Free Fall

by Christa Roberts

  “Country of citizenship?” asked a young Canadian customs officer.

  “U.S.,” Ben said.

  “U.S.,” Sydney echoed.

  “Where are you going?” the officer asked Sydney.

  “Niagara Falls,” Sydney said, giving him a smile.

  “Purpose?”

  “I'm meeting some friends and we're going rock climbing.” While it was fine for Sydney to use her real name, Sloane had advised her not to give any details of her mission to the customs officers. It would slow things down. Once she was with her fellow agents, they'd be back at the border crossing soon enough.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Just a few days,” Sydney told him.

  The officer glanced at Ben's driver's license, then handed it back.

  “Don't fall,” he said, waving them through.

  Sydney stuck her passport back in her purse. The officer hadn't even looked at it. Well, I'm sure glad I didn't come up with an elaborate disguise for that, she thought, glancing down at her black cotton shorts and her most comfortable sandals.

  It was going to be nice being able to be Sydney Bristow on a mission. Being a student was something she could do pretty well.

  But as for being herself? That was something she kept practicing every day.

  “Thank you!” Sydney called over her shoulder as Ben pulled away from the entrance to the Maple Leaf Lodge. The large building in front of her was the guest registration entrance, and one-story wings sprawled out on either side. She had been slightly disappointed to see that the accommodations were several blocks from the falls. You aren't here to be a tourist, she reminded herself as she strode into the lobby and squinted, her eyes adjusting to the light. Comfortable couches and rustic chairs filled the generously sized lobby, and a gigantic chandelier made from moose antlers hung overhead. In fact, she noted as she took in her surroundings, there were actual stuffed animal heads lining the walls. Nice.

  “I'm checking in,” she told the man behind the desk. “I'm with the rock-climbing group led by Tad Sinclair? Sydney Bristow.”

  “Oh, yes.” He typed something into a computer, then handed Sydney a crisp white packet and an electronic key card. “Your room is in the west wing,” he said, pointing discreetly to the number 357 on her card key. “The other members of your party have already checked in. They're meeting in the Whirlpool Lounge.” He cocked his head to her left.

  “Oh,” Sydney said, looking down at her wrinkled clothes. She had been hoping to take a quick shower and change before meeting her fellow agents, but she didn't want to miss anything important.

  “I can have a bellhop take your things to your room if you want,” the man offered, gesturing to a young guy with messy black hair. He wore a drab brown uniform and was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

  The Maple Leaf Lodge has a bellhop? And he's it? Sydney hesitated. Then her practical side took over. She nodded and picked up the packet, forcing herself not to look over at Slacker Bellhop. “Okay, thanks.”

  Inside the Whirlpool Lounge five pairs of eyes turned to look at her when she walked in. Five people were standing around a large conference table that was covered with cans of soda, bottled water, and several bowls of snack food.

  “Hi!” she said to no one in particular, feeling a blush come into her cheeks. No matter how much training she had, no one ever seemed to be able to tell her how to refrain from turning red whenever she was embarrassed. “I'm—”

  “Agent Bristow,” finished an older man, his dark brown hair cropped short, his clothes casual but professional. He smiled at her. “I'm Agent Henry. And that clown over there”—he pointed to a burly man in a blue polo shirt who was stuffing a handful of potato chips in his mouth— “is Agent Sinclair.”

  “I'm glad to be here,” Sydney said, shaking their hands. “Sorry I'm late.”

  “You aren't. We were just getting to know each other a little,” Agent Henry said.

  A tall guy with sandy blond hair, a slim build, and an easy smile walked over. “Would you like a Coke?” he asked, cracking open a fresh can. He looked about her age.

  “That would be great,” Sydney said, happily taking it from him.

  “I'm Paul Riley. I work at SD-2 in Chicago.”

  “Maureen Paladino,” piped up a young woman with short dark hair, a bottle of water in her hand.

  “The Midwest?” Sydney guessed after hearing her speak.

  Maureen laughed. “St. Louis. SD-15. And you've got to be from California.”

  “But I don't have an accent and I'm not blond or tan,” Sydney protested with a laugh.

