The report called me emotionally unstable, reckless, temperamental, violent and impulsive. But it didn’t recommend to remove me from the field.

The list of my reprimands was long, but the culmination of my misbehaviours occurred when I got arrested following a fight I had with the French chargé d’affaires. I shouted some inappropriate ethnic-fuelled slurs, despite my fondness for both him and fried cuisses de grenouille, before beating him up. This was a necessary part of the plan that was meant to finally put me in front of the disciplinary commission. We needed to get one of its members to attend the proceedings. 

“Commission is now opening the floor for your statement,” said the chairwoman of the committee. Lacee was a 35-year-old brunette. She was the deputy of Alex, a middle-aged man and an extremely talented intelligence officer back in the day. He, on the other hand, was the deputy director of the Agency. They were irrelevant.

The single person who was not aware that this series of fuckups was just a ruse was Ben, a man in his sixties, whose attire, always immaculate, changed following the death of his son - right around the time I joined the Agency ten years ago. He was now wearing an aged black suit with a contrasting crisp white, but stained in at least three different places, shirt. He was my friend, mentor, and father I never had. To the Agency, he was the traitor whom I was ordered to kill.

I had nothing to say, so the hearing lasted all about 15 minutes, but we sat there for an hour to record such a time in the report. It wouldn’t look serious if we were to write the factual length of the proceedings in the transcript. That’s because the director of the Agency, upon hearing about my adventures, called for disciplinary measures to be taken. We needed to play him too. He was a politically-nominated dimwit whose sole international experience prior to taking up the charge of the most sensitive institution in the country was - and I shit you not - serving as an ambassador to Kuwait. That’s the current state of the espionage world in which, beside few outliers, experienced intelligence officers are being managed by pimple-faced cousins or sons-in-law of the sitting presidents.

I went to grab a beer with Ben afterwards, to the bar called “Brother Rabbit”. Its name was inspired by African folklore in which Br’er Rabbit was a mischievous trickster who utilised wit, deceit, and manipulation to achieve his goals. You can imagine why it was our favourite.

The joint was a typical-looking sports bar, with a long counter at the right side to the entrance, small tables to the other. It was empty, just an elderly couple sitting in the far corner of the room, minding their own business, drinking tea or something similarly adequate for the early hours of the day.

“Joking aside, I am really worried about you,” said Ben, interrupting our bender over some irrelevant matter. I took the shot of vodka and washed it down with the rest of the beer. I ordered another round for us, despite Ben not even being halfway through his. No shots for him. 

“Where have you been lately? I needed to beat the shit out of some frog-eater to finally get you out of your hole you crawled into?” I bounced the question. He didn’t respond, and we sat there in silence.

The third beer and shot arrived, just in time to soothe my shaky hand. I wasn’t sure if he noticed yet. While I was perceptive, Ben had a sixth sense. I guess all of us working in the industry had it. It can be a gift or a curse. Ben always said that the sixth sense is a controlled paranoia. Some controlled it well, some didn’t. He mastered it. That’s why he was the best of us, and I didn't think so only because he mentored me and I adored him. He was widely recognised as the most talented in the Agency.

He took me under his wing during my time in “The Academy” - a cute little name for training facility where we were schooled on the subjects relating to clandestine business. 

I was a troubled young man but outperformed my peers. He noticed me while reading through the files of the newest recruits and their performance assessments during the training courses. I stood out in all the wrong ways, just like him thirty years before me. It’s not that I couldn’t perform the tasks; it’s that I performed them in a manner that wasn’t to the instructors’ liking.

I was officially thrown out of the course due to insubordination and my name was struck out of any records, but I continued to learn about the craft under exclusive tutelage of Ben.

My first station was in Baghdad, which was supposed to be a transit point before my final destination - Moscow. I was to create my cover story in Iraq and make contact with the small circle of Chechen fighters who moved to the Middle East to support their Muslim brothers in the fight against western invaders. From Chechens in Iraq, I was to gradually infiltrate the baddies financing their presence there - the Chechen mafia. The next point on the agenda involved buying my way into their competition, the Russian mob. 

Selling out the information on Chechens would never be enough, and so to prove my intentions were true, Ben and I expected that Ruskis would order me to take out a couple of their business adversaries. I didn’t mind. Ben always emphasised the insignificance of collateral damage when working towards the bigger goal, but it wouldn’t be until years later in that obscure bar he was about to die in, that I would receive the final lesson on the topic.

It was in Baghdad where I first fell in love. Layla was a local humanitarian aide and the most beautiful and kind-hearted woman I have ever met. She got pregnant shortly after our first date. Our daughter, Sara, was born during my first trip to Russia. I hadn’t seen her for the first three years of her life, but when I finally did, I became blind with an unconditional love I have never ever experienced.

For now, Ben and I were recalling my times in The Academy and talking shit about its’ instructors when he summarised his opinion on the matter.

“Fuck them. That’s why we took them out of the field,” he said concluding our little memory trip. “I want you to know that I’m proud of you.” 

