join them,” Thackett said, leading the way. He pointed Daniel to the couch.
Daniel took a seat next to the woman. He sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to introduce himself or remain quiet. He did the latter.
The woman to his left had reddish-black hair and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. She wore square, black-rimmed glasses. In the chair across from her was a tall, bald man that he thought might be 100.
Thackett, still standing, grabbed one of two ceramic mugs from the middle of the table, placed it in front of Daniel, and then did the same for himself. “Thank you all for coming,” he said as he poured coffee for Daniel and himself, and then topped off the cups of the others. “I realize this is highly unusual. Certainly it’s a breach of our security protocols, but the situation calls for it.”
It was an irreversible breach, Daniel thought. He was to avoid contact with all CIA personnel.
“Please introduce yourselves – first names only – and state the topic of your current projects,” Thackett instructed, and gestured to Daniel to start.
Daniel cleared his throat. After a few seconds he managed to say, “I’m Daniel.” After an awkward ten more seconds he continued, “I’m researching a mission carried out in Antarctica by the British during World War II called Operation Tabarin.” His shoulders twitched upward, tensing his neck muscles and making his head tilt backward for an instant. He made an effort to relax and grabbed the coffee mug from the table. His hand trembled as he took a sip.
Thackett nodded and motioned to the woman.
She shifted in her seat, making the leather couch squeak, and pulled a red strand of her mostly dark hair out of her face. She looked as awkward as Daniel felt.
“I’m Sylvia,” she finally said as she pushed her glasses closer to her eyes. “I’m currently investigating the escape of Nazi war criminals from Europe to Latin America, and the underground network they’d set up which remained active until the 1980’s.”
The old man set his mug down on the table with a shaky hand. He closed his eyes for a second and then spoke. “My name is Horace,” he said in a nearly undetectable British accent. His voice was strikingly clear, and did not seem to fit his aged appearance. “I am the most senior Omniscient.”
Daniel believed he had to be.
“I do not have a specific project,” Horace continued, “And haven’t for the past 20 years. However, you both have seen some of my reports. For instance, the Japanese atomic bomb monograph is mine.”
“You’re 5-12-1945?” Daniel asked. He recalled the “signature” from that particular monograph. It was the oldest signature that he’d seen.
Horace nodded. “Now I study the work of the other Omniscients and assess the big picture.”
“Horace is our most valuable intelligence resource,” Thackett interjected.
“I started in the Office of Strategic Services, or the OSS, during World War II,” Horace continued. “Of course, the OSS became the CIA after the war, and I continued on as a case officer – collecting human intelligence in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. I then became a reports officer.”
Thackett chimed in, “Like you, Daniel, he’d managed a dozen case officers, directed their efforts, and collected and analyzed their intelligence products. He’s a big picture person – he can see connections between seemingly unrelated bits of intelligence.”
“What I do now is similar to the work of a reports officer, but on a grander scale,” Horace explained, “I manage the Omnis. I assign your projects, study your results, and look for connections.”
Daniel wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve: it was the ultimate of all intelligence jobs. Although he had access to everything Horace did, he didn’t have the time to read it all; his hours were spent creating new material – creating
Daniel took a seat next to the woman. He sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to introduce himself or remain quiet. He did the latter.
The woman to his left had reddish-black hair and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. She wore square, black-rimmed glasses. In the chair across from her was a tall, bald man that he thought might be 100.
Thackett, still standing, grabbed one of two ceramic mugs from the middle of the table, placed it in front of Daniel, and then did the same for himself. “Thank you all for coming,” he said as he poured coffee for Daniel and himself, and then topped off the cups of the others. “I realize this is highly unusual. Certainly it’s a breach of our security protocols, but the situation calls for it.”
It was an irreversible breach, Daniel thought. He was to avoid contact with all CIA personnel.
“Please introduce yourselves – first names only – and state the topic of your current projects,” Thackett instructed, and gestured to Daniel to start.
Daniel cleared his throat. After a few seconds he managed to say, “I’m Daniel.” After an awkward ten more seconds he continued, “I’m researching a mission carried out in Antarctica by the British during World War II called Operation Tabarin.” His shoulders twitched upward, tensing his neck muscles and making his head tilt backward for an instant. He made an effort to relax and grabbed the coffee mug from the table. His hand trembled as he took a sip.
Thackett nodded and motioned to the woman.
She shifted in her seat, making the leather couch squeak, and pulled a red strand of her mostly dark hair out of her face. She looked as awkward as Daniel felt.
“I’m Sylvia,” she finally said as she pushed her glasses closer to her eyes. “I’m currently investigating the escape of Nazi war criminals from Europe to Latin America, and the underground network they’d set up which remained active until the 1980’s.”
The old man set his mug down on the table with a shaky hand. He closed his eyes for a second and then spoke. “My name is Horace,” he said in a nearly undetectable British accent. His voice was strikingly clear, and did not seem to fit his aged appearance. “I am the most senior Omniscient.”
Daniel believed he had to be.
“I do not have a specific project,” Horace continued, “And haven’t for the past 20 years. However, you both have seen some of my reports. For instance, the Japanese atomic bomb monograph is mine.”
“You’re 5-12-1945?” Daniel asked. He recalled the “signature” from that particular monograph. It was the oldest signature that he’d seen.
Horace nodded. “Now I study the work of the other Omniscients and assess the big picture.”
“Horace is our most valuable intelligence resource,” Thackett interjected.
“I started in the Office of Strategic Services, or the OSS, during World War II,” Horace continued. “Of course, the OSS became the CIA after the war, and I continued on as a case officer – collecting human intelligence in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. I then became a reports officer.”
Thackett chimed in, “Like you, Daniel, he’d managed a dozen case officers, directed their efforts, and collected and analyzed their intelligence products. He’s a big picture person – he can see connections between seemingly unrelated bits of intelligence.”
“What I do now is similar to the work of a reports officer, but on a grander scale,” Horace explained, “I manage the Omnis. I assign your projects, study your results, and look for connections.”
Daniel wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve: it was the ultimate of all intelligence jobs. Although he had access to everything Horace did, he didn’t have the time to read it all; his hours were spent creating new material – creating
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