  “But you do have an LAX sticker on your purse,” pointed out a short, muscular African American guy. He stuck out his hand. “Greg Williams. SD-3 in New York.”

  “Nice to meet all of you,” Sydney said, a feeling of genuine warmth bubbling up inside her. It felt so good to finally meet people like herself, bright, devoted young people who were dedicating their lives to defending their country. She wasn't entirely alone after all.

  “Hey! Hi!” A striking young woman with long blond hair and huge blue eyes hurried into the room clutching a small orange foil bag. “Leave it to me to step out to go grab a bag of potato chips and miss meeting my roomie.”

  “Me?” Sydney said, surprised. She hadn't counted on having a roommate. The girl looked slightly older than Sydney, and she was beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and delicate features. But Sydney didn't get any prima donna vibes—instead, she had an immediate gut feeling that they were going to be friends.

  Agent Henry perched himself on top of the table. “Sharing rooms cuts down our costs and helps build bonds between agents. Harling and Bristow, Riley and Williams, and Paladino, you drew the lucky straw—a single.”

  “Having a roommate makes sense,” Sydney said, turning her gaze back to the girl. Maybe Sloane was right. Maybe she would make a new friend here.

  The girl gave Sydney a warm smile as she intro-duced herself. “I'm Stephanie Harling, from SD-2.”

  “So you two came here together?” Sydney asked, looking over at Paul. That would be kind of nice, having another agent to train with. Especially one as cute as Paul. Then Sydney's mind flickered to Noah. And especially one who's on the same level.

  “Yep,” Stephanie said, dropping into a chair. Her hair fanned over her slightly freckled shoulders. “I don't know how the folks back home are going to get along without us.”

  Sydney thought of her own “folks back home.” They consisted of one person: Francie.

  Agent Sinclair rapped his knuckles on the table. “Okay, agents. Five more minutes of chitchat, and then I'm going to go over the agenda for our days here in Niagara Falls. I'm sure you'll find them exhausting, exhilarating, and hell, maybe a bit exasperating.”

  “Sounds like my last girlfriend,” Greg muttered beside Sydney.

  As the other agents laughed and picked at the remaining snacks, Sydney excused herself and went out into the lobby.

  Time to give the folks back home a call.

  “This is ten times harder than being a waitress!” Francie complained, her voice clear as a whistle even though she was thousands of miles away in New Mexico. “I'm like the Parkers' new personal servant. ‘Francie, I need a juice box.' ‘Francie, I'm hot.' ‘Francie, I'm bored.'” A large whoosh of air came over the phone. “Kids are totally spoiled these days!”

  Sydney laughed, leaning back into the lumpy lobby couch and cradling the phone under her chin. “Remember what you said. It's the experience that counts. After all, you could be here with me”—she hesitated, hating the lie that was about to come out of her mouth— “in good old smog-filled L.A.”

  Francie snorted. “Like you'd ever go out and enjoy the day anyway. Don't you have the bank's logo tattooed on your butt by now?”

  “Actually it's on my stomach.”

  Sydney knew she couldn't really blame Francie for feeling the way she did, but sometimes she didn't want to hear it. And thi
s was one of those times.

  There was a moment of silence. “I'm sorry, Syd. Don't be mad,” Francie said, her voice sounding tired and small. “I guess I just feel kind of lonesome today. And like maybe I made the wrong decision taking this job.” She sighed. “I'm here in this huge house trying to make three different kinds of tacos for three wild, sweaty kids while Mr. and Mrs. Parker eat lunch at some chichi local restaurant. But I shouldn't complain to you. You're probably driving to the bank right now.”

  “I'm not working today,” Sydney blurted out. “I'm—I'm going to just, uh, hang out.”

  “Are you kidding me? I'm away and suddenly you're going to just ‘hang out'? Jeez! Are you going to the beach?”

  “Um—”

  “No, wait,” Francie cut her off. “Tell me you're not going shopping at the Beverly Center. Or worse, the Farmer's Market. Are you? I am dying for an empanada from Benny's!”

  Sydney looked up at the giant stuffed bear head hanging over the Maple Leaf Lodge's check-in desk.

