Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
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Copyright Page
1
“WHY DO WE HAVE to live in the dorms?” Sydney Bristow complained, lifting her eyes from her Dostoyevsky novel to cast an annoyed glance toward her half-open window. Shouts and laughter tumbled in from outside, riding the warm California breeze. “Freshmen make so much noise.”
“In case you've forgotten, we're freshmen,” Francie Calfo said, twisting around in her chair to gesture with a wet red nail polish brush. She had long since abandoned her studies and was using her desk as a manicure station. “Not only that, but it's Saturday and it's beautiful outside. Any sane person would be out there making noise.” Francie's dark brown eyes turned wistful. “Remind me again: Why aren't we out there?”
“Because of me,” Sydney said with a sigh. Tossing her book aside on her thin, dorm-issue mattress, she got up to look out the window.
On the freshly mown grass below, students of all ages and descriptions were enjoying the sunny spring day, sitting and talking in groups or playing impromptu games of touch football and catch. Frisbees crisscrossed the scene, and a giggling gang of sorority girls ran back and forth trying to fly a long, colorful kite. Shorts and tank tops were the uniform of the day, and even from her fifth-floor window, Sydney could smell the suntan lotion.
“You should go do something,” she said, turning abruptly to Francie. “There's no reason for you to be a prisoner here just because I have to study. With all the hours I've been working, I have to catch up on my classes, but you . . .”
“What kind of friend would I be if I were out having fun while you were here plowing through . . . what are you reading, anyway?” Francie got up and reached for the book Sydney had dropped, lifting its cover by two wet-tipped fingers. “Is this . . . What is this?”
Sydney froze. Why had she left that book in plain sight?
“Dostoyevsky,” she said quickly. “For my Survey of World Literature class. Everyone has to read it.”
She hurried to take the book back, but Francie yanked it out of her reach, arching a disbelieving brow. “In Russian? This is Russian?”
“Well . . . yeah, but—”
“I don't want to shock you, Syd, but most lit teachers are fine with students who read the English translation. When did you learn Russian, anyway?”
“I . . . I didn't,” Sydney lied. “I mean, I thought I could teach myself. But right now it's giving me the biggest headache. . . .”
At least that part was true.
Francie dropped the book onto Sydney's bed. “I hope you know you're crazy. Between your classes and working at the bank, you don't have enough to do already?”
Sydney smiled weakly, at a loss for an answer.
The worst part is the lying, she thought. They don't tell you that when you join the CIA. You think the worst part will be the fear, or getting caught, or maybe even dying. But the lying . . . the lying is every day.
“You're my best friend here, Francie,” she blurted out. “You always will be, right?”
Francie laughed, caught off guard. “I haven't put up with you since last summer just to have you replace me now.”
“Never. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you,” Sydney said sincerely.
“Except for go outside on a perfectly gorgeous day.” Francie pointed hopefully toward the window. “Forget about studying, Syd! Why do we live in L.A. if we never go to the beach?”
“I thought you didn't like your bathing suit.”
“That was before I bought a new bathing suit. And there's a party tonight at Delt house. I heard some girls talking in the hall.”
“A frat party?” Sydney had been to one of those parties early in the year. She had drunk too much and had promptly gotten sick. Since then she'd concluded two things: She definitely wasn't a party girl, and frat boys could be downright disgusting. “Way to talk me into the beach!”
“Really? You'll go?” Francie began waving her hands around, suddenly frantic to dry her red polish. “We can stop by the commons and pick up some sandwiches. And I'll bet I can borrow some beach chairs. I'm pretty sure—”
The pager on Sydney's waistband went off.
“Oh, that is not the bank!” Francie exclaimed as Sydney tilted the pager to read the message on its small screen: Wilson.
“I'm sorry, Francie. I have to go in.”
“But it's Saturday!” Francie protested. “Banks aren't even open on Saturday!”
Sydney gave her an apologetic shrug. “Mine is.”
“You have to quit that job! You've only been there a few months and they're already running your life.”
“It's probably just some filing,” said Sydney, lying again. “Go to the beach without me. If I can get off early, I'll meet you there.”
Francie flopped down hard on her bed, disappointed. “You always say you'll get off, but you never do.”
“I'll really try this time. But if not, then tonight. All right? I'll definitely be back in time for the party.”
“The Delt party?” Francie brightened. “You promise?”
“Only if it makes you very, very happy. You know those frat guys will be drunk and drooling all over us.”
Francie smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I know.”
The downtown street was deserted when Sydney drove her white Mustang into the secure parking garage beneath the Credit Dauphine building. She checked her reflection in the driver's window as she locked the car door: minimal makeup, straight brown hair slicked into a long ponytail, a slightly caught-in-the-headlights look about her brown eyes that she was learning to recognize as excitement. She didn't like lying about her new job, but there was no denying that being an agent-in-training with the CIA was the most exciting thing she'd ever done—not to mention the most important.
