He Who Remains Classified snorted and choked on his 8 a.m. whisky. Leaning back in his desk chair, he stared at Anthony’s birth announcement, clipped from The Indianapolis Star. This was not entirely unexpected.
He Who Remains Classified did the math, and knowing Ward to be a clever fellow, surmised the probable cause for the extended stay in Maine. He rose from his chair, closed his Venetian blinds, and placed a do-not-disturb sign on his door. He poured an additional jump-starter. He briefly considered ordering a baby present from Tiffany, a porringer or whatever it is one sends, but squelched that sentimental impulse.
The possibility that he was the biological father of an infant son in Indianapolis, Indiana, presented risks, especially of blackmail by the Soviets. He regretted ever having started the Wangert file and told himself this would be a good time to close it. He felt roiled in a way that he didn’t know was possible. His chest hurt, oddly tight.
Often, after a twelve-hour day, he paced at his office window, staring down at the citizenry in the street, practicing an extreme sense of detachment from their pedestrian lives. He was married to his work, as they say. It was very important work. The security of the nation was at stake. Despite being reviled and misunderstood by lefty reporters and eastern intellectuals, he kept the flame of higher duty alive. Forgive them, for they know not what they do. He was proud of his Soviet nickname—The Vulture—recently deciphered on an intercepted cable. He hoped Comrade Ivan did not know about the existence of this baby boy. For everybody’s sake.