Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  Yeah, well, it's too bad I'm really not the right type, she told herself, pulling back her arm. She really had to shake this from her mind before she freaked out entirely. What she needed was a long, brisk run.

  As quietly as she could, she slipped into a clean set of sweats, pulled on her running shoes, and tiptoed past Francie's bed. Outside, the campus was ablaze with a vivid rosy light. The air was crisp, and except for her, the only things stirring were birds. Everyone else was probably sleeping off the lingering effects of a wild Friday night. Oh well, she thought. At least I'll have the track to myself.

  But five minutes later, when she walked through the main gate to the athletic fields, she could see a lone figure stretching out at the side of the bleachers. “Todd?” she called as she approached.

  Todd lifted his head and grinned. Then he quickly hopped to his feet and jogged over to her. “Sydney! Hey, doll. What are you doing here so early on a Saturday?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I guess I might as well tell you,” he said, springing giddily on his Nikes. “I got some fabulous news yesterday and I've been bouncing around like a Super Ball ever since. I couldn't even sleep. I had to come out here and work all this energy off before I hurt someone.”

  “Well, tell me already,” Sydney said, laughing. “What is it?”

  Todd paused dramatically, glancing to either side of them as if there might be teams of reporters waiting with microphones. Then he clapped his hands together and blurted out, “I got cast in a gum commercial yesterday!”

  “You did? Todd, that's fantastic!”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, prancing up and down the track like a football player celebrating in the end zone. “I got the call yesterday afternoon and I haven't been able to calm down since. Come on, run with me.”

  Sydney did a couple of quick stretches and then set off side by side with Todd. “That really is amazing,” she said, lengthening her stride slightly to keep up with him. “When did you audition?”

  “Monday.”

  “Oh, man. Have you been waiting by the phone all week?”

  Todd snorted. “Are you kidding? No way. I figured I blew it.”

  “Really?” Sydney asked. “Why?”

  “Because it was only like the twentieth audition I'd been on since I moved to L.A. this summer. And every call I've gotten has been Thanks, but no thanks. Of course, those were the people who actually called back. Lots of them don't even bother.”

  Sydney shook her head. “That is so rude.”

  “I was really starting to doubt myself,” he said, making a face at her. “I even started thinking about switching my major from theater to marketing. But I'm so glad I hung in there. This is what I'm supposed to do,” he declared, stretching his arms out to the sides. “Today, gum. Tomorrow, toothpaste!”

  Something suddenly clicked in Sydney's mind. She slowed to a stop, Todd's words echoing through her head like a siren's wail. That's it, she thought. Her crazy stress, the lure of the card . . . All this time she'd just been scared. The Dean and Les Amis disasters had left her completely rattled, too afraid to take another chance. But if she kept on shying away from opportunities, she'd never find out where she belonged.

  “Sydney?” Todd called from several yards down the track. “Are you coming?”

  She glanced up, blinking her present surroundings back into view. “No,” she shouted. “I just . . . I just forgot something important.”

  “What?” He cocked his head curiously.

  Sydney began walking backward, her brain whirling with activity. It felt as if she were waking up for the second time that day. “Sorry, Todd. I've got to go,” she called. “I'll see you tomorrow at practice.” Then she turned and ran out the main gate, heading straight for the dorm.

  “Surprise!” Francie cried as Sydney burst through the door, red-faced and dripping with sweat. “I cleaned up!”

  “Huh?” Sydney pushed a few long brown strands out of her face and glanced around the room. Sure enough, everything was freshly picked up and dusted. Francie had even made both beds.

  “I'm sorry I've been such a slob lately,” Francie went on. “I know I've been totally preoccupied with Baxter and all, and here you are with your superbrain schedule doing all the chores and wearing yourself out. Well, that's going to change. I swear from now on, I'm going to be the world's best roommate. Well, no. That's you. Okay, I'll be the world's second-best roommate.”

  Sydney snapped out of her daze and headed straight for the wastepaper basket. It was empty.

  She spun around and stared at Francie, her eyes wide with alarm. “What did you do with the trash?”

  Francie looked confused. “I took it out,” she said slowly, watching Sydney with a baffled expression. “I threw it in the Dumpster out back. It's a good thing, too. I could hear the garbage truck a few streets over. He must be on his way.”

  Sydney gasped. A dense heaviness crowded into her gut. The card! If she lost it, she'd never get to call the agency back! Wilson had made it very clear that they wouldn't contact her again.

  In a flash she was running out the door and down the hall, halfway conscious of Francie calling after her. She burst through the door to the stairwell and started flying down the steps, pushing past several bleary-eyed students. At the bottom, she raced through the front lobby and burst through the double glass doors to the street outside. Cars were pulling up to the front curb, full of people coming for weekend visits. Sydney veered around a group of people hugging, vaulted over a bicycle rack, and sped around the corner to the back of the building.

  There, in the narrow back alley, stood the large metal Dumpster. She exhaled in relief as she spied a black garbage bag poking up over the rim. It was still full. And yet somewhere in the distance she could hear the hollow clangs of a Dumpster being emptied. The truck would be here any minute.

  I have to find that card, she thought. No matter what.