As Sydney stepped into the special elevator that would take her to bank sublevel six, hidden headquarters of her true employer, she felt her pulse surge the way it always did when she came to work. If she made it through training, she'd be a spy for a covert branch of the CIA known as SD-6, a full-fledged secret agent dedicated to protecting the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. It was an awesome responsibility—and one she was glad to take on. She'd been waiting all her life for a chance to make a difference.
The elevator doors opened and Sydney stepped into a different world. The entrance to SD-6 was a small white room with a single black circle painted on its floor. Sydney strode to the center of the circle, straightened to her full height, and stared directly ahead. Retinal scanning verified her clearance, and a second set of doors opened automatically, admitting her to the main work area.
Raw concrete walls and high dark ceilings gave headquarters a cavelike quality, an impression reinforced by the absence of windows. Fluorescent lights were suspended overhead, but the more interesting illumination came from row upon row of glowing computer monitors on identical nondescript desks.
One of these desks will be mine someday, Sydney thought proudly as she walked past them.
But for now, a scattering of agents she didn't know sat working on projects she wasn't cleared for, keeping the country safe.
“Sydney!” Wilson called, striding out of his office to greet her. Her recruiter and handler
at the agency, Wilson was one of the few employees with walls around his desk, even if they were only made of glass. “Op-tech, please. Right away.”
Sydney's stomach fluttered as she followed Wilson to the large conference room called Op-tech. Walled off from the surrounding work space, Op-tech had a long table at its center and a flat-screen monitor at every chair to brief agents on their missions.
Why are we sitting in here? Sydney wondered. Could this be my first real mission?
But as she took her seat, she noticed that the monitors were dark. If I were going on a mission, something would be displayed.
She was disappointed, but not surprised. She had made huge strides in her training, impressing everyone with her rapid progress, but she was still a long way from knowing everything—and from being a full agent. Training with SD-6 was like taking a second load of college courses, one heavy on languages, geography, politics, and self-defense. She never knew what Wilson would throw at her from day to day, but so far the only thing she hadn't shone at was the immersion tank.
Sydney shuddered, remembering the day a week before when she'd been locked into the small, coffin-like tank that had subsequently been filled with water. She hadn't expected the chamber to fill so quickly or so completely, and when the light had been switched out as well, she had seriously panicked. She had been instructed to hold her breath for three minutes before operating a complicated series of levers to drain the tank and free herself. The embarrassing reality was that she hadn't lasted thirty seconds before she'd started fumbling with the levers—and when the water hadn't drained instantly, she'd hit the emergency release button. Her biofeedback readout had looked like a Richter 8.0 earthquake.
Wilson had been philosophical. “So, you're human after all,” he'd said, reading the testing agent's report.
“I . . . don't much like being underwater,” Sydney had admitted.
“Why not?”
“I don't know.”
But she did know. Her mother had died underwater, in an accident that had sent her car off a bridge when Sydney was only six. Ever since then . . .
“I can swim,” she'd reassured Wilson quickly. “I'm a good swimmer. I just . . . usually stay close to the surface.”
“Well, you'll have to pass immersion testing eventually,” he'd told her, tossing the report onto a pile. “Practice in a pool.”
“I will,” she'd promised. And she had. But the mere thought of returning to that dark tank . . .
“Have you guessed why I called you in here?” Wilson asked now, easing his stocky form into the chair at the head of the table.
“No.”
“I have a mission for you. And I need you to start right away.”
Sydney's heart slammed into her rib cage, beating double-time.
“I . . . Good,” she said, working to get her breathing under control. SD-6 taught its agents how to conceal emotion—a life-or-death skill for a spy—but Sydney was still a novice in that department. “That's good.”
“You did a great job on that Sandoval thing, and this should be more of the same,” Wilson said. “A simple reconnaissance, but one that requires an agent with a certain look. I think you'll be right for it.”
Sydney nodded enthusiastically, thrilled by his trust in her. Weeks before, she had successfully taken clandestine photographs of Raul Sandoval, a Cuban rock star suspected of collaborating with the rogue Russian spy group known as K-Directorate. And even though the assignment had turned ugly unexpectedly, Sydney had pulled through with flying colors.
I can do this, she told herself, still trying to regulate her heartbeat. Whatever it is, I can do it.
Wilson leaned toward her, the overhead lights picking up the silver in his chestnut hair. “The recon is in Paris.”
“Paris!” Sydney exclaimed, forgetting her attempts at calmness. “I've wanted to go there my whole life!”
He checked his watch. “Good. You leave in ten minutes.”
“Excuse me?”
The timing couldn't be worse. She had promised Francie she'd meet her at the beach, or at the very least go to that party. But still . . . Paris!
“I mean, okay,” she said, amending her outburst. “I just have to run home to pack a suitcase and—”
“No. You leave from here in ten minutes.”
“But . . . but . . .”
Sydney's thoughts whirled chaotically. She had been hoping to at least leave Francie a note. Then there was the not-so-little problem of what she was wearing. To prove that she really intended to hit the beach later, Sydney had donned a red maillot under her usual bank outfit of a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants. Even now the pressure of the moment was heating her hastily applied sunscreen to full fragrance.
