by O M Faure
The competition is tough and today might wither my happy mood; we’re starting the dreaded physical tests. I’m not exactly what you might call fit and given how extremely able the other candidates are, I wouldn’t be surprised to be disqualified at the end of the day.
I put on the black leggings and baggy t-shirt that I bought at Primark in a rush, as I don’t own any sports gear. I tie my brand-new trainers, tighten my ponytail and hurry down the hallway towards the kitchen. Or that’s where I think I’m going. But soon enough, I’m lost in the maze of corridors of the unfamiliar college.
I have no sense of direction whatsoever. I can go somewhere ten times and still get hopelessly lost on the eleventh time. Martin thought at first that I was pretending in order to make him feel manly. But a few weeks into the relationship he sounded amazed when he said, ‘You really have absolutely no idea where you are, Mousey?’ and I really, really didn’t.
There’s no point in thinking about Martin now, I chide myself. He’s gone for good Olivia, think of something else.
I’m not exactly late yet, so I take the opportunity to explore the college while trying not to panic. A little shudder of excitement and stress squirms in my gut as I trespass into places I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to see.
I hesitate and choose a hallway, walking slowly along in the eerie silence until it opens up into an atrium flooded with light. In front of me, there is a large marble plaque carved with names. Two paintings are positioned on either side of it and I approach the painting on the right, frowning.
My breath catches. It can’t be – my father is looking back at me from the gilded frame. It’s him. It’s definitely his smile, his chin jutting out, his white hair. I bend to look at his name, written on a small golden plaque. Yes, ‘Alastair Sagewright (1938–2001)’.
A hand grabs my shoulder, making me flinch.
‘Oh, Andrew!’ I sound shrill, I think. ‘What? How—?’ I don’t even know what to ask, as my eyes boomerang back to the painting.
Andrew looks at me kindly and gestures to a bench by the opposite wall. ‘Take a seat, Olivia.’
I drop on the bench, eyes still glued to my dad, who is gazing down fondly at me, his hands crossed over his knee, his little knowing smile exactly as I remember it. I wrench myself away and turn to Andrew, who’s observing me.
‘We didn’t know when to tell you this, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Your father went missing in the line of duty, while he was leading a mission for the Cassandra Programme. Nobody knows what happened to him.’
‘But that can’t be.’ My mind is struggling to make sense of this. ‘He was a businessman. He died in the twin towers, he was visiting one of his businesses and… and…’ I stammer, starting to piece things together, my mind spinning.
They never recovered his body. He was gone for a whole year, supposedly attending to his business venture. Mum thought he’d left her.
We had no idea he was in New York. It was only several weeks after 9/11 that we received word he had died in the terrible event. Apparently the forensic investigators had worked out that he was there and it took a long time for them to confirm his DNA and send us word. Mum and I had watched the news horrified, like everyone else, not realising that he had died along with the thousands of other poor souls. We had a funeral with an empty coffin.
I’d always hoped in the back of my mind that it had all been a horrible mistake, that he was never in the towers and that he’d appear on our doorstep, fifteen years later, with a big smile on his face.
A lump forms in my throat. Even with so little knowledge about the Programme, I can already tell that the circumstances match.
‘I’m so sorry, Olivia.’
Andrew puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. I let the tears roll down my cheeks, making splats of wet on the bench’s green leather. He gives me a proper handkerchief to wipe my eyes and we wait in silence for my sorrow genie to creep back into its dusty bottle.
At length, Andrew gets up and offers me his hand. We walk over to the marble plaque on the wall and I run my hand along the letters of my father’s name. There are dozens of others in neat rows below his. Nora Haq, Max Breville, Tim Fairmont, Rohan Shah. They mean nothing to me. Other agents, I guess. What did they die for?
‘What was so important? What was he doing?’
‘Unfortunately I can’t tell you that. Yet.’
‘I need to pass first?’
‘Yes.’
