We are getting married at the airport for some reason. Everyone I know is there. Grandpa has come back from the dead. Weird. Father has finally come back from work. Ralph and his wife are also there. Why the hell did I invite them? Even Marjorie, Joe Welch, and Alan Raskin are attending my wedding for some reason.
Bethany belts out a ballad as I walk down the aisle while planes roar above us and waves crash against the sandy shore. This airport also happens to be on the beach. Don't ask me why. I've stopped trying to make sense of things anymore. Aaron is waiting at the end, resplendent in a white tuxedo with black accents. It is the happiest day of my life.
"Do you, Aaron Francis Waller, take this woman, Elizabeth Helen Heaton, to be your lawfully wedded wife, till death do you part?" the priest intones. His middle name is Francis?
"I do," comes Aaron's reply.
"Do you, Elizabeth Helen Heaton, take this man, Aaron Francis Waller, to be your lawfully wedded husband..."
"I do." I'm so eager I interrupt the priest before he's done.
"By the power vested in me by the Holy Catholic Church, I now proclaim you man and wife. You may now impregnate the bride." What The Fuck? And why are we even having a Catholic wedding?
I fly into my husband's arms, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him like I wanna suck his guts out. He cups my head with one hand, grabs my butt with the other, and gives as good as he gets. Everything else vanishes. There's only Aaron and me. I never want this kiss to end.
He lifts my white dress, rips off my panties, hoists me up by the waist, and impales me on his stiff member right there in front of everybody I know. I let out a thunderous fart at the exact moment of penetration. It's so powerful that it shakes the ground. A green cloud comes out of my ass and starts spreading. Grandpa coughs blood then everyone starts coughing blood. Planes start crashing as the cloud rises and engulfs everything.
"Why?" Aaron mumbles as he pulls out of me and staggers back, bloody tears covering his cheeks. He stumbles right into an aircraft engine which makes a shrill ringing sound as it shreds him into pulp.
I let out a piercing scream and wake up in a cold sweat. It's just a dream! It's just a dream! It's just a dream, I console myself.
The shrill ringing sound is coming from my alarm clock. I turn it off, my heart still racing. I try climbing off the bed but my feet are unresponsive. There is a slight tremor in my left thigh, my stomach is frozen solid, and I am shivering even though the room is quite warm.
I was having the same dream for the third time in as many months. I never have any vivid dreams. I never even remember my dreams. I forget them as soon as I wake up and the more I try to remember the details the more I forget. Yet this one manages to stick in my head every single time. I could paint every ridiculous detail of it.
I first had this dream two months ago. During my performance review, Aaron had asked me why I majored in accounting. I told him I wanted to be an artist but my grandfather suggested I should major in something that could actually pay the bills.
He had made a throaty sound that was a cross between a chuckle and "Mmmh" but his lips never moved. His face had softened ever so slightly and he looked amused. Aaron never smiles. At least I have never seen him smiling or expressing any strong emotion for that matter. His face is always a granite mask, still and emotionless.
"Is your art any good?" he had asked.
"Probably not. But I've sold a few pieces." He made the throaty sound again. And the bemused look. I stored that in my mind and kept refreshing it as I went through my day. I had dreamt of him that night.
The second time was some two weeks ago. He was headed somewhere one evening and his bowtie was a little askew. I could just have told him to straighten it but I had never really had a good excuse to touch him so I decided to do the straightening myself. "Thank you," he murmured, his face softening as he held my gaze for a long moment.
My chest had physically hurt as I nodded and turned away from him. I didn't want to walk away. I wanted to embrace him and run my hands up his cheeks, feeling the bristles of his five o'clock shadow. I wanted him to snuggle next to me on a couch with his head against my breasts so I could gently massage his scalp while he tells me why he always had so much sadness in his eyes.
All these thoughts had made my eyes water but I blinked those tears away. I bought a body pillow on my way home and Aaron had haunted my dreams that night. But why did I dream of him tonight? Nothing happened yesterday.
