Tell Me When It Hurts Page 4

  Adam’s job fit the bill. After graduating from Dartmouth, he effortlessly got a job teaching geography in a magnet school in Harlem, to start in September. He rented a tiny apartment with two other teachers: Cody Geronomo, a gay art teacher, and Travis James, a black mathematician who had grown up three blocks from the school where they would teach. Adam rode his bike to the school each morning, hoped it would be there when he came back for it at four, and trusted that he would make a difference for someone. The job was definitely low-paying, somewhat altruistic, and fun enough if defiant teens happened to be your idea of fun.

  Archer’s job was another story. Her honors history advisor, John Vilardi, had steered her to apply for a job with the Justice Department. He suggested that her fluency in Hungarian, and her knack for languages in general, combined with her perspective as a history major, could prove useful in an internship. The job was as a “liaison specialist” and was slated to begin in mid-August. The job title puzzled her some—with whom was she to liaise? And about what exactly? The job paid adequately and promised exposure to the legislative and judicial processes, and though it had no obviously fun part, who knew?

  “Hey, Arch, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone,” Adam had teased as they strolled along Main Street in Litchfield in July.

  Archer smiled her best Mona Lisa smile, aware that he took comfort in knowing that they both had been accepted at Columbia Law School and that both had deferred for a year only.

  “Oh, sure,” she said with a toss of her head. “Of course, I’ll be so busy going to diplomatic balls with foreign dignitaries, I may not notice you’re gone until April or so.”

  Archer had moved south in early August with everything she owned slung into the back of her mother’s old Volvo wagon. She’d rented a studio apartment in a “transitional neighborhood,” as the realtor called it. The transition looked to be off to a slow start, she reflected, staring at the crumbling front of her brick apartment building, and the blighted tenement house next door. Her second-floor walk-up’s only charm was the vaguely rustic wooden deck off the kitchen, overlooking an interior community garden of flowers and vegetables. The charm wore off when Archer spied a rat feasting on the produce.

  Her father drove the wagon, and Archer hauled the horse trailer behind the old Ford pickup to a stable in Alexandria, Virginia, where Clique would be quartered for the year. She’d kept the old Volvo to get around in and left the truck at the stable. As she said good-bye to her father at the airport, she clung to him.

  “Oh, Dad, I don’t tell you anywhere near enough, but you are the best. I couldn’t do any of this”—she gestured feebly—“without you. Thanks for everything, Daddy.”

  Porter Loh had hugged his daughter tight. “And you, my dear Archer, are worth any trifling little inconvenience in my life. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  * * *

  Assigned to a group operating in the basement of the Justice Department Building, Archer spent her first two months organizing data collected by security personnel on candidates for federal jobs on the lowest rung of the career ladder. She worked in a stark room with shiny yellow walls and a long Formica table, setting out pages of background data on each candidate in neat piles. Then she prepared a summary page to place on top of each profile so lazy or harried members of Congress could grab the gist at a glance while walking down a hallway.

  For variety, she compiled dull dossiers on visiting dignitaries. Her work area was drab and dim, and lonely, to boot. At times, Archer rued her decision to defer law school. At least Adam actually was helping someone.

  When Archer’s boss decided to make use of her fluency in Hungarian by sending her to Budapest to deliver some classified papers, she jumped at the chance to get out of her monotonous routine and that grim basement. She picked up her tourist-class plane ticket from her boss’s assistant, Cassie, the day before the flight.

  Cassie was about sixty, with a tight perm in her blue-gray hair. She had the serene confidence of a lifetime federal employee who had made herself indispensable to her boss. “So, off to Budapest, I hear, Archer,” Cassie said, smiling and handing her the ticket, her itinerary, an enlarged map of Budapest with key streets highlighted, and directions to her hotel.

  “Yes,” replied Archer. “I’ve never been. I can’t wait.”

  “Well, judging from your schedule, you won’t have much time for sightseeing, dear, but still, it will be an experience, I’m sure.”