To the right of the list of names, virgin marble looms, shot through with dark veins. Enough space for another three rows at least. So they’re expecting more deaths. I shiver and take a last look at my dad’s kind face.
‘We’d better get back before today’s round starts,’ Andrew says, gently guiding me as we walk back to the kitchen together.
‘Sorry I got lost. I’ve the worst sense of direction,’ I say, absentmindedly.
‘We know,’ Andrew answers with a smile. ‘We’ve been following you, learning about you. We think you may have the potential to make it here.’
‘I don’t stand a chance against all the alpha males strutting around this bloody place.’
‘Give yourself some credit, Olivia, most of the candidates failed the previous round. They weren’t as smart, as observant or as empathetic as you.’
‘I’m sure you meant pathetic,’ I sniffle.
He laughs and pats my back. ‘See, you’re making jokes. Feeling better already, then?’
‘Thank you, Andrew.’
‘You know,’ he says, a faraway look in his eyes, ‘we used to send exclusively non-military personnel on missions. We still do sometimes. You’d make a really good field agent.’
It’s hard not to snort. I remember Dad ignoring me and looking bored when I tried to connect with him. He clearly thought I wasn’t interesting enough, not smart enough to share anything with. What am I trying to accomplish? It’s too late to gain his approval – and I might die in the process, trying to fit in his world.
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
The others are nearly done with their breakfasts, but I can’t eat. Aileen comes over and asks if I’m OK. I nod as Frank makes a lewd joke about Andrew and me arriving together at breakfast and Woody laughs. Andika looks at me suspiciously but says nothing.
Everybody leaves except Aileen. We fall behind the rest of the group on our way to the gym and I tell her what happened in a whisper.
‘I’m sorry, Olivia. My father died too.’ She swallows back a painful memory and I recognise the feeling.
The gym smell like all other gyms – of dried sweat, old socks and misery. I already feel inadequate as our voices echo under the high ceiling and we’re instructed to take evenly spaced positions from each other.
We start with general flexibility exercises and I’m pleased to see my fertility-boosting yoga classes pay off. Björn is struggling with the simplest poses and Frank isn’t even trying but gets redder and redder anyway. Then we move on to endurance. We run ten kilometres. I arrive second to last but at least I finish, unlike Woody. They test our ability to get out of restraints, to make knots; they have us remember a sequence of steps and repeat them. I do quite well at that actually as it requires memory rather than physical skill.
I fail time and again to climb up the rope dangling in front of my nose as I stare at DeAnn’s perfect behind hanging six feet up. I’m debating whether to give up and walk away when I hear Karim whisper to Andika, ‘I’m not surprised. She’s only made it this far because her dad once managed the Programme.’
But Andrew’s words are ringing in my head: ‘I can tell you anything yet.’ He thinks I can make it. I have to. Otherwise I’ll never know what happened to my dad.
A wave of determination washes over me and, ignoring them, I concentrate on the rope-climbing technique and try it again and again until my palms are bleeding, until the insides of my blobby thighs are one giant purple bruise
– until I finally touch the ceiling.
Then they test our self-defence skills. Adam and DeAnn give us an extremely impressive demonstration of Krav Maga. I didn’t even know what it was until today and would have guessed that it was a seventies crochet pattern. Turns out it’s the scariest self-defence method there is.
Asked to try a few self-defence poses with Björn, I spend the next hour being slammed to the floor, as he showcases his brute strength instead of actually teaching me the methods. But each time he throws me to the mat, I get back up and try again. The others are better equipped than me: fit, strong, trained; they already know what to do. I’ll have to learn. But I can at least show the examiners that I won’t give up.
At last, the day ends with a comprehensive series of psychological tests and finally an interview with a psychiatrist. I have to wait in line for my turn, as one by one the candidates come out, looking destabilised, relieved or exhausted. Frank and I are the last ones left when he turns to me with a sneer on his face. I groan mentally – what now?
