more like a not-so-young assistant to a Democratic House member from Massachusetts than any actor this kid had the adolescent hots for. But not real uncomfortable about it.
Can’t say the same about the suits. We drive a long way out Wisconsin to a very upscale mall in a very upscale, very close-in Montgomery County suburb. Saks Fifth Avenue has a branch there, and Allison takes me to the aspiring-to-be-CEO menswear section so directly I’m thinking she must shop here a couple times a month. I stand there like a tailor’s dummy while she and the salesman pull half a dozen Oxxfords or Hickey-Freemans or whatever youngish executives in conservative corporations wear off the racks. The salesman onlyslips the jackets on me. They all seem a size too large. She settles on four: deepest navy, two grays so charcoal they’re almost black, one dark blue with the faintest pinstripe. “Oh, never mind that. We have a little man who does it just right,” Allison tells the salesman when he wants to call out the tailor for alterations. “Just put them in garment bags, please.”
Then it’s shirts: a dozen white oxford button-downs; ties: three muted paisleys, three rep striped regimentals, all silk; socks: a dozen black merino over-the-calves; shoes: one pair of wing tips, one pair of cap-toes, one pair of dress loafers, all black and all Church’s.
It’s a one-stop for everything else: the store’s Polo boutique. That’s where I finally say “You’ve got to be kidding,” and Allison says, “Negative. You know what it’s about.” A pair of khakis, a pair of jeans, a couple of polos, two cashmere V-necks. “Boxers or jockeys?” is the only question Allison asks, and scoops up a dozen when I answer jockeys. She carries a couple of the shopping bags but I’m listing under my load when we leave the store. It takes maybe ten minutes to find a way to stow everything in the Mini’s tiny trunk and rear seat area.
“Hey, that was fun, wasn’t it? Come on, admit it, Luther,” she says brightly as we’re cruising back to the spook house.
“Terrific. Loved every minute.” I’m bored, tired, already fed up.
“You were billed as a professional. Misinformation, or are you just really, really rusty? Too much time on the shelf?” Her voice isn’t bright now. I know she’s going to report every detail of our little expedition to Westley, with a concentration on my behavior and attitude. And Westley, this early, could easily cancel my contract without the mess of canceling my ticket, too. It’s all role-play, and time for me to switch mine if I want to stay on this job.
“Hey, Allison, you might want to consider lightening up. I’m just giving you a little of what you expected. Small-time narc, not too clever, attitude problem, way below Agency officer standard. Only asset he’s got is close-combat skills. And why the hell do we have to use low-life contractors like this Luther guy, anyway? That’s what you’ve been thinking. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
She glances at me once, then once again. “Everything’s a test.”
“I know. They really drum that one into you at the Farm. Takes years to get over it.”
She keeps her focus on the traffic ahead, but I see a hint of a smile playing about her mouth.
Then I know this: Allison’s going to be my main handler during mission prep.
Could be worse.
My room’s on the third floor of the spook house. It’s nice enough: comfortable double bed, easy chair, a desk with a neat NEC laptop, and a full bathroom with tub, shower, hotel towels. Someone’s unpacked my duffel, hung up my clothes in the armoire, placed my weapons—still in their holsters—on the night table beside the bed. But all the mags for the SIG and the Walther have been emptied, my cell’s nowhere, there’s no phone. And there’s no lock on the door.
For a moment my heart rate goes up a few beats. It’s involuntary, a reaction to a feeling of vulnerability. I chill. I don’t need
Can’t say the same about the suits. We drive a long way out Wisconsin to a very upscale mall in a very upscale, very close-in Montgomery County suburb. Saks Fifth Avenue has a branch there, and Allison takes me to the aspiring-to-be-CEO menswear section so directly I’m thinking she must shop here a couple times a month. I stand there like a tailor’s dummy while she and the salesman pull half a dozen Oxxfords or Hickey-Freemans or whatever youngish executives in conservative corporations wear off the racks. The salesman onlyslips the jackets on me. They all seem a size too large. She settles on four: deepest navy, two grays so charcoal they’re almost black, one dark blue with the faintest pinstripe. “Oh, never mind that. We have a little man who does it just right,” Allison tells the salesman when he wants to call out the tailor for alterations. “Just put them in garment bags, please.”
Then it’s shirts: a dozen white oxford button-downs; ties: three muted paisleys, three rep striped regimentals, all silk; socks: a dozen black merino over-the-calves; shoes: one pair of wing tips, one pair of cap-toes, one pair of dress loafers, all black and all Church’s.
It’s a one-stop for everything else: the store’s Polo boutique. That’s where I finally say “You’ve got to be kidding,” and Allison says, “Negative. You know what it’s about.” A pair of khakis, a pair of jeans, a couple of polos, two cashmere V-necks. “Boxers or jockeys?” is the only question Allison asks, and scoops up a dozen when I answer jockeys. She carries a couple of the shopping bags but I’m listing under my load when we leave the store. It takes maybe ten minutes to find a way to stow everything in the Mini’s tiny trunk and rear seat area.
“Hey, that was fun, wasn’t it? Come on, admit it, Luther,” she says brightly as we’re cruising back to the spook house.
“Terrific. Loved every minute.” I’m bored, tired, already fed up.
“You were billed as a professional. Misinformation, or are you just really, really rusty? Too much time on the shelf?” Her voice isn’t bright now. I know she’s going to report every detail of our little expedition to Westley, with a concentration on my behavior and attitude. And Westley, this early, could easily cancel my contract without the mess of canceling my ticket, too. It’s all role-play, and time for me to switch mine if I want to stay on this job.
“Hey, Allison, you might want to consider lightening up. I’m just giving you a little of what you expected. Small-time narc, not too clever, attitude problem, way below Agency officer standard. Only asset he’s got is close-combat skills. And why the hell do we have to use low-life contractors like this Luther guy, anyway? That’s what you’ve been thinking. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
She glances at me once, then once again. “Everything’s a test.”
“I know. They really drum that one into you at the Farm. Takes years to get over it.”
She keeps her focus on the traffic ahead, but I see a hint of a smile playing about her mouth.
Then I know this: Allison’s going to be my main handler during mission prep.
Could be worse.
My room’s on the third floor of the spook house. It’s nice enough: comfortable double bed, easy chair, a desk with a neat NEC laptop, and a full bathroom with tub, shower, hotel towels. Someone’s unpacked my duffel, hung up my clothes in the armoire, placed my weapons—still in their holsters—on the night table beside the bed. But all the mags for the SIG and the Walther have been emptied, my cell’s nowhere, there’s no phone. And there’s no lock on the door.
For a moment my heart rate goes up a few beats. It’s involuntary, a reaction to a feeling of vulnerability. I chill. I don’t need
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