Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  Sydney laughed. “I don't know. Lots of stuff,” she said, shaking her head in astonishment. “Does it really matter?”

  The man continued to stare at her blankly. “It matters. Could you give us some examples of what you like to listen to?”

  “Oookay,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “Let's see . . . everything from alt rock to trash new wave and Euro-disco. I listen to classical while studying. But I go more fast-tempo when I work out. Lately I've been running to this guy my roommate really likes, Raul Sandoval. I guess you'd describe his music as Latin hip-hop meets hard-rock power guitar.”

  She rubbed her eyes as five pens simultaneously scratched against paper. How much longer was this going to go on? The questions were starting to become even stranger.

  “Miss Bristow, have you ever broken the law?” asked the woman.

  “No,” Sydney replied, taken aback.

  “Have you ever wanted to?”

  “No,” she repeated incredulously.

  “Have you ever admired a criminal?” asked a man in a red paisley-print tie. “Or a particular crime?”

  “No!” she said again. Where were they going with this?

  A man in black pinstripes lifted his hand. “Miss Bristow, are you in a relationship at the moment?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Can you describe to us the current state of your love life?” he clarified, sounding slightly huffy.

  Sydney stared into his face, anger welling up inside her. “I don't have one,” she said finally.

  She sat fuming as they quickly made note of this. She hoped this would all be over soon. The questions were getting more and more personal, and they were beginning to dredge up several unwanted emotions. Plus, she couldn't quite shake the notion that she was being put on trial for something.

  “Miss Bristow?” The gruff-looking man in gunmetal gray sat forward in his chair. “Could you please describe your relationship with your father?”

  Sydney pursed her lips, a new surge of anger jetting up from within. “I really don't see what my father has to do with any of this.”

  “It has a lot to do with you, Miss Bristow. Now could you please answer the question.”

  “No! That's it,” she said, shaking her head. “I've been really patient and cooperative with all of these questions, but you haven't told me anything about you or what you want me to do.”

  Mr. Gray Suit's expression hardened slightly. “All you have to do is tell us—”

  “That's all right.” Mr. Wilson held up his hand. “If Sydney doesn't want to answer the question, she doesn't have to. I think we have all the information we need.” He rose from his chair and the others stood as well. “Now, unless there are any objections, I believe Sydney is ready for the next phase of the interview?”

  He glanced around at each of the suits. No one said a word.

  “Fine. Thank you all for your assistance,” he said with a dismissive nod. One by one the others filed from the room, shutting the door behind them. Wilson walked over and lowered the blinds on the window. Then he took a step toward her, a somber expression weighing down his features. “Sydney, what I'm about to show you can't be talked about beyond this building. To do so would bring serious repercussions.”

  “I understand,” she replied, the firestorm in her stomach making her hunch slightly.

  “I need to know if you are willing to go farther,” he said, icy eyes boring into hers, “or if you want to leave and never come back.”

  Sydney fought the urge to chew her thumbnail as she considered his words. Clearly she should not take today's events lightly. And yet, for some reason, she was beginning to feel a sense of trust and respect toward Wilson. He really seemed to have a lot of confidence in her, and she liked the way he took her seriously and didn't talk down to her—the way her father always did.

  She really hadn't expected to come this far. In fact, she'd halfway assumed the interview would end with them realizing they'd made a horrible mistake. But obviously she'd passed the test, at least for now. She really wanted to see how far she could go. Plus, any misgivings she had were being doused by an overwhelming curiosity.

  “I'm in,” she said emphatically.

  Wilson stared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Good,” he said. He walked over to the desk and reached underneath the tabletop. Suddenly, a panel in the side wall slid sideways, revealing a gaping doorway.

  “Welcome, Sydney,” he said, gesturing to the opening, “to CIA covert ops.”

  Sydney stepped over the threshold and blinked hard. She was now in a vast, windowless space, filled with rows of people wearing headphones as they sat in front of giant computers. Each terminal had at least four screens and a dizzying array of buttons, dials, and light-bar displays.

