Malcolm slowly looked at the three men. To them his voice seemed very old, very tired. To him it seemed new. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
The old man smiled, patted him on the back, and, mumbling platitudes, led him to the door. When he returned to his seat, Powell looked at him and said, “Well, sir, that’s the end of our Condor.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t be so sure, Kevin, my boy, don’t be so sure.”
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