Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  “I'm in,” Todd said, leaping from his seat and offering his arm to Sydney. “Will you join me, milady?”

  “Sure.”

  The four of them walked out onto the empty dance floor and started moving to the music. At first, Sydney had a tough time ignoring the stares inevitably drawn by people who danced when no one else was dancing. She hung back slightly and swayed back and forth, laughing at the others' flamboyant moves. Todd, Francie, and Baxter were purposely overdoing it, shaking their bodies and thrashing their arms as if they were contestants in an MTV dance contest. Eventually, Sydney began to get into the spirit and was surprised at how good it felt. She shut her eyes and let herself go, swirling her arms and gyrating her hips while her friends egged her on.

  “Go Sydney, go Sydney, go Sydney!” they chanted.

  It was like running track, only louder and more hyper. All of the stress that had been weighing her down lifted from her shoulders and took flight. Francie had been right about her needing this. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun.

  The song ended and the four of them fell against one another, laughing.

  “Come on, Todd,” Baxter said, nodding toward the bar. “Let's go get these divas some Cokes.”

  Laughing and panting, Sydney and Francie walked unsteadily back to the table and sat down.

  “See? You can blow off your work or studies once in a while and it won't kill you,” Francie said breathlessly as she patted down her tousled hair. “Besides, it's not like you're on some major deadline. Right?”

  It was as if someone had slapped Sydney in the face. She blinked around her, and the rest of the world came zooming back into focus. The giddiness left. And the decision she'd been ignoring stepped back into her conscience.

  She glanced down at her watch. It was already after ten o'clock. Wilson said she had only twenty-four hours to consider the job. If she wanted time to really think about the offer, she should get back to the quiet of their dorm room.

  “Sydney?” Francie said impatiently. “What's up? Do you want to leave?”

  “What? Oh, well . . . yeah, actually,” she replied, scrunching her nose. “Do you mind? I've really got a lot to do.”

  “This job thing really has you confused, huh?”

  Sydney opened her mouth to say something, then quickly shut it, shrugging instead.

  “I know you haven't asked my advice, but so what. I'm giving it anyway.” Francie inched her chair up next to Sydney and placed a hand on her forearm. “I know you, Syd, and I have to ask: Is it possible you're overthinking this?”

  Again, Sydney shrugged. She appreciated Francie's concern. But she was also afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might accidentally say too much.

  “I mean, it's just a job,” Francie continued. “It doesn't have to be the start of a lifelong career. And even if it is, what's so wrong about working in a bank? We can't all save the world, you know.”

  Sydney stared at her friend in alarm. In her preoccupied state, it took her a while to realize Francie had only been using an expression. “Yeah. I know,” she said finally.

  “Anyway, that's all I'm going to say,” Francie said, leaning back in her chair. “If you want, we can leave right after the drinks. Okay?”

  Sydney didn't reply. Her mind was still reeling with Francie's words. Is that it? she wondered. Am I making a big deal out of something that is really very simple?

  The thing was, she actually did have the chance to help save the world. In that sense, the job was perfect. So the real question had to be was she right for the job?

  Sydney lay curled on her bed, facing the wall. After dropping her off, Baxter and Francie had gone on to a café in Santa Monica, so she had the entire room to herself. There was no sound at all—except for the residual ringing in her ears from the club's loud music. She finally had all the solitude and quiet she needed to think things through. Only it wasn't turning out to be the peaceful meditation she'd hoped for. Instead, she felt dizzy and confused, as if a fraction of her were still twirling on the dance floor.

  So far she knew this much: She wanted the job. She really did. And yet a nagging insecurity kept nibbling away at her enthusiasm. It was as if she were about to go skydiving. She felt eager and excited, but she also knew that if she didn't pack her parachute just right, she'd be in for a long, painful fall.

  Just like her plans to become a teacher. For so long she'd taken for granted that it was her dream to follow in her mother's footsteps. And it hurt to discover she might not be cut out for it. Not only because she was left without a clear path, but also because it might mean she was less like her mother . . . and more like her father.

  Her father was definitely not the save-the-world type. The man sold airplane parts for a living; he was a total square. In fact, he wasn't even as dimensional as a square. He was more like a line—plain, rigid, narrow in scope, and running directly away from her.

  Sydney closed her eyes and conjured a mental image of her dad. His broad, inexpressive face, sharp features, and weary-looking eyes. Handsome yet lifeless. The sort of person everyone respected, but no one liked.

  Even she didn't like him much. And yet, on another, more subconscious level, she knew that she loved him. For years she had craved his approval, clinging to the hope that they could someday forge a closer relationship. She had thought they could get to know each other as adults once she'd gone on to college. She just hadn't yet found the nerve to try.

  “What about now?” she mumbled, sitting up. She could use a dad right now. Other people had normal relationships with their fathers and could call on them for advice. Why not her? Of course, she couldn't exactly tell him what was on her mind. And it would be a modern-day miracle if he listened. But maybe there was some way she could get guidance from him without actually revealing her problem.

  She reached over and snatched her phone off the desk. Then she hit his speed-dial number and waited, her fingers doing a nervous drumroll on the receiver.