Oh yes. It's February 13. Exactly four years since I broke up with Ralph. He married the girl he was cheating on me with and I still think of what we could have been if he hadn't done that whenever I feel lonely. The looming thought of spending another Valentine's Day alone tomorrow just intensifies the dread.
I have spent most of the last five months obsessing over my new boss instead of Ralph for a change so I suppose that is progress. But is it? Aaron is a lot like Ralph. There isn't much physical resemblance. Aaron is two inches taller, more handsome, two skin tones darker, and his hair is jet black instead of blonde but the similarities in their mannerisms are striking now that I think about it.
They both have the same piercing dark gaze, resting stoneface, expressionless faces, walking style, fashion sense, and toneless voices. Ralph used to speak in the same flat intonation that betrayed no emotion. In that regard, Aaron is the same. He announces bonuses and fires people using the same tone of voice. He's emotionally more robot than man. I've fallen for Ralph 2.0.
The tremors in my limbs stop and I dismiss all thoughts of Ralph as I climb out of bed. I decide to go for a run. I was trained to maintain a certain level of physical fitness at the academy but my discipline has been lapsing since I moved to Houston. I haven't gone for a run in nearly two weeks.
A few laps around the neighborhood clear my head but Aaron comes back to mind as soon I get into the shower. I start touching myself but the dream comes back to mind and my mood is instantly ruined.
I wolf down a boiled egg, an apple, and a glass of milk then drive to work. I check the specials at Ziggy's Deli out of habit. I used to long for meetings with Marjorie over the state of the operation but not anymore. She caught the spy but I still have to submit daily reports to help her know if my cover is intact. I could get used to this. There are times when I forget that I'm actually a spy on an undercover mission instead of an ordinary office worker.
I get to my desk at 7.20 am. Aaron is already in his office. I can see the light under his door. I had spent the first week of his reign at Strauss trying to arrive earlier than him. An undercover operative needs to be a model employee. You can't afford to get fired.
I had to give up after Marjorie told me Aaron in fact lived in the building. He had bought the Delphi Tower, evicted all the other tenants, moved in the staffers who had followed him from Palo Alto, and taken up residence in the penthouse.
I settle down to review the latest budget estimates from the marketing department. Aaron wants me to reduce it by a quarter. Bethany comes in at eight. We exchange some light gossip before the phone rings and jolts us back into work mode.
At around 10, a young man wanders in. He has tried to look his best but he still has a few miles to go. Off the rack black suit, cheap shoes, shiny pink satin tie with a matching pocket square. He looks lost. Probably an intern or a new hire who had never worn a suit before today. "Can I help you?" It's Bethany, ever sweet. I would have ignored him until he wandered away.
"I'm looking for Elizabeth Heaton," he replies. That makes me look up. What does this one want from me?
"Who are you?" my tone is guarded.
"My name is Dwayne… Dwayne Matthews. Are you Elizabeth Heaton?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I was sent here by HR. I'm supposed to replace you."
What? "Replace me? Did I get fired?"
"No… no… Ms. Anne said you're going on vacation. I'm supposed to stand in for you. For three weeks."
Vacation. Vacation. Vacation. I remember a conversation with Anne from HR about a month ago. We had run into each other in the Texas City factory. Aaron had sent me to fetch a prototype they were building for him and Anne was… well… I don't remember what she was doing there.
We had spent some time in the control room with Sam and Sam where Anne had blabbed on at length about everything and nothing. The conversation had somehow shifted to vacations and Anne had asked when I liked to take my vacation. The foreman had chosen that moment to inform me that the prototype was ready.
Eager to get out of there, I had said the earliest possible date was fine with me. I can't go back to Anne and ask her to reschedule my vacation days. She'll know I don't enjoy her company and I'd rather keep that bit of information to myself.
"Oh. I had forgotten about that. Come in. Bethany will show you the ropes," I say with an exaggerated smile as I ponder my next move. My contract with Strauss Industries entitles me to three weeks of paid vacation after at least 11 months of employment. I had just never thought too much about it.
