Langley, Seventh Floor of the CIA Headquarters.
The air here always carries a slight cool ozone scent from precision instrunts operating, mixed with the rich aroma of top-grade coffee beans and a kind of intangible pressure.
The thick carpet absorbs all noise, leaving only the low, constant hum of the central air conditioning system, like the unwearied heartbeat of this building.
Simon took a deep breath, suppressing the untily nervousness in his chest, and knocked twice with clear, confident sounds on the heavy walnut door of the Director's office.
"Co in."
Director Vincent's voice ca through the door, as steady as a smoothly polished granite.
Simon pushed the door open and entered.
Through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, the generous early sumr afternoon sunlight of Virginia poured in, gilding the interior's wooden furniture and the obscure abstract paintings on the walls with a dazzling golden edge.
Vincent had his back to the door, standing by the window, his posture upright, his ticulously neat silver-gray hair shimring brilliantly in the sunlight.
He held a bone china coffee cup in his hand and didn't turn around, only slightly tilted his face.
"Director."
Simon stood firm, his voice perfectly controlled with the respect due to a subordinate, yet without losing efficiency.
Vincent slowly turned around, his eyes sharp as surgical blades, pausing on Simon for a few seconds as if to strip away his well-pressed dark gray suit and carefully maintained calm exterior.
"Sit down, Simon."
Vincent pointed to the large, comfortable leather chair across from the desk, while he himself made his way around the large desk and sat back in the high-backed chair.
He didn't speak imdiately but instead picked up a highly polished briar root pipe from the desk, thodically filling it with tobacco, then picked up a tamper to gently press and smooth the loose tobacco, each subtle movent carrying an almost ritualistic focus.
The air settled into silence, with only the faint rustling sound of tobacco being gently pressed.
Sunlight through the blinds cast light and dark stripes across Simon's knees.
Every second of silence felt like an intangible lead weight, heavily pressing on Simon's heart.
What was the matter exactly?
Was it concerning the previous decapitation operation at Deir Ezzor?
Or had Song Heping died, and the secrets he left behind about himself been exposed?
Could it have already reached the Director's desk?
He couldn't help but glance at the surface of the desk in front of Vincent but didn't see anything unusual.
Countless fragnted thoughts flitted swiftly through his mind and were forcibly suppressed again.
Finally, Vincent struck a long match, the orange fla licking the bowl of the pipe.
A swirl of nutty-scented smoke drifted up, obscuring part of his expression.
"The operation in Siria…"
Vincent's voice ca through the smoke, calm and without any discernible inclination. "Your led 'decapitation' plan. I've reviewed the execution report."
Here it cos!
As expected, it involved the operation in Siria.
Simon's hands resting on his knees curled slightly, his knuckles sowhat pale, yet a hint of restrained gravity quickly appeared on his face.
"Yes, Director. The target was confird neutralized. Although the process… encountered so unforeseen complications, the final outco was as expected. The threat of Song Heping has been eradicated."
He deliberately emphasized "eradicated" as if adding weight to his conclusion.
"Complications?"
Vincent took a puff on his pipe, gray smoke slipping from the corner of his mouth, and those sharp eyes locked onto Simon through the smoke.
"I thought it was very successful. Satellite images show Gelbi Mountain was nearly entirely covered with cluster bombs, and the destructive effect exceeded expectations."
His tone remained steady.
Simon t Vincent's gaze, his voice maintaining its usual steadiness: "Thank you, Director, for the complint; it was my duty."
He paused, then added: "Most importantly, the target was indeed eliminated. Subsequent cross-verification intelligence analysis all points to the sa conclusion: Song Heping is dead, with a probability exceeding ninety-five percent."
"Ninety-five percent…"
Vincent repeated the number, as if savoring a hard candy. His eyes road across Simon's face, carrying a probing look like an old fox examining its prey.
"So, there's a five percent… uncertainty?"
Simon's heart skipped a beat.
That damn five percent!
Like a tiny stinger, it stabbed deeply into the calm he had forced himself to maintain these past days.
He struggled to keep his expression unchanged: "Director, in intelligence work, absolute certainty is a luxury. Given all factors, assessing it as 'death' is prudent and reasonable."
The office fell silent once more, with only the faint "hiss" sound from the tobacco burning in Vincent's pipe.
The sunlight shifted slightly, illuminating a corner of the desk where a golden badge symbolizing the highest power of the CIA sat.
Ti seed to freeze.
Simon could clearly hear the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
Finally, Vincent set down the pipe.
He brought his fingertips together, forming a steeple shape, resting it under his chin.
This was a habitual gesture he made before making significant decisions.
"Simon."
His voice suddenly beca clear and forceful, breaking the suffocating silence.
"The Deputy Director position has been vacant for too long, and the White House has already inquired. We need new strength, soone capable of facing complex challenges and achieving decisive results, to take on this position."
The probing intent in his gray eyes faded, replaced by a deep, undeniable authority.
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