The Wistful Cipher
The banquet hall of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Office of Personnel Security was not a place of joy but of sterile, aggressive normalcy, where the air recycler hummed a low, monotonous B-flat that seemed to vibrate directly against the tympanic membranes of the forty-two special agents seated at the long mahogany table, their hands resting placidly on the white tablecloths as if...
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