“Fuck you,” I mumbled, getting over the nostalgia.

He turned towards me and looked deep into my eyes. This little show I’ve put together was about to come to an end.

“This will change you.” - Ben said, opening the catharsis’ doors - “The torment will make you ruthless. You’ll become rageful and heartless. You mustn’t let go of that feeling. The anger will sharpen your senses. Hatred will make you fearless. This world we chose is cold and dirty. It’s cruel. It’s so fucking ugly. Remove your heart from the equation, and you’ll do what needs to be done.” He finished, clearing all the remaining doubts I had about whether he knew why we were here.

I instructed the bartender to leave. He worked for the Agency. Lacee insisted on his presence and I didn’t have the energy to tell her that Ben and I knew all employees of the bar. The junior officer put down the beer glass he was polishing unenthusiastically and gestured to the elderly couple. They stood up and went with him to the backroom. I should have expected that she’ll place more of the Agency’s guys inside and not tell me. 

I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and put the syringe on the table. The charade was over. 

“I will not make it easier for you,” he said before finally downing his beer in three big gulps. I knew that he wouldn’t do it himself. Still, there was a part of me that hoped he’ll pick up the syringe and insert it into his neck. I hid my face in the palm of my hand. 

“Why, Ben? Why would you do something so fucking stupid?” I said with a mix of sadness and anger. 

He grabbed me by the neck and whispered in my ear. 

“They had you ever since Lagos happened.” He didn't refer to a place, but an event.

I looked in his direction. My eyes were open, but all I saw was black. I started to sweat, my body froze, and my mind became numb.

Now it was him who reached into his jacket and pulled out a single surveillance photo, showing me exiting a hotel, female purse in my hand, big red X on my face. He took down another, and two more after that. I knew what was on them, and I turned them around without looking before hiding them in my jacket.

It was right after I did my first contract killing for the Russians, all according to the plan we put together with Ben, when I received a message from Layla, telling me that Sara contracted pneumonia. I immediately contacted Ben, breaking all the safety protocols of no-contact, to arrange for them to fly out of Iraq and get Sara the medical attention she needed. He met her once and adored her so he got to work but it was too late. I wasn’t around at the time of Layla’s grief. I didn’t fly-in for Sara’s funeral. I entered the state of utter numbness and detachment. The last message I received from Layla detailed Sara’s funeral and location of her resting place. We haven’t spoken since.

I left the Agency and started doing contract work in Africa which is a pompous way of saying I became a mercenary-whore for hire. I started to drink heavily during that time. For a full year I was either blackout drunk or in a firefight, there was no in-between. 

It was in one of Lagos’ hotel bars that I met a woman. We talked for a bit, got drunk, and went up to her room.

I sobered up after we finished. That’s when I noticed her purse, placed at the desk opposite to the bed. I stood up, walked across the room and picked it up. It had what appeared to be two buttons. One was a mini camera that I recognised immediately. I turned around and noticed her, still in bed, looking at me with terror in her eyes. 

The Russians, who were waiting in the surveillance van across the street, took pictures of me exiting the hotel with their honey trap’s purse. They ran inside, took the pictures of the dead body laying on the bed and started an exhausting process of determining how best to use them. 

I was approached by Lacee two months later. They found out that Ben was selling state secrets to the Russians and got four of our officers killed. I kept up the facade, pretending I’m out of the game while secretly gathering the evidence of his betrayal. It wasn’t hard. It was now clear to me why.

They had no leverage on me. I had nothing left. They knew that I’d sooner put the bullet in my face rather than work for them. I wanted to do it ever since Sara died. I didn’t care about anything or anyone. But Ben did. He lost a son, and his wife passed away from breast cancer shortly after. I was all he had.

“This little show of yours was convincing, I’ll give you that. Now, you have to continue mine.” This was his way of telling me what must be done, but for it to work, Ben needed to die.

I suddenly realised that my brief yet disastrous crisis costed the lives of four people. He was ruthless and expected the same from me. I know I was worth more than four officers in his eyes. Collateral damage. He sacrificed them and expected me to keep up the appearance of a bitter drunk, reach out to the Russians, and offer myself, furious over what happened to my beloved mentor.

“Have you ever visited her?” He was telling me where to start. 

The bar was empty now. There were no hidden cameras, but we were still being listened to. I stood up and walked around the counter to pour us one last shot. I grabbed the syringe and squirted its contents into his glass. He smiled, we toasted, and we drank the vodkas.

Two weeks after, I went to visit Sara and discovered a pendrive dropped into one of the vases placed on her grave. I would later find out that it contained a list of Ben’s handlers along with their psychological assessments, relationships’ summaries, skeletons in their closets, all things necessary to turn the tables at the right time.

I replaced the dried-out flowers with fresh ones, took one last look at the picture of a smiling, beautiful, little girl, turned around, and made my way to the airport. My flight from Baghdad to Moscow was leaving in an hour.