  After four rings, someone picked up. “This is Bristow,” came her father's gruff voice.

  “Dad? It's me, Sydney.”

  “Sydney? It's after eleven. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No, I'm fine. I just . . . wanted to talk.” She winced at how young and meek she sounded. Why not ask him for a drink of water and a bedtime story while she was at it?

  “Talk? About what?”

  She shrugged. “Anything, really. How's work?”

  “Demanding,” he blurted out irritably. “In fact, I've got an important meeting at eight o'clock in the morning. Why are you really calling?”

  “Jeez! Can't I call up my dad and see how he's doing?” she shrieked, jumping to her feet. “Why don't you even ask me how I am?”

  “Because it's late and I have to get up early. I imagine you do too.” She heard the staticky sound of his sighing into the receiver. “Look, Sydney, I don't have time for this. I know you need money, so why don't you just come out and say so instead of going through this whole routine?”

  Sydney's jaw dropped and she slowly sank down onto the edge of her bed. “You think I just called you for money?” she mumbled, her eyes filling with tears. “Is that what you think? Well, you're wrong,” she went on, her voice rising angrily. Any earlier fantasies she'd had of telling her dad about the CIA vanished. “You can keep your cash. In fact, I just called to tell you that I have a job now, so from now on I won't be needing anything from you!” Before he could reply, she turned off the phone and threw it onto the bed behind her.

  That's it, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek. I am definitely taking the job.

  No way was she going to end up like him. A man who cared more about selling jet engines than talking with his own daughter! She, on the other hand, had a chance to make a difference in the world, and she'd be crazy not to take it.

  She could only imagine how proud her mother would be.

  Good morning, Mr. Wilson. After careful consideration, I want
to let you know that I'm in. I, Sydney A. Bristow, would like to become an official agent of the U.S. Government and enter the employment of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Uncomfortable silence. Nervous titter. Pass out and crumple to the floor.

  No matter how many times I practice saying those words, it doesn't seem any more real. Not yesterday. Not this morning. And not, I imagine, when I report to Wilson's office at the Credit Dauphine bank building in downtown Los Angeles later this afternoon to tell him I have decided to take him up on his offer. To become a superoperative agent and undergo amazing missions and have training up the wazoo. Or whatever it is I'll be doing.

  You know why I decided to accept the CIA's offer? Because the more I think about it (and believe you me, all I have been doing for the past twenty-four hours is thinking. Pondering. Ruminating. Screaming.), the more I have come to realize that it is an incredible opportunity. In-cred-i-ble. How many people in their lifetimes have the chance to do something really important? Something for their country, something truly meaningful and life-changing? Using my powers of observation to gauge happiness at my local food mart, not many, that's for sure. Take my dad. Selling airplane parts. Sure, people have to fly, but is his vocation truly significant? Can wheeling and dealing in jet engines be fulfilling to anyone?

  I can't say I'm not scared. I am. Wilson wasn't kidding around, I know that. Death. He implied that I could be killed for telling anyone what I now know. He doesn't know, though, that I already have experienced death. Had my legs kicked out from under me, my heart yanked through my throat and stomped on with an indescribable ferocity, my world shattered into a zillion tiny pieces that no one helped me put back together.

  Then again, considering who we're talking about, maybe Wilson does know that. That would mean he knows that after facing that, I can handle anything.

  Or die trying.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  7

  SYDNEY HUNCHED OVER THE desk, her forehead resting against her fingertips. To her left, a stack of files towered over her, each stamped CONFIDENTIAL in bright red block letters. In front of her, spread over the entire surface of the desktop, was an array of maps. They looked like normal road maps except for the numbered red dots scattered across their surfaces, each corresponding to a file photo and a page or two of written detail.

  She shook her head slowly and let out a long, low whistle. Never again would she be able to see the world as one gigantic travel brochure. According to the maps, hidden below postcard-perfect German pastureland were dozens of nuclear missiles. A major weapons arsenal was stashed behind a crumbling Spanish church. And just half a mile from a popular Venezuelan beach stood a suspected chemical weapons plant.

  Reaching into the nearby file, Sydney pulled out the map marked North America and gingerly unfolded it. She immediately sucked in her breath. The red dots were everywhere—it looked as if the paper had measles. Was there no safe place left on earth?

  “I work for the CIA,” she murmured as she carefully refolded the maps and replaced them in the folder. “I work for the CIA.”

  It was her mantra, her hymn. She'd started the chant months ago, when the enormity of what she was doing for a living hadn't quite sunk in yet. After she had accepted Wilson's offer, there had been a whirlwind of activity.

  “Don't worry, we'll have you out of here in time for your English class,” Wilson had told her on that long-ago—was it just last autumn?—day. “We still have several hoops for you to jump through before it's a done deal. You'll need a complete physical and psych evaluation, plus a battery of intelligence tests, and you'll need to sign about two dozen nondisclosure agreements.” She had been adamant about continuing her studies at UCLA. “That's perfectly fine,” Wilson had assured her. “In fact, we wouldn't have it any other way. You'll still need a cover for your friends and family. It would be completely out of character for you to drop out of school to accept a clerical position at a bank, wouldn't it?”

