by Lynn Mason
But Maxine was right about Sydney's almost inhaling her assignments. Everything she came across seemed so important and fascinating. And the more she learned, the more restless she became for more. It was as if she couldn't get enough.
Sydney stood and stretched her arms. Then she picked up a stack of papers off a shelf near the copier and headed down the hall, placing one sheet in each of the mailboxes mounted beside every door.
“Sydney?” called a deep male voice behind her. Sydney whirled around to see Wilson's hefty frame filling the hallway.
“Uh . . . hi,” she said, completely surprised. She'd barely seen Wilson since she'd started working for Maxine. “What's up?”
“It's time, Sydney,” he said. “Come with me.” His expression was as blank as usual, but something in the way he looked at her suggested a smile.
Time? Sydney's pulse accelerated. “Sure,” she said, grinning nervously. “I'm almost finished with these—”
“Leave them here.” He cut her off, taking the stack of memos from her hands and placing it on a nearby table. He headed toward the elevator, nodding for her to follow.
Wilson gave no hint of what was to come as they rode down, leaving Sydney to her own thoughts. Is it finally happening? she wondered. Am I going to start my agent training?
No way, came another voice from inside her. It's only been six months and everyone says it takes at least two years. They probably just want to throw some harder office work your way.
Eventually the elevator slowed to a stop. They stepped out into the lobby and followed the path to Wilson's office. As they walked in, two people immediately rose from their seats along the wall.
“This is Yoav,” Wilson said, indicating a large, muscular man with a thick mustache. “You might remember him from our first tour. He trains all our agents in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Yes. Hi,” Sydney greeted him.
The man bowed slightly.
“And this,” Wilson continued, pointing to a tall, proud-looking woman with dark eyes and an abundance of long black hair, “is Pilar. She is one of our top weapons specialists.”
“Hello,” Sydney said, smiling at the woman.
The woman nodded and smiled back.
“Please sit down,” Wilson said, waving toward the empty seats. Sydney sat, along with the two instructors. Wilson lowered himself into his chair and stared directly at Sydney. “I'll get right to the point,” he began. “The people at headquarters feel it's time for you to begin your transition to becoming an agent.”
A floating feeling came over her. Sydney felt as if she were expanding upward, becoming at once taller and lighter. I was right, she said to herself. Somehow, I made it.
Wilson looked at her expectantly, waiting for a response. Gripping the arms of her chair tightly to prevent herself from rising to the ceiling, she inhaled deeply. “Great. Thanks. Only . . . what does that mean exactly?”
Wilson, Yoav, and Pilar exchanged brief glances. “It means no more pushing paper on the twentieth floor,” Wilson replied. He reached over and handed her a small plastic card with a series of letters and numbers printed across it. “Here is the code for the keypad that activates this wall panel. I want you to memorize it and give it back before you leave today. Beginning tomorrow when you arrive for work, you will come through here and report directly to Pilar at the firing range. After your lesson with her, you will report to Yoav for your combat training. Following that, you will get a brief shower and break before you report to me. I will oversee your covert ops training.”
Sydney listened attentively, her head swiveling in a semicircular motion. It was all happening so fast. This was what she'd been dreaming about for months, and now that it was finally coming true, it seemed completely surreal. She squeezed the card in her fist, letting it dig into her palm. She needed to feel something real, something aside from this heady daze.
“It is important that you keep up the appearance of working as a bank clerk,” Wilson went on. “You should continue to dress formally and change into workout clothes here.”
“All right,” she said, still smiling and nodding. “Thanks.”
“Congratulations, Sydney,” he concluded, leaning across his desk to shake her hand. “We've never had anyone move up this quickly. You've already demonstrated an amazing understanding of our work, and the people down in headquarters want you on the fast track.”
“The fast track,” she repeated, swallowing. She had believed that she was doing a good job, but this formal recognition was somewhat overwhelming. “Thanks,” she said again, at a loss for words.
