In his left hand, a sterling silver coffee mug with the CIA logo perfectly engraved on one side, filled with Jacobs Kronung finest dark roast, the wrist surrounded by a platinum and ice-blue Cosmograph Daytona Rolex. The coffee mug was a gift from his former employer, the watch a gift to himself. In all, the Tungsten handler Menendez probably left the house wearing more money than forty-seven percent of Americans bring home in a month. It was too bad he was stuck underground most days, running his assets, or “embeds” as Tungsten classified them, immediately available to backstop a distressed operative or activate a Priority One repatriation. Yes, it was a full-time job, not unlike his previous thirty-eight years of government service, but it would be nice to surface when the sun was still up and strut his stuff in action-packed downtown Atlanta, Georgia, from time to time. It certainly paid well, though. Carlos thumbed one more time through the file marked 0706 in the upper-right corner of the folder.
