Directorate of Counterintelligence 1

Gabriel ran up the 33 steps of the Widener LIbrary at Harvard University. He blithly walked down the stairs and went through the microfiche room. At the right end of the room, there was a code that he needed to enter. OY was the code. He went into a hallway. He walked down the hallway and entered an elevator. He put in a key that gave him access to floor P3. Once on P3, he entered another hallway. He went to the end of the hallway, but it wasn't really the end of the hallway. It was a halogram. He walked through the illusion of a wall and then faced the door. 

"How are you doing Mr. Bond?

"Relatively well."

"I will be performing a full body scan on you."

"Of course."

"Can you please open your eyes fully? I will be performing a eye scan on you?"

"Of course."

"Your eyes are fully dilated. You are too emotional."

"You must excuse me."

"I will perform a fingerprint analysis on you."

"It's my pleasure."

"Cough please."

Gabriel coughed.

"You are smoking too much. Please refrain."

"Mi casa su casa."

"Would you like a vodka martini prepared for you?"

"You read my mind."

The door opened and Gabriel entered the Directorate of Counterintelligence. He entered a large room with a circular table in the middle. He sat in the seat marked G. Deborah sat next to him. Percy Evan and Rachel Eckermann soon followed. Kim was there too.

"What is the status of Grace Chang?"

"I let her go," Gabriel answered quietly.

"You let her go?" Percy asked. "You let her go. Is that really an answer?"

"She's too high up in the food chain."

"How do you know that? Is it your intuition? How can you trust something as subjective as intuition." Percy was flaming mad. "Do you know how many spies she killed?"

"It's all relative."

Trisha Trousseau was a blonde now. She was Rachel Eckermann now.

"Gabriel, are you out of your mind?" she asked.

"No."
 

"Your license to kill is suspened. As of right now, you are no longer a part of the CIA," Kim pronounced.

Gabriel really didn't care. He was sick of killing anyway. He wanted his freedom back. He felt like a slave of the CIA. He wanted out. He wasn't even sure that he loved Francis. It was all synchroncity anyway. They had just met at a time when they were mutually disenchanted. Who were these people anyway, telling him what to do, punishing him? He took the T to Boston and began to walk around the city.