‘And you think I’d be up to it?’ She gestured towards the assessment form. ‘On the basis of that, I mean?’
‘Well, it’s impossible to be sure.’ He reached across and picked up the file. ‘It’s a fairly blunt instrument, this. And it can’t give us a definitive insight into the “real” Marie Donovan, whoever that might be. What it really tells us is how you see yourself and how you think others see you. But, for all that, I think, yes, that overall it does indicate that you’re likely to be suited to the job.’
Well, that was something, she thought. A fairly lukewarm endorsement, but an endorsement nonetheless. One hurdle climbed.
Winsor was still leafing aimlessly through her file. Finally, he paused and ran his finger carefully down one of the documents.
‘You’re unmarried?’
She nodded. ‘So far.’ This had been typical of Winsor’s style. Off-the-cuff, apparently random questions, but each one with a little hidden barb.
‘But you have a partner?’
She knew he already had the answer. When she’d joined the Agency, Liam’s background had been checked out as thoroughly as hers. A clause in her employment contract obliged her to inform her superiors if her domestic circumstances were to change. The way things were going with Liam, that clause might become relevant before long.
‘I live with my boyfriend,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
‘And how does he feel about you applying for this role?’
That was the question, of course. How did Liam feel?
‘Well, he’s got concerns, of course. But he’s fully behind my career. If it’s what I want to do, he’ll support it.’ Which was all true as far as it went.
‘And your boyfriend,’ Winsor said conversationally, ‘what does he do? His job, I mean.’
‘He paints. He’s an artist.’
‘Ah.’ Winsor managed to invest a wealth of meaning into the single syllable. ‘Would I recognize his name?’
She smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’
‘Well, perhaps one day.’ Winsor looked at his watch, as if he were already losing interest. ‘And what about you?’
‘Me?’ She wondered momentarily whether he was enquiring about her own artistic prospects.
‘Yes.’ Winsor was beginning to pack up his papers. ‘Why do you want the job? What made you apply for it?’
Another good question. She’d had an answer all prepared – opportunity for career development, new challenges, a desire to step outside her own comfort zone, all that kind of nonsense. But Winsor’s nonchalant query had, presumably as intended, caught her off guard and she found herself blurting out something closer to the truth.
‘I don’t know. I suppose I feel in a bit of a rut. A bit passive. Time’s getting on. The big three-oh next year. I just want something new. I want to take more control.’
He was barely looking at her, struggling to fit the stack of files into his briefcase. ‘At work or at home? The rut, I mean?’
She paused, aware now that she was saying more than she’d intended. ‘Work, I suppose. I’ve spent the last year doing intelligence analysis. Crunching data. Spotting patterns. It’s important work and I’m pretty good at it, though I say so myself. But I don’t think it’s making the most of my talents. I want a bit more control over what’s going on. I want to make things happen.’
He finally snapped shut his briefcase and looked up, his expression suggesting that he’d taken in nothing of what she’d been saying.
‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Always good to take control. That’s very interesting. As I said at the start, this session isn’t really part of the formal interview process. I just like to have an informal discussion with candidates before I put together the detailed feedback on the psychometrics. Gives me a bit of context.’
And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything, Marie told herself. Winsor had protested just a little too much about the unimportance of their conversation. She hoped she’d struck the right balance – alert enough not to let anything slip, but not so tense that she seemed phony.
The whole thing had been like that. Two days of interviews and exercises. A traditional selection panel with four stern-faced senior officers asking a series of apparently random questions. A series of role-playing exercises, supposedly with other candidates, that had left her feeling slightly wrong-footed. She’d suspected from the start that not all the participants were genuine candidates. Some of them would be plants, there to observe or to throw additional spokes into the wheel. Or perhaps that was just paranoia. Either way, it felt like appropriate preparation for whatever this job might throw at her.
‘As I say, I’ll be giving you some formal feedback on the psychometrics this afternoon. After that, you’re free to leave. And we’ll be getting our heads together to make the decision. We should be able to let you know tomorrow.’
‘But you really think I’m in with a chance?’
Winsor looked momentarily embarrassed. ‘Well, I’m not in a position to say for sure. Obviously, it’ll be a collective decision. But, yes, on the basis of what I’ve seen, I think you’ve a very good chance.’
There was an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t read. As if, she thought, he couldn’t be sure whether or not he was giving her good news.
There was a bright light shining in her eyes, and she could make out no more than the outline of the man sitting opposite. So they weren’t afraid of clichés, she thought. An interrogation scene from an old war movie. We have ways of making you talk, Britisher.
It had been a surreal experience. At the airport, with the pistol held against her, she’d climbed into the back of the van. It had clearly been prepared to accommodate passengers, although the rear compartment was enclosed and windowless. There was a row of seats bolted to the chassis, and an interior light. All the home comforts you’d need if you were being kidnapped at the crack of dawn by a bunch of apparent lunatics. Behind her, she’d heard the sound of the rear doors being locked.
Her initial, instinctive reaction had been panic. That was why she’d tried to run, unthinking, her mind still fogged by lack of sleep. It was only when she’d seen the pistol pointing unwaveringly at her that she’d realized the truth.
It was a test, of course. A fucking exercise. Part of the training. If she’d been more awake, she might have expected it. Even the trip to Washington had probably been part of it. She’d seen it as an odd intrusion into her supposedly sacrosanct training schedule, and wondered why they’d been so keen for her to attend. The conference itself was genuine enough, of course. In fact, that was just bloody typical. The Yanks were keen to have a Brit there and had apparently funded her travel and expenses. The Agency had been its usual opportunistic self, killing two birds with one bloody great transatlantic rock.
The aim had been to destabilize her, presumably. She’d spent the last two months in character, preparing in a controlled environment for the experience of going under-cover. They were giving her an identify, a legend, that would enable her to blend unobtrusively into the local business community, building on the reputation established by her predecessor in the area. Their key targets were themselves local businessmen, running criminal networks in the shadow of apparently legitimate commercial operations. The plan was for her to work in the same shadowy hinterland.