That’s ridiculous. Nobody’s paying attention to my handwriting.
Except that probably wasn’t true.
Looking around at the bare, beige surroundings, shivering in the freezing air, Gaia reminded herself where she was. As soon as she’d arrived on the top floor of this gleaming downtown Palo Alto office building and walked through the spotless glass doors that read Federal Bureau of Investigation (and below that, Regional Field Office #421), she was in a supercontrolled, constantly observed world. The people who worked her were the world’s master detectives and investigators—if she thought they wouldn’t pay attention to her handwriting, her clothes, her way of speaking—maybe even find a way to gauge her heart rate or blood pressure—she was kidding herself.
It had been seven or eight minutes since the receptionist had handed her the entry form and shown her into this spotless waiting room. The smooth metal door had a complicated electronic lock, and it hummed and thumped as the door shut, locking her into the windowless room.
Good thing I’m not claustrophobic, Gaia thought. But that was silly—if you were claustrophobic, they wouldn’t want you as an FBI agent.
Gaia had arrived ten minutes early, dressed in her best (okay, her only) suit, carrying the medical forms and reference letters she’d been told to bring, The suit itched her neck and was tight across the chest—it had been a gift from her father, who apparently expected her to immediately enter “the job market” once she’d gotten her diploma.
Well, here I am in the “job market,” Dad, she thought. Probably not the one you expected, though.
In the five weeks since graduation Gaia had spent every day preparing for today. Maybe it was all that buildup that was making her so nervous.
Can I look at my watch again? Would that make me look too impatient?
Gaia told herself she was being silly. Nobody cared if she looked at her watch—if they were even paying any attention, which was only a theory. She couldn’t see any obvious places for hidden cameras. Besides, she’d only done it twice in eight minutes.
Gaia looked at her watch. Nine minutes.
Are they going to make me wait exactly ten minutes? Start the interview precisely at—
With a loud, electronic click and hum, the door swung open.
“Gaia Moore?”
A young woman stood in the doorway. She might be thirtyfive, Gaia guessed. She was strikingly attractive, but she had managed to nearly conceal that fact behind a buttoned-up black suit and an austere Peter Pan shearing of her dark red hair. She wasn’t smiling, exactly—but she wasn’t frowning either. Gaia rose quickly to her feet, clutching all her paperwork.
“Yes?”
“Special Agent Jennifer Bishop,” the woman said, extending her hand. She did smile then, warmly, and Gaia felt much more comfortable. The smile seemed completely genuine; it was nothing like the dozens and dozens of obvious false smiles Gaia had encountered in her young life. They shook hands—Gaia nearly dropped the metal clipboard but caught it at the last moment. “How do you do? Is all your paperwork ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gaia said, holding out the forms.
Ma’am? That was a new one. Gaia wasn’t sure if she’d ever called anyone “ma’am” in her life. But it hadn’t happened on purpose—she had just blurted it out without thinking. Bishop seemed to take it in stride, as if she was used to being treated respectfully.
“Well, shall we begin?” Bishop took the paperwork and gestured Gaia toward the door. “Welcome to our fifth California base station,” she went on, leading Gaia down a wide, gray-carpeted corridor toward a glassed-in guard’s station with a metal gate in front of it. A tall, muscular man sat there in a marine’s uniform. Gaia seriously wondered whether she could take him in a fight; if she did, it would take a long time. “Let’s just get this over with,” Bishop said.
“Raise your arms,” the marine said, rising to his feet. He waved a white metal wand around Gaia’s body, accompanied by a squealing noise. Then he nodded. “Go ahead, ma’am,” he told her, pressing a button that buzzed and opened the metal gate.
Okay, I’m a “ma’am,” too, Gaia realized. That was another first.
“Our pursuit of your friend Kevin Bender was conducted out of this field office,” Bishop went on as they passed through the metal gate and circled around another corner. “Not that that was one of our proudest moments. If I’d been in charge of that one, believe me, nobody would have been asleep at the switch.”