  She had nodded, vaguely uneasy at how well Wilson seemed to know her “character.”

  Wilson had opened the door of his office and motioned her into the corridor. “In the meantime, there's no reason why I can't show you where you'll be reporting for duty.”

  As she walked alongside Wilson, Sydney had felt a swelling sensation inside her chest. This was it. Her new life was officially starting! She wondered where this “duty” would take place. Maybe the martial arts room? Or the artillery range?

  But instead of leading her into the hidden compound, Wilson had brought her back out into the bank lobby. He walked up to the same blond receptionist she'd approached the day before and said something in a low voice to her. At once, the woman walked around to the front of the counter and stood beside him, smiling at Sydney.

  “This is Maxine,” Wilson explained. “You will report to her each time you come into work.”

  “But . . . what about you?” Sydney felt silly asking, but somehow, she'd grown almost fond of Wilson over the past few days. She didn't like being passed on to someone else.

  “Oh, I'll be around,” he replied, giving her a rare all-out grin. “Remember what I told you. We'll be watching you very closely, and we'll let you know when we think it's time for you to”—he paused and glanced around at the people in the lobby—“move up.”

  “Come with me, Sydney,” Maxine said, beckoning with a finger.

  Sydney followed Maxine into a nearby elevator. As the doors closed, she stole a quick glance at Wilson. He nodded at her as if to say, “You'll be all right.” Then the doors slid shut and the elevator began to rise.

  Sydney's knees jiggled nervously. She looked at Maxine out of the corner of her eye, taking in her perfectly cut suit and shiny blond hair. She couldn't help wondering what her story was. In fact, she couldn't help wondering about every person in the place. What sorts of things did they do for the agency? How much did they know? Were they happy?

  A moment later, the elevator halted on the twentieth floor. The doors slid open and Maxine exited, gesturing Sydney to follow. They were now in a long, carpeted hallway with offices staggered on either side. Sydney could hear the steady chugging sound of a photocopier, and phones rang from all directions like crickets on a clear night. A woman bustled past, balancing a stack of paper and a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Then a man crossed the hall, staring down at an open file as he walked.

  Maxine led her into a dimly lit room with tall black file cabinets running along both walls. “Here we are,” she announced, turning up the buzzing fluorescent lights with a dimmer switch. “This is where you'll be spending most of your time. When you first arrive, you will pull files according to this order board and deliver them to people around the building. During your rounds you will pick up materials they have to return, bring them back here, and refile them.”

  “Okay,” Sydney said, trying to look motivated.

  Maxine smiled at her. “I know it isn't the world's most exciting work, but it's a good way to learn your way around. After a while you'll start doing more challenging things like researching cases and writing reports.”

  “How long does it usually take before . . . ?” Sydney paused, unsure how to phrase her thoughts, and unsure whether she should say them out loud. After everything Wilson had told her, and after watching how cautiously he had spoken in the lobby, Sydney was terrified of letting something slip out at the wrong place or time.

  “Before your transition?” Maxine asked, tilting her head.

  Sydney's eyes widened. Okay. So apparently they could talk freely here on the twentieth floor.

  “Usually about two years,” Maxine continued. “Sometimes people are moved up sooner, though.”

  “I see.”

  “Well then,” Maxine began, clapping her hands together. “If you have another moment to spare, I'll show you how to work the Xerox machine.”

  “Great,” Sydney said, mustering up as much enthusiasm as she could.

  So much for playing Emma Peel, she
thought, falling into step behind Maxine.

  Then, after several weeks of making copies and delivering files, she started being asked to summarize case documents and collect infor-mation on particular subjects. Sydney read mountains of data, a heady blur of photos and reports that she absorbed into her photographic memory like a sponge soaks up water. And a brand-new world opened up to her—a world full of lurking dangers.

  Instead of being filled with fear at these discoveries, Sydney had become impatient to do whatever she could to help. “I work for the CIA,” she would whisper during her morning shower, her drives to work, her solitary jogs. So full of mad pride at what she was a part of, she felt she would explode if she couldn't tell anyone.

  So she told herself.

  “Sydney?” Maxine's head appeared in the doorway now, her gold bracelet clinking against the frame. “Do you have that paper on radio surveillance finished?”

  “Yes. Right here,” Sydney replied, opening her top left-hand drawer and pulling out a stapled document as thick as a paperback romance. “And I have that report on South American mercenaries, too,” she added, snatching up another set of papers.

  “Already?” Maxine exclaimed, stepping into the room. She grabbed the documents and began looking them over as if they were rare and valuable artifacts. “I don't know how you churn these things out so fast. It's as if you can breathe this stuff in and out. What are you? Superhuman?” She shot Sydney a wide, gleaming grin and then turned to go. “Don't forget to distribute those memos,” she called over her shoulder.

  Sydney shook her head. Superhuman? Maxine was constantly raving about Sydney's fantastic writing skills and ability to beat deadlines. At times, Sydney wondered if Maxine might be more than human. She looked more like a top-secret cyber-creation than a real person, with her permanent smile and perfect outfits. In fact, Sydney wouldn't have been surprised to discover the Mattel logo stamped across her backside.