“I guess my only question is,” Wilson added, gripping her hand firmly, “do you think you're ready, Sydney? Are you ready to become an agent?”
8
“HIIAAH!”
Sydney whirled around and struck the man with her elbow.
“Reeeaah!”
He countered with a slicing side kick.
Sydney leaped to the side, rolled, and sprang back to her feet, turning to face her instructor once more. Her senses were on ultra-high alert. Every muscle in her body felt taut, as if she were a cobra poised to strike. There was no studio, no mat, no sweat running down her back and chest. All she could see was Yoav's tall, brawny form looming in front of her.
She watched him closely, ready to react at any sign of movement or shift in balance, searching for a weakness she could take advantage of.
With barely a trace of motion in his upper body, Yoav suddenly swung his leg around in a side kick. Sydney immediately jumped up and out of harm's way without taking a single second to decide.
“Excellent,” Yoav said, still in his prowling stance. “Let your instincts take over. Shut down your logical mind and trust your reflexes.”
Sydney allowed a flash of a memory to seep in. Her first sparring session with Yoav after weeks of training with pads and punching bags. She'd been too intent on impressing him, too focused on what her next move might be rather than what was happening at the moment. I'd been concentrating too hard on specific moves. Yoav showed me to spread my focus much wider. To focus on unbounded energy.
It had taken a while to learn how to silence the analytical side of her brain, which was typically in high gear. But once she had, the experience was exhilarating.
Yoav's shoulders swiveled almost imperceptibly, and without thinking, Sydney knew what his next move would be. Sure enough, his body twisted to the right, his left elbow swinging upward and out. In a flash, Sydney simultaneously ducked the blow and threw her fist into his exposed side.
Yoav stumbled forward. “Good!” he exclaimed, wheeling around again. “Next time, don't ease up on me. Really let me have it.” His eyes challenged her. “We've got medics in the building if anything happens.”
Sydney gave a brisk nod as she tried to stay in her zone. She knew she was restraining herself. The thing was, even though she was getting good at dodging and disarming, when it came to landing real blows, she could feel herself pull back a little. Her mind still couldn't quite accept it as real.
Yoav stalked sideways a few steps, moving in front of the large viewing window. As Sydney studied his posture, something in the distance caught her eye. Almost mechanically, her gaze shifted toward the glass. There, in the corridor outside, stood the guy she'd seen during her first tour of the compound. He was staring right at her, his rugged features softened by a crooked grin.
It's him, her mind shouted. She'd been thinking about him for months, wanting to ask Wilson or even Yoav about him, but too afraid she might reveal herself as a silly, crushing teenager. And now here he was. Watching her.
Sydney felt her pulse quicken and then all of a sudden, the whole world turned upside down. For a fraction of a second she was flying backward through the air. Then she landed with a jarring thud on the mat. She lay there, gasping, staring in bewilderment at the coiled bulbs of the overhead lights.
Yoav's face loomed, his bushy mustache framing his downturned mouth. “A distractio
n in the gym can cost you a sore body. A distraction in the field can cost you your life.” He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Never let yourself get distracted.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, sucking in air. She couldn't help herself. She quickly glanced toward the window.
The guy was gone. The corridor was empty.
A wave of disappointment washed through her.
“That's all for today,” Yoav said, grabbing a dingy white towel off a hook and tossing it to her. “Wilson said he needed to see you early today, and that you should go straight to his office. No time to shower.”
“Okay,” she said, pressing the towel to her forehead and neck. “And . . . um, sorry about letting my guard down just now,” she added, feeling sheepish. “I saw . . . movement, through the window. It just sidetracked me.”
He peered at her closely, his thick brows so low, they practically blocked his eyes from view. “You should notice all things, Sydney. Be aware of your surroundings, but stay focused. There's a difference between watching and wondering.”
“Duly noted,” she said, nodding. “I better go. See you tomorrow.” Draping the towel around her shoulders, Sydney pushed open the heavy steel door of the studio and stepped out into the corridor.