‘So, your daddy used to work here,’ he whispers.
‘How did you…?’
‘You’re grossly underqualified for this job.’ His stale breath hits my face as he leans in. I try to turn away but he’s too close. ‘Quit now and let someone with a real chance take over. You’re a waste of space – look at yourself, you’re ridiculous.’ I feel my self-confidence crumbling as his glance travels down my sweaty t-shirt and sausagey legs encased in the too-tight spandex.
‘Olivia?’ An older woman with lacquered blonde hair peers at her clipboard and then at me.
I quickly slip into the psychiatrist’s office and slump on the armchair, breathing in. This is easier than jogging and facing off bullies, so I relax and talk to her candidly. If she’s evaluating our psychological ability to cope with the job, there’s no point in lying, so I go with the truth. It goes well, as far as I can tell.
As the day draws to an end, we’re all summoned to the main hall again. Today there are no dressed tables and no evening wear. We’re all in tracksuits and the jury is lined up behind a long table, waiting for us. The other candidates are already standing in the corridor outside when I arrive. They’re going to announce the results.
Even though we can’t hear what they’re saying, the conversation doesn’t seem to be going well. Professor McArthur is frowning, Critchlow looks pleased with himself and Andrew is chopping the air with his hands, intense and unhappy. Finally, they come to some sort of agreement, which doesn’t seem to satisfy any of them. Aileen waves to the attendant to let us through and we instinctively form a line in front of the judges.
‘Thank you all for participating in this selection process,’ Professor McArthur starts. ‘Most of you came from abroad and had to carve out the time in your diaries, and we really appreciate it.’
All of us stay quiet, holding our breath.
‘Well, there’s no point in delaying any longer. We’re filling two field agent positions and we have selected Björn and Andika. Congratulations to both, your marks were excellent.’
My heart sinks. It was a long shot but I really wanted to be selected. I will never know what happened to my father now. I start to turn to the buff Swedish man to congratulate him but Theodora holds up her hand and motions for us to be quiet.
‘Just a moment, I’m not quite done. This year, it was quite difficult to select the best two candidates as you all had different strengths and assets. After much deliberation, we have decided to offer Olivia and DeAnn positions as well, in the legal and medical team, respectively.’
My heart leaps. Oh my God, I’m in! DeAnn is hiding it well but I think she’s pleased as well. She walks over to the table of examiners and shakes their hands, thanking each one in turn. So professional, always.
I’m thinking of doing the same when Frank comes over, pretends to shake my hand but instead grabs my wrist and crushes it in his big meaty grip, as he yanks me towards him.
‘Daddy’s girl has won, what a surprise,’ he whispers.
Adam comes over and elbows him in the ribs, directing a sideways look at the jury.
‘Let them hear me, I want them to,’ Frank says more loudly.
‘I agree, this process is clearly rigged.’ Adam eyes me up and down and shakes his head.
Woody walks over and asks me, in a seemingly friendly way, ‘So what did you do? Sleep with Andrew?’
I’m unsuccessfully trying to pull my hand free of Frank’s grip when Aileen appears at my side and asks, ‘Everything OK here?’
They scatter reluctantly and she follows them from the corner of her eye until they’re out of the room, then gently takes my wrist and inspects it. ‘You’ll have bruises.’
‘I’ll live.’ I smile.
‘Us girls have to stick together, don’t you think? Especially now that you’re going to face life-and-death situations for a living. Welcome to the Cassandra Programme.’
She pats my shoulder and walks back to the table.
Crikey, what on earth have I gotten myself into?
10
DeAnn
Cambridge, United Kingdom, September 2016
* * *
I was pretty sure I’d be selected but I didn’t expect the rosary rattler to make the cut as well. After she announced the results, Professor McArthur invited Olivia, Björn, Andika and me into her office. Critchlow and Andrew Catterwall also came along.