  “I know. It’s a short turnaround, but still I can practice my Hungarian on real people—not much call for it over here,” Archer said, nodding. “Thanks, Cassie.”

  “Bon voyage, Archer.”

  * * *

  Upon her return, Archer was startled to find five thousand dollars in cash in an envelope tucked under the blotter on her desk. She studied the envelope: white, plain, heavy bond. Her name was typed in the middle, but there was no return address, no indication of the agency. There was no note enclosed, just the cash in crisp new hundred-dollar bills. Assuming it was a mistake, she went to see her boss, a grandfatherly-looking man with the bland, generic name of Peter Bennett. He was decidedly not grandfatherly in demeanor or bland in affect. She knocked on his office door.

  “Come in if you must,” Bennett called out.

  Archer entered tentatively. Bennett sat at his desk reading from a fat loose-leaf notebook, short white hair carefully combed straight back, horn-rimmed glasses low on his nose. He wore a brown tweed jacket with a yellow and green paisley tie over a cream-colored shirt. He looked up over his glasses as Archer entered.

  “Well, hello, Ms. Archer Loh, my favorite intern. What can I do for you? How was Budapest, by the way? Lovely city, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. I loved it. But, Mr. Bennett, when I got back, I found this envelope of cash on my desk with my name on it. I think it must be for someone else,” Archer said, holding out the packet.

  He didn’t take it. “Hmm, no, I think it’s for you. You did that courier thing over there, didn’t you? Went okay, didn’t it? Well, we always pay an incentive fee for such services. Lucky you on this one. And call me Peter, would you? ‘Mr. Bennett’ seems rather formal. We’re a small office, and everyone gets to know everyone pretty well.” Bennett smiled quickly, then looked back down at his notebook as if their business were concluded.

  Archer stood there a moment.

  “But I didn’t do anything really . . . uh, Peter. I just went to the address you gave me, and gave the packet to the man who answered the door.”

  “Well, that was all this particular job required. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Archer. That was the job; the envelope is the incentive. This boat doesn’t need rocking, so there it is. Have a lovely day.” Bennett finished with a wave of his hand.

  Archer turned and left, confused but cautiously thrilled, feeling as if she had won a small lottery. How lucky she’d been to be chosen for such a simple assignment with such a windfall! She’d bank it for a rainy day.

  Several days later, Peter Bennett called her into his office. She arrived as he was shoving papers into a battered brown leather briefcase, hurrying to catch a plane at Dulles.

  Barely looking up, and without any preamble, he said, “Oh, yes, Archer. I’m a bit concerned about you. Dodgy neighborhood you’re in. I love D.C., but we are the murder capital of the nation, you know. Far cry from my hometown of Des Moines. Far cry even from Oxford, my alma mater. Go to our little class on self-defense, why don’t you? Humor an old man in his dotage. Hate to see my favorite intern stabbed to death while I’m in Beijing,” he finished with a wink. He closed the clasp on the case, grabbed his coat, and moved briskly out the door, looking anything but the picture of an “old man in his dotage.” The “my favorite intern” thing had become a tired joke, but Archer supposed he thought it was cute.

  “See Cassie. She’ll set you up. Little school we run up in New York State. Go up for a month or whatever. I’ll be back in a week or two. Have fun,” Benn
ett said, sprinting for the elevator.

  When Archer stopped by Cassie’s office, Cassie seemed fully apprised of the situation.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Peter mentioned that. Your ticket to Syracuse will be here this afternoon. Just drop by any time after three, Archer.”

  “What is this place, Cassie?” Archer asked.

  “I only know we do some training up there. Routine self-protection stuff, I think. You’ll have fun, I’m sure, if Peter’s sending you,” said Cassie, as if Peter would never dream of sending an intern anywhere that was not a guaranteed fun-fest.

  * * *

  Archer left for Syracuse the next day, where she found herself the only woman among a dozen men, all from either West Point or Annapolis and all about six or seven years older than she. The “self-defense” curriculum was narrow: basic weaponry, scoping tactics, ammunition alternatives, and stalking the target. That was it. The minimum stay was six months, though a year was preferred. Six months! Archer thought with alarm. This can’t be right.

