“We humans are born and die. Our files live on.”

He stood looking out of his window. His back was to Bret as he spoke those words. His office was sparse except for a small bookcase with an atlas, dictionary, and thesaurus. A five drawer metal file cabinet rested in a corner by his desk. He was once tall and muscled. Now his shoulders bent slightly forward, and his wrinkled neck supported a partially bald head.

The ornate cane in his right hand bore an eagle claw at its top. It was one of the few possessions he took pride in. He picked it up on an assignment in Ireland some years back. Bret felt an involuntary chill as his superior turned and fixed him with a lifeless gaze from his ice water blue eyes.

Bret tried to remain unruffled but grew angry at himself as he felt his eyes start to open and close rapidly. Damn, he thought. His eyes always gave him away in moments of uneasiness. His Boss limped to the cabinet. He slowly pulled open a creaky drawer and removed a tan folder. He made his way to the desk and settled into his large, brown leather, high-backed chair. He sipped from his coffee mug with the CIA logo on its side and pushed the folder toward Bret.

The Boss spoke quietly. “You know why I selected you for this mission.” Without an acknowledgment Bret picked up the folder. The words TOP SECRET glared at him from its cover. Bret opened the folder and began reading the first page.

The only words on the front page were OPERATION TOWN MEETING. Bret turned the page and continued reading.

The Boss looked at Bret over the gold rim of tri-focal glasses. He lit his hand carved meerschaum. As he puffed, wisps of blue smoke rose and curled about his head like serpents doing a mating dance.

Bret looked up from the file. “My God, I don’t want to do this.”

Pipe smoke oozed from the Boss’s mouth as he spoke. “My friend, you may not want to. You damned well will.” A rotted incisor peeked from beneath his top lip as the Boss continued. “If it wasn’t for the agency, you might be rotting in Leavenworth.” He smiled and relit the pipe.

Bret hated that tobacco. Other than cigars, he could think of nothing more disgusting than the smell of cheap, over-the-counter pipe tobacco. At that moment, he wanted to grab the pipe and shove it deep into that leering orifice, driving the stem into the Boss’s brain.