He couldn’t handle the bright light of his ceiling fixture anymore, his cataracts turning it into a glow that washed out the little detail he could still see. He instead lived by the light above his stove, the dull glow at least sparing him from headaches while he stumbled around his tiny studio apartment by memory, acting as his North Star, the halogen bulb the only thing he had to orient himself in the only room he had known for the last eight or so years.
The Government was nice enough to still deliver food once a week. Whoever they sent would knock three times on the door, leave the large paper bag on the threshold and vanish. Every week he would laugh and exclaim to no one that the food exchange was just like the many information drops he participated in as a member of the CIA. He had a vague memory of making the same joke before in his life, but couldn’t quite put his finger on when.
The food was the least The Government could do, for someone like Edgar, he often thought, he had given his entire life in service, never having a wife or kids at their behest. They reminded him, and at times even begged him, to remember those distractions would get in the way of his mission. That somehow the Russians would count it a victory if he gained pride in a child’s recital, or shared an anniversary with a loving wife. Other agents needed to have a family for cover, they would tell him, he was too important to risk on those missions. He was trusted with something far too important to worry about any cover besides a lonely night janitor who played ski ball and sometimes rifled through trash during the day. They had even held his paychecks in an account he had no access to, to help him resist temptation.
It had all made sense to him as a patriotic young man, but now Edgar wondered why he had been so foolish. Of course, they gave him all the money after the wall came down, and even told him to go have a family, but he was 58 years old then, and had lived for the previous 25 years as a lonely night janitor. All he cashed were his janitors paychecks, the slip with the account information now long lost in his apartment. Then, one day, he stopped going to work, it had to be 9 years ago, maybe 8. He was left all alone by the country who he had sworn to hold hostage if need be, at the behest of the President of the United States of America.
He very rarely went into the back closet where the secret was kept anymore. In fact, it had been such a part of his life since his mid-twenties, fresh out of military, that he didn’t even think about it. The two red buttons with two keys. One labeled “WINDY” and one labeled “PONY”. He was told that there were many others just like him, who could alter the course of the conflict with the Russians, that were trusted with the fire of the Gods, aimed at their countrymen.
The thought was if there was a turn of sympathy for the Reds, or somehow they gained the upper hand and there was no recourse but war before it was too late, the United States Government would be required to sacrifice several major United States Cities to convince the country to go to war. Edgar was told he was not part of any of the main options the government would use, but his would be an impossibly important mission because of the power placed in his hands. He had Russian ancestors, he was required to subscribe to Russian newspapers. His job was to pretend to be a Russian spy, a Russian operative, so when the cataclysm fell upon Chicago and Sacramento, the signal for the warheads would have come from a man who the government could easily declare Russian.
He went back into the closet, the darkest place in his apartment, once the secret door was replaced behind him. He remembered, in his youth, sitting on the barren floor, when one of the keys turned, just so the red glow of the button would come forward, and bath him. He again turned the key marked “WINDY” and to his surprise, through the heavy tissue around his cornea, he made out the red again bathing him. With great effort he sat back down on the floor, his legs sticking out at odd angles, not the perfect Indian style he executed effortlessly when he was young.
He thought they would have disconnected the panel years ago, as soon as the wall fell, or even before when his part of the plan was certainly no longer even a remote possibility. He got excited, now believing they must have forgotten, his name must have been so far down on the list, and they were busy pouring champagne all over each other and shredding files with his name and mission on it.
His stomach rumbled and his eyelids felt heavy. He must have fallen asleep in the red glow, thinking about his contacts, their families, and the recitals he used to sit in on in the gymnasium of the school where he cleaned toilets, and now he was hungry. He got his legs under him, and tried to stand. He last his balance a little, and reached out for the latch of the secret door. It was not where he remembered and his hand slid along the wall. He felt helpless, and toppled forward.
The red glow got rapidly brighter, and brighter, and for a split second it encompassed his vision, the light hitting his old eyes and refracting all the way back to his brain. And then he heard a sickening crunch, and something in his head and on the panel give way. He hit the floor, warmth and a new red now running over his eyes. As he lay dying, he heard one beep, followed by two beeps. The way the schematics said it would sound.
