“What if I tell you? If I tell you who our employer is, exactly who he is, will you promise never to ask me about him again? No more questions. No more cockamamie theories. I’ll tell you and then you can never ask anything about Yab again.”
“Okay.”
“He’s not the president. He’s no one in the government, ours or theirs. And, he’s not God. He’s not a man – not a whole man. He might have been a whole man at one time, but isn’t now and has never been during our lifetimes.
“He is a box. It’s about two feet by two feet, chromium steel. Inside is a brain and part of a skull, kept in some unique preservatives. There are wires leading to certain neural pathways that absolutely refuse to die. What the box does for three quarters of the year is anybody’s guess. But every Spring, it thinks very hard and sends us messages by telegraph. Every Spring that this agency has been around for, the box has been right. It nails the correct agents and sends them to the right hotspots every time. Nobody gives it an updated roster – how would you? But the box knows.”
“Hey—”
“Now you promised not to ask anymore. I know you’ll go right back to theorizing on how the boss is actually someone at Interpol or the Pentagon. Even if you could find the box, dig it up and crack it open, you wouldn’t believe it. You’ll sooner believe J. Edgar Hoover is still alive and running the show. I don’t care. The box doesn’t care, and I’ve long since stopped caring about the box. It works without questioning. I look forward to that without.”
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