American Spy

by Lauren Wilkinson

  I hit the mitt as hard and fast as I could, using up my last bit of energy. Boxing always reminded me of Helene in the fitness center at Fort Bragg, the angry look on her flushed face before she decked me. And yet I did it once or twice a week. The trainer started to count down from ten. Then: “That’s it! You’re done. Good work.”

  I thanked him, my muscles still screaming, my heart racing, then stood there panting for several seconds with my gloved hands on my hips. Once I’d caught my breath, I slipped through the ropes and down to the linoleum. A heavyset boy in a striped shirt and shorts, like a black Pugsley Addams, was leaning against the wall watching us. Most of the people I crossed paths with there were boys and young men. It was the kind of gym that the trainer, who also owned the place, had founded in hopes of providing kids with something constructive to do so they’d stay out of trouble.

  “Your turn,” the trainer called to Pugsley. The boy looked panicked as he approached the ring.

  I wiped my face and drank from the water fountain. Took my gear off, changed into my sneakers, and pulled my Walkman from my backpack. As I was leaving, I called goodbye to the trainer.

  “Take care, sis,” he shouted back. “See you Wednesday.”

  I went out to the concrete stairwell, where maybe a dozen Iz the Wiz throwies lined both walls, each one a different, vibrant color. Every time I saw them I was uplifted, and wondered what kind of Fed I was if I could find graffiti beautiful. I jogged down the steps, through the metal door propped open with a cinder block, and out into the bright, open city.

  “The six-million-dollar woman! All right!” That was from the incense vendor on the corner of 125th Street and Adam Clayton Powell. I pretended I couldn’t hear him; I’d long since stopped feeling obligated to respond to every strange man who spoke to me.

  I went north up the boulevard. Weaved around two women carrying Conway shopping bags in that trademark pink, then crossed east at 128th Street in the direction of Lenox. On that corner another man called after me. I pretended I hadn’t heard him either.

  I jogged past the building halfway down my block that had black smoke stains on the exterior and plywood in the windows. Past the detritus-peppered lot beside it, the gap of the building that had burned down there was like a missing front tooth.

  The street was deserted, but up ahead on Lenox I could see pedestrians waiting for the light to change. They were close enough to hear me scream, I found myself thinking, nervous because of the black car that had been creeping along behind me since I’d turned onto 128th. It suddenly sped up until it was in my peripheral vision. Ed Ross was peering at me from the passenger side, his face framed by the black car and gloomy interior.

  I pulled off my headphones. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry. I called after you on the corner, but you didn’t hear. What are you listening to?”

  “It’s a book on tape,” I said, embarrassed to admit it. At least it wasn’t one of those dialect tapes, which would’ve been even dorkier.

  He smiled. “I have a very good friend who likes those too. Which one?”

  “Against All Hope, by Armando Valladares.” I stepped off the sidewalk and went toward the car.

  “You know the Cubans think he’s CIA.”

  “Is he?”

  He smiled again and shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

  “What do you want, Ross? I made myself clear in our meeting. Which I caught hell for from my ASAC, by the way.”

  “I came up here to invite you to dinner. I’ll be in town for a few more days. There’s an excellent restaurant in the lobby of my hotel. Give me one more shot to convince you to come work for me.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Despite what I’d said, he extended a business card to me. After a moment’s hesitation, I took it.

  “Listen, I have to try. That’s my job. But there are no strings. All I’m asking is for you to come listen to my pitch. Enjoy a free meal, some nice wine. You say no and I’ll never darken your doorway again.”

  He sounded like he was trying to sell me a timeshare, but it was working. I didn’t feel as hostile to him as I had in the meeting, because he didn’t seem as keen as he’d been before to lie to me. Willing to start fresh, I said, “I’m not stupid, Ross. You weren’t telling the truth. I can’t work for you if you’re not straight with me.”

  Clearly amused by what I’d said, he answered, “I couldn’t tell you everything in front of your ASAC. But I will if you come to dinner. Hear me out. Make your decision then.”

  I considered his invitation. “Just to be clear: This is only about work, right? Nothing else?”

  Once more he seemed genuinely amused in a way that left me feeling like there was some joke that I wasn’t in on. “No funny business, I promise. You free tomorrow?”

  I decided I was and he gave me the hotel’s address. He told me if anything came up that I should give him a call. I looked down at the card he’d handed me. It gave his title as consultant in a firm called Primary Consulting, a phone number but no address.

  It was my turn to be amused, by the work of constructed meaninglessness I was holding.

  “I’ll see you, Marie,” he said, and I looked up at him again.

  In his words I’d heard more than a simple salutation—I heard his confidence. I knew that if an informant was willing to meet with me on their own, I’d already persuaded them to work for me. We both knew that.