  Then she let out a sigh. “Me too.”

  Sydney took out a khaki skirt from her suitcase and frowned, her forehead crinkling. “This was supposed to be wrinkle free,” she said, giving it a frustrated shake and then hanging it up in the hotel room closet.

  “I have an iron if you need one,” Stephanie called over to her. She was kneeling in front of the TV, running her hands under the set and over the back. “It's clean.” Then, as Sydney tossed a few pairs of shorts into a drawer, Stephanie moved over to the telephone, pulled out a miniature tool kit from her duffel bag, and began to take the receiver apart.

  Sydney's new roommate was unbelievably thorough. After quickly unpacking her belongings, she had tested the door's locks, scanned the room for bugs, checked the window seals and the air-conditioning unit, and had ended up on her hands and knees in front of the TV. Maybe I've been a little too negligent, Sydney thought worriedly. “Do you always do this when you stay at a hotel?” she asked, curious.

  Stephanie shrugged. “You can't be too safe,” she said, peering into the coat closet.

  Sydney followed her gaze. Nothing but old wire hangers and a few musty cobwebs. “How long have you been with SD-2?” Sydney asked, zipping up her now empty suitcase and tossing it onto the luggage rack.

  “Sixteen months,” Stephanie said. “I was recruited during my senior year at the University of Chicago. It sure added some excitement to my dual major of political science and Japanese.”

  “So you're through with school?” Sydney asked enviously. It wasn't that she wanted to wish away her college years . . . but it was hard to concentrate in her foreign cultures class when she was actually experiencing the very things she was reading about. And coming up with creative stories for her classmates on why she was absent so often was not an easy task.

  “I graduated last June.” Stephanie pumped her fist. “Woo-hoo! No more all-nighters! Of course, it was a little anticlimactic watching all my friends hunt for jobs and be wooed by Fortune 500 companies while I pretended to be psyched to get a permanent offer from the”—she made air quotes— “‘insurance company' I've been working at.”

  “Oh, wow.” Sydney hadn't thought that far ahead, but she could imagine it now. The stuff is going to hit the fan if I tell Francie I'm going to work for Credit Dauphine full-time! She sighed. She'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

  “I've got three years left at UCLA,” Sydney said, half to herself. “Then I guess I'll work for SD-6 full-time.” After all she had been through in the past year, Sydney knew she would be putting aside her plan to become an English teacher, like her mother had, and committing to a life of service to her country. But somehow the thought of working somewhere for the rest of her life—even the CIA—was a little daunting. She couldn't let herself think too much about life after college. I still have to pass my sophomore honors history class next semester, and Professor Elgin is supposed to be a holy terror!

  Feeling slightly guilty as she watched Stephanie continue her thorough room sweep, Sydney got down on the carpet and halfheartedly looked under the beds for anything suspect. Ugh. Nothing but some serious dust bunnies and an old deodorant bottle. She sat up, brushing her hands off on her shorts.

  I wonder if Stephanie's on a mission too, Sydney thought, watching as the other agent crouched down and felt the closet floor. Would it be wrong to ask her? It could be kind of fun to compare the gadgets they had. In the zippered interior compartment of her suitcase were several new state-of-the- art devices Graham had concocted for her: a digital camera built into the palm of a fashionable leather glove; a lightweight bulletproof water poncho, a tube of lipstick that contained a sedative, and her favorite, a waterproof wristwatch that emitted a laser that immobilized someone for up to sixty seconds, similar to the effects of a stun gun. “Where were you when I was being hit on by all those drunken frat boys last fall?” she had joked when Graham had shown her how the gadgets worked.

  “Well, what do you know,” Stephanie said suddenly, startling Sydney out of her thoughts. Slowly, the blond agent peeled off a small black disk that was affixed to the back of the luggage rack. “Looks like someone didn't want to miss a word of our conversation.”

  To: sydney.bristow@creditdauphine.com

  From: noah.hicks@credit-dauphine.com

  Subject: apparel

  Dear Agent Bristow,

  Dear Sydney,

  Sydney,

  Just wondering what size kimono you wear.