“You weren’t involved in that, Agent Bishop?”
“Oh God, no,” Bishop said. Gaia caught the distaste in her voice.
Should I not have asked that? Did I insult her somehow?
Gaia understood why the FBI wouldn’t be too proud of what had happened on that rooftop. Although it had been five weeks since that insane graduation day, to Gaia, it might have been yesterday. All the time Gaia had spent working out, running, and preparing for this interview as best she could, she’d been haunted by that fragile, lost look in Kevin’s eyes just before he released the bomb trigger.
“I don’t know how they missed it,” Bishop went on in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, ducking her head as she confided in Gaia. It was an appealing gesture—it put Gaia much more at ease. “I looked over the report and couldn’t believe the mistakes. They’d been watching him for months—they had the explosives traced; they had his phone numbers and profile; they knew he was going to do something soon. To me, it was obvious he’d make his move on graduation—I took one look at his profile and figured that out. But only one agent on the roof? Please. It’s just lucky you were there.”
Lucky I was there. Gaia felt a surge of pride and was surprised at how strong the feeling was. But then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling washed away.
They had his phone numbers, she thought, remembering the conversations she’d had with Kevin during the school year. Does that mean they were watching me, too?
Bishop walked quickly, her high heels clicking on the carpet. They were walking past numbered offices. Gaia looked around avidly, trying to get a glance at what was going on behind the half-opened doors, but she couldn’t see anything interesting. “Maybe I’m being too hard on my colleagues,” Bishop went on. “I specialize in psychological profiling—I’ve got very high standards. I don’t do fieldwork anymore—I create and supervise the recruiting and training programs in Virginia. This time of year I circulate around our field offices, talking to applicants.”
She’s a profiler, Gaia marveled. The real thing.
Gaia was starting to like Agent Bishop-her brisk, no-nonsense manner, her easy, obvious intelligence and the sweetness and friendliness beneath.
Special Agent Bishop used her electronic card to open a metal door. Its identification plate read Conference 12. The now-familiar buzz started and the door clicked open. Inside was a wide, windowless room with a large oak table. Gaia entered the room—and all her hopes about the interview fell away.
The room wasn’t empty. A man stood at the table. His presence was forbidding, to say the least. There was a thick file on the table in front of him, with a large FBI emblem printed on its face.
“Gaia, this is Special Agent Brian Malloy,” Bishop said. “Agent Malloy is the director of the FBI’s training facility at Quantico.”
Gaia noticed the man’s tightly cropped, slicked-back hair first. It was jet black, slightly graying at the temples. She couldn’t quite discern his age—his skin was so taut around his strong jaw but deeply creased around his dark eyes. But what she noticed the most was that he didn’t smile. Not in the corners of his mouth, not even in his eyes. He looked like he was reporting for military duty, and Gaia was instantly convinced that he had to be an ex-marine or ex-navy.
“Ms. Moore,” Malloy said sternly. “Our problematic new applicant. Let’s get started—and maybe you can explain why I shouldn’t cross your name off right away.”
FBI RECRUITING TRANSCRIPT
AUDIO FILE #245C7
RECRUIT NAME: Gaia Moore
ADMINISTRATING AGENTS: Brian Malloy,
Jennifer Bishop (assisting)
RECRUIT PRIORITY: Classified
(as per Malloy, op. code 45 red)
BISHOP: This is Special Agent Jennifer Bishop, ID code G44.
MALLOY: Brian Malloy, A71; special agent.
BISHOP: Questioning potential recruit Gaia Moore, as per Special Agent Bishop. Please note that Ms. Moore has been informed that this interview is being recorded for our records as per regulation #27EE-1 and Ms. Moore has complied.
MALLOY: Confirmed.
BISHOP: Gaia, I’d like to thank you again for joining us today. And the bureau thanks you as well.
MOORE: Thanks for taking the time to see me.
BISHOP: So, Gaia, what brings you here? Why are you interested in the FBI?
MOORE: Well, I guess you could say it started five weeks ago. The incident we were just talking about—the, um, Kevin Bender incident.
