by Tim Tigner
But it was much more likely to be a scam.
Usually the pimps targeted girls fresh off the bus, Midwestern prom queens and Southern sorority sisters taking their shot at the big dream. But the Tinseltown vultures had a taste for all types.
Rather than ask for credentials, which were easily faked, Lars decided to test the guy. “What do you know about me?”
Tom’s expression remained rock solid. “You graduated from Princeton with honors ten years ago this month after double majoring in theater and economics—the latter being a practical concession to your parents, may they rest in peace. Upon graduation, you immediately moved to Hollywood, which has yet to give you the opportunity you crave or show you the respect you deserve. Apart from scoring a coveted waiter position at a popular Wolfgang Puck restaurant, life’s been one long string of disappointments ever since.”
Talk about sweet and sour. The sixty-second summary was spot on. And yet, knowing all that, the talent scout had chosen him. He, Lars de Kock, had been chosen. There was no other obvious explanation for Tom’s wealth of background knowledge. But chosen for what? It had to be something top shelf if they employed a guy this solid. “Which agency are you with?”
Tom cracked a smile. Not a toothy grin, but enough upward trajectory in a corner of his mouth to count as one on his chiseled monolith. “The most powerful, selective, and prestigious agency.”
Lars had walked right into that one. If he guessed incorrectly, he’d be shooting himself in the foot. Rather than risk it, he took a different tack. “What kind of role do you have in mind?”
“It’s not a single role, Lars. We have a whole career mapped out for you.”
This was really happening! He’d worked long, and he’d worked hard, but he’d never, ever, given up hope. Lars had trouble containing his excitement. Maybe he didn’t need to. Tom surely knew what this meant to him. “Sounds good. What’s next?”
Tom had that answer ready. “An extensive audition.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he slid across the table.
Lars waited for the confirming nod, then opened it. “A plane ticket. For tomorrow morning. To Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport in Virginia? Is this a set location?”
“It’s a training facility location.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I don’t recruit for a studio, Lars. I recruit for the CIA.”
The waitress returned, dry salad in hand, before Lars had fully digested the surprising twist. She had forgotten the lemon slice, but he chose not to remind her.
“What does the CIA want with me?”
Tom threw the question right back at him, in a lighter tone. “What does the CIA want with a charismatic Princeton honors grad who knows how to act?”
Now that Lars thought about it, the idea wasn’t totally crazy. His college roommate had joined the CIA straight out of school—although he always claimed to work for the State Department. Thinking back, Lars recalled that while Chase had been ROTC, headed for the army, he’d switched teams after a recruiter not unlike Tom came calling.
“We’re not asking for a commitment,” Tom continued. “In fact, until you pass a polygraph we won’t be in a position to extend an offer. But if you do pass, I can assure you that the offer will be an enviable one. Will you take two days to find out what Uncle Sam has to say?”
8
The Line
LARS SPOTTED THE DRIVER outside baggage claim, exactly where Tom had indicated. He was holding a blank name placard with a gray border, just as Tom had said he would.
Lars identified himself with a nod, as instructed.
The handsome black man held out a big hand, palm up. “Your cell phone, please.”
“You want my phone?”
“If you want to go any further, you’ll need to hand it over.”
Tom had warned Lars not to breathe a word to anyone about his potential employment, or tell anyone where he was going. If he found himself backed into a corner, he was to say he had a promising but confidential audition on the East Coast, a story that had the virtue of being entirely true. But no such situation had arisen. Sadly, Lars was an introvert. It was the attribute he blamed for his lack of career progress but was helpless to correct.
“You get a letter and a tablet in return,” the driver added, producing the items from behind the blank placard.
Lars traded devices and watched while the driver sealed his phone into what looked like a thick Mylar bag. As they walked toward the airport garage, Lars read the letter. It was short and printed on plain paper.