  She had expected basic karate moves for fending off the average mugger, evasive driving maneuvers for outwitting the random carjacker, and strategies for responding to a potential rapist. What she got was a program light years beyond that. The contrast between her expectations and the real thing was actually laughable. This program, if completed, would fully prepare her to launch a revolution in a modest-sized developing country and defend herself against anything short of a nuclear attack. Archer’s fellow students looked capable of it already. Though they were obviously curious, Archer sensed no animosity or testosterone-fueled hostility. They were generous with their help and seemed perfectly comfortable with the idea that someone, somewhere, felt she needed to be there. That was enough for them.

  At the end of the second week, Archer had had enough. She drove down to Washington on a Sunday night to confront Peter Bennett on Monday morning. The Volvo chugged steadily south, with Archer sipping coffee to stay alert on the night drive. She stopped only for gas and coffee refills. Once in Washington, she sat in her car outside the Justice Department, waiting for the doors to open at 8:30.

  When they did, she ran a comb through her hair, walked inside, and headed straight to Bennett’s office on the second floor.

  Cassie looked up, surprised to see her. “Oh, Archer, how are you? Back already? Peter will be in this morning, but he’s booked pretty tight. Do you need to see him?” she asked. When Archer nodded, she replied, “Then have a seat. He should be in soon, but don’t count on more than a few minutes with him.”

  Archer sat outside Bennett’s office until he arrived at 9:10.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asked, hopping up from her metal seat in the waiting area and walking alongside him into his office.

  “Well, good morning to you, too,” Bennett said as she stepped along with him. He slipped off his light overcoat and hung it on a hook on the door, closing the door behind him. “Have a seat, Archer. I thought you were up in Syracuse. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  Bennett sat heavily on his green leather desk chair and hit the intercom, holding up a finger to delay Archer’s response.

  “Cassie, a coffee, please, pronto.” Pause. “Right, thanks.”

  He looked up at Archer. “Okay, shoot. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is Syracuse. I’m in training for a hell of a lot more than self-defense around the old neighborhood. Assault weapons, silencers, stalking tactics. What is that training center you sent me to? I’m a nobody, a little intern here for a year, and you’re sending me to training for six months? For my own self-defense? Come on!”

  Bennett hesitated, uncharacteristically reticent for a moment, then said quietly, “Well, Archer, I have to admit, we do hope you’ll stay on a few years. We feel there is a place for you here. We have many needs and programs to fill, and there is one highly specialized program that we think would be an especially good fit for you.”

  “What are you talking about, Peter?” she interrupted. “I’m going to law school next year. I’m a one-year gofer—you know, see how the halls of Justice work, then move on?”

  Bennett sighed patiently. He was fiddling with a paper clip while leaning back in his chair. He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “You see, Archer, you are an interesting combination, all in all. Quite interesting. You’re small and rather wholesome-looking, which makes you less likely to arouse suspicion at airports, or wandering around a foreign city, or . . . what have you. The Israelis always have these Amazon women you can spot a mile away. So obvious . . .” He sniffed with disdain. “You’re also smart. Your grade point average at Smith made you a summa and a junior Phi Beta Kappa, and your IQ puts you into Mensa territory.”

  Bennett was now studying the ceiling, speaking without pause, an adman rattling off the virtues of a new product.

  “Further, you’re good with languages and are already fluent in Hungarian—a rare language and, just coincidentally, the very one used in some of our confidential communiqués. Not quite as rare as Navajo Wind talker language, it’s true, but it takes a while to figure out. Not Slavic, not Indo-European. Only Estonian and Finnish are even close, and barely at that. You’d be surprised how many linguists are stumped by it—at least for a half hour, maybe an hour, which is usually all we need. With limited resources, most intelligence training is going into Chinese, Arabic, Middle Eastern languages—nothing European. Strangely, Hungarian has worked very well for us of late.”