Maybe Aaron can help. I knock twice on his door. The knob turns by itself and the door swings open. He rigged up some system that allows him to open the door from his desk. The knob also gives a nasty electric shock if you try to turn in when Aaron isn't around. Bethany had learned that the hard way.
He's talking on the phone and holds up a finger as I walk in. He's speaking in a foreign language. It sounds like Russian but I can't be sure. His dossier mentioned he was fluent in three languages but Russian wasn't on the list. The dossier mentioned English, French, and Spanish. There's obviously a fourth one the agency missed.
Aaron is an enigma. His dossier was rather sparse for a man running an organization that employs over 50,000 people. But the information isn't out there either. A google search of Aaron Waller only turns out a string of unrelated namesakes. It's like he doesn't exist.
Aaron ends his conversation, puts the phone down, and looks at me, prompting me to speak. "Mr. Waller, I want to reschedule my vacation days," I start.
"HR schedules everyone's vacation days. They spread them evenly throughout the year. I don't want a situation where everyone is on leave at the same time."
"I can keep working and take my vacation next year." I'm losing this negotiation.
"Your work is outstanding but you've been distracted the last few weeks. You need a vacation. Go relax, oversleep, paint your watercolors, and visit your relatives. Dwayne Matthews will do just fine."
"You know him?"
"Can't say I do. HR sent me a list of possible replacements while you were gone. He was the best candidate."
I have nothing left to say so I just stand there, tongue-tied, looking at the floor, then the ceiling.
"It's paid vacation. Go and come back refreshed in three weeks. You can stay until noon and take the rest of the day off." After that final statement, Aaron dismisses me with a nod and points at the door.
Bethany is showing Dwayne something on her computer. I give them a polite nod and make straight for Ziggy's Deli. Weirdly, I've never actually set foot inside the place despite its role as my primary point of communication while on assignment.
I notice the security camera above the entrance as I walk in. Too late. Your instincts are growing dull Elizabeth. I should have seen that camera long before I ever made it into its field of view. Anyway, I'm not doing anything questionable so I keep walking.
There's only a handful of customers inside but I suppose that's to be expected at 10 am. I notice more cameras. On all the corners, and above the counter. Nobody seems to be watching me but I'd wager the agency's man at the place was in some dark back room, watching the CCTV feed. Or maybe they're monitoring me from Langley.
I make it to the counter and order a tuna sandwich to go.
"Would you like a drink with your order?" the server is cheerful. Maybe she's the agency's resident operative? Probably not. Too much visibility. They wouldn't want me to know who their man here is just in case I get made.
"No," I respond firmly, tip her, take my order and leave.
The sandwich is unbelievably terrible. After one bite, I want my money back. I suppose that's why they chose it. It's so bad that I would never willingly order it. I'm distracted by these thoughts when my cellphone vibrates. Unknown number. I pick up.
"Hello Miz Heaton, Maggie here from Flair by Jenna. I'm calling to remind you of your appointment today. You still ok with 5.30? We can move it up to two if you like." It's Marjorie's voice. With a Redneck accent.
"Two pm sounds fantastic," I answer.
"You still have our address I hope?"
"I'm sure I have it somewhere. Let me check." I've never heard of Flair by Jenna until a minute ago but we have to play along just in case someone is listening.
"34 Coral Street, opposite Pecan Park," Marjorie replies.
"Alright, Marj… Maggie." Fuck! Why did she have to pick a cover name so close to her own? "I'll see you at two."
"Good day to you Miz Heaton." Marjorie is as cool as ice.
"You too Maggie," I manage to get that out as calmly as I can before hanging up.
I find Flair by Jenna easily enough. It's in a strip mall, flanked by a massage parlor on one side, a strip club on the other, and an elementary school a couple of hundred feet down the road. That's zoning in Houston for you.
Marjorie is almost unrecognizable. The tight bun is gone. Her graying hair is dyed strawberry blonde with a bright purple streak running down the middle. That's coupled with large red hoop earrings, a nose ring, and about a gallon of makeup.