Welcome to Virginia. Say nothing to the driver. He is not a Company man. Once you are alone in the back seat of the car, unlock the iPad with your right thumb and proceed as instructed.
Unlock it with my thumb. Clearly, and in retrospect not surprisingly, the CIA operated on a different plane.
The driver raised a partition as the car started moving, making the first instruction easy to comply with. Lars followed the second instruction a few seconds later as their town car merged onto I-64 E toward Camp Peary, which he now knew housed the CIA field operations training facility known as The Farm.
The iPad unlocked to reveal a white screen with Lars de Kock, the date, and Part 1: Psychological Profile printed bold on center screen. The text vanished the instant Lars finished reading and a set of instructions appeared. Answer quickly and honestly, with 1 being Nothing Like Me and 5 being Just Like Me. Again the text vanished the instant Lars finished reading, and he realized with astonished admiration that the iPad must be tracking his eye movements.
Q1: I want to work where contagious diseases run rampant.
Lars pressed 1 while wondering if the device captured his eye roll.
Q2: I work well in isolation.
Lars pressed 5.
Q3: I get nervous around guns.
Lars pressed 1.
Q4: I love my country.
Lars pressed 5.
Q5: I have a lot of friends.
Lars considered pressing 1, then pressed 2.
And so it went for five minutes, with a display in the upper left corner clicking off the quantity of responses, a clock in the upper right displaying elapsed time, and a number in the center showing what Lars quickly calculated to be the average number of responses per minute. Confirming his initial suspicion regarding eye movements, Lars noted that the screen went blank whenever he glanced out the window—something he did on only two occasions, given his battle with the clock.
At the five-minute mark, the active question faded and Part 2: Personal Profile appeared. Speak your answers, clearly and concisely, popped up next. What followed was an extensive background questionnaire focusing on family and friends. Q1: List the names and locations of all relatives with whom you are in contact. Q2: Who are your five best friends? Q3: What restaurants do you frequent? Q4: How long have you lived at your current address? Q5: Who is your landlord? Q6: Who would come to your funeral?
The questions continued until the town car pulled to a stop before the Brown Pelican Inn, a two-story colonial building that at first glance appeared to have about twenty rooms. He suddenly found himself doing things like that, observing and analyzing. He was stepping into the role of a CIA agent the way he would any other acting job.
It struck him that they had not stopped at a checkpoint during the drive. While Lars had been focused on the iPad, he would have noticed that disruption. Given the absence of a flag on the hood or a windshield sticker, this suggested that they were not on the grounds of Camp Peary.
Lars was still processing the destination twist as the driver came around to open his door. After closing it behind him, the driver handed Lars his phone, still sealed in the thick Mylar bag. “Go straight to room 20. The door will be unlocked. Don’t dawdle. Don’t attract attention.”
Lars accepted the phone and retained the tablet. “Thank you.”
The hotel looked normal enough. The outside door didn’t appear to be rei
nforced. No cameras or guards were evident. The receptionist, a fit-looking female in her late twenties, appeared preoccupied with her computer as he entered. Lars took the stairs rather than the elevator, as that choice didn’t require him to wait around in her field of view. He was thinking.
Room 20 was a corner unit at the far end of the hall. Lars paused outside to take a deep breath and roll his shoulders. With a You can do this! he pushed open the door.
Tom Bronco sat behind a laptop on the window side of a desk, which he had rearranged so that Lars could sit across from him. To Tom’s right, an aluminum briefcase lay on the desk.
Lars immediately wondered what was inside. “I didn’t know Uncle Sam sprang for town cars, but I certainly appreciate the gesture.”
“As you’ll see if we get that far, Uncle Sam’s usual rules don’t apply to us.” Tom’s tone was friendly but businesslike. “Please, have a seat.”
Lars sat. “Thank you. I’m a bit surprised to be here. Rather than The Farm, I mean.”
Tom held out a hand. “I’ll take two apples, please.”
Lars spent a second processing the odd request, then produced the iPad and iPhone.