  Her mind a blur, Sydney leaped onto a stack of crates, tossed back one of the lids, and threw her legs over the side of the Dumpster. Inside, it was dim and the temperature seemed twenty degrees higher than the air outside. A sickly sweet smell of rotting food filled the air. She walked around in a slow circle, looking downward, her tennis shoes squishing against the unsteady strata of trash bags.

  “Let's see, it would have to be near the top,” she mumbled to herself, her sharp brown eyes darting around wildly. “A white bag. Maybe halfway full.” Unfortunately, she was ankle-deep in white bags.

  All of a sudden, the roar of a large diesel engine snapped her from her thoughts. She peered over the edge and saw the garbage truck blocking the other end of the alley. There came a loud squeaking and hissing of brakes. A second later, the high-pitched tones of the rear-movement beeper started up.

  In a panic, Sydney began lifting up white sacks and frantically examining them, searching for anything recognizable. All the while, the noise of the truck grew louder and louder. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could feel the throbbing down the length of her arms. And yet her mind remained strangely focused, unable to break from its task.

  Just then, something familiar caught her eye. She snatched up a bag and noticed a bright, circus-like design through the thin white plastic. The empty popcorn bag from last night! This had to be it!

  By now, the sides of the Dumpster were vibrating from the noise of the approaching truck. Clutching the trash bag tightly in her left hand, she threw her legs over the rim of the Dumpster and landed sprawled on the broken asphalt below. Then she rolled against the back wall of the building and sat up, just in time to see the robotic arms of the garbage truck clamp onto the Dumpster and raise it off the ground.

  “You are nuts,” she said to herself as the Dumpster clanged against the bed of the truck. Its contents slid out and landed with a series of sickening plops.

  Hopefully, it had been worth it. Her palms still stinging from their impact with the ground, she fumbled with the knot at the t
op of the bag and opened it. Sure enough, the wadded-up business card was lying just beneath the popcorn bag.

  Sydney leaned back against the cinder-block wall and sighed with relief.

  Monday morning after track practice and a shower, Sydney stood pacing in front of the row of back-to-back pay phones along the sidewalk by her dorm. Her pulse was racing and something large and heavy was pressing down on her chest. She hadn't felt this way since she was eight years old and was attempting to go off the high dive for the first time.

  What are you waiting for? she asked herself, fiddling with the silver heart pendant on her necklace. It's business hours on a weekday. Prime time. Just take a deep breath and dive. . . .

  She walked to the nearest phone, picked it up, and entered her calling card number. Cradling the receiver against her shoulder, she held up the battered business card and carefully punched in the right series of digits. Her hands were trembling and her breath came out in short gasps. Almost immediately, the other end picked up.

  “This is Wilson,” a voice said curtly.

  “Uh . . . Mr. Wilson? This is Sydney Bristow. You, um, gave me your card a few days ago on the UCLA campus?” She tried to sound confident, but instead the words tumbled out airy and shrill.

  “Yes, Sydney. Let's not talk on the phone. Come to the Credit Dauphine building this afternoon after your Spanish class.” He gave her directions, which Sydney scribbled on the back of her English notebook. “Just give the card and your name to the woman at the front desk and ask for me.”

  “All right.” Then Sydney frowned down at the receiver. “Wait. How do you know my schedule so well?”

  But there was no reply. Wilson had already hung up.

  To: bossman@creditdauphine.com

  From: reginald.wilson@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Sydney A. Bristow

  You were right. She called.

  To: reginald.wilson@creditdauphine.com

  From: bossman@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: Sydney A. Bristow

  Good work. Continue preparations.

  5

  ON MONDAY AFTERNOON SYDNEY pushed through the front doors of the Credit Dauphine bank building in downtown Los Angeles and was immediately awash in noise. She stood in the polished stone lobby, listening to the ringing phones, the whirring of unseen machines, and the steady undercurrent of voices. People rushed to and fro in front of her, most of them clad in neutral-colored business suits, many of them talking into cell phones.

  She glanced down at her Gap khakis and multicolored striped sweater, feeling conspicuously young. What was she doing here? She didn't belong in a place like this. What if they took one look at her and decided they'd made a gigantic mistake? For a brief moment, she thought about leaving. But she knew if she didn't follow this through, she would forever wonder what she had missed.

  She smoothed the back of her hair, making certain her tortoiseshell clip was still in place, and walked over to the high, oval-shaped front desk. Behind it a woman with a sleek blond bun sat talking on the phone. After a moment, she hung up and regarded Sydney, flashing her a tight, overly polite smile. “May I help you?”

  Sydney stepped forward and placed the worn business card on the wooden counter. “My name is Sydney Bristow. I'm supposed to meet with a Mr. Wilson.”

  The woman's smile disappeared and her eyes quickly scanned the room. “Please come with me,” she said in a low voice.

  Sydney followed the woman through the vast lobby to an elevator, which they rode down to a long, navy blue carpeted hallway. They reached an unmarked door.

  “Have a seat inside. They'll be with you in just a moment,” she said to Sydney, then turned and vanished back down the corridor.

