Face, The (8 page)

Dr. Mewton lowers the document in her hand. “You shouldn’t feel pressured, you know. The company can deliver your signed statement, or if that seems harsh to you, they can stall her indefinitely. She has no need to know you, and she doesn’t have the proper clearance for this level.”

“But she could get clearance, couldn’t she? I’d really like to meet her, so if she can’t come here…” I let the question hang, implying that I might be willing to visit my aunt at some other location, though Dr. Mewton and I both know that’s impossible.

“This facility is closed to civilians.”

“But you could arrange it. You transport officers all the time, you rotate medical personnel in and out—”

“They follow procedures. And they have clearance.”

“You could see that my aunt gets clearance. Mr. Traut would arrange it, if you asked him to.”

My comment is as much compliment as challenge, and she’s quick to recognize both aspects. “Don’t toy with me, Sarah. I know you too well.”

But I know her, too. She’s my mentor, protector, and guardian, but I won’t let her be my jailer. At one point Baby had to stand up to her father, didn’t she? A girl doesn’t get to dance with Johnny Castle if she meekly obeys every command.

I return her stare with deadly concentration. “Look, I’ve given the company every free hour since I finished my schooling. I don’t ask for much, but I do want this meeting. Write Dr. Carey and invite her to visit me.”

“I fail to see how that would be prudent.”

“If you don’t write her, I’ll contact her myself.”

When Dr. Mewton hesitates, I know she’s wondering if she could find a way to block me. There are firewalls and safeguards built into every system on this island, but I know how to hack most of them. If given time and the opportunity, I could find a way to reach almost anyone, and Dr. M knows it.

My director taps her fingertips on the desk. “I don’t know how long ago this woman applied for clearance, but the process can be quite involved. And it will take time to follow the proper procedures.”

I’ve waited twenty years to hear from a family member, so what’s a few more weeks or months? “You said she was stubborn.”

Dr. Mewton manages a choking laugh. “True. But no matter how we arrange it, she’ll have to come alone.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

Dr. M shrugs. “Some women don’t enjoy traveling alone, particularly out of the country. I have no idea how she’ll react to this stipulation, of course, but she might not be willing to go through such trouble. Still, if she is…I suppose we could arrange a meeting.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“But don’t be surprised if she decides not to follow through,” Dr. Mewton warns as I stand. “Not every woman is willing to fly across the Atlantic to visit a place that doesn’t exist.”

Renee

D
uring the first week of June, a full fourteen months after I applied for a security clearance, I open a plain white envelope that arrives in the afternoon office mail. The envelope is postmarked with zip code 20205, which, I have learned from my lawyer, is the unique postal code assigned to CIA headquarters at Langley.

Inside the envelope are two pages: the first informs me that my application for employment as a staff psychologist is under consideration; the second advises me to report to CIA headquarters in McLean, Virginia, at 10:00 a.m. on June 27. I must bring an official ID with photograph, my birth certificate, and any information that might help resolve questions about alien registration, delinquent loans or taxes, bankruptcy, judgments, agreements involving child custody or support, alimony or property settlements, arrests, convictions, probation, and/or parole.

I’m tempted to bring a
TV Guide
with my favorite programs highlighted, just in case they ask for more information.

For the first time in my life, I’m grateful I never had children. In the five years since my divorce, my life has remained boring and uncomplicated—no arrests, no bankruptcies, no convictions or parole violations. The only blemish on my record is my penchant for speeding, so if I offer canceled checks as evidence that I’ve made peace with the traffic court, perhaps I can be forgiven.

I immediately buzz Becky and ask her to clear my calendar for the morning of June 27. “On second thought,” I add, “maybe you’d better clear the entire day. I have no idea how long I’ll be tied up.”

“Something official?” she asks.

“Something…important. And if I tell you any more…”

“I know, you’ll have to kill me.” She sighs, obviously having heard the joke a few dozen times.

“Speaking of death,” I add, “I’m afraid I have bad news about Gumby.”

“How’s the little guy doing?”

“He’s pushing up daisies—and I mean that literally. Elvis took a liking to him when I wasn’t looking. Apparently he can swipe things off my kitchen counter. I thought he’d hidden the little man, but a few days ago I was in the backyard and saw Gumby again.”

“Ewww.” Becky laughs. “How’d he, um, look?”

“Only a little worse for wear. A few tooth marks, a little bleached out, but he was still intact. I left him in the flower bed, where I trust he’ll rest in peace.”

