by Lynn Mason
“Nope. I was early.” Francie groaned. “You would not believe the day I had. First I discover I studied the wrong two chapters for my sociology quiz. Then I go to work and find a busload of tourists in the restaurant demanding to know where all the movie stars are. Finally they leave and I go up to this skater dude who's paying for his smoothie, and he pulls out these dollar bills from—I'm totally serious here—the inside of his shorts!”
Sydney wrinkled her nose. “Eeeuw! What did you do?”
“I told him it was on me.” Francie rolled her eyes. “Anyway, after that I told Terwilliger I had a migraine and got off early.” She pushed a tall glass of soda toward Sydney. “Here, I took the liberty of getting you a drink.”
“Thanks,” Sydney said, slipping out of her dove gray cardigan and hanging it on the back of her chair.
Francie took a long sip from her own glass and settled back in her seat. “So,” she began brightly. “How was your day?”
“It was great,” Sydney confessed with a smile. “Look at this.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the pager, running her hand over its smooth, shiny surface. “My boss gave it to me today. Said I should wear it all the time.”
“Let me see.” Sydney handed the beeper to Francie. “How cool! So . . . does this mean they're, like, giving you more responsibility now? Like maybe they're going to be promoting you soon?”
Sydney shrugged slightly, but her smile widened. “I think so.”
“Wait a minute.” Francie scowled. “Does this mean they can call you anytime? Like during class? Or when we're hanging out like this?”
Sydney thought for a moment. “I don't know. Maybe. I'm not exactly that important to them. At least not yet.”
Francie tilted her head, studying her closely. “You know something? I think this job has been really good for you. You've really changed since you started there. You seem more, I don't know, together. More confident.”
Sydney smoothed the puckers from her dress lining. She's right, she told herself. Ever since she had started working for the CIA, she'd felt more powerful. Not just because she could kickbox and shoot guns now. But because for the first time in her life, she had a purpose. A noble purpose.
“I know you had your doubts when you started,” Francie went on. She leaned across the table, her eyes glimmering from the light of the candle sconce. “I guess banking probably isn't the most exciting work around. But you know, it takes all kinds of people in the world. And if banking is your thing, then I say more power to you!”
Francie handed back the pager. Sydney held it loosely in her palm, staring down at her face reflected in the smudged tabletop. She might not have been sure in the beginning, but she knew now that working for the agency was definitely for her. She'd excelled at things before—her classes, running track, theater arts. But this was the first time it truly mattered to her. And since her dad never seemed to care about her accomplishments, this was also the first time it mattered to someone else. The people at the agency thought she was strong, capable, and reliable. They trusted her with their secrets (some of them, anyway), and now they were entrusting her with a twenty-four-seven pager. All her hard work seemed to be pay-ing off.
“See? That's what I'm talking about,” Francie exclaimed, wagging a finger at her.
“What?” Sydney asked.
“You're smiling! I've been around you twenty-four-seven since last summer and I've never seen you smile this much. You're practically glowing. Everyone notices. Guys especially. See that one at the bar? The one in the leather bomber? He's totally been checking you out.”
Sydney glanced toward the bar, but all she could see was the back of the guy's head and black leather jacket. She looked back at Francie and rolled her eyes. “He's probably staring at you.”
“Uh-uh.” Francie shook her head. “Believe me, I would have noticed if he was. Since Baxter and I broke up, I've been looking for some sort of worthy replacement. I scoped out all the guys the first five minutes I was here. Nothing.”
“I still don't understand why you dumped Baxter,” Sydney said, stirring her straw in her glass.
Francie made a face. “Because! All he wanted to do was make out. I don't know about you, but for me there's got to be more to a relationship than just the physical stuff.” All at once, she sat up straight and stared past Sydney toward the front door. “Oh, my god! A major hottie just walked in. He looks just like Antonio Banderas!”
Sydney started to turn around.