  They? Sydney thought as she opened the door and stepped inside. The room was sparsely furnished but extremely bright, thanks to glaring fluorescent lights and a large window overlooking the lobby. A giant wooden desk sat in the center of the room. Behind it, six executive-style leather chairs were arranged in a semicircle. One plain, wood-framed chair with gray fabric cushions faced the desk. Must be my seat, Sydney decided, lowering herself into it.

  A thick manila file lay in the middle of the desk. Craning her neck, she could read her full name lettered across the front. Is that for me? she wondered. Or about me? Listening for any approaching footsteps, she reached across the desk and pulled the folder toward her. For a moment she sat staring down at it, biting her thumbnail. The temptation was too strong. It couldn't hurt to just take a peek, she decided. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the bottom corner of the cover and flipped it open.

  And there she was. Clipped to the top of the inside cover was a photo of her eating salad at the campus picnic tables. Right underneath was another of her running around the track. She felt a churning sensation in her gut. Why did they take these? And when? The photographs were crisp and close up, but she'd never noticed anyone snapping pictures of her.

  A stack of papers lay bound inside the file. Her eyes widened as she scanned the pages, each crammed with details about her life. There were copies of her birth certificate from the West Virginia hospital where she was born, her Social Security card, her driver's license, medical records, school schedule, grades, test scores, even copies of her dental X rays.

  Sydney slowly let out her breath. “My god,” she murmured. “They've got everything but my fingerprints.” As she spoke, she turned another page, and there, blown up to several times their normal size, were her finger- and thumbprints. “Oh, my god,” she repeated, more loudly. She couldn't imagine how they had gotten them. She wasn't sure if she even wanted to.

  A realization was slowly seeping over her like wet cement, making her stiffen in her chair. This is for real, she told herself. These guys are the real deal. She knew she should probably shut the folder and try to relax, but she couldn't. There was something morbidly fascinating about seeing herself broken down into words and pictures.

  As she rummaged toward the back of the folder, she was shocked to find her own handwriting in the pile. It was a photocopy of a letter she'd sent to Melissa, an old boarding school friend, over the summer, complaining about her father and describing how eager she was for college to start.

  The CIA had somehow intercepted her personal mail. She swallowed, trying to ignore the spin her brain was in. How long had they been watching her, anyway?

  A typed note clipped to the back read:

  Handwriting sample 1-B.

  Graphology analysis reveals strong independent streak, generosity, high originality, theatrical skills, insecurity, cautionary approach toward people, and high need for solitude.

  All of a sudden, a noise from behind made her jump. Footsteps were reverberating down the corridor, several pairs by the sound of it. Her pulse hammering in her ears, Sydney quickly closed the folder, slid it back to the other side of the desk, and sat back in her chair.

  Less than a second later, the door opened and Wilson stepped inside, followed by four stony-faced men and one woman wearing a drab burgundy coatdress. All carried yellow notepads.

  “Hello again, Sydney,” Wilson greeted her as he and the others filed around the back of the desk. “I hope you haven't been waiting too long.”

  “No, not at all,” Sydney replied, trying to smooth her features into a casual smile.

  Wilson sat down in one of the chairs. The others followed suit. “I've asked my colleagues here to join us during the interview,” he said, gesturing to the clones on either side of him. “For security reasons I cannot introduce them to you by name, except to say that they are here to represent the agency's top-tier personnel. You understand.”

  “Of course,” she said, trying to mask her irritation. So it's okay for them to know me down to my bra size, but I can't even have their first names? How fair is that?

  Wilson glanced around the room. “All right. If everyone is ready, why don't we get started?”

  Burgundy Coatdress lifted her pen to get Sydney's attention. “Miss Bri
stow, could you describe the emotional state you are presently in?”

  Sydney stared into the distance, pondering. What wasn't she feeling right now? She was simultaneously scared, scandalized, and completely amazed. She felt nervous, yet incredibly curious, too. And even though she was intimidated enough to try to remain polite, she'd also let go of that standard job-interview urge to present herself as being better than she really was. Let them see the real person they'd spent valuable time and tax dollars profiling. The person the file barely revealed.

  “Let me rephrase the question,” she said. “Do you trust us?”

  “No,” Sydney said plainly. She'd expected there to be lots of frowns and exchanged glances, but everyone seemed perfectly fine with her reply.

  “What are your feelings toward the United States Government?”

  Sydney shrugged slightly. “I don't always agree with it, but I'm loyal to it.”

  “Can you explain?”

  “Even if some of the government's decisions don't seem right to me, I have to assume they know more about the situation than I do, so I shouldn't question it.” She wondered how politically correct that statement was. Did it matter?

  This immediately caused a torrent of notetaking, even a few nods as they wrote.

  For the next twenty minutes the five nameless suits quizzed her on a barrage of different topics—school, athletics, her favorite books and historical figures, hobbies, diet, and sleep schedule. Meanwhile, Wilson sat watching silently, never taking a single note.

  Sydney answered everything as truthfully as she could, and yet she couldn't stop thinking about the dossier on the table and all the secrets inside. What exactly did these people want from her? What were they hoping to discover?

  “Miss Bristow, can you tell us what types of music you enjoy?” asked the man in the navy blue suit.