A few days later.
Ethan stared at the contact name on his phone in silence, then pressed send.
Tom: "I've met the arms dealer, Max. I'm going along with the plan-get the CIA agent list, pretend to sell it to her, and use that to dig out the mole, 'Job.' Can you provide any help?"
Morin glanced at the message and replied.
FBI Employee: "I think you already have a plan."
"Tom" was the contact name Morin had given Ethan.
"FBI Employee" was the name Morin had preset on the encrypted phone.
Anything that could become evidence needed protection. Contact names included.
"Tom" went without explanation. As for "FBI Employee"... everything was an FBI job anyway.
Perfectly reasonable.
Ethan frowned, thought for a moment, then typed again.
Tom: "I do have a plan. But with your help, it'll be simpler."
Instead of guessing when Morin might intervene, it was better to bring him in from the start.
At least then, Ethan would know what to expect.
That was his thinking.
FBI Employee: "Before that, recruit your helpers. When you reach Langley, message me. We'll talk."
Ethan stared at the screen.
How did he know?
He subconsciously looked around, scanning his surroundings, wondering if Morin was nearby-or if there was a listening device.
FBI Employee: "Relax. No surveillance devices. I'm not nearby either. Go recruit your helpers. I'm ready."
Ethan: "..."
I don't remember telling you any of that.
And you say you're not monitoring me?
Do you think I'm stupid?
But he didn't have time to search for bugs or disguised listeners.
He was on a train, in a private compartment, preparing to meet the two helpers he had selected.
In reality, these two came from an internal CIA "discredited list."
It was a list of people with special skills-and criminal records.
The CIA kept track of them. Updated their files. When needed, or when they crossed the line again, they could be found or caught.
Every intelligence agency had something similar.
Different people excelled at different things.
Sometimes, those without formal training were better at certain tasks.
Used properly, they could be extremely effective-and cheap.
Ethan made use of that.
He needed technical support.
After all, he was about to break into CIA headquarters and steal the most important list of agents from the most heavily guarded server room.
That kind of operation demanded caution.
Anything less was disrespect-not just to his own life, but to the CIA itself.
Even if what he was about to do could hardly be called respectful.
...
A few days later.
Tom: "I'm in Langley."
FBI Employee: "Okay. Send me a location. Let's meet."
Soon after, Morin drove to the café Ethan had chosen.
"It looks like you've been enjoying yourself," Morin said as he sat down across from him.
"Find yourself a rich sugar mama?"
"You mean Max?" Ethan replied. "I guess that counts. An arms dealer who can casually spend ten million definitely qualifies."
Ethan glanced out the window, habitually scanning the area. After finding nothing unusual, he looked back.
"I thought you'd bring people."
"Was that necessary?" Morin said calmly. "Why would I go through the trouble of getting you to Langley just to let the CIA catch you?"
He ordered a mocha, tipped the waiter, and waited until they left.
"If I wanted to," Morin continued, "I could've taken you in Prague."
"You're right," Ethan said, taking a deep breath. "I looked into you. You really are IRS. A top agent. You've been-"
"Did I come here to hear my résumé?" Morin interrupted. "That's all public information. I'm sure you know I've done plenty more under the table."
"Yes," Ethan nodded. "Which is why I don't understand why you didn't act back then."
"With your authority, you could've arrested all of us first and sorted out the evidence later."
"I could have," Morin said, leaning back. "But I don't do that."
"Why?" Ethan asked.
"If you knew," Morin replied, "you wouldn't be sitting here."
Morning sunlight streamed through the window, cutting cleanly across their faces.
Light and shadow divided the table perfectly.
Two different kinds of handsomeness.
Balanced.
Like a painting.
Men could be beautiful too.
Strong. Clean. Precise.
"Because..." Morin raised an eyebrow and waved to the female waiter, who had just delivered his coffee and was staring at them blankly.
After she hurried away, Morin took a sip.
"There wouldn't be enough profit."
"What?" Ethan tilted his head.
"Profit," Morin said. "Money."
"..." Ethan was quiet for a moment. "That's... blunt."
"What else would it be?" Morin smiled, set the cup down, and leaned back again. "What do you work for?"
Ethan thought for a moment.
"Before, I'd say the thrill," he said. "Now? After my team was killed by a mole... it feels meaningless."
"That's your answer," Morin said. "Mine is money. With money and a good life, you have the time to think about things like ideals."
"That's my answer."
Of course, it wasn't the real one.
The real reason was experience points.
But that didn't stop Morin from serving Ethan a bowl of philosophical chicken soup-healthy or poisonous, it didn't matter.
"So..." Ethan frowned. "You're going to embezzle it?"
"Yes," Morin replied without hesitation.
"That ten million?"
"Yes."
Morin looked at him. "Ethan, let me ask you something."
"If I told you that in the past year I'd kept more than ten million dollars, and you knew exactly what I'd done-and you had the power to stop me."
"If you were the director of the IRS."
"What would you do?"