of his precious files. At least to him, they are. I'm sure that whatever alphabet agency bloodhounds are on his case will be disappointed when they realize they spent all this time hunting down just one or two folders of data regarding how much the American government is spending to run experiments on gold wires. Information in this trade is worth it's weight in the exact material those wires are reportedly made of, though, and that's where I come in.

Not as an electrician of course, but as a plumber. One that seals leaks and tightens pipelines.

"Yes, yes, it's still fixed, of course. I wouldn't dream of giving up a good salary. It's all I really have these days, anyway."

And that is precisely why I don't like working with amateurs; They're far too trusting. Oliver Walsh volunteering that last piece of information freely leads me to assume that he'll have nothing hanging over his head, be it friend, family, child or lover, to keep him from spilling his guts to whatever agency picks him up about our interactions. These types don't ever in the first place, which is why they do what they do and give the bosses a reason to pay me. All he has left is his files; proof that even the smallest something in Oliver Walsh's story might be true. I'll have to tie up this loose end quickly if I want to avoid this snowballing.

"How do you feel about having an interview with us?" I inquire curiously, "I'm starting to think that you might be a good fit for our company."

There's a beat of silence, as if Oliver Walsh can't believe what I'm saying, and then a gleeful expression paints itself across his face in a flash.

"...O-Of course, yes!" He starts, before confusion darkens his features, "But won't your bosses-"

"It's no matter. As of our last meeting, I've already gotten permission from them," I cut him off, "We'll only need your application to begin the hiring process."

And there's where the rubber meets the road. There's a hint of suspicion in those exhausted eyes, as well as a glimmer of fear. Oliver Walsh is right not to trust me, for this foggy road he has found himself treading down is paved with secrets and lies. One false step and you'll find yourself lost forever, left to the beasts that prowl in the fog. He only needs to make his choice, and since I'm a better host than most of the people I work besides, Oliver Walsh will most likely be caught by law enforcement and spend a good portion of his life in prison instead of ending up at the bottom of the ocean after being brutalized in a shipping container by men who are far less understanding than I am.

"It's okay if you need time to think it over. I'd recommend that you think carefully about it."

I already know his choice, because I'm the lying man who dealt his cards.