  The room throbbed with activity. Even the air seemed electric. The steady hum of machinery was punctuated by voices shouting out combinations of words and numbers, none of which made any sense to Sydney. She couldn't believe she'd been on the other side of the wall for almost an hour and yet never heard a single noise.

  “You are now entering our training and tracking area,” Wilson said. He pressed a keypad on the wall beside him and the wall closed itself up again. “Our headquarters are located elsewhere.”

  He strolled down one of the aisles and Sydney fell into step after him, her mind whirring along with the room's equipment. “So . . . the bank upstairs. They know you're here, right?” she asked.

  “Basically we are the bank,” he replied. “To the outside world, it's a completely legitimate financial institution. And yet it also allows us to heavily safeguard this building with no questions asked. What you are looking at now is our state-of-the-art surveillance system, which is vital to our intelligence-gathering operations.” He swept his hand through the air as he walked, gesturing at the assortment of people and gadgets.

  Sydney nodded as he talked, trying to look as if she comprehended everything.

  “Follow me,” Wilson said, heading for a glass door at the back of the surveillance room. “Let me show you the rest of the compound.”

  There's more? Sydney wondered, following him through the door. Right. Of course there's more. Walls with hidden panels . . . a bank that housed a top-secret security force . . . a file detailing her every move, compiled without her knowledge . . . She had fallen into a dazed, Alice-in-Wonderland-type stupor and would probably have been only slightly surprised to see giant caterpillars sitting on toadstools or a talking cat that could make itself invisible. But what am I doing here? she asked herself over and over. Why did they come to me?

  The rest of the compound was just as stark and windowless as the training room. Wilson showed her a file room, a soundproofed firing range, and a large area divided into cubicles with computers, which he simply referred to as the “testing room.” There were also several doors they passed that they did not enter. Sydney could only imagine what secrets they held.

  “It takes people with all kinds of skills to run this organization,” Wilson was saying as they turned yet another corner. The compound layout was a dizzying maze of twisting corridors and rooms that led to other rooms. Sydney had already abandoned the notion of finding the way out on her own—but then she doubted Wilson would ever leave her side.

  “Last of all,” he said, gesturing toward a large glass partition, “we have our combat training center.”

  Sydney stepped forward and peered through the window. Inside was a barren studio with a large, padded mat in the middle of the floor. On it stood two men, facing each other in taut, partially crouched stances. One was older, with gray hair and a thick salt-and-pepper mustache. The other looked to be in his mid-twenties, with a thatch of brown waves.

  “Yoav used to work as a combat trainer for the Israeli military,” said Wilson from behind her. “Right now he's instructing one of our agents in the Krav Maga fighting method. This is not your smooth, artistic type of martial arts. It's all-out, no-holds-barred street fi
ghting. The type of thing we're most likely to face in the field.”

  Sydney leaned even closer, fixing her eyes on the younger guy. He was amazingly cute. Not the slightly spoiled, nonchalant good looks of Dean, though. This guy was older and more rugged, and from what she could tell, in incredible shape, too. As she studied the fierce, focused way he jabbed and dodged his opponent, she sensed a certain magnetic intensity. She found herself wondering about him. What was his name? Where did he come from? What sort of life did he lead before this?

  All of a sudden, the young man's eyes shifted toward the window. Sydney drew back slightly and sucked in her breath. She could feel her face redden as her heart started up its own martial arts routine. Their gazes locked for less than a second and then . . . Wham! In one swift move the older man lunged forward and tossed the younger guy onto the mat.

  “Let's move on,” Wilson said, continuing down the hallway and rounding another corner.

  Sydney pulled her gaze away from the cute guy's sprawled form and walked after Wilson. Snap out of it, Syd, she scolded herself, giving her head a small shake. What a ditz. She saw one hunky guy and immediately turned into a drooling mess—not a good way to impress a potential boss.