“No! Don't look!” Francie whispered. “I don't want it to seem obvious.”
“If you think he's so cute, why don't you try to catch his eye?” Sydney asked, laughing.
Francie looked thoughtful for a moment. “I will if you will,” she said with a sly grin. “The guy at the bar is kind of hunky. Maybe you should check him out.”
“Come on, Fran,” Sydney began, shaking her head. “You know I don't want—”
“Hey, all I'm saying is look at him. Just see if he's your type. That's all.”
Sydney sat back in her chair and casually let her gaze wander in that direction. The guy was leaning against the bar. From what she could see, he was okay-looking. Tall, with long wavy brown hair. Maybe a goatee. She couldn't be sure since the rest of his profile was partially hidden behind the collar of his jacket.
A dense heaviness suddenly pressed down on her. Something wasn't right. The club was warm and sultry. Stifling. All sweaty patrons and heavy cigarette smoke. So why was the guy still wearing a thick leather coat? She let her eyes pass over him again. Sure enough, his left arm was bent awkwardly at his side. Instead of resting on the edge of the counter, it was pressed against his jacket as if holding it shut.
Just then, the guy turned toward her. He appeared to be surveying the collection of signed celebrity photographs on the wall when his eyes suddenly locked onto hers. She stared back at him and he quickly glanced away, but not before she had gotten a clear view of his face.
She'd seen him before—she was sure of it. Yesterday afternoon when she was eating lunch on campus with Francie, he'd been sitting at a nearby table in sunglasses and a baseball cap. He was following her. But why? And who sent him? Wilson wouldn't still be sending people to spy on her. Or would he?
“So what do you think?” Francie whispered after the man turned back around. “Don't lie, Syd. I can tell you're interested. He is cute, don't you think?”
“Uh, yeah. He's intriguing all right,” Sydney replied.
“Maybe you could go over and introduce yourself?” Francie sucked in her breath. “Oh, my god. Antonio's twin just sat down at the table behind you. I'm going to go freshen up. Will you watch my drink?”
“Sure,” Sydney replied absently as Francie stood and walked off toward the restrooms. “No problem.” Her mind was tilting and spinning like a carnival ride. Thoughts and emotions whirled past, but she couldn't hold on to any one of them.
It just didn't make sense. Why would someone be following her?
“Only one way to find out,” she mumbled under her breath. “Time for a refill.” She scooped up Francie's half-full glass of soda and sauntered over to the bar, plastering a demure smile onto her face in case Francie should return and see her.
As she approached, the guy seemed to catch sight of her. He didn't look up, instead hunching his shoulders and pressing his elbows closer to his body.
“Hi, I'm Sydney,” she said brightly, sliding onto the stool beside him.
The guy gave her a quick nod and glanced in the opposite direction.
Sydney leaned closer, tilting her head like the flirty girl in the body language manual. “Why are you following me?” she muttered through her smile.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replied brusquely.
“You ought to be more careful. I saw you on campus today, and now here you are in the same bar as me with a gun in your coat,” she murmured, still grinning and twisting a lock of hair around her index finger. “Now, do you want to tel
l me what's going on? Or should I make a scene and tell the bouncer you're bothering me?”
He looked right at her and smirked. “You ought to be more careful,” he muttered. “They don't like it when one of us gets too big for our britches.” He took one final swallow of his drink, stood, and casually strode out of the club.
They? Us? So the agency was following her! But why? And why would they be giving her a pager and heaping her with praise if they still weren't sure about her? Her pride, which had been soaring only a few moments before, now came crashing down to earth.
She was just sitting back down in her chair when Francie emerged from the bathroom. She took one look at Sydney, glanced over at the bar, and frowned.
“Did you go talk to him?” she asked, returning to her seat.
“Yep,” Sydney said.
“So?” Francie asked almost hesitantly, as if she already knew the answer. “How did it go?”