She had just turned the corner and was heading toward Wilson's office when she saw him. The guy was standing with a couple of older, blue-suited men, scanning an open notebook. She slowed down slightly, a sudden burst of cardiac activity hindering all other movement.
Just then, he glanced up and smiled at her. Sydney swallowed. Her feet and fingers gradually became numb as all her blood rushed into her cheeks. She lifted a corner of the towel and swiped at her face, acutely aware of her red, blotchy skin, droopy ponytail, and sweat-streaked tank top and sweatpants. Why, of all days, did Wilson have to override her shower this afternoon?
The guy nodded at her, and Sydney nodded back, her mouth automatically lifting in a smile. Damn, he's cute. She briefly flirted with the notion of walking right up to him and introducing herself. But three steps into her deliberation she'd already completely passed him. Doing a total about-face in the hall would be embarrassingly obvious.
She only hoped her backside wasn't quite as bad as her front—in case he was looking.
Her heartbeat had decelerated somewhat by the time she reached Wilson's door. Sydney knocked three times and entered.
“Hi, Sydney,” Wilson said, glancing up from the mosaic of photos and papers on his desk. “Thanks for coming early today. Sorry to rush you like this. I've got a really important meeting later and have to make things fast.”
“No problem,” she said, taking her usual seat at the smaller desk that faced his.
Memories of past misery rumbled inside her. She'd heard that “important meeting” excuse from her dad on an almost weekly basis while growing up. The difference was that he had never bothered to apologize. He'd always made it clear that work came first, and any disappointment she might have suffered was simply collateral damage.
Sydney opened the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside lay a stash of notebooks and manuals.
“Take out your manual on nonverbal communication,” Wilson instructed as he rose from his chair. He pressed a button on his desk keypad and a white screen automatically lowered from the ceiling. “I hope you did some studying.”
“Yes,” she said, making a face. “But I'm still confused. I just don't see how analyzing posture or counting eye blinks helps with covert ops.”
“It helps a great deal. Recognizing someone behaving out of the ordinary is usually your first clue that something dangerous is going on. And keeping your own actions as natural as possible will allow you to remain undetected in an undercover situation.”
That should be easy for me, Sydney thought with a wry smile. Most of her life she'd been good at moving in and out of places without being conspicuous. That way she avoided having to deal with people unless she truly had to. Unfortunately, being so anonymous also made her invisible to the Dean Carotherses of the world. When she wanted to get noticed, she usually wasn't.
So then why did the cute agent smile at me? she wondered, her grin spreading across her face. What does he see when he looks at me?
“The main thing is to blend into the environment as best as you can,” Wilson continued, snapping her back to the present. “Dress the same way other people dress. Drive what they drive. Move and talk the way they do. Do as little as possible to call attention to yourself. Now.” He pressed a handheld remote and a picture of a crowded street flashed onto the screen. “Somewhere in this photo is a known terrorist. Can you spot him?”
Sydney bit her lip. “The man in the gray jacket,” she replied.
“Good.” Wilson nodded approvingly. “What made you choose him?”
“Because judging from the foliage and the rest of the people's clothing, the weather is warm. That could mean he's wearing the large jacket to hide some sort of weapon.”
“Excellent. What are some other clues to look out for?”
Sydney's gaze traveled upward as she thought. “Stiff upper-body movement, an immobile hand kept out of sight, unusual bulges or lumps in their attire.”
“Correct. There are right ways and wrong ways to conceal a weapon on your body, which I'm sure you've been learning. How is your weapons training going, by the way? Pilar told me you were eight of ten in the black.”
Sydney smiled. “Yeah. But on the pop-ups I always—”
Just then, the phone on Wilson's desk started ringing. “Excuse me,” he said, lifting the receiver. “This is Wilson. . . . Yes. . . . Tell Sloane I've got the dossiers. I sent down the surveillance data this morning. . . . Yes, I got the message. Five o'clock . . .”