  Wilson led her farther down the passage, through an unmarked door, and into yet another meagerly furnished office. “Please have a seat,” he said, shutting the door.

  She settled into the chair facing the desk and tried hard to appear casual—as if she got glimpses into covert law enforcement organizations every day of the week. Wilson lowered himself into his seat and stared at her. He seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, and she looked back at him without actually meeting his gaze, focusing instead on the tiny wrinkles beneath his eyes and the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

  Eventually he leaned back, resting his clasped hands on his stomach. “I've now shown you everything I can allow at this point,” he said, twisting his chair back and forth. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Hundreds,” she replied. “But mainly . . .” She paused and pursed her lips, then quickly launched the question that had been plaguing her for days. “Why me?”

  Wilson's red-blond eyebrows flew upward. “Can you not see yourself working for us?”

  She exhaled slowly. “I don't know. You've shown me lots of stuff, but you haven't really told me what I'd be doing. Would it be a desk job, some kind of research help? Or something . . . else?”

  “Let me explain,” he said, leaning forward and resting his hands on the desktop. “Our agency is always in need of new recruits, but we have to be extremely careful who we bring inside. We need people who are smart, athletic, alert, and able to think on their feet. You've shown all of these qualities. You demonstrate the perfect profile of someone who could be a first-rate undercover operative.”

  Sydney held her breath as a small tremor rattled her insides. So they really did want her to be a secret agent. Her. It was too unreal. On the one hand, she felt incredibly flattered and excited. But on another level, she was just very, very scared.

  “Like all new recruits, you would begin at a desk job,” Wilson continued, “slowly immersing yourself in the organization and learning about our operations. Then after a while, you would start your transition to becoming an agent, taking on intense physical and weapons training. The entire process takes approximately two to three years.”

  For a moment, Sydney could only smile in disbelief. Then she shook her head. “But what if . . . I mean, what happens when . . . How can you be sure you have the right person?”

  For the first time since she had met him, Wilson flashed her a genuine grin. “All right, look. Beyond your genius-level IQ, beyond your speed on the track, and beyond your talent for linguistics, I've noticed that you have this keen sense of justice. Remember that goon at Les Amis?”

  Alarm bells went off in Sydney's head and a flood of pictures came rushing back. “You . . . you were there!” she exclaimed, pointing at him. “You were sitting at the bar. You were wearing a goatee and tie-dyed T-shirt, but it was you! Wait a minute.” Her mind spun up a fresh set of images. “Were you the one sitting in the black sedan by the track field?”

  Wilson nodded. “See? You have excellent powers of observation. Just the sort of thing we need.” Then, as quickly as it had appeared, his smile suddenly faded, replaced by a piercing stare. “These are the terms of the offer, Sydney. You have twenty-four hours to consider this position. If you want the job, I must hear from you before five P.M. tomorrow. You can tell no one the truth about what we do here. All your friends and family will know is that you've been offered a position as an office assistant in a bank. You will be given a complete briefing as to how to handle all inquiries regarding your position with us.”

  For some bizarre reason, Sydney had relished the opportunity to tell her father about this amazing turn of events. See, Dad? You don't want me—but Uncle Sam sure does! She hadn't really planned on doing it. But the fantasy had been soothing nonetheless.

  “And if I decide not to take it?”

  “You still mustn't tell anyone. I cannot stress this point enough. Lives depend on our maintaining the utmost secrecy. Any breach of confidence is handled severely. We exact the ultimate price on those who do not abide by our rules.”

  Death? Was he saying she would be killed if she told anyone what had transpired? Did the CIA do that? I won't try to find out. She nodded mutely.

  “Well then,” Wilson said, returning to his casual monotone. “I'll show you out now.” They rose from their chairs and headed for the door. “And Sydney?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you take the job.”

