For the second time in what has been a hellacious day, Donald Richardson sits in the small meeting room at the Agency of Influence’s Philadelphia Branch. Just a few hours earlier, Richardson sat on the other side of the table as he attempted to persuade Calvin Newsome to go in to exile. This time around, the old man sits where Agent Newsome sat. The alternative would be to disrespect his guest.
Given the turn of events at Suburban Station—and the fact that no one has been able to reach Calvin since their meeting—the old man ponders his conversation with the young man. Regardless of how many times he replays the discussion in his mind, he can’t find fault with anything he said, including and especially his whopper about vehicular homicide. Although he considers himself to be a pretty good liar, this was one falsehood Agent Newsome didn’t at least heed. Damn Calvin for being so strong-willed, so stubborn. It may cost Richardson what was a spotless conscience.
As Richardson twiddles his thumbs, the door swings open. Standing in its frame is an imposing figure, in both the literal and figurative senses.
Lasse Gantert is a tall, husky man. The dark, German features on his face exude neither warmth nor compassion—not at this moment, anyway. Richardson assumes that Gantert’s presence at his branch will be like that of the Grim Reaper.
The German sits in the leather chair and looks the old man in the eye. Richardson, however, cannot comfortably meet his gaze.
“Where is he?” Gantert says, pronouncing his w with a v.
“We don’t know.”
Gantert exhales and wipes the dust off the table. “Donald,” he says, “I want you to know that what has happened here at your branch is not new to the A of I. It happened in Finland, too. Decades ago.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I say this to say that a precedent has already been set.”
“Just tell me,” Richardson says, his gaze finally meeting Gantert’s.
The German does not respond.
“What am I supposed tell them?” Richardson says, pointing out to the hallway.
“Unless you find the mole, I have no choice.”
“But the entire staff?”
“Yes. And that includes you, though you’ll get early retirement. Full pension, benefits.”
“What about Calvin? What if he turns up?”
“What about him?”
“Does his offer of exile still stand?”
“In the off chance he turns up? Yes.”
“Don’t worry,” Richardson says. “I won’t bother sending a search party. I know how you like to save a buck.”
Gantert shoots him a look.
“You need me to turn in my director’s manual?” Richardson says.
“No. Keep it if you want. You’ve put in over forty years with this organization.”
“Thank you, sir. There’re a lot of directors I’d like to keep in touch with.”
“Fine. Just shred the page about the Arrowhead for now. We’ll come for the rest when you die.”
“You’re too kind,” Richardson says, standing up. “I’ll gather everyone in the theater.”
Suddenly, Richardson looks past Gantert. Calvin limps down the hallway, his A of I sweats tattered and stained. When the old man gasps, Gantert turns around.
As Calvin holds a blue shirt to his face, the two men get out of their seats and step into the hallway.