One dim light is on. Loose papers lie scattered next to a briefcase open on the bed. We sit at a small table. Like a good spy-to-be, I observe the CIA recruiter closely; he is tall and thin, a dry old man with skin stretched tight over a fleshless skull.
Dude’s a living cadaver, I think.
Our meeting place is a room in the Cascade Mountain Inn on a fog-laden October night in threadbare Tacoma, Washington, a declining industrial town time is dismissing.
The recruiter begins by saying, “We have enough PhDs in the CIA to staff the University of Colorado, the University of Washington with enough left over to staff several more universities.” He sits a little straighter with this confession. I suspect he isn’t one of those PhDs he is bragging about.
His confession puzzles me: Did he just disclose a top-secret piece of information? What if I were a Russian spy trying to become a mole and ferret out the number of high-powered dudes the CIA employs? Wouldn’t that information provide some measure of the CIA’s capacity to analyze intelligence data?
Or maybe he’s trying to throw me off with a bit of misinformation.
Very clever, you fucking Russian. I’m on to you. I smile craftily at him.
I answer his questions about my stint in the army, tell him how I flew surveillance drones and photographed enemy territory that we later bombed into oblivion. He seems impressed when I also tell him the army taught me to kill people in the night by sneaking up on them and slitting their throats while they slept, naively believing the dark was their friend and would protect them.
“Did you leave the ace of spades on their bodies?” He smirks, thinking he is clever.
“Of course not. That only happens in Hollywood movies,” I reply.
My biology background interests him and he questions me in detail about my knowledge of viruses and pathogens. Perhaps he sees me as a germ warrior, engaged in secret missions infecting millions of adversaries with super bugs that kill them after two steps and three breaths.
Finally, Mr. CIA asks, “Why do you want to work for the CIA?”
Instantly I think of what I should say: duty, honor, love of country, challenge, all the words that identify me as a patriot willing to sacrifice my life for my country should the enemy ever capture me in some dark alley on a secret mission in Saint Petersburg or Istanbul.
Then I tell myself he has heard these words countless times from previous wanna-be spies he has interviewed. What he needs to hear is a man possessed of skill, intelligence, a keen wit and cutting-edge humor, so I say, “I want to wear trench coats and ride trains in Europe.”
Mr. CIA goes rigid. Silence descends on the room. The temperature plunges. The room is frozen and nothing moves. Wordlessly, Mr. CIA collects the loose papers, puts them in the open briefcase and snaps it shut with a click so loud it nearly breaks my bones.
“I believe that will be all,” he says.
At least I’m crafty enough to know when I’ve failed a job interview.
Grey Sparrow Journal 