“Same here,” Lars said.
Carla nodded without taking notes, then disappeared.
Tom resumed his pitch while Lars relaxed. “You’re an honors graduate from Princeton, so you’ve got brains. You’ve spent a decade acting in Hollywood, so you’ve got the equivalent of undercover skills. Plus you lack any binding ties.”
“Binding ties?”
“If you were to go deep undercover tomorrow and be completely cut off from your old life for six months—” Tom trailed off, allowing Lars to complete the sentence.
“Nobody would make a fuss,” Lars said as another puzzle piece clicked into place. “Now I understand your questions.”
Tom raised his beer in a silent salute and they both took sips.
“Going undercover can be tough and even dangerous, but working with the Dry Cleaners is as rewarding as government service gets. The team is tip-top. The missions are high-impact. And the expense accounts are very generous.
“It is an all-in commitment,” Tom continued after a second sip. “Like joining the French Foreign Legion or Men in Black. You’ll have to cut all ties to your old life. Lars de Kock will virtually vanish. But at the same time, you’ll gain a fantastic family, a noble purpose, and all the excitement you can handle.”
“What kind of undercover assignments?”
“Overseas, of course. The kind that don’t make the news.”
“Can you give me an example?” Lars asked, feeling a bit bolder now that he’d crossed the finish line with a winning time.
“I’ll give you a few,” Tom said, his volume still low but his voice now more congenial than businesslike. “You might be placed on a legitimate team of consultants that’s advising a foreign government or corporation, with the goal of obtaining information or recruiting an asset. You might perform the role of a playboy eager to purchase stolen artwork. You might act like a disgruntled CIA agent who can be purchased for a price. We match needs with clever resolutions. Dry cleaning, not wet wiping.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
The salads arrived, then the steaks. Lars plowed through his meal, working to match Tom’s impressive speed. The CIA operative ate like a machine, slicing his steak thin and chewing intensely as if intent on aiding digestion. Lars set his steak knife down for the last time while Tom was draining his beer.
The recruiter picked up a drink napkin and proceeded to roll it into a ball. “Knowing that you’ve had a long day, I’m going to leave you to eat your dessert in peace. I recommend the chocolate lava cake.” He pulled two hundred-dollar bills from a money clip, creased them the long way, and left them tented on the table. “Do me a favor and collect the receipt.”
“Sure thing,” Lars said, wondering if a man as ripped as Tom ever actually ate cake. Then again, the man had just inhaled a filet covered in Brie. Maybe he ran marathons. He did look like the kind of guy who would suffer for fun.
Tom put the napkin ball on the table. “Tomorrow night at this time, I’m going to pick you up at the hotel. By the way, that was your room, number 20.” He pulled a key card from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. “I’ll take you either to FIFO HQ or back to the airport. Your choice entirely. In either case, you’re not to mention anything we’ve discussed, or anything you’ve experienced, now or ever. We’ll know if you do, and we’ll put you in prison.” The business tone was back. “Understood?”
Lars’s little bit of boldness faded. “Understood.”
“Good. Please remember to collect the receipt. Meanwhile, enjoy the cake. Spies might need to watch their backs, but they don’t need to worry about their waistlines.”
10
Twists of Fate
LARS LOOKED AROUND Berret’s Taphouse as Tom rose from the table. The bar was now packed with a professional-looking crowd. Happy hour. He wondered how many of them were his new peers.
Tom didn’t display the swagger one might expect from a master of the clandestine universe now off the clock. He just came across as a tough-as-nails guy in an expensive suit.
As the CIA recruiter pressed through the throng near the door, one of the people he brushed shoulders with caught Lars’s eye. It was a guy Lars knew well. A guy Lars had discussed just hours ago during the polygraph test. One of his five best friends. One of the people he’d expect at his funeral.
Zachary Chase had been Lars’s roommate at Princeton and a member of the same eating club. After graduation, Chase had stayed on the East Coast, whereas Lars had gone West. Facebook kept them in touch, as did the alumni network, but they’d shared space only twice. Once when Chase crashed on his couch for a week during vacation, the second time more recently at their ten-year reunion. On both occasions, the two had slipped back into their groove with comfort and ease.
Lars stood and waved like an air-traffic controller.
Chase wasn’t looking in his direction.
“Chase!”
His fellow Ivy Club diner turned, recognized his old friend, and walked straight over with open arms. “What are you doing at Berret’s?”
“Like you don’t know.”
Chase pulled back from the backslapping hug. “Did I miss an email?”
“That’s how you’re going to play it?”
Chase scrunched his face but didn’t respond directly. “It’s great to see you, man. I was just thinking about you. You got time for dinner and a drink? The sea bass here is killer.”
“I just ate, but you go ahead.”
As Chase took the seat Tom had just vacated, Lars decided this was either a terrific coincidence—or a convenient test. “What brings you to Berret’s?”
“I’m in the mood for a drink, and they have a great selection of microbrews.” His voice sounded edgy, and his face was fraught with mixed emotions.
“Tough day at work?”
“Last day at work, actually. I just got fired. After ten years.”
This was a recruiting tactic Lars didn’t see coming. “Seriously? The CIA let you go?”
“State Department,” Chase corrected.
“If you’re fired, I don’t have to pretend not to know any more, right? Besides, Camp Peary isn’t State Department, it’s CIA.”
“Actually, it’s DoD.”
Chase flagged the red-haired waitress and said, “Two Fierce, please.”
Carla nodded but didn’t break stride. This was prime tip time.
“Let’s forget my woes. What brings you to this little corner of the East Coast?” Chase asked.
Lars decided to go with the vague answer. “I’m auditioning for an interesting role.”
Chase sat back and began nodding to himself. He almost started to smile. “Makes sense. Your analytical skills plus your acting talent.”
Convincing as Chase was, Lars didn’t believe he’d been fired. This was clearly an act to show him how it was done. A live lesson from an expert in his prime. Were they also giving him a chance to ask candid questions? One way to find out. “Why did they let you go?”
Chase rubbed his temples. “There was a go-along-to-get-along situation about six months back. I wouldn’t go along. Firing me would have been awkward, so they pulled me out of the field and parked me at Camp Peary while investigations were conducted. I kept my nose to the grindstone and hoped the political winds would change or the better angels would prevail, but they fired me.”
“And you can’t fight it?”
“No point. Even a win would be a loss. My career could never progress, and I’m too young for that. I need to know I can grow. And I want to be appreciated. Fortunately, it’s not unusual to move on from government service after ten years.”
Carla brought the beers. Frosty mugs sloshing foamy heads onto cardboard coasters.