  I watched as the car Ross was in continued on to the corner, turned on Lenox, and disappeared from view. As I went toward my building, I thought about his approach, which was much less subtle than my own. It was my style to gently, slowly insinuate myself into a target’s life. I got Aisha used to me first by appearing every day at the park near the St. Nick projects where she took Marlon. I acknowledged her with a nod but never spoke to her, those initial interactions never lasting more than a few seconds. I’d let a couple of weeks pass that way, because I’d wanted her to know I wasn’t a threat and also to make her as curious as possible about what I wanted. It had worked. When I finally spoke to her, she’d already bypassed the guess that I wanted to sleep with her and moved on to the suspicion that I was a Fed.

  As I climbed up my building’s peeling stone stoop, two boys came outside—the one I recognized as a neighbor’s son held the door for me with a bright smile. The interior of my building was gloomy, and the scent of fried meals hung in the air. I ran up to my apartment where I did push-ups and sit-ups, took a shower, dressed. In my bedroom, I glanced at Ross’s card on my dresser. It was surreal to find myself being recruited, having spent so much time recruiting people myself.

  The room looked out onto 128th Street, which was much quieter than Lenox. In the window across from my own, a girl was reading a pocket-sized book, a Bible probably, her legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, her hair wrapped in a doobie. I could hear the thock of a Spaldeen against the building—the boys I’d seen earlier must’ve been playing stoopball, which according to the sociolinguist’s book, they called pinners in Chicago.

  9

  I CALLED A CAR SERVICE, AND ON the ride downtown, tried to guess at how Ross would make his pitch. I walked into a small, elegant restaurant and found that he was already there—I was surprised to see him sitting with a blond man. Both of them stood as I approached.

  “Marie, this is Phillip,” Ross said, and gave no further introductory description, referring to him as neither a colleague or a friend. All three of us were aware of the omission.

  “Nice to meet you.” I shook Phillip’s hand.

  “Marie,” Ross said. “I didn’t know you had so much hair. It’s beautiful.”

  I thanked him, even though it wasn’t just a compliment. He was appraising me. I knew I did look good though, in my favorite black cocktail dress and with my hair down. Although I always wore it p
ulled back at work, I felt more myself with my curls free.

  The three of us sat, and a few uncomfortable moments passed in which I could think of absolutely nothing to say. Luckily the waiter came to our table and broke the silence. Phillip ordered a bottle of wine.

  “I thought you two should meet,” Ross said. “You’re the only two people on the planet who listen to books on tape.”

  Phillip laughed. “So you’re the other one.”

  “Guilty.” I smiled. “What are you listening to these days?”

  “Not too much right now. I’m too busy to read for fun during the semester.”

  “Phillip’s a lit professor down near us in DC,” Ross said.

  With some prodding, Phillip listed a few of the books on his syllabus that semester, including Passing.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” I told him.

  “What attracted you to it?” he asked. “I’m always interested in what makes someone pick up a book.”

  “That’s hard to say, I read it so long ago. I was a teenager.” I must’ve initially been attracted to it because I thought it might teach me something about your grandmother—the premise of the book is that the main characters are both black women who can pass for white. But I was aware that Ross was listening, and not wanting to reveal too much about my background, settled on telling Phillip, “I like melodrama. That’s probably what appealed to me. How about you?”

  “I’d heard it was way ahead of its time. Clare and Irene are clearly romantically obsessed with each other, so the title also refers to sexuality. They can both pass for white and for straight. And that book came out, what? Almost sixty years ago? It’s revolutionary.”

  I thought about his answer for a moment and nodded in agreement. I’d never considered that before, but he was right. Most of the conversations I had were with colleagues—I couldn’t remember the last time one of them had said something as intellectually stimulating. It was refreshing.

  He glanced at Ross. “We’re boring Ed.”

  “Not at all,” Ross said.

  “You should read it,” Phillip told him.

  “I have. It’s not bad.”

  “You did? When?”

  “Hm, maybe a month ago? You left a copy on the coffee table. I was bored and read it in a few hours. It’s short.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You know why.” He looked over at me. “I’m not afraid to admit it: I don’t like talking about books with him.”

  “You see how he is?” Phillip asked me.

  “You see how he is? I don’t like it because he asks impossible questions.”

  “I ask your opinion!” Phillip was still grinning. “There’s never any right answer.”

  “Yeah. You just want to know how I feel about the things you ask me to read.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they don’t make me feel anything. And you refuse to accept that.”

  “Because everyone has feelings!” Phillip ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end.

  “See?” Ross laughed. He reached out and patted Phillip’s hair back down. “Impossible to give the right answer.”

  So this was how he was making his pitch, I realized. He was hoping to foster my trust by suggesting I had his. Once I understood what he was up to, I started to let my guard down. Although he had an agenda for giving me a glimpse into his personal life, and although I believed he was performing his part of their intimacy for me, I could still let myself have fun. By the time our meals came, the discussion had subtly shifted to politics. I was happy. It was the first time in a long time that I’d really enjoyed a conversation. That is until Phillip leaned in and whispered: “I know.”

  “Know what?”

  He pumped his eyebrows.

  “I told him you’re FBI,” Ross said.

  I nodded. “It’s not a secret.”

  “I haven’t met any of Ed’s colleagues for obvious reasons”—he glowered at Ross—“but I assume none of them are like you or like me.”