  6

  THE CIA WANTS ME! The CIA wants me! Sydney practically danced up the stairs of her dorm. The same thought had been tolling in her head since she had left the bank building, like some sort of mini opera. She could be a secret agent. A spy! If she wanted to, that was. Still, even if she decided not to go through with it, it was exciting to know they believed in her.

  She pushed through the door to her floor and half-skipped to her room.

  “Where have you been?” Francie shrieked when Sydney walked through the door. “I've been so worried!”

  Here goes, Sydney told herself. She smiled at Francie and tried to remember the phrases she'd rehearsed between mental musical numbers. “I was at a job interview,” she said.

  “What?” Francie's eyes popped open wide. “Where?”

  “At this bank downtown,” she replied, sitting on the edge of her bed and pulling off her shoes. “They offered me a job as a clerical assistant. No big deal.”

  “‘No big deal?'” Francie repeated incredulously. “Are you crazy? This is great for you! I mean, aren't you going to take it?”

  Sydney couldn't help grinning. “Maybe,” she said truthfully. “I mean, it's a bank job. I'm not exactly sure I'm cut out for it.”

  “Hey, it's got to beat fetching soup for rude weirdos. I'm so proud of you!” Francie ran over and shook Sydney's shoulders excitedly. “You know what we need to do? We need to go out and celebrate.”

  “I don't know,” Sydney said, hoping she didn't look suspicious. Going out for a night on the town wasn't what she had in mind. She could imagine the quandry she'd be in, sitting in a neon-lit bar with her friends. Hmmm, I'll be thinking. Should I become an undercover agent for the CIA— Oh, excuse me, waitress, more nachos and another round of margaritas, please! Now where was I?

  “Come on!” Francie urged. “We can make it a group thing. I'll call up Baxter, and you can invite that mental friend of yours from the track team. What's his name? Todd?” She kneeled down and grasped Sydney's wrists. “You know, you haven't let yourself go crazy since we got to college. This is a really cool thing. You deserve to live it up a bit.”

  Sydney looked into Francie's eyes. She'd kept things from friends before. Like . . . like not telling Melissa that her dress for the ninth-grade formal (a vision in magenta silk) was hideous. Or . . .
or the fact that she hated carrot cake, the year Caitlin, her boarding school roommate, couldn't be there for her birthday and had ordered one from the bakery down the street as a surprise. Or that the guy Francie had had a crush on the summer before was seen holding hands with Francie's worst enemy. Granted, becoming a superoperative for the CIA was a teeny bit of a bigger deal, but . . .

  Who was she trying to kid? This was the hugest deal she had ever faced, that she could have dreamed of facing. Nothing this exciting had ever happened to her before. In fact, things like this hardly ever happened to anybody. It wouldn't hurt to go out for a short while—to let her friends help her celebrate. Then she could come home and figure out her life.

  An hour later Sydney was sitting at a corner table in a large, smoky club near the Santa Monica Pier. Across from her, Francie and Baxter sat cuddled together, and on her left, Todd lay back in his chair with his arms folded across his middle and his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  “This band wants to be U2 so bad, and it is just not happening,” Todd said over the music.

  “Really?” Sydney asked. “What's wrong with them? I think they sound okay.”

  “It's the attitude,” Todd said, raising his hands in a big, theatrical gesture. “All rock musicians today are supposed to ooze anger. What do four prelaw students from Burbank have to be angry about?”

  “Okay. What is up with all this angst-ridden music these days?” Francie shouted from across the table. “I mean, what's so bad about happy, dancey tunes?” Baxter leaned close and whispered something in her ear, making her giggle.

  Todd shook his head in mock pity. “Poor Francine. Didn't you get the memo? People don't dance anymore. They just pose.” He sat up straight and lifted his chin, a haughty scowl creasing his features. Everyone laughed.

  “Well, I don't care what anyone says,” Francie said, rising to her feet. “I'm going to bounce around the floor like Snoopy.” She reached down and grabbed Baxter's right hand. “Come on, let's go do a happy dance.”