The downside to his witticism struck Lars for the first time as he processed the unexpected reply.
The man read his mind. “Not that kind of buying, Lars.”
“You know my name?”
“I know a lot more than that. It’s my job to know.” He held out a hand. “Tom Bronco, talent scout.”
Lars already had an agent—albeit not a great one. In fact, Monty had yet to score Lars a significant role, and lately he was taking his time returning calls. If Tom Bronco was real—if he was from WME or CAA or UTA—this could be the break Lars had waited a decade for.
But it was much more likely to be a scam.
Usually the pimps targeted girls fresh off the bus, Midwestern prom queens and Southern sorority sisters taking their shot at the big dream. But the Tinseltown vultures had a taste for all types.
Rather than ask for credentials, which were easily faked, Lars decided to test the guy. “What do you know about me?”
Tom’s expression remained rock solid. “You graduated from Princeton with honors ten years ago this month after double majoring in theater and economics—the latter being a practical concession to your parents, may they rest in peace. Upon graduation, you immediately moved to Hollywood, which has yet to give you the opportunity you crave or show you the respect you deserve. Apart from scoring a coveted waiter position at a popular Wolfgang Puck restaurant, life’s been one long string of disappointments ever since.”
Talk about sweet and sour. The sixty-second summary was spot on. And yet, knowing all that, the talent scout had chosen him. He, Lars de Kock, had been chosen. There was no other obvious explanation for Tom’s wealth of background knowledge. But chosen for what? It had to be something top shelf if they employed a guy this solid. “Which agency are you with?”
Tom cracked a smile. Not a toothy grin, but enough upward trajectory in a corner of his mouth to count as one on his chiseled monolith. “The most powerful, selective, and prestigious agency.”
Lars had walked right into that one. If he guessed incorrectly, he’d be shooting himself in the foot. Rather than risk it, he took a different tack. “What kind of role do you have in mind?”
“It’s not a single role, Lars. We have a whole career mapped out for you.”
This was really happening! He’d worked long, and he’d worked hard, but he’d never, ever, given up hope. Lars had trouble containing his excitement. Maybe he didn’t need to. Tom surely knew what this meant to him. “Sounds good. What’s next?”
Tom had that answer ready. “An extensive audition.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he slid across the table.
Lars waited for the confirming nod, then opened it. “A plane ticket. For tomorrow morning. To Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport in Virginia? Is this a set location?”
“It’s a training facility location.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I don’t recruit for a studio, Lars. I recruit for the CIA.”
The waitress returned, dry salad in hand, before Lars had fully digested the surprising twist. She had forgotten the lemon slice, but he chose not to remind her.
“What does the CIA want with me?”
Tom threw the question right back at him, in a lighter tone. “What does the CIA want with a charismatic Princeton honors grad who knows how to act?”
Now that Lars thought about it, the idea wasn’t totally crazy. His college roommate had joined the CIA straight out of school—although he always claimed to work for the State Department. Thinking back, Lars recalled that while Chase had been ROTC, headed for the army, he’d switched teams after a recruiter not unlike Tom came calling.
“We’re not asking for a commitment,” Tom continued. “In fact, until you pass a polygraph we won’t be in a position to extend an offer. But if you do pass, I can assure you that the offer will be an enviable one. Will you take two days to find out what Uncle Sam has to say?”
8
The Line
LARS SPOTTED THE DRIVER outside baggage claim, exactly where Tom had indicated. He was holding a blank name placard with a gray border, just as Tom had said he would.
Lars identified himself with a nod, as instructed.
The handsome black man held out a big hand, palm up. “Your cell phone, please.”
“You want my phone?”
“If you want to go any further, you’ll need to hand it over.”
Tom had warned Lars not to breathe a word to anyone about his potential employment, or tell anyone where he was going. If he found himself backed into a corner, he was to say he had a promising but confidential audition on the East Coast, a story that had the virtue of being entirely true. But no such situation had arisen. Sadly, Lars was an introvert. It was the attribute he blamed for his lack of career progress but was helpless to correct.
“You get a letter and a tablet in return,” the driver added, producing the items from behind the blank placard.
Lars traded devices and watched while the driver sealed his phone into what looked like a thick Mylar bag. As they walked toward the airport garage, Lars read the letter. It was short and printed on plain paper.
Welcome to Virginia. Say nothing to the driver. He is not a Company man. Once you are alone in the back seat of the car, unlock the iPad with your right thumb and proceed as instructed.
Unlock it with my thumb. Clearly, and in retrospect not surprisingly, the CIA operated on a different plane.
The driver raised a partition as the car started moving, making the first instruction easy to comply with. Lars followed the second instruction a few seconds later as their town car merged onto I-64 E toward Camp Peary, which he now knew housed the CIA field operations training facility known as The Farm.
The iPad unlocked to reveal a white screen with Lars de Kock, the date, and Part 1: Psychological Profile printed bold on center screen. The text vanished the instant Lars finished reading and a set of instructions appeared. Answer quickly and honestly, with 1 being Nothing Like Me and 5 being Just Like Me. Again the text vanished the instant Lars finished reading, and he realized with astonished admiration that the iPad must be tracking his eye movements.
Q1: I want to work where contagious diseases run rampant.
Lars pressed 1 while wondering if the device captured his eye roll.
Q2: I work well in isolation.
Lars pressed 5.
Q3: I get nervous around guns.
Lars pressed 1.
Q4: I love my country.
Lars pressed 5.
Q5: I have a lot of friends.
Lars considered pressing 1, then pressed 2.
And so it went for five minutes, with a display in the upper left corner clicking off the quantity of responses, a clock in the upper right displaying elapsed time, and a number in the center showing what Lars quickly calculated to be the average number of responses per minute. Confirming his initial suspicion regarding eye movements, Lars noted that the screen went blank whenever he glanced out the window—something he did on only two occasions, given his battle with the clock.
At the five-minute mark, the active question faded and Part 2: Personal Profile appeared. Speak your answers, clearly and concisely, popped up next. What followed was an extensive background questionnaire focusing on family and friends. Q1: List the names and locations of all relatives with whom you are in contact. Q2: Who are your five best friends? Q3: What restaurants do you frequent? Q4: How long have you lived at your current address? Q5: Who is your landlord? Q6: Who would come to your funeral?
The questions continued until the town car pulled to a stop before the Brown Pelican Inn, a two-story colonial building that at first glance appeared to have about twenty rooms. He suddenly found himself doing things like that, observing and analyzing. He was stepping into the role of a CIA agent the way he would any other acting job.