MALLOY: Please note for the record that the applicant is discussing case docket #1661, Palo Alto, code name Sapphire.
BISHOP: Go on, Gaia.
MOORE: Well—something happened right after it was over. The funny thing was, we were talking about not knowing what to do next. Kevin and I were. We’d had conversations like that before; I’m sure the whole class was having that talk. Then suddenly he had a bomb, and I had to do something fast, and the next thing I knew it was over, people were actually clapping, and I felt this amazing feeling. Suddenly it was like I’d found something I really wanted to do.
MALLOY: Situational euphoria. It’s a common field occurrence—we do everything we can to discourage it.
MOORE: What?
BISHOP: He just means that there’s an expected adrenaline rush after the kind of stunt you performed. It’s easy to fall into the trap of overinterpreting those feelings.
MOORE: Wait a minute. Let me finish. It wasn’t just that moment. If you’d let me finish, I would have explained that I’ve been thinking about this ever since—I’ve spent five weeks researching the FBI, and with each passing day I’ve become more convinced that it’s the right career choice for me. That can’t all be adrenaline, can it? There isn’t that much adrenaline in ten people.
MALLOY: Let’s not start off on the wrong foot here, Ms. Moore.
MOORE: Sorry.
BISHOP: As you know, Gaia, Operation Sapphire didn’t go the way this office planned. However, thanks to your actions, the day was saved, as were the lives of many people. It’s for that reason that we’ve decided to bend the rules and consider you.
MOORE: Bend the rules?
MALLOY: Yes—that kind of reckless, impulsive action, especially when performed by a civilian, is a red flag: it shows us that there are dangerous anti-authoritarian tendencies in a person as well as an element of anarchistic heroism that ordinarily would disqualify someone for consideration by the bureau.
BISHOP: Brian, let’s not overstate the case. There’s also the matter of Gaia’s remarkable abilities, which would seem to prepare her for the grueling routine of our trainees, if she can get past the extreme antisocial tendencies that have governed her college experience and the illegal and immoral vigilante actions that have plagued her life in New York.
MOORE: What? How did—What are you—
MALLOY: You’re an intelligent young woman, Moore, so I’m sure it comes as no surprise that we have produced a highly detailed and elaborate file on you since you were the only person Kevin Bender maintained contact with at Stanford. As you can see, I’ve got the file here, and it’s quite thick. It shows elaborate signs of arrested social development, combined with obsessive academic and athletic achievement.
MOORE: Arrested—Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. You’re saying that you’ve got a file on me making me look bad because I was Kevin’s friend?
MALLOY: Forget Bender. You’re missing the point. He’s the reason we took a good look at you, and you can’t blame us if we’re disturbed by what we see. Frankly, I was very surprised that you decided to apply to be an agent; quite honestly, I don’t see how you fit the profile at all.
BISHOP: Brian, just a minute. Gaia, please understand—since you are here, we fully intend to give you fair and unbiased treatment as an applicant. Please don’t think we’re picking on you—it’s our job to ask these questions.
MOORE: That’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.
MALLOY: Ms. Moore, my day is long. I’m not interested in what does or doesn’t bother you; I’m interested in why an obvious head case such as yourself would want to pursue law enforcement. Now, will you look at this photograph, please?
HER NEAR-DIGITAL MEMORY
What the hell?
Gaia watched as Special Agent Malloy pulled a black-and-white photograph from the thick file in front of him and held it up. She was trying very hard to calm down, to get out of the combative frame of mind that this man’s questions had put her into. She forced herself to stare at the picture.
The photograph must be at least five years old. It was an image of Washington Square Park, near where Gaia had lived for so long in New York City. Gaia was at the center of the image, swathed in an old gray sweatshirt and a pair of faded army pants. Her arms were extended outward as she sent a thick-necked skinhead soaring over the park’s stone chess tables. His head was just about to collide with the trunk of a huge, leafy tree.