Tom set the phone aside, then unlocked the tablet with his thumb. He began swiping screens and scanning answers.
Lars tried to read his reaction, but failed. Tom might as well have been a machine.
After half a minute with the iPad, Tom hit the power button. He set the tablet down and opened the briefcase.
Lars wanted to strain his neck to see inside but decided that would be bad form.
“Please lift up your shirt.”
Lars hadn’t known how to dress for the CIA, so he’d worn his conservative suit, a navy-blue Hugo Boss with a lot of miles on it, and a plain white shirt, no tie, accessorized with polished black leather lace-ups and a matching belt. He had a very limited wardrobe, but it was all quality stuff. “Pardon?”
Tom pulled a black strap from the briefcase. It was attached to a curly cord. “Or unbutton it, your choice.”
As he untucked and unbuttoned, Lars knew what would come next. A polygraph.
9
The Sinker
THE POLYGRAPH PROVED to be less stressful and antagonistic than Lars had anticipated. It was more like a methodical mining of his past than a criminal interrogation, with the focus on friends and family. Since he had none of the latter and few of the former, it took only a couple of hours.
After that, they spent ten minutes talking compensation. The salary wouldn’t make him rich, but it was considerably better than Lars was expecting, and the benefits were excellent.
“You ready for a steak and a beer?” Tom asked, shutting and locking the briefcase—with the two apples inside.
“Sure.” Lars wanted to ask how he had done on the test but resolved to play it cool. He had no reason to be concerned, and he didn’t want to give the impression that he was. Plus, he figured that Tom wouldn’t have bothered discussing the pay package if an obvious problem were present.
Tom rose and motioned toward the door. “There’s a good place just across the street.”
As they stepped onto the asphalt, Tom used a remote to pop the trunk of a rented Mercedes, further dispelling Lars’s impressions of government service. Tom locked the aluminum briefcase inside before they continued across the parking lot.
“You don’t live around here?” Lars asked, nodding toward the rental.
“I travel a lot.”
Lars noted the evasive answer. Tom had no personal belongings visible in the hotel room, and the bathroom accoutrements had appeared untouched when Lars made use of the facilities.
“Table for Bronco,” Tom told the hostess.
The perky coed inside the entrance of Berret’s Taphouse Grill checked her log. “You reserved the two-top in the corner of the bar. Right this way.”
Berret’s had a terra cotta tiled floor and draped white valances decorating the ceiling. Its brick walls were adorned with original paintings by local artists—Lars assumed, spotting price tags—and empty wine glasses accompanied every table setting.
The hostess led them through the main room to one in the back. It featured an old oak bar running the length of the inside wall and offered an atmosphere far more lively and casual than that in the main dining room.
Tom sat with his back to the corner, leaving Lars facing him and nothing else. “This place is known for its seafood, but I tend to order the filet with Brie. It’s worth the sin.”
Lars pushed his menu aside. When a patron was paying, he would normally go with whatever fish the restaurant served whole, but he was here to seal the deal, not satisfy his stomach. And if this went well, he wouldn’t need to remain so watchful of his weight. “Works for me.”
A waitress with red hair, a deep dimple, and “Carla” on her name tag appeared. Tom ordered drinks without consulting Lars or the microbrewery menu.
“Two pints of Fearless coming right up,” Carla replied.
Once she moved on, Tom released the tension. “The tests you’ve taken today were all scored live. You did well. Are you still interested in serving your country?”
Lars felt the tight spot between his shoulder blades release as he gave himself a mental high-five. “I find the general idea very interesting, but of course it’s the specifics that matter.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled. “When it comes to working for Uncle Sam, it doesn’t get any better than this. My job is better than being president.” Tom leaned in and spoke just loud enough for Lars to hear. “I recruit for a division of the Special Operations Group that’s formally known as FIFO.”
“Like the soccer organization?”
“That’s FIFA. Like the accounting term.”
