Others found the endless lack of color unsettling, even frightening, but the watcher enjoyed her sterile environment. She didn’t need windows or paintings or trophies from past missions. She just needed one thing, the only thing in her office that broke the uniformity of the room — the panel of viewscreens opposite her desk. When they weren’t in use, they blended perfectly with the surgically clean walls, but the viewscreens were rarely turned off. She was the watcher. And there was always someone to watch. The watcher saw everything. She saw into the offices of politicians from every country. She observed five-star generals discussing strategy during top secret meetings. She heard the words and monitored the faces of thousands of unsuspecting people around the world. No one could escape the watcher’s eyes. Not even the Cahill family. The watcher had followed them throughout her entire career. All of her colleagues had. No one was a greater threat to her organization than the Cahills.
