Brooklyn The whistle at the pier can no longer be heard.
The cool breeze in the afternoon was blowing in along the street corner of Broadway Avenue, blowing on people's faces with a sense of moisture.
Magic Security Department The door of the office was opened a small crack.
Before the door crack opened wide, a young man wearing an old coat walked in.
This man's name is Pist. He has been working as an assistant for Joseph for six years. He is usually an honest person in the department who doesn't even dare to speak loudly.
The pair of pointed leather shoes he wore were bought during a sale the year before last, and several pieces of the black paint on the shoes had been worn away.
There was no chandelier in the room, only the old-fashioned green desk lamp on the corner of the desk was on.
Joseph was sitting in the large leather chair, still wearing the thick woolen coat on his body.
He was holding a thick hemp rope in his hand and was tying together seven or eight brown paper bags that had been sealed with wax paint on the table.
A corner of the map was revealed on the top paper bag, which showed the main exits of Vought International's underground containment and sewage workshop at New York.
When he heard the footsteps, the old man didn't even raise his head. The rope in his hand was tightly clasped:
"Is it David who is on duty on the first floor? The back door is locked. There is no need for anyone in the department to be on night duty tonight."
"It's me, Minister."
Pist closed the door behind him, his breathing trembling.
His palms were all sweaty, and he was holding a paper bag brought back from the corner fast food restaurant in one hand, and two cups of freshly heated black coffee in the other hand.
"It was windy. I saw that you hadn't had anything hot to drink all day, so I went to the roadside and bought two cups."
Joseph stopped tying the rope in his hand.
The old man slowly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes squinted under the green light, and looked at his assistant.
After looking at it for three or four seconds, the old man forced a smile on his stern face and pointed to the hardwood chair opposite.
"Sit down."
Joseph smoothly pushed a pile of old documents beside the corner of the table to make room for Pist.
Pist didn't sit down.
He gently placed one of the cups of black coffee on the table, pushed it half an inch towards Joseph's hand, and then held another cup in his hand, with his back slightly arched, still looking as cautious as when he was doing errands in the office.
"Did you put some candy today?"
Joseph casually opened the plastic lid on the paper cup, and a sweet and stuffy smell floated out.
"I added half a spoonful, Minister. Didn't you complain the day before yesterday that the bitterness in the street store was too strong, so I asked the clerk to add a little more sugar."
Pist's voice was extremely thin, and he even stuffed the executive letter of intent that was tightly in his coat pocket.
Joseph did not answer this question.
He turned around and fumbled for half a minute from a thick iron drawer at the bottom of his desk. He took out an unsealed yellow paper envelope, pushed it forward against the smooth tabletop, and stopped at Pist's hand.
Pist was stunned for a moment, then looked down at the envelope. "Minister, what is this?"
"Go to the transfer form for branch Chicago, and there is also a deposit receipt for HSBC."
Joseph leaned back on the chair and took a deep breath.
"You are a meticulous worker and a down-to-earth person, but I can't leave you here at New York. I asked the Finance Department to calculate the pension you saved in the past few years in the ministry in advance yesterday afternoon, and all of it was converted into cash that can be withdrawn at any time."
The old man pressed his fingers on the table:
"Chicago It's a little colder over there, but it's also remote. Vought International can't be bothered to stretch out there now. You rent a heated house locally, find a stable wife, and live a good life. We old bones are fighting a bad war with those guys in suits. There's no need to bring you happy juniors to death."
It's very quiet inside the house.
Only the dark wind that squeezed in through the cracks in the window caused small ripples to appear on the surface of the cup of hot coffee.
In the inner pocket of Pist's coat, there is still the blank piece of paper given by Edgar.
As long as he waits for the old man to leave and signs his name on it, the spacious room at the top of the Vought International tower, a whole cabinet of cash, and the life of wealth that he will never leave behind, will all be his.
He loosened his fingers on the seam of his trousers and looked at the Chicago transfer letter pushed over, feeling as if he had been hit hard by something blunt.
"Chicago It's very cold in winter, Minister."
When Pist spoke, his throat seemed to be blocked by a ball of cotton, "The room where I work is leaking air, and I'm afraid I won't be able to bear it."
Joseph looked at him, his eyes darkened a little, and he didn't curse. He just quietly reached out and brought over the cup of black coffee with half a spoon of sugar on the table.
"In this life, the road is made by one's own legs. No one else can hold you back which door you want to enter."
Old Wizards picked up the paper cup, brought it to his mouth and took a sip.
After one sip, he pulled his throat down and swallowed the thick sweetness completely.
The coffee was added with water boiled from special flower roots extracted from the forest, giving it a hint of bitter almond flavor.
Joseph actually drank it all, but he didn't even put down the paper cup, and then drank the remaining half cup in a big gulp.
"Drinking this bitter water will make you feel more at ease."
Old Wizards put the paper cup on the table and made a soft click.
"It's just that if you can't sleep at night in the future, don't think about the good things in this building. The ropes held by the men in suits will strangle people in the seams of their bones."
After saying this, the old man's eyes began to darken and his shoulders dropped a little bit.
He didn't touch the case files at hand that he was going to take away to uncover the truth, nor did he look at Pist again. He just slowly put his white hair under his arms, sat in his old leather chair that had been ringing for decades, and closed his eyes.
The light was still so green, illuminating the table full of paper.
There was no sound of curses, and there was no movement of banging on the table. It was just like any old man who had been doing errands all his life. When the time came to get off work, he lay down on the table and took a rest.
Pist stood in front of the table for five minutes without moving his feet.
Looking at a dead leaf stuck to the back collar of Joseph's coat, Pist stretched out his stiff fingers and slowly pulled out the transfer letter to Chicago.
He didn't open it, but grabbed it with both hands and tore it into four pieces from the middle, then threw it into the black paper basket next to him.
Then he picked up the old-fashioned phone from the table and dialed the internal number Edgar told him.
As soon as the receiver was connected, Pist lowered his voice and spoke:
"Mr. Edgar, there is no one in the building right now. Here are all the maps and lists that Mr. Joseph left on the table. Before dawn tomorrow, I will send a special car to deliver these materials to the back door of your laboratory underground."
After hanging up the line, he turned off the desk lamp button.
When exiting from the desk, Pist took out a worn handkerchief and carefully wiped away the drop of black coffee that had just come out of the rim of the cup at the corner of the desk. He closed the door, walked down the stairs and turned the old lock core twice.