The Heart's Eye

Redux

Sitting behind his desk, Regional Director Solomon Toledo of the CIA chews on his smallish moustache as he pretends to be reading my report. He already knows what it says, he pretends he is reading it because it gives him an excuse to not look me in the eye.

My report is short. I assert that arrived in Dokdo, did some poking around, got a few local officials under my spell, and found out that the infamous Dr. Klein had left the island in a hurry, possibly because he got wind that I was coming.

In a way, this lie is covering up my failure. In another, it is a recognition that the boundary between friends and enemies is not as clear as it used to be. I have no loyalty to Dr. Klein, but I have just as much reason to be loyal to the organizations that set people like me and her against one another, robbing us of our lives under the excuse of some grater patriotic goal.

Toledo is keeping what believes is a poker face. He has no idea that he is an open book to me. It is laughable how easy it is to read him. I am surprised that I weren't able to do this even before learning Dr. Klein's art.

He is afraid. Afraid of me, of my capabilities. I also see a little misplaced jealousy, some ambivalence, but mostly sheer, overpowering fear. He is terrified that I could manipulate his mind if or when I choose, without him being able to stop me, or even without him being aware.

I don't blame him. He should be afraid. It must be horrifying to know that one could lose control over one's actions and become a puppet of someone else. I wonder how he would feel if he knew of my new abilities, with which the even most sacred of privacy, the privacy of what goes on inside his head, the sovereignty of everything he considers to be his self, may no longer be his to keep.

One should not create monsters one cannot control.

His hesitation is harder to interpret, because it is dwarfed by his frenzied fear, but it parallels that fear. If I had to guess, he is probably asking himself whether the time has come to have me terminated.

"Mr. Black. You have shown time and again that you are a valuable, indispensable asset," he says. He offers a strained, fake smile.

There are no indispensable people, only a paygrade that marks the boundary between those who can and those who cannot issue the directive about an asset's termination. Does he have the authority to dispose of someone like me, who offers an undeniable upper hand in the war for intelligence supremacy? Where does he draw the line between the value I represent, and the danger to his own, personal privacy?

"I trust your compensation is adequate?" There is both hopefulness and anxiety in his question.

I nod. The money has never been an issue.

As I walk out of my debrief, I reflect on its utter uselessness. Pure protocol, mind-numbing, fruitless. If it weren't for the entertainment of reading Toledo's emotions, the meeting would have been a complete waste of everyone's time.

I wash my hands in the restroom when I get a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, my tanned, clean-shaven, tired face which greets me with its familiarity. I have known that face all my life, and yet, it suddenly looks different. It carries information. Involuntarily, unexpectedly, I read myself, and stare aghast at the sudden knowledge.

I see loss, emptiness, longing, a pull towards a missing past.

This is not entirely surprising. My entire life has been a series of losses. What makes the most recent loss different, though, is the nature of it. Part of my past, something that mattered to me and was part of my identity, was cut out, leaving a wound in my soul.

Dance and love.

Instead of walking out, I work my way through the building to the archives. Access requires authorization, unless you are me. I chat casually with a lovely prim lady dressed in a perfectly ironed business suit, and she gets up from her desk and escorts me to the heavy, metal door, punching in the access code.