Becky is still laughing when I sign off.

I’m about to put the mail away, but beneath a flyer from Stein Mart I find another envelope mailed from zip code 20205. This letter, also written on official CIA letterhead, has been signed by a man whose name I don’t recognize. But he knows who I am, and he knows of my inquiries about Sarah.

If I am still determined to meet Sarah Sims, the letter informs me, perhaps I can do so in an official capacity, once I am officially engaged as a psychologist.
If
I receive my security clearance, and
if
I agree to the terms of the standard two-year contract, my first assignment “could involve a professional interview” with the person I seek. At that point I should set aside at least two weeks for travel to and from the facility where my niece lives and works.

I’m skilled enough at reading between the lines to understand what the man is really saying:
Call off your lawyer, sign our contract, and we’ll let you see Sarah Sims. But on paper, at least, everything must appear official.

I chuckle as I skim the letter again. No mention at all of where this facility is located, no hint of what kind of clothing I should pack. Tropical whites? Thermal underwear?

I turn to my computer terminal and study my schedule for the next several weeks. My weekdays are filled with patient appointments, but those can be rescheduled with other doctors. My partners in the practice can handle any emergencies; heaven only knows how many times I’ve stepped in for them.

The CIA contract will ask for two years, but I doubt they’ll require my services full-time. They’ll probably want me to be on call to consult with officers in the area, and I can do that under the cover of my regular practice. If they have something more intensive in mind, I can take a leave of absence from the office.

When I’m official and cleared for travel, I’ll close up the house and ask Becky to take care of Elvis. She and her kids adore my dog, so if I’m gone very long, I’ll probably have to pry them apart when I return.

Still…I have three weeks of unused vacation time, so I might as well take every day. Though I’ve always wanted to vacation on a sunny beach, since I’ve been single again I’ve had little inclination to travel alone.

This time, however, I don’t think I’ll mind.

When I step out of my car and catch my first glimpse of CIA headquarters, I have to admit I’m a little intimidated. I’ve read enough bad press to know that the Central Intelligence Agency is not universally beloved, so I am prepared to view the institution with a skeptical eye. But when I walk into the marble lobby and stare at the south wall emblazoned with
And Ye Shall Know the Truth and the Truth Shall Make Ye Free,
a surge of latent patriotism catches me by surprise. If someone had offered me the staff psychologist’s position at that moment, I’d have snapped it up like a woman trolling for purses at a ninety-percent-off sale.

I walk over a polished floor of gray granite, in which the CIA seal has been inlaid in a thirty-foot circle. A shield occupies the center of the seal, topped by the profile of a fierce eagle. A sixteen-point compass rose decorates the shield, obviously symbolizing the far corners of the planet in which the agency operates. Which arrow points in the direction of my niece?

As I study my surroundings, the north wall catches my eye. There a field of black stars lies on a gigantic block of white marble, one star for each member of the CIA who has died while on duty. Above the stars someone has engraved these words:
In honor of those members of the Central Intelligence Agency who gave their lives in the service of their country.

I walk toward the wall and see that a case of glass and stainless steel stands below the stars. A book is locked inside—the “Book of Honor” that lists each year a CIA officer died. Some years are followed by names; others are followed only by an anonymous star that represents a covert officer killed on a CIA mission.

I can’t help but wonder—does one of those stars belong to my brother?

A pain squeezes my heart as I merge back into the flow of men and women entering the building. Most are moving through a checkpoint, swiping ID badges through a key card reader. Since I have no badge, I walk over to a guard and show him my letter.

“Your appointment is on the second floor,” he says, extending his hand. “May I see your ID?”

I hand him my passport, which has a far better picture than my driver’s license. He scans it, checks my face against the photo, then hands me a visitor’s key card.

“Any cell phone with a camera must be left at the security station,” he says, pointing toward the metal detectors. “Have a nice day.”

I join the line of people flowing through the metal detectors, receive a claim check for my cell phone, and move toward the elevators. After getting off on the second floor, I find a guard at the front desk, show him my letter, and am escorted into a small cubicle that reminds me far too much of my obstetrician’s exam room, minus the stirrups.

A few moments later, a young woman in a lab coat enters and says she has reviewed my medical records. She is going to conduct a brief physical exam, then I’m to be polygraphed.