The first time I saw her she looked 50 something. Right now she could pass for a very edgy 29-year-old. I start feeling like a very insecure 26-year-old. You'll be 27 in a month, a voice in my head says. That doesn't help.
"Miz Heaton!" Marjorie is awfully cheerful. She hugs me like an old friend and I'm dazed for a moment but decide to play along for the benefit of the audience. She leads me to a private cubicle and turns on a very loud fan as soon as I'm seated.
The accent disappears immediately. "What's so urgent?" she asks as she tilts my head back and starts washing my hair. She's not too bad.
"My boss is insisting that I use my paid vacation days."
"Oh. We should have planned for that. We need to ensure your cover remains uncompromised before we extract you. Are you getting along with him?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Bosses usually force you to take a vacation when they either want you to rest or when they're tired of seeing you. I just wanted to confirm that it was the former."
"Oh. I don't think he's mad at me. But it's hard to know with him. I haven't given him any reasons to hate me." Except for the fart. Does he still hold that against me? I wasn't expecting company.
She finishes washing my hair and pops my head into the drier. "You will take the vacation. And we also need you to create a new art collection. The year is up and the last batch has sold out."
That jolts me. "What's the matter?" Marjorie asks.
"Nothing," I lie.
I painted a few landscapes in the early days of my assignment at Strauss but never quite got around to completing them. The paintings I have made over the last few months are far too personal to be seen by anyone. Aaron makes a surprising appearance in many… well… all of them. I want to keep that obsession to myself.
"How many pieces do you need?" I ask as she pulls my hair out of the dryer and starts trimming the edges.
"Same as last time."
Jesus! There goes my vacation. I had given them 30 paintings the last time and that was practically my entire portfolio. I have maybe two completed paintings that I would allow anyone else to see.
"You'll have to give me until next month. I haven't been very diligent with brush strokes."
"Just get it done by the 1st. Oliver Trenton is a prickly bastard and we don't really have the time to find a new art gallery." Marjorie sounds a little annoyed.
"The work doesn't need to be great. Why don't you try some of that abstract art crap? Draw a black line or throw random colors on canvas, call it Chaos, Emotion, or some other pretentious name like that, and boom! You can produce 100 overpriced paintings a day. That's what everyone who uses this particular scam does.
Some jackass paid 500 grand for an all-white painting last week. 500 grand for white paint on gray canvas!" Marjorie now sounds like she wants to shoot up a mall.
While I don't share her visceral hate of abstract art, I do find many pieces rather pretentious. Some are pretty good but I've never had the talent to make good abstract art myself.
I want to explain to her that my artistic integrity would never allow me to just spray random shades of paint on canvas and call it art but I doubt she'd listen. But do you even have any artistic integrity Elizabeth? The CIA is your biggest customer. Your only customer.
Oliver Trenton mails me a check every month or so whenever a painting of mine sells. I know where the money originates from but I don't think he does. Or maybe he does.
I used to have dreams of becoming an artist but I've gotten quite disillusioned since finding out that half the transactions in the art market are made by rich fucks evading taxes and engaging in dick-measuring contests. The other half is made by criminals and spies laundering money. The fraction of genuine transactions is probably less than 10%. But I still refuse to make abstract art. I've seen some good pieces but I just don't get it. I'll paint landscapes and portraits till the day I die.
"I'll be done by the first. Don't worry."
"You have a lot of split ends," Marjorie says in response. I don't know how to reply to that so I just keep quiet. The rest of the session passes in silence until my cellphone vibrates. It's a call from Stewart.
We talk for a while. "Who's that?" Marjorie asks as soon as I hang up.
"Stewart."
"Why have I not read of him in your reports?"
"I didn't meet him at work. He's not relevant."
"You're in no position to make such determinations. Everyone you interact with on assignment is relevant. There are many ways to compromise an agent. How long have you been romantically entangled with this Stewart?"
