Quarrel looked around. It was a very boring office: An organized desk with a large blotter, a framed photo of a woman dressed in out-of-date fashions, and a motivational poster on the wall that said “Faith” with a picture of a man about to bungee jump. The blinds on the window were closed. Most of the brushed concrete floor was covered by a large, ugly area rug depicting a squiggle of blue lines on a background of brown squares. After a moment’s hesitation, Quarrel followed the woman’s instructions, and sat in the armchair in front of the banker’s desk.
After about twenty seconds, there was a click and Quarrel started to lower into the floor. The busy tangle of lines on the rug had perfectly concealed the seams where the drop-away floor was outlined. Chris, the chair, and a four-by-six-foot section of the carpet steadily lowered into the floor until he was so deep underground that the bank office became a small square of light overhead.
Finally, the downward movement slowed, and light appeared in front of Chris’s feet. The other three sides of the shaft were solid concrete, but in front of the chair the wall ended eight feet above the floor, creating an opening. Once the elevator reached the same level as the floor in front of him, Quarrel stood.
There was an old man waiting for him. Harry Milton was almost seventy, with sagging jowls and thin, grey hair. He wore a neatly pressed shirt tucked into rumpled pants, and his shoes were a new pair of sneakers.
“Quarrel,” said Milton. “Good of you to join us.”
“Sir,” said Quarrel, shaking the elder’s hand. “It’s an honour.”
“Nonsense. You wouldn’t call me ‘sir’ if you knew the things I’ve done.” Milton paused while they started to walk down the corridor. “But then again, you never will.”
The office was four stories below ground, and made entirely of concrete. In a few spots the walls had been painted, but mostly this was a grey, ugly place with fluorescent lighting and no windows. Quarrel noticed a series of coloured lines on some of the walls, like you’d see in a hospital, but decided not to ask what they meant or where they led.
He also noticed the dozens of security cameras that were constantly watching him. They were out in the open, hanging from the ceilings, not hidden under plastic domes or behind mirrors. These were the ones they wanted you to see, and Quarrel immediately understood that the best cameras were undetectable. The hallway led to a large office space, divided into cubicles. Along one wall was a bank of TVs, and there were several small rooms off to the left that looked like editing bays or some kind of video-dubbing rooms. They walked straight through the middle of the office, and the pathway led them directly into Milton’s private office. Milton closed the door to provide some privacy, and Quarrel sat down.
“No cameras in here?” asked Quarrel.
“None that I approved of. Or that I can find. But probably, someone’s watching.” Milton sat behind his messy desk, littered with both intelligence reports and fast-food cartons. “Why, you paranoid already?”
“Someone did try to blow me up. Plus I’ve just never been to a CIA facility before.”
“We’re not CIA. That’s just what I tell people on the phone. We’re CIB. Counter-Intelligence Bureau. It’s our job to screw with the guys who want to screw the CIA.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Wonder why.” Milton smiled a little. “Think of CIB as Internal Affairs for the American spy world. CIA, DHS, DOD, yadda yadda. We protect American agents from assassination, and root out moles and turncoats. We protect the people who smuggle secrets for America and catch the ones who smuggle secrets for our enemies.”
There was a natural pause in conversation where the old spymaster sized up the new recruit. It was interrupted when two other men entered the office. Both wore suits, although one man’s clothing was much more expensive than the
After about twenty seconds, there was a click and Quarrel started to lower into the floor. The busy tangle of lines on the rug had perfectly concealed the seams where the drop-away floor was outlined. Chris, the chair, and a four-by-six-foot section of the carpet steadily lowered into the floor until he was so deep underground that the bank office became a small square of light overhead.
Finally, the downward movement slowed, and light appeared in front of Chris’s feet. The other three sides of the shaft were solid concrete, but in front of the chair the wall ended eight feet above the floor, creating an opening. Once the elevator reached the same level as the floor in front of him, Quarrel stood.
There was an old man waiting for him. Harry Milton was almost seventy, with sagging jowls and thin, grey hair. He wore a neatly pressed shirt tucked into rumpled pants, and his shoes were a new pair of sneakers.
“Quarrel,” said Milton. “Good of you to join us.”
“Sir,” said Quarrel, shaking the elder’s hand. “It’s an honour.”
“Nonsense. You wouldn’t call me ‘sir’ if you knew the things I’ve done.” Milton paused while they started to walk down the corridor. “But then again, you never will.”
The office was four stories below ground, and made entirely of concrete. In a few spots the walls had been painted, but mostly this was a grey, ugly place with fluorescent lighting and no windows. Quarrel noticed a series of coloured lines on some of the walls, like you’d see in a hospital, but decided not to ask what they meant or where they led.
He also noticed the dozens of security cameras that were constantly watching him. They were out in the open, hanging from the ceilings, not hidden under plastic domes or behind mirrors. These were the ones they wanted you to see, and Quarrel immediately understood that the best cameras were undetectable. The hallway led to a large office space, divided into cubicles. Along one wall was a bank of TVs, and there were several small rooms off to the left that looked like editing bays or some kind of video-dubbing rooms. They walked straight through the middle of the office, and the pathway led them directly into Milton’s private office. Milton closed the door to provide some privacy, and Quarrel sat down.
“No cameras in here?” asked Quarrel.
“None that I approved of. Or that I can find. But probably, someone’s watching.” Milton sat behind his messy desk, littered with both intelligence reports and fast-food cartons. “Why, you paranoid already?”
“Someone did try to blow me up. Plus I’ve just never been to a CIA facility before.”
“We’re not CIA. That’s just what I tell people on the phone. We’re CIB. Counter-Intelligence Bureau. It’s our job to screw with the guys who want to screw the CIA.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Wonder why.” Milton smiled a little. “Think of CIB as Internal Affairs for the American spy world. CIA, DHS, DOD, yadda yadda. We protect American agents from assassination, and root out moles and turncoats. We protect the people who smuggle secrets for America and catch the ones who smuggle secrets for our enemies.”
There was a natural pause in conversation where the old spymaster sized up the new recruit. It was interrupted when two other men entered the office. Both wore suits, although one man’s clothing was much more expensive than the
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