Tell Me When It Hurts (6 page)

“
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.”

Archer felt a strange combination of repulsion and attraction. Bennett’s agenda repulsed her, and she felt violated, as if he had just ransacked her personal desk and read her journal.
Maybe he had.
Moreover, she hated being “handled.” Still, she hated being bored even more. She hated preparing tea for visiting heads of state and being window dressing. He was right on that point: she wasn’t cut out to be an office worker bee. In truth, some aspects of the “program” intrigued and attracted her, and in spite of herself, Peter Bennett’s zeal was intoxicating, and the man himself was inspiring. Spending another six or seven months at the training center would at least be interesting—maybe even useful.

She made up her mind. “I’ll finish the training, but then I decide.”

“
Absolutely,” Bennett said, putting out his hand. She shook it firmly, then turned to go. As she grasped the doorknob to leave, he added, “Oh, and, Archer, I’d suggest you keep this little assignment to yourself. No need to tell Adam. Easier for everyone, you know. We can help you with the cover, if you like.” He picked up the phone.

Archer stopped and turned around, finally nodding. She was at her old table in the basement before she realized she had never mentioned Adam’s name to him or anyone else at the job.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Archer couldn’t make it home for Christmas. Her father said he understood that her career had to come first. She would miss seeing his eager face peering out as she pulled into the driveway on Christmas Eve. Adam was disappointed, too, but seemed to revel vicariously in her trip to Paris on government business. He told her the best places for a Christmas Eve dinner on the Left Bank, having gotten the scoop from Cody Geronomo.

In fact, Archer was in Syracuse, not Paris, mastering the cleaning, assembling, and loading of various firearms in the dark, while on her knees in a forest blanketed with ten inches of snow. On Christmas day, Archer and her colleagues ate turkey while sitting on benches at a long table. Archer put a bouquet of wildflowers in a glass, and three candles on the table—for “atmosphere,” as she put it. The rest of the group teased her.

“
Oh, yeah, Arch, now,
that
makes all the difference.”

“
Hey, Arch. Are you sure those flowers aren’t wired, Arch? Everything else around here is.”

“
Oh, yeah, I never noticed what a gorgeous place this is by candlelight, Arch. Thanks for making all this possible. You’ve opened my eyes. In fact, I think I love you, Loh.”

Archer gave him a mock sneer. “Shut up, Dobbs, or I’ll forget it’s Christmas and give you the finger.”

“
Oooh, no, not the finger.”

“
Yeah, Arch, when we run into the bad guys, be sure to give them the finger. That should scare them to death.”

“
Just be sure, Arch, that some finger, any finger, is on the trigger of your Uzi.”

Everyone hooted, including Dobbs.

“
She’s got your number, Dobbs.”

“
Hey, Dobbs, even in the dark, you’re stump ugly.”

Banter aside, they were touched by Archer’s gesture and pleased they weren’t alone on Christmas on this dreary Syracuse afternoon. One of the West Point guys, Davis Jones, sat down at the spinet piano wedged haphazardly into one corner of the dining room. To Archer’s surprise, he was a more than competent player.

“
Man, I loved Christmas as a kid,” said Davis, getting up from the piano to eat with the others. “My brothers and I lived for it. My mother could get us to do anything just by saying, ‘Just wait till Christmas.’ We were poor as church mice then, but we remember a really happy childhood, and Christmas was the happiest day of the year.”

“That’s funny, I always hated Christmas,” said Deke Curran, taking a bite of stuffing but not before scrutinizing its lumpy texture. “So many expectations, and then my father would get drunk by five on Christmas Eve, my mother would end up crying and yelling at us kids, and we would cry and yell at our father for hurting our mother. I couldn’t wait for it all to be over and go back to school. How about you, Archer?
Bleak House
or
It’s a Wonderful Life
?”

“
Hmm. Well, I had a pretty happy childhood, guys. No dark stuff, and I loved Christmas. Still do. But it’s different now. When you’re a kid, it’s about the stuff. Now it’s more about getting together with family, since we’re all going in different directions the rest of the year and don’t live together,” she said thoughtfully. “Guess we’re each other’s family this year.” She paused. “And come to think of it, I barely even like you guys.”

“
Hey, it
is
just like family. I hate my sister Sherrie; what an asshole
she
is. And I’m not too crazy about my brother, either. This
is
just like Christmas at home, now that I think of it. I hate you guys, I really do!” Harrison Dobbs exclaimed, grinning and helping himself to more turkey and gravy.

Everyone laughed, and Davis uncorked the champagne, provided courtesy of Uncle Sam, and they toasted one another and the future. They even sang a few Christmas carols; then Davis played ragtime tunes into the wee hours.

* * *

On Valentine’s Day, when Adam thought Archer was in Rome attending a midlevel diplomatic conference on global warming, she was in El Salvador, collecting intelligence on a guerrilla group in the mountains after the military’s assassination of Archbishop Romero. When her six months of training ended in March, Archer stayed on. She spent Easter in Baghdad, observing the movements of one Mohamed Al Jahad for future targeting if necessary. Memorial Day found her in Israel, learning advanced scope shooting and escape options.

Peter Bennett showed up monthly to give a pep talk and observe the day’s maneuvers. Although he never made notes, Archer knew he was sorting them, evaluating them, planning their futures for them. Still, when Bennett grabbed a long-range sniper rife to illustrate the optimal stance for executing a shot from a vertical position, strong wind at the shooter’s back, Archer was impressed. Not just a suit, then.

Archer saw Adam once every six weeks or so, in New York City. Her work and home phones were rigged to forward calls to a line in Syracuse, where the home phone rang in Archer’s barrack room and the work phone went to an office at the main training building, where it was answered, “Justice Department.” Archer felt bad about the deception but rationalized it as a short-term expedient.

When Adam suggested visiting her in Washington, she protested that New York was the only city in the world worth living in, and she wanted to be there. It was a schizophrenic existence. While she was in New York with Adam, her other life seemed preposterous and unreal. She ate in restaurants on Fifth Avenue, wore clothes from Barney’s, and laughed with Adam’s friends, drinking beer at a brasserie. Then, when she was back in Syracuse or on assignment, New York was barely a memory.

* * *

Archer got out at the end of her year. She’d never had to do a hit, but could. When she told Peter Bennett of her decision, took his glasses off and rubbed his forehead.

“
Archer, Archer. You don’t know what you’re saying. All the reports I’ve had on you have been superb. Everything I’ve seen has been as close to perfect as it gets,” he said as he flipped through a manila file on his desk. “Look at this,” he said, stabbing at the page with his finger. “You’re the number one shot in your class. Think about it:
number one.
Better than every guy from West Point and Annapolis. My instructor says there are two Marines who can match you in the right conditions, but still, it’s nothing short of remarkable . . . and priceless.”