" We don't have a romantic relationship. He's just a friend."
"Then why on earth are you going to dinner with him on Valentine's Day?"
"You heard that?"
"My ears are pretty sharp. And your cellphone speaker is too loud. You should lower your call volume. You didn't answer my question."
"I had no plans and he wanted to hang out." Marjorie snorts derisively at this response. I can't fault her. I've been doing an awful lot of socializing with Stewart. He's decent company and if I'm being honest some part of me enjoys the attention he lavishes on me. But I can't tell Marjorie that so I go on the defensive.
"Stewart is gay. There is no romantic angle to our friendship," I blurt out. Technically he's bisexual and Marjorie will find out soon enough but I can always feign ignorance. The last part is true though. Stewart has made no romantic advances. I've caught him stealing a glance or two but that's thrilling in its own way after a whole day of getting ignored by Aaron.
"Agents can't form friendships with civilians, Elizabeth. Don't they teach you that at The Farm anymore?"
"I haven't compromised my cover. We just hang out."
"It doesn't matter. You shouldn't get too attached to people while on assignments. I know it's human to want to belong to a social group but you gave that up the day you joined the agency. Entanglements create nothing but heartache once the assignment is over and you have to leave. Never get attached." Marjorie's voice takes on a melancholic tone as she says this.
"What's this man's full name?"
"Stewart Hill. He's a psychiatrist at St. Mark's. I work with his cousin Bethany."
"That's Bethany Hill?"
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ Elizabeth! What have you told this person?" Marjorie grabs my hair as she says this and I know I've fucked up. Big time.
"Nothing. I stuck to my cover story. Is Stewart a honeytrap?"
"Of course he is. Bethany Hill was sent to get close to you. Obviously, she failed. They wouldn't send in the big guns otherwise."
"Bethany has been spying on me and you didn't bother to inform me?"
"Once you know someone isn't who they say they are, your behavior around them changes. We figured it would be best if you were unaware of Bethany's real objective at Strauss. As long as you were ignorant you'd act normally and maintain your cover. Yet you've gotten so chummy with this Stewart fellow that you've been leaving him out of your reports. How did you meet him?"
I relay the story of how I met Stewart. Flipping him off in traffic just outside the office, meeting at the Dominos parking lot, getting invited to his birthday party by Bethany. The burglar I found climbing out of my window when I got home.
"And you didn't think it was suspicious that some random dude you flipped off in traffic was your co-worker's cousin?"
"It felt like a beautiful coincidence."
"There are no coincidences in this business, Elizabeth."
Suddenly, I feel very stupid. The whole meet-cute thing was evidently engineered with masterful precision and I fell right for it. The route from his home to St. Marks doesn't pass anywhere near the Delphi Tower. Was he waiting for me? Stewart's whole gay-for-now-but-could-turn-straight-for-you persona fed right into my ego. We were taught such manipulation tactics at Camp Peary and I was still too blind to see them when they were used on me.
"We're going up against some very sophisticated operators, Elizabeth. We can't watch you. The slightest whiff of our presence and your cover will be blown. That's why you need to include EVERY INTERACTION in your daily reports. It's the only way we can keep tabs on you without compromising the operation. We may have caught our man but the Chinese got jittery. You're still under suspicion."
"Does that mean my cover is blown?" I'm starting to feel genuine fear. And I also want to butcher Stewart with an ax and paint my walls with his blood.
"Probably not. If you were compromised, we would know."
"Why can't you just arrest Stewart and Bethany?"
"Because your cover will certainly be compromised if we do that. They'll know we arrested them because they discovered something about you. You talked to him about your childhood?"
"Yes."
"Any lies that would come to bite you back in the ass?"
"No. I didn't lie about that."
"You were at The Farm 18 months after college. I'm pretty sure he was very interested in that period."
"I told him I was interning at the Department of the Treasury then took a job there for a year like you all told me to say."