Lars had been an economics major, but it had been a decade since his accounting experience ventured beyond balancing his checkbook. Still, the term was readily recalled. “First In, First Out.”
“Exactly. The name almost says it all.”
“Almost?”
“Our nickname is the ‘Dry Cleaners.’ It’s a direct contrast with our brother group, the Wet Wipes. The operative difference being that we solve problems with brains, whereas they solve problems—”
“With blood.” Lars got the picture, and he liked it.
His own appearance resembled the traditional depiction of Jesus, with long brown hair, bright brown soulful eyes, and one of those trendy barely beards. He had always appreciated the association with the Savior and would hate to give it up, even if only in his own mind, because of a clashing career choice.
The server reappeared with a frosty mug in each hand. “Two Fearless beers.”
“We’re going to go with large filets,” Tom said with the satisfaction of a man on an unconstrained expense account. “Medium-rare for mine. And a Caesar salad to start.”
“Same here,” Lars said.
Carla nodded without taking notes, then disappeared.
Tom resumed his pitch while Lars relaxed. “You’re an honors graduate from Princeton, so you’ve got brains. You’ve spent a decade acting in Hollywood, so you’ve got the equivalent of undercover skills. Plus you lack any binding ties.”
“Binding ties?”
“If you were to go deep undercover tomorrow and be completely cut off from your old life for six months—” Tom trailed off, allowing Lars to complete the sentence.
“Nobody would make a fuss,” Lars said as another puzzle piece clicked into place. “Now I understand your questions.”
Tom raised his beer in a silent salute and they both took sips.
“Going undercover can be tough and even dangerous, but working with the Dry Cleaners is as rewarding as government service gets. The team is tip-top. The missions are high-impact. And the expense accounts are very generous.
“It is an all-in commitment,” Tom continued after a second sip. “Like joining the French Foreign Legion or Men in Black. You’ll have to cut all ties to your old life. Lars de Kock will virtually vanish. B
ut at the same time, you’ll gain a fantastic family, a noble purpose, and all the excitement you can handle.”
“What kind of undercover assignments?”
“Overseas, of course. The kind that don’t make the news.”
“Can you give me an example?” Lars asked, feeling a bit bolder now that he’d crossed the finish line with a winning time.
“I’ll give you a few,” Tom said, his volume still low but his voice now more congenial than businesslike. “You might be placed on a legitimate team of consultants that’s advising a foreign government or corporation, with the goal of obtaining information or recruiting an asset. You might perform the role of a playboy eager to purchase stolen artwork. You might act like a disgruntled CIA agent who can be purchased for a price. We match needs with clever resolutions. Dry cleaning, not wet wiping.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
The salads arrived, then the steaks. Lars plowed through his meal, working to match Tom’s impressive speed. The CIA operative ate like a machine, slicing his steak thin and chewing intensely as if intent on aiding digestion. Lars set his steak knife down for the last time while Tom was draining his beer.
The recruiter picked up a drink napkin and proceeded to roll it into a ball. “Knowing that you’ve had a long day, I’m going to leave you to eat your dessert in peace. I recommend the chocolate lava cake.” He pulled two hundred-dollar bills from a money clip, creased them the long way, and left them tented on the table. “Do me a favor and collect the receipt.”
“Sure thing,” Lars said, wondering if a man as ripped as Tom ever actually ate cake. Then again, the man had just inhaled a filet covered in Brie. Maybe he ran marathons. He did look like the kind of guy who would suffer for fun.
Tom put the napkin ball on the table. “Tomorrow night at this time, I’m going to pick you up at the hotel. By the way, that was your room, number 20.” He pulled a key card from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. “I’ll take you either to FIFO HQ or back to the airport. Your choice entirely. In either case, you’re not to mention anything we’ve discussed, or anything you’ve experienced, now or ever. We’ll know if you do, and we’ll put you in prison.” The business tone was back. “Understood?”