“Does this ring a bell?” Malloy asked. “According to reports, you did serious damage to that boy. And if these pictures are any indication, it looks to me like you enjoyed it.”
Gaia stared at the look on her paler, more youthful face in the photo. It was a look she had never really seen before since there had never been any mirrors in the park. She stared at her own eyes—focused with cool razor-sharp attention on her victim. But just barely showing in the corner of her mouth, there was something else. A snarl or a sneer … or maybe even a smile? It was actually a bit disturbing to look at.
Gaia had been such an emotional mess in those days. She remembered all too well how she used to take such pleasure in taking down the scumbags in the park. That particular brand of vigilante justice had been her only real solace, her only release. But she wasn’t proud of it. Staring at that almost imperceptible smile in the corner of her mouth, Gaia felt a surprising amount of shame creep into her heart. Yes, they’d all deserved what they’d gotten—the muggers and rapists of Washington Square Park fell somewhere below insects and rodents in the order of species—but still, perhaps she had taken a little too much pleasure in punishing them.
“Where did you get these?” Gaia asked. “Who took these pictures?”
“They’re from our Manhattan field office,” Malloy replied easily. “About ten minutes after Kevin Bender called you the first time, the computer recognized your caller ID and routed this information to us. Violent behavior of this nature tends to be noticed by the bureau, Ms. Moore. Especially when the behavior is repeated time and again.”
“What would you say about this picture now, Gaia?” Bishop asked gently.
“Well, that was a long time ago—five years and two months, I think,” Gaia said, sitting up straighter in her seat. “And if I recall correctly, that—that lowlife was about to mug a young girl at knifepoint.”
Malloy paused for a moment—probably impressed with Gaia’s near-digital memory. “Yes, that’s true,” he said finally. “And that is precisely my point. If you saw a potential crime in progress, why didn’t you call the police rather than attempt to ‘handle’ the situation yourself?”
“It was two A.M. in Washington Square Park, sir. Where was I supposed to find a cop? I mean, if I’d known there was an FBI agent hiding in the bushes and taking my picture, I would have called him.”
Gaia caught a glimpse of Bishop smiling. Malloy didn’t share her mirth.
“This does show remarkable combat skills,” Bishop said appreciatively. “She disarmed a man twice her size, neutralized him, and saved a girl’
s life that night.”
“Remarkable or not, this was vigilante behavior, Agent Bishop—part of a long-standing pattern of violence and antisocial behavior.” Malloy frowned, looking like some kind of fierce submarine captain. “How often have you performed such an act-for example, a violent act like the one in this picture—that you felt was justified when in fact it was a matter for law enforcement?”
“I’ve never performed any ‘violent act’ that wasn’t justified.”
This isn’t going well, Gaia thought worriedly. The optimistic good mood she’d been in when she first met Agent Bishop was entirely gone. I’m losing control of this conversation—if I ever even had it.
“Gaia, we’re wondering where this pattern begins,” Bishop told her. The young woman’s voice, as usual, was smoother and kinder than Agent Malloy’s harsh barking of questions, and it calmed her down. “We understand that your father was involved with the Central Intelligence Agency and that you lost your mother in a family tragedy right here in the Golden State when you were twelve years old.”
Gaia suddenly flashed back to that kitchen. That house in the mountains where the family vacationed. She could practically hear the gunshot and her father’s as the blood washed over the white tiles. After eight years she couldn’t stop the images from flooding back into her mind—or the lump from edging into her throat, threatening to bring her to tears.
“My uncle accidentally shot her,” Gaia said evenly. “He was trying to kill my father—his twin brother—and put an end to their long-standing sibling rivalry once and for all. It was a long time ago. After that I was in foster care for many years.”
“Interesting coincidence,” Malloy said harshly, “given what happened three years ago in New York—another accident brought about by sibling rivalry.”
The hatchet-faced special agent was pulling out another photograph, and right then Gaia felt a chill from the exaggerated, arctic drone of the room’s powerful air conditioner. Because she knew what the photograph was going to show.
Kill Game Page 3