As she records my height, weight, and blood pressure, the palms of my hands grow damp. I have nothing to hide, but my blood pressure is higher than usual and I find myself tapping my right foot whenever the examiner turns away. But surely these are normal nervous reactions. I won’t be penalized for normal reactions, will I?

“Finally,” she hands me a paper cup, “there’s this.” She points to a hallway and a door marked
Toilet.
“Directions are posted on the wall.”

I take the cup and go to the restroom. A few minutes later I return the cup to an assistant, grateful that I was able to urinate on demand.

“Next—” the examiner glances at a sheet stapled to my file “—you’re scheduled for a polygraph. Second floor, ask for directions at the desk.”

After following her instructions, I find myself entering a softly lit room dominated by a padded recliner. A secretarial chair sits beside a desk at the front of the room, but the computer monitor faces the secretarial chair, not the recliner. The room smells faintly of sweat.

I glance over my shoulder, certain that it would be presumptuous to walk in and stretch out without clearance from someone in authority. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long. An unsmiling young woman steps into the room with a file folder in her hand. She introduces herself as Kathy and explains that the test will measure my physiological reaction to each question.

“I know how a lie detector works,” I assure her. “I’m a psychologist.”

I also know that polygraph evidence is highly unreliable, but I doubt it’d be in my best interest to introduce that fact into the conversation.

“Please,” she says, still unsmiling. “Sit in this chair and extend your arm.”

I sit on the edge of the recliner as Kathy wraps my arm in a blood pressure gauge, straps an elastic band around my chest, and taps plastic nodules over two fingers on my left hand.

“Now sit back and relax.”

Easy for her to say. I recline in the lounger and am immediately reminded of my dentist’s office. Kathy sits in the small chair behind the desk and begins clicking the keyboard. A small box near the computer hums as paper scrolls from the polygraph machine.

“Are you a member of a terrorist network?” she asks.

I almost laugh. “No.”

“Is your name Renee Carey?”

“Yes.”

“Are you applying for a security clearance through the Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Yes.”

“Are you applying for a job with the Central Intelligence Agency?”

I hesitate. Yes, they have my application, but no, I have no intention of working in this place. I choose the obvious answer. “Yes.”

“Do you have a cat?”

“I’m allergic.”

“Yes or no answers, please.”

“No, I don’t have a cat.”

“Are you married?”

I swallow my first thought—
not anymore.
“No.”

“Was Kevin J. Sims your uncle?”

“No.”

“Was Kevin J. Sims your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a psychologist?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever lied to a patient?”

“Yes, but only if the truth would be—”

“Yes or no only, please.”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to answer all questions truthfully?”

“Yes, unless a truthful answer is going to get me arrested.”

“Dr. Carey—yes or no only.”

“Sorry.”

“Have you ever committed a crime that went unreported?”

“I kept the paper graduation cap I was supposed to return in kindergarten. Is that stealing?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It
felt
like stealing. So yes, I suppose I’ve committed a crime.” I also have to go to the bathroom again, because Examiner Kathy and her questions are making me nervous.

By the time we’ve finished, I’m almost certain I’ve failed my polygraph. But Kathy unhooks me, prints out my results, and dismisses me without a word.

I’ve jumped through every hoop the CIA has set in front of me, but I have no idea where I’ve landed.

On July 9, I receive a notice in the mail. My security clearance has been granted and my application for contract employment has been approved by the Central Intelligence Agency’s personnel department. A position—surprise!—is available, and I will soon receive details regarding my first assignment. If I will complete the enclosed paperwork, my supervisor will contact me about the training required for my assignment….

On the twelfth of July, I find myself back at CIA headquarters, EODing—” entering on duty”—for the first time. I am given my own badge, and this time I am smart enough to leave my cell phone in the car.

I enter a small room where a dozen other men and women are sitting at desks. “Welcome to CIA 101,” the instructor begins. “I am here to acquaint you with the designations of different security classifications and the risks and consequences of not handling them correctly.” In other words, his tone seems to say, a security clearance is like a loaded gun—useful if handled properly, deadly if not.

On July 16, I receive a telegram. At nine o’clock the following morning, I am to report to Reagan National Airport, Hangar Seven, office 304. I am to bring a maximum of two suitcases and a small personal carry-on. An officer will be waiting with further instructions. I should clear at least fifteen days for my visit and travel, and under no circumstances should I reveal my new employer, my destination, or the purpose of my travel to family or friends.