  Bennett paused as his secretary knocked and then entered with his coffee.

  “Thank you, Cassie,” he said as she placed a mug on a coaster on his big mahogany desk.

  “Anytime,” she said with a smile. “Anything else, Peter?”

  “Not at the moment, thank you.”

  Cassie turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Archer sat stunned, her heart speeding up with each comment Bennett made. Her fingers were clenched in a tight knot in her lap. She wondered what else Peter Bennett knew about her. As it turned out, she didn’t have long to wait.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. You ride horses like an Apache, which, could prove useful in certain circumstances. And you have steady nerves, judging from the video I saw of you jumping a six-foot wall. Quite impressive, by the way. I liked watching you. Very elegant, you and that horse you had there.

  “But I digress. You’re heterosexual—not that we care, but it keeps things simple. Our testing shows that you are resourceful and rather creative when backed into a corner, and tend not to be bound by traditional rules, although in many ways you are quite traditional—conservative, even.” Peter looked up for a moment and, seeing the confusion on Archer’s face, added, “Oh, right, when you took your law school entrance exam—you know, the LSATs—we added a little segment to the test that . . . er, no one else got. Just you. We’ve found it quite helpful in homing in on the characteristics we require. John Vilardi thought you might be a potential fit for us, and we are opportunistic in that way,” he continued matter-of-factly, without apology.

  “We’d really like to have you for at least two years, Archer. Preferably longer, but we’re not the Mafia. You’re free to leave anytime. We hope that if you leave, though, you care enough about this country to keep your own counsel about the things you do and see.”

  Bennett paused and looked at Archer as if to gauge her reaction. She sat silently staring at him, then spoke. “Want me for what?”

  “An operative.”

  Archer waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Speak English, not CIA mumbo jumbo. What kind of work do you want me to do—exactly?”

  Bennett hesitated, then said, “We’re not CIA. We’re—how shall I put it?—a semiautonomous joint arm of the Justice Department and the Pentagon. A little cusp agency, shall we say, all but invisible to the naked eye.” He paused to sip his coffee, then continued. “We want you to be a sniper—for the good guys, of course,” he added hastily. “Archer, this is an opportunity—a tremendous
opportunity.” He was leaning forward now, eyes bright. “Your country needs you. Your mother’s family came here from Hungary in ’fifty-six and found safe haven from a tyrannical regime. Can’t you give two years to your country? Just two. Reagan is going to make a sweep of it in November, and we’ll have even more latitude and superb resources, financial and otherwise. You’ve seen the quality of our training facility.”

  Archer said nothing.

  “The money is good. It’s cash—tax free.”

  Archer stared at her hands for a minute, then looked back into those eager eyes. “You want me to kill certain people—people I don’t know—just because someone somewhere thinks they should die?”

  “Archer, Archer. Don’t be naive. You may not know the reason for the assignment, but I can assure you there is a reason, and a good one. Look, just give it a chance. Do the training, and if, at the end of it, you decline, well, we’ll shake hands and you can finish out your little internship and return to your other life, if that’s what you want. Hey, look at the perks—after our training, you won’t have to be afraid in a dark alley. You see, you really are my favorite intern,” he concluded with a wink.

  Archer was unmoved. “Tell me, Peter, if I ever got caught, would you or the Agency or whatever you are get me out, go to bat for me, or am I hanging out there on my own?”

  “Well, that would be a bit of a sticky wicket. You see, we are unofficial, and if . . . that ever came to pass, we would have to, uh, deny any knowledge of your operations. Surely, you can see why that would be necessary.”

  “Sure,” she said with a wry smile. “Sure. That’s the story, then.”

  “Look, finish the training, Archer. What else do you have to do for the next seven months? Write thank-you notes for some bauble from the Ambassador of Ceylon or Sri Lanka or whatever the hell they‘re calling it these days? Review boring foreign student visas? Come on, that’s not for you,” he cajoled. “You’ll die of boredom.”