“When will I be back?” she finally asked.
“That depends on how things go. Not for a few days, anyway.”
“Oh,” she said, her stress level climbing another notch.
Wilson gave her a piercing look. “Is there a problem?”
“No. It's just . . . my roommate will get suspicious if I disappear without telling her anything. And I've got classes.”
Taking a cell phone from inside his jacket, Wilson pushed it across the table to her. “That com unit's been assigned to you, for making cover calls to your roommate and anyone else you need to keep happy. It may look like an average cell phone, but it works worldwide and can't be traced.”
“Nice,” she said, impressed.
“As far as school goes,” he continued, “one of our doctors will call you in with the flu or something. If the CIA can't arrange for you to make up a few missed classes, the free world's in a lot of trouble.”
Sydney laughed with relief. “I still have to change my clothes, though. Or is what I'm wearing okay?”
“Not remotely,” Wilson said, with an amused shake of his head. “But don't worry, I have you covered.”
He motioned to someone outside Op-tech, and an older woman strode in, rolling a large suitcase behind her.
“I think you'll find everything here,” she told Wilson, parking the case at his feet.
“The paperwork?” he asked.
“All inside. Good luck,” she added, winking at Sydney on her way out.
Wilson heaved the suitcase onto the table and popped it open. “Looks okay to me,” he said, digging through the women's clothing inside. “What do you think, Sydney?”
“Wow.”
The clothes were incredible. Designer labels Sydney had only read about in magazines marked the shirts, dresses, and pants that lay folded in neatly organized piles. Prada, Balenciaga, Narciso Rodriguez . . .
She reached out to touch a soft green dress. “This can't all be for me?” she asked, amazed. A few strands from an auburn wig peeked out from the assorted hats, heels (were those real Manolo Blahniks?), accessories, and—yes!—lingerie.
“Your cover,” Wilson explained, removing a manila envelope before snapping the case closed again. “We don't have much time left, so listen closely.”
Wilson opened the envelope and started passing her its contents. “You'll be posing as a rich, jet-setting tourist. Here's your plane ticket, passport, and some cash.”
He pushed a huge stack of euros toward her, but Sydney reached for the passport instead, opening it curiously. The picture was hers, but the name . . .
“Kate Jones?” she said, looking questioningly at Wilson.
“Your official SD-6 alias.” He smiled. “At least until you blow your cover and we have to reestablish you as someone else.”
Sydney returned his wry grin. “I guess I'll be Kate for quite a while then.”
Wilson chuckled, but the humor drained quickly from his face.
“Confidence is good. Just don't let it get you killed.”
The long black limousine pulled out of the SD-6 garage, merging seamlessly into the light Saturday traffic. From her spacious seat in back, Sydney watched the downtown streets slip past her tinted windows like scenes out of a dream.
>
This certainly feels like a dream, she thought. In keeping with Sydney's cover, Wilson had ordered the deluxe SD-6 limo, complete with blacked-out windows, satellite television, cut-crystal decanters, and a heavily armed driver separated from the back by an opaque, bulletproof divider. There was so much extra room in the passenger compartment that Sydney's new suitcase lay spread open on the floor, more evidence of a dream. No one who knew her could say the contents of that case had anything to do with her experience of reality so far.
“Change clothes in the limo, and put on some makeup,” Wilson had directed, pressing the suitcase's handle into her hand. “Don't forget—you're rich and glamorous now. Make sure you wear that money belt under your clothing at all times, and keep your passport on you, too. In this business, you never know when—or if—you'll see your luggage again.”
The limo driver had appeared by then and was waiting outside Op-tech. Sydney had simply nodded, overwhelmed by how quickly things were moving.
“You're staying at the Plaza Athénée,” Wilson had continued hurriedly. “It's swanky. You'll like it. Your reservation's under the name Carrie Wainwright.”
“What about Kate Jones?” Sydney had objected, confused.
“Kate's just for travel, Sydney. At the hotel, you're Carrie Wainwright.”
“Oh.”
“And that's all you need to know for now. When you check into your room, you'll be met by the agent in charge of the mission. Do exactly as he says, and you'll be fine.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“He'll recognize you. The less you know right now, the better, in case . . .” Wilson had let the sentence trail off uncomfortably. “Just in case.”
Sydney had nodded. In case I get caught.
“You need to get going now. Oh, wait. One more thing.” Taking a small piece of plastic from an inside pocket, Wilson had peeled off a tiny self-adhesive brown dot.
“It's a tracer,” he'd explained, reaching to stick the device beneath her collarbone. “Looks exactly like a mole, but now I'll be able to track you until you get there.” He'd straightened her collar, then smoothed it down. “Come back safe, okay?”
Sydney had choked up then, and she choked up now, remembering the unexpectedly fatherly gesture. Wilson and the people at SD-6 were becoming like her second family.
A Secret Life Page 1