“He was . . . involved,” Sydney replied, trying to look sufficiently resigned. It wasn't too hard. They really must not trust her very much if she was still being tailed after eight months on the job. “Involved with someone else.”
“What?” Francie cried. “He already had a girlfriend and he was making eyes at you! What a jerk!”
“I know,” Sydney said, her voice indignant and dejected all at once. She lifted her pager, stared at it a moment, and then tossed it unceremoniously into her open purse. “I guess it just goes to show you have to be really careful who you trust.”
Sydney stalked into Wilson's office and slammed the door behind her so hard it rattled the framed Years of Service awards that hung on the wall. “You sent him, didn't you?” she said hotly.
Wilson glanced up, looking only mildly surprised—as if he'd expected her to come barging in at nine-thirty instead of nine-fifteen. “Good morning to you too, Sydney,” he said calmly.
“Why?” she asked, marching up to his desk. “Why am I being followed?”
Zero emotion. “Why don't you sit down?” he asked, gesturing toward her desk.
Sydney ignored him. “I don't understand,” she tried again, in a hard, measured tone. “I've been working my butt off for eight months and you guys still don't believe in me? Why did you give me that pager and lead me to believe I was important—and then send the lamest”—she made air quotes— “‘covert agent' to spy on me?”
“Sydney, I—”
“I mean, okay. So maybe you're afraid you made a mistake with me,” she went on, hands on her hips. “Maybe you guys aren't happy with the way I'm turning out. But why can't you just talk to me about it?”
“Sydney!” Wilson shouted, rising from his chair.
She blinked, her mouth still open.
“Take your seat. Now.”
Still pouting, Sydney trudged over to her usual chair and slumped into it.
“We are happy with the way you're turning out, Sydney,” Wilson said, settling back into his seat. “In fact, we've never had a trainee move up as rapidly as you have.”
“Really?” Sydney asked in a doubtful whisper. This was not what she'd expected at all. She'd come in ready to do battle and instead he was showering her with more praise? She narrowed her eyes and studied him, checking for signs of a trap.
“Look at this,” Wilson said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a thick black file. “All of your intelligence tests come back with record-setting results. Weapons, combat skills, linguistics, understanding of operations—you're learning them all at a phenomenal rate. You've set records in practically every area. Even your periodic physicals come back flawless. Face it, Sydney. You're the perfect recruit.”
“I am?” She ran her finger along the file's edge, shifting her weight in her chair. The raging scorn she'd been fueling herself with was suddenly gone. Now she just felt small and shy. Even though she loved hearing what Wilson had to say, it also made her uneasy. She'd never been taught how to handle a compliment. And the fact that it came from Wilson, who was so like her father and yet so different, made it even harder to know what to do.
A sudden thought made her sit up straight. “But the man following me. You still haven't told me why you did that,” she added, a slight edge creeping back into her voice. She wasn't going to let some nice words derail her from her original purpose.
“It's standard procedure with all new recruits, Sydney—the only difference being that others rarely pick up on it,” Wilson replied. He paused. “In our line of work, we have to take the utmost precautions with security. I hope you can appreciate that. It's for your well-being as well as ours.”
“Oh,” Sydney said, wilting slightly. “So . . . this is only until my training is over?”
Wilson nodded. “Although you will always be under surveillance to some degree. Never forget that.”
Sydney sighed defeatedly, her eyes round and sorrowful. “Listen, I'm sorry. When I saw that guy, I just thought . . . well, I guess I just assumed . . .”
Wilson lifted his hand, silencing her. “It's all right. Perfectly understandable. But in the future, should you ID your tails, do not approach them. It could expose you both and endanger the whole agency.”
“Right. Sorry,” she repeated, staring down at her lap.
She heard the squeak of Wilson's chair as he leaned back in it. “You know,” he began in a slightly amused tone, “that's probably your only weakness.”
Sydney glanced back up at him. “What's that?”
“Your temper,” he replied, looking her right in the eyes. “You need to learn how to divorce your emotions from your work. Strong feelings can only get an agent in trouble.”