"Yes. We falsified payroll records and all that but he would have wanted details. Specific details about coworkers, bosses, and office events. Did you get any names mixed up?" Jesus, that weasel really was interrogating me about my background and I never even figured it out. "Who was the funniest person at your first job after college?" Fuck you, Stewart.
"No. I memorized everything from the file you gave me. I didn't compromise myself one bit."
"Well, we shall find out," Marjorie sounds very ominous.
"I didn't..." I try to protest.
Marjorie cuts me off, "You spent a lot of time with this man and apparently trusted him enough to let your guard down. It's very easy to make a mistake. Your dinner tomorrow, go."
"Shouldn't I cut him off?"
"No. Then he'll definitely know you've discovered his motives. And how could you possibly do that if you're no spy?" I have no response to this.
"He has extracted all the information he was sent to collect so one of two things will happen tomorrow: if he tells you he's moving away or can't see you again because of a jealous lover, then you're in the clear. He's found no smoking gun and needs to move on without you ever knowing what he was up to.
If he asks you to take the relationship to the next level, however… well… he's found a thread that he intends to keep pulling on until you unravel. The intimacy just makes it easier for you to open up."
"You're not seriously asking me to say yes to him, are you?"
"You would have said yes if you didn't know what he was."
"No. I wouldn't have."
"You would. The guy has already built up emotional intimacy with you. Moving up from there isn't difficult."
"I'm not attracted to him," I protest but it sounds hollow.
"Probably not. But he's not asking you to marry him. You have a crush on a man you can't have and this Stewart fellow sounds like your substitute for that. Isn't that why you spend so much time with him? He's your pretend Aaron."
What the fuck Marjorie! "What?"
"Are you denying that you have a crush on your boss and your relationship with this Stewart is a substitute for that?"
"Uh."
"I read your reports, you know. You never come out and say it outright but you seem very obsessed with everything he does. What he wears, which is the same thing every day, how he sounds and smells like. Even what he has for lunch. You were never this diligent with Karen Strauss-Klein. And you called her Karen Strauss-Klein in your reports. This one you just call Aaron. Every time you have a three-second conversation you use 500 words to describe it. It isn't too hard to read between the lines."
I'm speechless. Marjorie is so right that I have no way to counter her. The onslaught continues, "You're doomed to disappointment. If the rumor is to be believed, he cut his own balls off to focus on achieving eternal life."
"What?" Why am I hearing this just now?
"It's a rumor based on a joke his brother made years ago. The truthfulness of it hasn't been ascertained. But he is obsessed with living forever. He funds a lot of life extension experiments."
"Yes. I know that. But why would anyone geld himself?"
"There are many reasons. A predisposition to enjoying pain for instance."
"So he's a masochist?"
"No. His personal heroes, Newton and Nikola Tesla, were celibate. Some believe the elimination of sexual desire frees men up to focus on higher pursuits. Waller's personal views on the matter are unknown but if he did indeed cut his own balls off that would be the reason. Whether the rumor is true or not, he has shown zero interest in romantic pursuits for the past decade."
"How do you know so much about him? He's so secretive."
"The IRS keeps a close eye on his activities. His accountants are prone to bouts of creativity that aren't often appreciated by our hard-working tax collectors. And Langley maintains files on everyone with enough money to buy a small country. You would be surprised by the shit some of these one-percenters pull. He's more docile than the rest but twice as crazy.
You're better off getting yourself a fling and forgetting about him. If you weren't so busy making googly eyes at him, perhaps you would have noticed Stewart worming his way into your confidence." That stings. Harsh but true.
She continues, "Whatever happens with Stewart tomorrow, act sad. If he dumps you, act sad. If he asks to escalate things, reject him gently, act sad, and string him along."
Marjorie is done with my hair. It looks slightly better than it did when I came in. "That will be 250 dollars. Pay at the counter," She adds by way of dismissal.
I look at her with incredulity. $250 for shampoo, conditioner, and a haircut? "Two..."
Marjorie cuts off my little protest, "I'll put it on your expense report. The agency will reimburse you." Taxpayer dollars at work.