Chapter 71

Well ... that didn’t work. Let’s try this.

In the dark corridors of the very last subbasement ... in the room with the straight backed chair and the old wood desk at the end of the last hall ... close enough to the mantle that it’s always a little warm ... there is a man. No one knows what he did to sit in that chair behind that desk ... but it didn’t kill him.

This is where the burn bags go ... not the contents ... just the bags ... to be issued when called for. They ... the bags ... come by trolly and left at the door. The numbered bags are empty. They have been searched by men ‘on their way up’ and searched by men ‘on their way down.’ One of the ways to become an ‘up’ is to find something missed by an up ... and have the video to prove it.

He takes each bag from the trolly, and in a perverse way ... turns it upside down and gives it a little shake ... and chuckles ... Thirty four years ... yes ... he is just a little mad. Thirty four years.

He takes each bag and hangs it on the hook with the correct number, tidies up, turns and locks the door and makes his way out of the basement. Thirty four years.

He has always been the last to ride the elevator to the lobby, he steps across the blue circle with the white eagle and out the door.

He works for the CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY and he is a minion. A company man with a company car. He drives the most direct route and stops at the discrete bar and grill ... sits in the corner with a view to the door, orders a Tom Collins and a hot burger over mashed and smothered with grilled onions.

They are used to him.

Once... 40 years ago, on his first visit, a high school girl pointed at the vacant chair and said, “May I?” She wasn’t pretty ... she wasn’t dressed ‘smart,’ but she didn’t talk ... she smiled. He nodded. She sat. Six weeks later they were married. Five and a half years after that she was killed in a firefight in Berlin ... he chose the ‘directive’ over his wife.

Thirty four years.

He finishes up ... drains his Collins, spit the cubes back in the glass, waves at the bartender ... he keeps a tab ... went home to his wife’s house and went to sleep.

The morning is a mirror image. Breakfast is a hot hamburger over mashed ... hold the onions ... two over easy ... glass of OJ and out the door, drive to work, park on the spot with the X, check in, cross the circle on the way to the elevators. When the car is at the bottom there are still three staircases to go ... He unlocks, lights up and prepares for the first call. It came ... they kept coming. 19 bags, 20, the last.

It is a sign of his madness that he gives each bag a shake before they go on the cart. He shoves the trolly out the door and sits and farts on the page between him and the seat.

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