I get asked to deploy again, this time in alias—false identities for both Zoë and me. “She’s young enough not to remember,” the Agency shrink assures me. And I know that he’s right. But something in me bucks at the request. I finger the necklace I’m wearing—a bronze letter Z, for Zoë, for life. I imagine packing it away, along with our true selves, and teaching my child to respond to a different name. I listen to the briefings, assess the approach. It’s all pretty secure. They’re right. We can win this one by outdeceiving the other side. But I can’t shake the feeling that it won’t end there. As we stand in that room, huddled around a whiteboard, it feels like an endless hall of mirrors, with all the past deception that got us here behind us and all the future deceptions this operation will make necessary unfolding ahead. An infinite sequence of whiteboards, covered in well-intentioned lies.
“I’m gonna go hit the head,” I tell them.
On the way back, Jon stops me in the hall.
“Doesn’t look to me like you’re too into this one,” he says.
“Yeah, well, guess that’s the service part of service,” I laugh.
“Nope,” he says, “the service part of service is doing the thing you’re called to do.”
I look down. I know he’s thinking I’ve gone soft since I had my girl. And he’s right. But what he doesn’t understand yet is that soft works. Soft is how we end this war. The Agency taught me to fight terrorism by convincing my enemy that I’m scary. Zoë taught me to fight by taking off my mask and showing my enemy that I’m human. In that hallway, surrounded by metal vault doors that lead into giant airtight rooms of secrets, I know that both paths might lead to security, but only Zoë’s path leads to actual peace.
“Look, you’ve given us almost a decade,” he says. “You’ve racked up awards and blah blah. Helped save a bunch of lives. I sure as shit don’t want to lose you. But this place is like a swimming pool. No matter how much space you take up while you’re in it, the water’ll close around you when you get out and no one will ever know you’re missing.” I look at him for a minute and he adds, “That’s a crotchety old man’s way of saying, ‘You did good, kid. Your country’s in your debt. It’s okay to do what’s next.’ ”
I walk outside and sit next to the Berlin Wall panels as the sun falls behind the woods. This has been my world since I was twenty-two years old. My one underlying truth as battles and relationships have come and gone. But in my heart I know that Langley and I have given each other all we’re supposed to. I don’t address Him directly, but it’s God I’m talking to when I whisper out loud, “Use me. Please use me. Show me my next work.”
That night, Zoë drops a book in my lap. It’s The Velveteen Rabbit. I read it to her as my eyes well with tears: “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
I’m not sure yet what my work in the world will be, but I know that I need to do it without any disguises to hide behind. I submit my letter of resignation and make my way through a wistful week of lasts—last contribution to the President’s Daily Brief, last pitcher of beer with my brothers-in-arms, last time through the badge machine and out the eastern doors, with the cicadas singing an undulating good-bye in the thick summer wet. I drive out the gates to Route 123, past the snipers and over the tire hazards, aware that there’s no returning now, except through the visitors’ entrance. I turn left, drop down onto Rock Creek Parkway, and head for home.
There’s traffic on Key Bridge, the Lincoln Memorial to my right and the Georgetown boathouse to my left. In the quiet of my car, I examine myself in the mirror. Touch my cheek. I’ve worn masks for almost a decade. My real face feels inchoate and raw, like the moist paleness of new skin beneath a Band-Aid. The light at the end of the bridge turns green and the traffic begins to move. Zoë’s waiting for me. I shift into gear and roll slowly forward.
20
We move to California to be near my mom and stepdad, who are renovating an old house in the foothills of Santa Barbara. Tucked into a nearby wooden cottage, not far from the sea, I begin the process of peeling off my fictions like layer after layer of onion. I put down the fearlessness and the coolness and the strength. Learn to say “I don’t know.” I discover that becoming Real isn’t as simple as driving out through the Langley gates. It isn’t only undercover spies who pretend. It’s everyone with a social media account, it turns out, or a lover or a boss. At first it confuses me, why these people would lie without the same stakes on the line. I get angry, because I’m disappointed in them, but more because I’m disappointed in myself, in how I’m no more Real in California than I was in Shanghai.
One day, my mom writes me a letter, and I read it next to the crashing Pacific Ocean. She can see that I’m struggling, can empathize with my journey to find and inhabit my true self. People pretend in the real world just as much as in the spy world, she says. They pretend because the stakes are the same—the stakes are not getting hurt. Sure, in my old world the harm was a suitcase nuke in Times Square, but who’s to say the scorn of a lover isn’t as powerful a weapon? Problem is, she points out, the cost of the armor is the same, too. The insecurity that comes from building relationships on a lie, on a flickering projection of strength.