We’re all gathered in a light-filled room overlooking the campus lawn. The walls are lined with bookshelves, the books double stacked and forming piles on the desk and on the floor. The place smells of paper, lavender and leather. Andrew pulls a leather armchair closer to the desk while Critchlow stands with his back against the doorjamb, looking somehow like he’s guarding it against intruders. Olivia and I sit on the chairs opposite Professor McArthur’s desk and Björn removes a pile of books from an ottoman, then sits on it, slightly hunched, too large for the small footstool. Aileen joins us, carrying a tray of mugs, and circulates among us; Andika declines and simply leans against a bookshelf, watching everyone from a distance.
Finally, when everyone’s settled, Theodora McArthur sits at her desk, laces her fingers together and looks up at each one of us over her large glasses. A ray of sunshine is playing with dust flecks, spilling golden light over Theodora’s shoulder and onto the blue rug that covers the floorboards. In the silence, a clock is ticking the seconds and the sounds of the campus below us feel remote and absurdly boisterous.
Professor McArthur speaks in a low voice: ‘Björn, Andika, Olivia, DeAnn, well done. Very few candidates ever make it this far. Some years, we do not select anyone. I cannot overstate how important it is to recruit the right candidates for this job.’
Björn throws a glance at me, eyebrows raised, but it’s obvious he doesn’t know either what this is all about.
‘At the beginning of the 1990s, I was approached to participate in a new business venture. A young theoretical physicist thought she’d had a breakthrough and the businessman who was funding this venture needed a person he trusted to test its practical applications.’
‘Our team worked on it for months but had very little to report. Nothing worked. We were getting ready to abandon our efforts and I must say that I wasn’t surprised, as the theory we were testing was, shall we say… far-fetched. But after months of failed attempts, one parameter was accidentally modified and it worked.’
‘What worked?’ I ask, losing patience.
‘We can only reveal this to field agents and a few back-office personnel after thorough vetting and clearing.’
‘Will we get cleared, at our levels?’ I ask, glancing at Olivia.
‘Yes. It will take one month. While we vet you, you’ll go through the onboarding process,’ Andrew says. ‘This is worth it, believe me.’
Theodora continues, ‘For now, you just need to know that you’ll be part of an initiative that is changing the world on an unprecedented scale. Although I cannot give you d
etails about the Cassandra Programme yet, I can tell you that we’re operating at the cutting edge of science.’
The Girl Scout next to me is biting her lower lip, frowning. Andika just watches all of us impassively, like a cat gaging mice. Professor McArthur waits for a moment and when no questions come, she continues.
‘After the initial discovery, we continued to experiment and finally, in the year 2000, we conducted our first manned mission, which successfully proved that the technology was viable. That’s when we went from being a scientific team to a professional organization with field operatives.’
‘You’re describing events that happened over fifteen years ago. Surely by now, you’d have gone public, if this were legit,’ Björn says.
Critchlow frowns. ‘This isn’t the type of equipment that can be commercialized or even made public, Magnusson. In the wrong hands, this technology could disrupt society on an unthinkable scale.’
I’m dubious but I decide to assume for a minute that they’ve found something really big. A piece of technology or weaponry that would really change the global balance of power. Just to test the logic. If it’s really true, then I’d probably have managed the Cassandra Programme much like they did: keeping it under wraps, only involving a handful of trustworthy governments and I would cherry-pick the candidates without telling them anything about the real objective. It makes sense.
This could be the opportunity of a lifetime.
Agent Critchlow takes off his glasses, wipes them thoroughly and puts them back on. ‘We’re dealing with very dangerous knowledge so this is why, after the initial mission, it quickly became apparent that we needed to increase security and bring the operations up to a more professional level.’
Professor McArthur looks distinctly unhappy with Critchlow’s statement but he carries on, unperturbed: ‘I was called in to recruit and supervise the armed units at that point and I continue to oversee the training of all field agents to this day.’