  Love,

  Wish you were here,

  Love,

  The guy who drives you crazy and you love it

  Agent Hicks

  See ya,

  Noah

  To: noah.hicks@creditdauphine.com

  From: sydney.bristow@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: apparel

  Hello. You have reached the office of Sydney Bristow at Credit Dauphine. I will be working on the filing system in the main bank branch this week and will be checking my e-mail only periodically. I will respond to your e-mail as soon as possible.

  5

  SYDNEY SMILED AT THE other agents and made polite small talk when they met at the hotel restaurant for dinner later that night, but she was grateful when the waiter handed her an oversized plastic-covered menu that she could duck behind. She didn't want anyone to be able to read what was on her face.

  SD agents were supposed to be able to conceal their emotions, but Sydney found that hard to do, especially when her heart was racing and her mind was darting every which way.

  She and Stephanie had decided it was best not to say anything about the bug to the others just yet. At this point, there was nothing anyone could do. But even though Sydney wasn't talking about it, she couldn't stop thinking about it. Who could have tapped their room? And why? The mission she was working on for Sloane was old news. Nobody would be interested in Sanderling's research now. Would they?

  “So what are you having?” Paul asked from the seat beside her.

  “Um, I think the steak,” Sydney said, hoping that it was actually a choice on the menu. The only reason she could think of for someone to spy on their room was if they were trying to get to Stephanie. And the only reason someone would try to get to Stephanie was if she was on a mission.

  And if she is, I'm going to find out what it is.

  “No freaking way. They sent you to ammunitions training in your first month?” Maureen put down her fork in protest. “That is so not fair. I had to wait until my third!”

  Greg took another bite of his sauce-covered pork chop. “Where was your first mission?”

  “Detroit,” Maureen said slowly. “Where was yours?”

  Greg shrugged. “Nowhere great.” He paused. “Bali.”

  Paul high-fived him. “Me too, dude!”

  Sydney laughed into her cloth napkin as Maureen gave Greg and Paul each a mock punch. Dinner had turned out to be surprisingly good, both in food and in company. Once their meals had come and she
had begun to eat, Sydney was able to forget, at least for a little while, about the black disk Stephanie had located. And it was fun to share anecdotes with people who were just like her. People who could completely understand the life she was leading because they were leading it too.

  “How about you, Sydney? Where did you go on your first mission? Paris?” Maureen asked sarcastically, nibbling at a piece of bread.

  “No . . . they saved that for my second one,” she deadpanned as Greg and Paul howled with laughter. “My first was right in L.A. At a rock concert.”

  “Who was playing?” Stephanie asked, her blue eyes wide. “Don't tell me you had to escort some gorgeous guitar god to his dressing room.”

  Sydney shook her head. “No, nothing like that.” Everyone at the table worked for a division of SD, but she wasn't sure what she should reveal and what she should keep quiet. In any case, the memory of that first mission—one she didn't even know she was being sent on—was one she wanted to forget.

  A spoon clinking on a wineglass got her attention. “Okay, everyone. I hope you enjoyed your dinner tonight,” Agent Henry said as he stood. “We've held this retreat at the Maple Leaf Lodge for the past five years, and I can tell you that the lemon meringue pie is something to behold.”

  “Looks like you made the right choice, then,” Sydney whispered to her roommate as a waitress carried in a tray of desserts and deposited a large slice of pie in front of Stephanie. “I can never resist ice cream. It's my weakness.”

  Then she grew quiet as she watched Agent Henry's eyes travel from person to person, taking in every detail. She hadn't quite figured him out yet. “I've got a special offer for you tonight,” Agent Henry announced, waving a business-sized envelope in front of them. Okay, she definitely didn't have him figured out. “I've got a gift certificate for dinner for two at the best restaurant in Niagara Falls for the first person to turn in a wiretap or bugging device.”

  Sydney blinked as Stephanie, a puzzled look on her face, stood up, removed the small black disk from her pants pocket, and deposited it in Agent Henry's outstretched palm. To her surprise, Greg got up too—and seconds later gave an identical bug to a grinning Agent Sinclair.