I think of my old boss and his Mideast negotiations—remember asking him how our allies can give us something we won’t tell them we lack. Turns out, the same goes for friends. And spouses. And moms.
Whether it’s falling in love or starting a movement, talking with a coworker or building up NATO, pretending makes us feel strong, she says, in relationships and geopolitics. It makes us feel safe. But pretending is a shoddy foundation for things like peace and power. She tells me how she’s grown from an unsure young mother, afraid of not looking or speaking or acting as she should. How honest vulnerability, paradoxically, has made her strong. How that strength, that Realness, has sustained her friendships and second marriage in a way the pretending of youth never could. I watch the waves crash against the seawall and thank the universe for gifting me my mother, my rock, my guiding point of light. I feel the power of opening ourselves up, with no pretense at armor. Not just in Karachi and Fallujah and Aleppo, but here at home as well.
Slowly, I begin getting involved in my local community—in corrections facilities and homeless shelters—working with gang members to build trust using the same skills I honed on the streets of the Middle East. I write to my old boss Jon to tell him I’ve found the work I left the Agency to do—the work to which Zoë and my mother led me: ending conflict through vulnerable, honest human exchange. I work with violent offenders, preparing them to meet their victims. I travel back to Iraq and Jordan and Turkey, taking Sunni and Shi’ite militia members through the same program of reconciliation in the ever-growing settlements of refugees. Sitting beside resting weapons, I watch as men accustomed to firing at one another share tea and tears instead. Every time I witness one of these honest moments between enemies, it feels like the lifting of a spell, the victims of a fairy tale curse slowly waking, blinking in the light, as they recognize one another as human. I watch their first agreements take hold in the camps they govern. Watch their children walk to school together in safety.
“Think this old dog could learn those new tricks?” Jon asks me on the phone one day.
“Thought you’d never ask!” I laugh. Retired from Langley, he’s at my side on my next trip to Iraq, the two of us sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in circles of Sunni and Shi’ite teenagers who’ve lost family members to one another’s parents. Not so long ago, we were fighting on this very soil. Today, the air is thick with hurt and healing
. At the afternoon’s end, Jon tells me about the moment he knew it was going to be okay. “When that girl sat there and held hands with the kid of the guy who killed her brother and said, ‘We have to honor our parents by not repeating their mistakes.’ ” He makes a gesture like his heart just exploded.
“Let’s hope our kids honor us the same way, huh?” I laugh and we walk the long, dusty path to the refugee camp gates, old brother- and sister-in-arms, reassured at having glimpsed a future that is better than we are.
* * *
—
Back home, I begin to build a life, and a family of friends who know my truth. Zoë and I make dinners in the kitchen of our little wooden cottage and eat them on the roof looking up at the stars, then fall asleep in my big quilt-covered bed, with the ocean ever-constant and ever-changing outside our door. There is a hugeness in this small life—a flame that reveals itself in the stillness. And the more I feel it, the more scared I am that it will get invaded by the chaotic world beyond.
When I’m invited to speak publicly about my work, my body physically revolts, like jerking my fingers back from a hot stove.
“I get it,” the journalist jokes. “You want to keep all your lessons locked up so only you can enjoy them.”
“No,” I laugh, “I’m just scared of—” I pause.
“Of…” he prompts me.
Every instinct and every piece of training I’ve ever undergone is in opposition to this moment. What will happen if I tell the world the truth? Spill that most secret of secrets: that all we soldiers and spies, all the belching, booming armored juggernauts of war, all the terror groups and all the rogue states, that we’re all just pretending to be fierce because we’re all on fire with fear. What will happen if I speak those words out loud? Will I get hurt? Will Zoë get hurt? Will our life be disrupted all over again? But then I remember my daughter, looking up at me and laughing. I think of the white flowers on the table in Karachi and the girls sitting in their dusty circle outside Mosul. Of the prisoners, here at home, making amends to their victims and themselves. Of the gang members removing their tattoos. I think of my brother, holding the hands of the dying.
“Of nothing,” I answer.
And instead of hiding, I sit in front of a camera and tell the world the truth.
It’s indescribable. After a lifetime of social expectations and war games and strategy. Indescribably liberating to speak with no filter of fear. And not just for me, it turns out. My words spread fast. Millions, then tens of millions, then a hundred million people watch. Soon I start receiving e-mails from veterans around the world—Americans and Afghans and Russians and Egyptians. Each of them like the Wizard of Oz, trapped behind their curtains, shouting at one another with ever-bigger voices. And each of them finally brave enough, in those halting, nervous e-mails, to let the curtain drop—to show themselves as human and be free.
