She wore faded blue jeans with a rip across one knee, a red t-shirt that did nothing for her complexion, a navy blue blazer, and a pair of clunky black shoes that looked as if they had been borrowed from her father.
All in all she looked like a college kid on standby for a flight home at Thanksgiving, one of those who didn't get invited to spend the holiday with a boyfriend. The blazer was to conceal her weapon, Becker knew, since she didn't carry a purse and the jeans were too tight to hide anything bulkier than a credit card. He couldn't imagine what the baseball cap was for, except perhaps as a fashion accessory.
The ubiquitous cap, which did no one any aesthetic favors at the best of times, looked particularly incongruous on a young woman trying to masquerade as an FBI agent, he thought.
"You expecting terrorists on this flight?" he asked.
"Sir?" If he had doubted that she was an agent before, the ever-present, distinctively pronounced "sir" would have dispelled them. Drilled into them during training, it was a form of address that was used as much for distancing as for respect. The young ones were even more lethal with it than their elders because with them it carried an added heft of ageism.
The one word, diligently applied, could hurt a man concerned about aging worse than a volley of curses.
"You're checking out the passengers as if you expect them to be carrying Uzis," he said.
"Do you know anything about terrorists on this flight, sir?"
"Just joking."
"Terrorism is not a funny business."
"No. Sorry." Becker pointed to the card bearing his name. "I'm your man."
"You would be Special Agent Becker?"
"I wouldn't be if I could help it, but I am."
"Sir, I wonder if you'd oblige me with some form of identification?"
"Why? Are you going to arrest me?"
"No, sir. Just a precaution. A driver's license would be good enough if you don't have your Bureau ID."
"Do you mean anyone would seriously want to pretend to be me if they didn't have to?"
"I think a lot of people pretend a lot of things, sir."
Becker handed her his driver's license.
"Well, if you hear of any volunteers to walk around in my skin, be sure to let me know, will you?" he said.
"Something wrong with your skin?" she asked.
"It's too damned tight," he said.
She scrutinized him carefully as if looking for places where he might be bursting through his seams.
"You look fit," she said finally.
"So do you."
She studied him a moment longer, examining his comment for sexist content.
"I try," she said finally. She extended her right hand to shake while her left extended her FBI identification.
"Special Agent Haddad," she said.
"Hi."
"Do you have luggage, sir?"
Becker hefted his overnight bag. "I'm ready to go. This shouldn't take long."
"Very good. Just follow me, then, sir."
"One stop first," Becker said.
In the gift shop Becker bought a carton of cigarettes, discarded the box, and distributed the packs in his various pockets.
He opened one of the packs, stripping off the cellophane and peeling away tiny foil. He breathed deeply of the cigarettes, then offered the pack to Pegeen.
"It's the only time they smell good," he said. "Before they start to kill you."
"You're not a smoker," she said, her tone sounding more accusatory than she had wanted it to.
"Why not?"
"No stains on your hands or teeth."
"You've got quick eyes," he said. "Very good."
"Thank you, sir," she said dryly. She found herself bridling at what she took to be the condescension in his remark. They praised her too much for the little things, as if she were a child, all the older men of the Bureau.
And they all were older, even the young ones, especially the ones close to her own age. They acted in her presence as if they were veterans of the Trojan Wars who loved to impart words of wisdom earned through the ages.
As if she were not only a child, and a girl, but a project, an experiment in pedagogy. Could they possibly teach this amazing dog to talk? Could they convert this woman into a man? is what they really wanted to know, Pegeen was convinced. She told herself to calm down and not start any fights. They had a long way yet to go.
"I haven't smoked in twenty years. They're bribes.
Very small bribes."
"Cigarettes as prison currency. Yes, sir, I do know that.
Shall we go then?… If you're ready?"
When they reached the parking lot Becker asked about the cap.
"Do you always wear it?"
"It was my day off when I got the call to pick you up, but since I'm going to be a chauffeur, I might as well look the part. It's the closest I could come… You don't like it?"
"I think it looks silly enough on baseball players."
After a pause she said, "I can change it when we get to the car."
"You always wear a hat?"
"I'm very fair," she said.
"A nice quality."
"I mean my skin. I burn easily."
"I see that."
"What does that mean… sir?"
"I see that you have fair skin," Becker said carefully.
He was getting the feeling that Special Agent Haddad wasn't carrying a chip on her shoulder, she was sporting a whole brick. "I can tell that by looking at you."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No. Fair skin is fine with me."
"Thank you."
"I'm making no judgments on your skin, Haddad. It's not my skin."
"That's right," she said. "My skin is fair and yours is too tight."
"Did I come in the middle of something here?" Becker asked. "You haven't known me long enough to be mad at me."
She looked at him, surprised.
"I'm not mad at you, sir. I thought you were attempting to make conversation by those comments about my hat and my complexion, so I was conversing back."
"All," said Becker. "You thought I was criticizing you."
"Why would I think that, sir? As you pointed out, you hardly know me well enough to do that."
"Sorry," he said.
"Not at all. You have nothing to apologize for."
She yanked open the car door. "I'm just here to drive," she said, some of the words lost in the sound of doors opening and closing.
"Sorry to ruin your day off."
Pegeen shrugged.
"Happy in your work?" Becker asked.
"Just fine, thank you," she said. She tossed her baseball cap into the backseat and put on a soft brown felt hat with a large floppy brim that slouched over most of her face.
"Very nice," he said.
Pegeen maneuvered the Ford out of the parking lot.
"What do you call that hat?" Becker asked pleasantly.
"Ethel," Pegeen said. She laughed abruptly, as if she had caught herself by surprise.
Becker paused long enough to show he recognized the joke. "I meant the style. Does it have a name?"
"It's called a Trilby," she said.
"I like it," Becker said.
"Oh, good." Pegeen got a receipt for the parking charges, then turned towards 1-65, which would take them to Springville.
"Do you need anything before we begin? Any bladder problems to take care of?"
"Just that prostate thing, but nothing I can do about it here," Becker said.
Pegeen turned and looked at him directly. Becker grinned in what he hoped was a winning manner.
"Special Agent Becker, we have a two-hour drive to Springville. Sir, I think it will go more smoothly for both of us if we don't try to be pleasant."
"Yikes," said Becker.
"Sir?"
"Step on it," he said.
Perhaps it was the silence, or perhaps it was the lulling of the road, but after about an hour of driving Becker thought he detected a slight easing in Agent Haddad's posture. Her knuckles, which never left the proper ten minutes-to-two position, had relaxed enough so that blood was flowing back into them.