Southern California Prison.
Shoved along by two prison guards, Minette was roughly escorted into the visiting room.
As the heavy iron door closed, the cramped room fell silent.
Squinting his slightly swollen eyes, Minette, his hands cuffed, forced himself to focus and looked over the man sitting opposite him.
The man was around forty, dressed in a neatly pressed suit and wearing what looked like an expensive watch. He had all the trappings of a successful man. Yet his weathered face made him look nothing like someone who spent his days enjoying a comfortable life in an office.
Vaguely guessing what was going on, Minette grinned.
"I'm guessing you're not my lawyer."
"A lawyer can't save you, but we can." The man in the suit smiled faintly, the creases in his face standing out like knife blades. Then he extended his callused right hand and spoke in a reasonably gentlemanly tone. "Allow me to introduce myself. Biddle Manson, your future boss."
As though he had heard a hilarious joke, Mittel laid his cuffed hands on the table and let out a dry, rattling laugh.
Only when he had finished laughing did he straighten up. Looking at Manson across from him, he curled his lip and said mockingly,
"You've got the wrong man. I'd do anything for the United States, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to be the White House's dog."
"We're not the White House. We're the CIA."
Leaning close to Minette's face, Manson abruptly dropped his smile. He stared at him like a venomous snake sizing up its prey. Only when a trace of fear appeared in Minette's eyes did he draw back a few inches and settle into his seat again. "Although the court hasn't sentenced you yet, based on the evidence we collected from your home,