January 11, 2001 – 7:01 AM

The clamor of anonymous businessmen and women rises over the gentle rain falling on the city street. Between the shadows of the towering, monolithic skyscrapers it is eternally dusk, but today the looming rain clouds darken it further. Rain trickles down the marble and granite walls of the decades old buildings staining them black. The street spews steam into the air, writhing like dozens of serpents being swallowed by manhole covers. Homeless old men huddle under awnings warmed by the president’s exploits of last week, and where the best martini in town is served. Vendors hover on every street corner pedaling six hours of sleep in a two-dollar paper cup. Black umbrellas and grey trench coats pass each other in a noiseless symphony of motion. These streets are the same as those in dozens of cities across America, with one exception, among the thousands of accountants, secretaries, executive vice presidents, and lawyers, walks a man apart from the rest. Though dressed in the uniform of the white-collar worker: black coat, black slacks, and black wood handled umbrella, this man is different. Starring ahead of him, as if seeing more then others, he strides with a purpose that others only dreamt of while freshmen in college. Turning the corner he approaches an in descript grey building with simple white numbers etched into the plate glass front door. Stepping under the black overhang he casually lowers his umbrella, shaking the raindrops from it, collapsing it, and wedging it under his arm. Stepping through the door as if entering a church he walks quietly, purposefully towards the front desk. Without a word the short man behind the desk glances up at the tall man and hands him a clipboard. Without as much as a glance down at the board the man scrawls his name across one of the lines and mumbles a vague greeting to the man he’s seen virtually everyday for the last six years but still only knows by name because of his name tag. Despite the fact that the guard has seen the man innumerable times before, he still says the same thing after checking the name on the board “third elevator on your right sir.”

A slight smirk crosses the tell man’s face, “thank you, have a good morning” he mumbles realizing for the first time the shear absurdity of their relationship.

Reaching the elevator at the very end of the row he removes the glove from his right hand and presses his thumb against the small square of black glass just to the right of the elevator call button. After a short moment the square flashes green, another few moments and the doors open with a soft hum. Standing directly inside is a man dressed in similar attire but with two simple differences, one, the rifle nestled across his chest, and the two silver bars pinned to each collar.

As the doors close slowly the man standing at the back of the elevator speaks firmly “good morning sir.”

“Good morning captain,” The tall man replies in a steady tone.

“Generals Thompson and Patterson are waiting for you in briefing room B. They instructed me to inform you to meet them there immediately.” The Marine announces this without taking his eyes off the reflective interior of the elevator doors.

“Thank you Captain,” The tall man replies dutifully, not betraying that he is concerned by the unannounced appearance of his commanding officers.

Stepping off the elevator and turning towards the briefing room the tall man runs over the events of the night just a few days previous. The General was obviously concerned with the girl and what she had said, and perhaps was concerned with what he might have let on, but he couldn’t be sure. Almost glad he doesn’t have much time to worry about it the man unconsciously walks faster, before he knows it he is in the briefing room saluting the Generals in turn and taking his seat at the end of the long, mahogany table.

Leaning back in the reclining leather chair General Thompson casually inquires, “So, Colonel Taylor how was your week?”

Wanting to dispense with pleasantries and get down to the heart of the issue before he began to over analyze it, Taylor spoke up “hey John, Fred, lets cut the crap, why am I in here, you know very well that my investigation is not done.”

Sensing his unease about the issue Thompson let down the casual facade “Ok Dave, here’s the deal, we noticed that you stopped recording for about twenty minutes while you were interrogating the subject on the sixth, we need to know why.”

Knowing they already knew what was said Taylor spoke up “I told the subject non-classified information about the organization. I felt it was necessary to give the subject enough information as to not feel threatened by the line of questioning I was taking with her.” Hoping the slightly evasive answer would hold, David leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap.

The generals shared a glance, Thompson gives a slight nod of approval, and then oddly, both general’s demeanors lighten. “We were concerned you might have let on more information to the subject then was necessary for our purposes.” The general spoke softly, careful not the mislead Taylor to think they were angry.

“No sir” David responded rigidly “I followed proper interrogation procedure and only turned off the recorder to give the subject a greater sense of ease during the questioning.” In some respects this was true, but David hoped they could continue with the briefing and forget about the whole incident.

To David’s luck, this is precisely what the generals intended to do.

“No worries Dave,” resuming the casual atmosphere that so often characterized these meetings “lets just move on with the topic at hand.”

“Very well, Sarah has…” stumbling already, realizing he had already developed an attachment to the woman. “The target…” shuddering at the label “I believe the target has made contact with Agent Black and is attempting to force me into giving out information before she confesses to the confrontation.” Silence engulfs the room; David Taylor reaches down and feels the shining brass buttons on his dress uniform. The few seconds of silence draw out into minutes. The hanging track lights glare like miniature suns, the mahogany conference table reflects the lights in dozens of brilliant spots, echoing off the vibrant red wood. Sitting in front of him, shining stars gleaming from their shoulders, the generals sat, apparently passive, but David knew better. The question echoed in his brain. Would the two men in front of him take the drastic actions that he knows they are capable of?

Shortly after David’s disengagement from reality General Thompson begins speaking again. David did not have to listen to know what he was saying. He was being told to step up surveillance, meet with “the target” again and plant tracking and bugging equipment, and most of all, extract all available information. David understood his responsibility to terminate Sarah if he learned she had, in fact, made contact.

A few formal parting words and David was back on his way out the front door of the tall, grey, government building and heading for his car. Contrary to what one would think by looking at his steely, often expressionless face, David found amusement in most of life’s little quirks. Approaching his car one of them caught him as very funny. He unlocked his red Mercedes, and sat down roughly with a sigh. A slight smile crossed his tired cheeks. In a low chuckle David confided in the car “I thought guys like me drove unmarked black Lincolns.” The smile melted from his face as the rush of reality came back to him, feeling the pistol nestled in its holster under his left shoulder he knew what kind of man he was and what kind of job he did for a living.