“Have a seat, gentlemen.”
Director McNeely stood at an angle to the door looking out the window and smoking a cigarette. He watched them cross the room. Agents Wesley Bixler and Harris Treadway sat down in the wing back chairs facing the Director's bulky desk. For now, the conversation was confidential.
“Commander Diaz will be in shortly to give you details about the Montana ,” he said noticing his reflection and adjusting his tie. On the desk was a cup of cold coffee and an ashtray full of compressed cigarette butts. He blew a cloud of smoke into the corner away from the men and started to sit down, but instead leaned on the desk heavy and tired. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked 10 years older than he did the last time they saw him.
“You OK, Director” asked Wesley. “You don't look good.”
Harris snickered and shook his head at Wesley.
“Being tactful isn't on your resume is it, Wesley?” he inquired.
“Well, look at him. My Old Man used to drag home at the crack of dawn looking the same way,” defended Wesley.
Director McNeely familiar with their banter waited for them to finish. The agents looked at one another then at the Director, and then straightened up.
“If you are finished, I can begin with a question for both of you to answer.”
“I'm good at test questions,” Wesley pointed to himself.
The Director straightened up and went to the window again. He took a thoughtful prolonged drag and then blew a cloud of smoke on the ornate burgundy drapes. It was the headquarters of the Bureau of Investigation, Office of the Director, and Director McNeely had been in charge for as long as anyone could remember. It was rumored he had everyone's file memorized, that he spent his evenings away from the Bureau picking through resumes, transcripts, and police records. He had a knack for choosing the right people for the right jobs.
“What would happen if someone in the Bureau sold a classified military blueprint to a bunch of ill-advised scientists?” he proposed.
“They'd get rich!” said Wesley without hesitation.
“Assuming the scientists had money to spend,” corrected Harris.
Director McNeely sat in his chair and leaned back staring at the ceiling saying nothing more. Wesley and Harris glanced at one another then shot out of their seats at the same time.
“No shit? Sir!” Wesley added the salutation squeezing his cap.
“What kind of blueprint?” asked Harris stepping closer.
“Robot.”