I read the new messages each morning, introduce the writers to one another, letter by vulnerable letter, a slowly growing web of peace. And as I read, I glance, every so often, at the coin that still sits on my desk, finger the engraving, worn down like a compass that is battered but truer with use. I think about how much more deeply I understand its words now than when I first read them, flushed with excitement as a CIA trainee.
“And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
Acknowledgments
To the women and men of CIA, your work is hard and mostly unrecognized. You grapple with questions of ethics and law, life and death. You do not have the luxury of armchair quarterbacking or passing the buck. You work in the shadow of potential apocalypse, costing human lives and dreams. Your allegiance is to the flag, to the Constitution, to some higher power, be that God or Love. I came of age in your midst. I marinated in the tradition of service you modeled for me. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Lisa, you mean it when you tell people you love them. You bring them soup when they’re sick. You keep their secrets. You have their back. I nearly don’t remember life without you. I learned friendship at your side. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Min Zin and Daryl, you work for democracy at ongoing cost to your comfort and safety. You tell the truth when the world is not ready or is not interested. You stand by those who suffer for freedom and live the words you speak. In your shadows, I learned the power of individual citizens to change the world. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Emmett, you see the worth in people, whether or not they see it in themselves. You commit your hours to the uplifting of others. You see the world for what it could be and do more than your part to manifest the evolution. Across continents and email addresses, I learned from what you wrote me and I learned from what I wrote you. I found in you proof that humans could be both cool and good. And I witnessed the dividends introspection can pay. I admire the man you are. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Anthony, you devote your brain and being to the expression of truth through art. You are kind and loyal. You are clever without being small. You were the first person I fell in love with and the first person I properly hurt. You taught me to recognize how far I have yet to go. And the responsibility I bear for getting there without harming others as I grow. I’ve held your wisdom close these last two decades. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Jon, you are a national treasure, though most people walk past you on the street unaware. You have spent decades in service of a country that cannot thank you because they do not know your name. You are the most skilled operator I know. And a gracious teacher. You gave me the space I needed to fail and the tools I needed to succeed. Deep bow to you, my mentor and friend. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Dean, you are a patriot. You are a friend. You are an incredible dad. The world is safer because of your work in the field and our daughter is the young woman she is because of your love at home. We’ve walked a wild journey together. At your side, I learned to talk less and listen more. I learned to put mission before comfort. I learned the many faces love can have. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Meg, Dr. Platt, Father Davies, you live between the spiritual and terrestrial realms. You are on conversational terms with God. You have walked beside me in my faith journey. You have asked and answered questions of purpose and courage. You have uncovered for me the suchness of life. You have shown me why I am here. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Jordan, Erin, Anna, Michael, Lynette, Brie, you shape tomorrow’s reality through the telling of stories, the sharing of human experience. You amplify voices of hope. You give people reason to believe. I cannot imagine a more capable or inspiring team. I get to share this story because of you. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
James, Dani, Clare, Kate, and Chris, you taught me the meaning of unconditional love. You nurtured and forgave me without asking anything in return. You taught me how to be vulnerable. You taught me how to be happy. You taught me how to be. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Mum, Steven, Dad, Luda, Ben, Eva, Antonia, Sasha, Catherine, you are my homeland, my country of origin. You know me as no one else can. In your protective circle, I learned who I was. You loved me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially when I didn’t deserve it. I bear our family flag across my heart. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Zoë and Bobcat, you are my teachers. You are funny and brave. You are kind. You carry inside you the echoes of my mother. You are proof of immortality. I cannot wait to see the paths you will walk. My paw is forever in yours. Thank you for making me the woman I’ve become.
Bobby, you are a man who has seen the deep truth of the universe and you live that truth each day. You prize family, friends, and art above belongings and material wealth. You lead with humility. You excel quietly. You give without expecta
tion of recognition. You are the person who most inspires me. My electric collaborator, my place of rest. You would recognize my soul outside my spaceship. I have let your spirit inside its walls. My partner in creativity and creation, thank you for making my heart whole.
A Note About the Author
Following her CIA career in the field, Amaryllis Fox has covered current events and offered analysis for CNN, the National Geographic channel, Al Jazeera, the BBC, and other global news outlets. She speaks at events and universities around the world on the topic of peacemaking. She is the host of the upcoming Netflix series The Business of Drugs and lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughters.
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Life Undercover Page 21