She frowned slightly, wondering exactly what he meant. But before she could say anything, Wilson sat forward and placed his hands on his desk.
“That said, I want you to know that your superiors at headquarters are quite pleased with your progress.” He reached into another lower drawer and pulled out a large manila envelope. “You've been working very hard, Sydney. And we wanted to give you this as a token of our appreciation. I was going to page you to come in so I could surprise you, but since you're already here . . .”
A small current of warmth coursed through her as she watched him hold out the envelope, his lips tucked against his teeth in an awkward grin. She'd never seen Wilson look ill at ease before. And he was actually giving her a present. A reward of sorts. This was even better than the pager.
“Thanks,” she said, reaching for the packet. Whatever it was, it was extremely light. Slowly and carefully, she pulled back the top flap and turned the envelope upside down until a small rectangular card slid out. She quickly scanned the tiny writing and gasped. “A ticket to Raul Sandoval? For tonight's show?”
Wilson nodded, looking immensely pleased. “A front-row seat. We remembered you mentioning that you liked his music and got it for you.”
Talk about attention to detail! “But . . . but the show's been sold out for weeks! How did you wrangle it?”
“Let's just say we have our connections,” he replied with an actual wink.
“Thank you so much!” she exclaimed, shaking her head in astonishment. “I . . . I don't know what to say.” She was about to leave when Wilson cleared his throat.
“Sydney?” Wilson said, ducking his head slightly. “Before you're off, I have a small favor.”
“What's that?”
“I don't know if you know this or not, but I have a daughter,” he said, allowing a small smile to make its way across his face. “Her name is Claire. She's eleven.”
Sydney grinned back, amazed at this newer, gentler side of her boss. “No. I didn't know,” she said, pleased to be confided in.
“Yes. Well, she's a big fan of Raul Sandoval, but I've told her she's much too young to go to a concert.”
“Right. Of course,” Sydney agreed.
“So I was wondering, would you mind trying to take some photos of the show? Claire's birthday is coming up at the end of May and it would mean the world to her.”
<
br /> Sydney nodded. “Sure. No problem. But . . . aren't cameras forbidden inside the arena?”
“Yes. I thought of something, though.” He reached into the pocket of his dark blue blazer and pulled out a large silver arm cuff, which he held out to her, an awkward expression on his face. “Would you mind wearing this?”
“Um . . . okay,” she said, picking up the cuff and holding it up to the light. “So is this some valuable secret-society bracelet that will allow me to bring in a camera?”
“Sort of. It's a valuable secret-society bracelet that is a camera. I'm ‘borrowing' it from our operations-technology supply,” he explained with a wry smile. “See this large black stone? That's the lens. Aim it at whatever you want a picture of and press this smaller, red stone on the side.”
“What about this green one?” she asked, pointing to the other stone in the design.
“That's nothing. Just for aesthetics.”
“Oh.” She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and placed the bangle on her arm, the metal hard and cool against her skin.
“Don't wear it around here,” Wilson said somewhat nervously, nodding in the direction of the corridor. “They won't miss it from the lab, but agents aren't supposed to mix work with their personal life.” He lowered his voice. “I could get into real trouble.”
“I won't breathe a word.” Sydney was just about to slip the bracelet into her purse when Wilson touched her elbow.
“Listen,” he said apologetically. “If you're at all uncomfortable about doing this for me, you really don't have to.”
Sydney smiled back. “Are you kidding? It's my pleasure. I remember what it feels like to be eleven and in love with the pop star du jour. I'm happy to help you out.” Wilson wasn't a hardened CIA operative but a caring father. She couldn't help feeling a tug of longing. If only her own father had been more this way . . .
But he wasn't. Her dad was never going to change, and she should just accept that. In the meantime, if Wilson was asking her to do a little rule bending for the sake of his daughter, then she was going to do everything in her power to help him out.