  “I don’t fit in at the field office,” I said agreeably, skating over his presumption that we were alike.

  “Then I have to ask—”

  “Phil, don’t be nosy.”

  “Why’d you join the FBI?”

  “When you could’ve been a CIA officer instead,” Ross put in. “That’s what he means.”

  “That boys’ club?” Phillip scoffed. “You really think those white-shoe assholes you work for would’ve hired her?”

  Ross moved Phillip’s wineglass out of his reach—it was a jokey gesture. Phillip grabbed it back and took a long sip. “Ed’s a legacy: His dad’s CIA, and his brother too. And one of his uncles. He was pretty much guaranteed a job. Because it was so easy for him, he doesn’t really understand that’s not the case for everyone.”

  “Listen, I admit there might be biases,” Ross said. “But I think they’d hire a really strong candidate even if she was a woman.”

  Phillip looked at me and rolled his eyes. “See?”

  “It’s not just that I’m a woman,” I said. “I’m a black woman. Two strikes against me.”

  “Why feel obligated to people that you can’t even really be yourself around, that’s what I want to know.”

  It was obvious they’d had this argument a thousand times before, and that there was no resolution to be had. What I thought was interesting was how confident Phillip seemed that he knew who Ross really was. Even if they’d known each other for twenty or thirty years, even if they’d known each other from before Ross joined the CIA, now, his stock and trade was subterfuge.

  “He should’ve been a painter. Or a psychoanalyst,” Phillip said. “I would’ve been much happier.”

  “I was never a very good artist.” Ross laughed. “And anyway, I think Marie can understand the obligation I felt to my family.”

  I glanced at him, curious about what he’d meant by that. His face revealed nothing.

  My mind was on what he’d meant about my ability to understand familial obligation. I wanted to know more about Ross’s past. If there was a connection between us. “So, Ross, you spent some time in the field?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you?”

  He hesitated for a moment as if he was weighing whether or not to tell me the truth, and it struck me as a strange thing to be cagey about. “I was station chief in Ghana. I came back here last year. For Phillip.”

  “It was a real strain on us, his being out of the country most of the time.” He added, “I have to remind myself that he’s a legacy all the time. It’s the only way I can make any sense of what he’s chosen to do for a living. Although I can’t figure out why he even bothers trying to please that old bigot.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, Phillip’s a radical,” Ross said.

  “No I’m not. It’s not like I ever blew anything up.”

  “And that’s your measure? Whether or not you’ve blown up something?”

  Phillip laughed.

  “You’ve been arrested,” Ross said.

  “Just for protesting.”

  “That’s a crime.”

  “No, it isn’t, Ed.”

  The conversation had shifted permanently from the one I’d been trying to have about Ross’s past. He turned to me. “He’s been arrested a half-dozen times.”

  “Are you trying to embarrass me? It won’t work.” I could tell it really wouldn’t. He looked pleased; they both did in fact. “What should be embarrassing for you is that you ran a background check on me.”

  “I had to. It’s policy.”

  “That’s right. You don’t make the policy, you just follow it.” Phillip’s eyes were swimming from the wine. “I’m over it now, but I was ticked at him. Can you imagine? ‘I love you and I trust y
ou, but can you tell me about this time you went to jail?’ We took a little break after that. I couldn’t talk to him for months.”

  “But now he’s back to his old ways. He was arrested, what, two months ago? Up here, actually.”

  “Yeah well, Burroughs Wellcome ought to be ashamed. They think they can charge whatever they want. They’re gouging sick people. People in our community who are dying. It’s immoral.”

  “See. A radical.”

  “If I’m a radical, then Ed is…” Phillip trailed off and picked up his glass of wine. He didn’t need to finish the sentence; I knew what he was implying. A sellout. Helene had heard it plenty when she’d wanted to enlist, and I thought it sometimes too, about myself, sitting at my chocolate-colored desk surrounded by all those white lawmen in suits and ties.

  Ross cleared his throat. They’d been play-sparring all night; this was the first real moment of tension between them.

  “I used to really like that TV show The FBI,” I said suddenly, to ease the strain. They both looked over at me.

  “That’s why I became a Fed. I used to watch it all the time with my dad.”

  “Oh,” Ross said. “I remember that.”

  Phillip was incredulous. “Because of a TV show?”

  “I’ve heard crazier reasons,” Ross said with a smile.

  I was lying. While I actually did watch the show (with Helene, not Pop, but I didn’t like mentioning her and opening myself up to questions), I’d stolen the answer from one of the trainees in my graduating class at Quantico. He’d said it during orientation.

  After I graduated from City College, Pop suggested I meet with Mr. Ali—he said it as an offhanded bit of advice—so I went into the city, we had lunch in Chinatown, and he told me about his job. And that, to get it, I’d have to sit a written exam; nearly nine thousand candidates had already taken it that fiscal year, and the bureau was planning to hire only about a tenth of the total applicant pool. I applied because that all appealed to my competitive nature, but I stuck with being a Fed because of my sister. I wanted to be the version of myself that she’d believed in.