She straightened and looked at me, her expression still suspicious. Feeling foolish that I hadn’t thought to check the plug, I shrugged. “Sorry. I like pen and paper. I thought it would be allowed.”
“The computer has a web portal that introduces you to several decryption tools,” she said. “It assumes a knowledge of Java or C, but it requires no knowledge of cryptography techniques. Most competent programmers can put it together in half an hour and find the answer.”
I was feeling really stupid now. “I didn’t know. I thought the computer just had the file with the cipher text. And maybe a calculator or something.”
She picked up one of my pages of calculations, examined it, and set it down again. She shook her head. “You really decrypted a Playfair cipher… by hand?”
Now she was laughing at me. It was probably a story she would put in her repertoire, to tell future candidates about the idiot who spent all day solving it on paper instead of checking the plug. “It was a misunderstanding,” I said. “And I would have had it done faster if I hadn’t started with a Vigenère.”
“I’ve never seen anyone solve a Playfair by hand. Or a Vigenère, for that matter. Either you’re the smartest mathematician we’ve seen in a decade, or you’re trying to scam your way into this agency.” Her tone of voice made it clear which she thought was the more likely.
I didn’t say anything. I assumed that she could verify whether or not I had logged into the computer.
“Does that mean I don’t get the job?”
“As I already told you, that’s not my decision to make. However, if my boss decides to make you an offer, that still doesn’t guarantee you a job. All offers are conditional on passing the security check, which is no small hurdle. It requires a full lifestyle polygraph, psych exam, background investigation, the works. It can take at least six months for the paperwork to go through, and usually more like nine.”
“It’s a pain, too,” I said. “I went through it several years ago, when my dad got me an internship with Lockheed Martin.”
The look she gave me was almost pleading. “Are you telling me that you already have a CSI security clearance?”
“Well, it’s lapsed,” I said. “But they can usually get those turned around in a week or so.”
“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning on your resume?”
I shrugged, feeling stupid again. “I figured it wouldn’t matter unless I got the job.”
Her gaze tried to dissect me. She seemed to think I was pulling a fast one over on her, but she couldn’t quite prove it. “I’ll pass on that information, along with my impressions of this interview. I warn you, they will have your claims—all of your claims—thoroughly investigated. It will probably take at least a week before you hear back, one way or another.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I could feel the grin splitting my face, but I couldn’t hold it back. I could tell that, although she didn’t agree, she thought her superiors would make me an offer. I was going to work for the NSA.
CHAPTER 3
I walked out to my car, as high as a mycologist on his own hand-picked stash of magic mushrooms. I was going to work for the NSA. I was going to break codes like Alan Turing at Bletchley Park. I would be an agent, with access to classified information and insights into world politics. I did a little dance as I walked through the parking lot, and it wasn’t just because of the cold.
I took off my gloves long enough to fish out my key and turn it in the lock of my Nissan—the keyless entry system had broken long ago—and climb inside. I hastily pulled my glove back on before my fingers froze. Temperatures had reached record lows this February, and the meteorologists had been gleefully competing with each other for synonyms of “frigid.”
I was late to pick up my brother at the airport. Fortunately BWI—the airport formerly known as Friendship International—was only a mile away. I had expected to have some time after the interview, at least enough for some dinner, but he was probably already on the ground wondering where I was. I would have given him a call, but I had left my phone at home, having been warned that I wouldn’t be allowed to bring it into any of the NSA buildings. No matter. I would be there in a few minutes.
I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.
I cursed in Portuguese, Spanish, and Tupi-Guarani, and made up a few languages of my own for good measure. The Nissan had been my father’s for a decade before he had sold it to me for a dollar. It had almost two hundred thousand miles on it. The check engine light had been on for months. So I couldn’t really complain. But I was exhausted from a day of decoding, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day, thanks to the NSA’s miserly vending machine. All my good feeling from the end of the interview was gone.
I tramped back into the building and headed through the metal detector for the lobby front desk.
“Whoa, sir. Stop right there!” An armed MP blocked my way and put a hand on my shoulder.
“I was just here,” I said. “You saw me walk out of here thirty seconds ago.”
“Sir, you need to show me your ID.”
“My car broke down. I just need to make a phone call.”
The MP put his hand on his holstered weapon, and his partner started to circle around me. I raised my hands, surrendering. “Okay,” I said. I backed up, pulled off my gloves, and fished my driver’s license out of my wallet. “Here. Same as before.”
“Sir, we’re going to need you to empty your pockets.”
“Again? Look, I’m not coming in, not really. I just need…”
The MP actually pulled his weapon out of his holster. He kept it pointed at the floor, but it was as serious a move as I had ever seen anyone make. “Right now, sir.”
I emptied my pockets. The MP with the gun stood watching me. The other one came around the X-ray machine to pat me down thoroughly. Both were young, muscled, with close-cropped hair and hard, unwavering expressions on their faces. These weren’t men with a sense of humor.
A woman’s voice caught my attention. “Mr. Johns?” I looked to see Shaunessy Brennan in a dark wool trench coat and a plaid scarf, slipping on some leather gloves. “What’s going on? Did you forget something?”
I felt the heat creeping into my face. “My car won’t start,” I said. “I was just trying to get into the lobby and make a phone call.” Though to tell the truth, I wasn’t even sure who I was going to call. My parents were in New York, visiting Julia, and Paul was at the airport, waiting for me. I had attended too many colleges and lived in too many places over the last several years to have any friends close enough to call.
One of the MPs found my name on a list. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You’re not cleared for access to the building.”
“What?” I said. “I was just here. I just walked out of the building.”
“You were cleared for a four-hour temporary interview access, this morning only,” the MP said. “That access has expired.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I could see the front desk through the glass. It was maybe twenty steps away, through the metal detector. I pressed two fingers into my forehead. “I was supposed to pick up my brother from the airport. He’s probably wondering if I’m dead on the road.”
Shaunessy came around to join me. “You have a phone right there,” she said to the MP. “Can he use it to call someone to pick him up?”