Sydney absently flipped through the manual, not wanting to look as if she was listening. She'd heard the name Sloane before while passing through the corridors. She had no idea who he was, but judging by the hushed tones people used, she figured he was really important.
“Yes. Tell Sloane I know he'll be pleased. . . . He wants what? I see. Excuse me a moment. Sydney?” Wilson said, covering the mouthpiece with his free hand. “This might be a while. Would you mind taking your manual out into the corridor and doing some reading while I finish?”
“Uh . . . no. No. Not at all,” she said, trying not to appear curious. Wilson had never asked her to leave during a conversation before.
Sydney grabbed her book and stepped out into the busy hallway. She felt instantly conspicuous, like a student who had been too disruptive in class. Being banished out of hearing range was a blatant reminder of how out of the loop she was.
Oh, well, she thought. Might as well do what the teacher said. She slid down the wall into a cross-legged position and thumbed through the manual. A chapter heading caught her eye: “Body Language and Feelings of Intimacy.” This was one of the sections they had passed over, but it sounded a lot more interesting than some of the stuff they'd been studying. She quickly skimmed the paragraph headings and diagrams.
“Frequent touching is typically a sign of emotional attachment, or an interest in forming one,” began one section. “These touches are typically more direct yet gentle and are focused on more personal areas of the body, such as the face or hands.”
Duh, Sydney thought, turning the page. How many research dollars had been wasted figuring that out?
A photograph on the opposite page caught her eye. It showed a young, dark-haired Dean Carothers clone leaning against a wooden fence. A girl was standing next to him in obvious flirt formation. Her body was contoured to meet the curve of his slouched stance, her head was tilted coyly to the side, and her hands were clasped around his left wrist, lifting it so she could (supposedly) check the time on his wristwatch.
Sydney scowled at the picture, her brow creasing into a pattern of wavy lines. She had never been able to do that stuff. In fact, it amazed her how expertly some girls could throw themselves at guys. She shut the book and stared at the opposite wall,
trying to imagine herself using body-language methodology on the nameless agent. “Hi, I'm Sydney,” she could say, strolling right up to him and grabbing his forearm. “Do you happen to have the time?”
Forget it, she thought, erasing the mental image with a shake of her head. There's no way I could pull that off without feeling like a total dork.
Wilson's voice suddenly broke through her thoughts. “Come back inside, Sydney,” he said, leaning into the hall. Sydney quickly jumped to her feet and stepped into the room. “I'm afraid our lesson is going to be extra short today,” he added, shutting the door and striding quickly back to his desk. “I've got to be at headquarters in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes? Sydney wondered, her curiosity surging once again. If he could be there in ten minutes, headquarters couldn't be very far. Maybe it was located in another downtown building . . . but which one?
“That's all right,” she said, placing the book on body language back in the drawer. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow afternoon then.” She turned to go.
“Just a moment.” Wilson held up a hand. “Before you leave, there's something I need to give you.” He reached into his top drawer and pulled out something small and square. “A pager,” he explained, handing it out to her. “So that we'll always be able to contact you.”
Sydney took the sleek black box from his grasp. This is major, she thought as she slowly turned it over in her palms. They must really trust me. A warm, cozy feeling slowly seeped over her. “Thanks,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Go ahead and start wearing it all the time,” Wilson said, an odd expression knitting his typically inert features. “You never know when we might be needing you.”
9
“YOU MADE IT!” FRANCIE'S dazzling smile shone like a beacon through the Lion's Den, a smoky, cellar-like jazz club not far from campus.
“Hey! Am I late?” Sydney called as she made her way to the table and dropped into a roughly hewn wooden chair. She set down her purse and tugged on the bodice of her dusty blue tank dress. She'd finally ended up getting her shower right before leaving to meet Francie. But in her hurry, she had neglected to dry off well, and now the water on her body was gluing her outfit to her skin.