FDR slid into the chair next to Harrison, alias Hansen. “Here’s the thing,” he said, “MI5, 6, or 10, I have no idea what in the hell you are.
But we’re cousins, right? Something along those lines, anyway. So, while you’re here, why don’t we get a drink? Maybe you and your wife can come over for dinner at my grandparents’.
Uh, let the record show, I do not still live with my grandparents,
I just do what any sensible bachelor who doesn’t want to be assassinated by the local fire department does and expect them to keep providing me with food.
In exchange, I still do weekend lawn work and help with the horses.”
Hansen gave him a wary look. “There is no MI10.”
“I’d expect an analyst to know that,” FDR said.
“Me, I’m strictly fieldwork, and I figure,
the best way to come across as ordinary is to not automatically correct people when they say something they obviously learned from TV or some book about our work.
You might be surprised at how many agents accidentally fall into that trap.”
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