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The first-class lounge consists of three families and five business people, judging from the open laptops. One man leans against the wall of a booth, Beats headphones covering his ears and his eyes closed. He’s slightly overweight and blends in.
Fisher scans the scene, then lets out a loud exhale. “Want anything from the bar?”
I shake my head in the negative. There’s no justifiable reason to drink at this point. We’re here on business.
He approaches the bar. Anyone would pinpoint him as a businessman, possibly on vacation. He’s wearing well-fitting black jeans, a sable crewneck sweater, and black monochromatic On running shoes. My guess is he’s dressed for his role, playing a part. The Fisher I remember leaned toward cargo shorts and button-down untucked shirts. My friends and I especially liked it when he’d wear a form-fitting Lycra shirt or tee. In addition to running shoes, he wore shoes that were more like hiking boots, but with treads similar to a running shoe. I didn’t understand that particular clothing choice until I entered the FBI and noticed former military personnel wear those shoes all the time.
Caramel highlights coat the ends of Fisher’s wavy chocolate strands. They fall half an inch above his thick, dark eyebrows and truly help to bring out what my friend Lauren used to dreamily refer to as sapphire eyes. The longer hair suits him. The crew cut he sported back in the day didn’t reveal the caramel. The thick beard is new. It gives him a rugged mountain man aesthetic. I’m on the fence if he’s more attractive with the beard or without it. Either way, he’s one gorgeous specimen.
It’s mind-blowing to me that of all the officers in the CIA, I’m working with Fisher. All those years he oversaw my family’s security, and it wasn’t until I received the project brief that I learned his surname is Damian.
Three years in the FBI, and not once did the urge to share confidential information with a friend hit. But I’d absolutely love to tell Lauren that not only am I working with Fisher, the guy she used to sneak photos of because, in her words, he qualified as an Adonis, a status reserved for very few men in this world, but Mr. Adonis is also going to be my pretend husband for a CIA mission. Every time I imagine telling her, I hear her squeal, which makes me smile like a loon.
“So, how’s your first week been?” He’s relaxed, lounging in the chair across from me, the long neck of a Michelob Ultra dangling between two fingers.
At any time, in any place, someone could be listening. The risks are ground into us. But at the same time, in an undercover role, you have to act natural. We pick names close to our own to minimize error risks, and our cover stories bear similarities to our own. He’s going to go by Damian, I’ll go by Sophia. Our last name is Garcia. My cover’s middle name is Hernandez, which is my target’s maiden name. It’s a potential conversation starter.
I scan the room.
“It’s okay. No one’s listening. Just be nondescript.” He says it like it’s no big deal, and of course, he’s right. We haven’t even met our targets yet. There’s no one who would be watching us.
“Last week was actually my second week.” Those deep blue irises, the sapphires Lauren once claimed were also the color of the Adriatic Sea, send me into a tailspin, which is nonsensical. I need to eject Lauren from my head. “Have you heard of gray mail?” I look quickly around, wondering if I’ve been too descriptive.
He chuckles. I suppose to any onlookers, we appear to be a normal couple hanging out, chatting while waiting for our flight to board.
“Fun times. Any good tales to share?”
In the last two weeks, I’ve read all kinds of letters. Most were absolutely insane. Suspicions of neighbors being Russian plants or working for the Chinese government to monitor Chinese citizens on U.S. soil, or truly nonsensical rantings. I try to recall a nondescript story.
“Aside from Bigfoot and UFO sightings?” He nods and takes a long swallow of his beer. “And lots of Chinese weather balloons…” I search my memory for the more fanatical claims, the ones that did not get passed on for review. “Elvis has a son and he’s living in Alaska as a militant working to overthrow the U.S. government.” I snap my fingers. “And Hillary really is operating a sex ring, but it’s in North Dakota in a building shaped like an unfinished pyramid.”
He holds his beer up in a salute. “Here’s to America.”
“Here’s to the field,” I counter, earning a slight grin. Fisher doesn’t really smile. Although, I have to say, he seems more relaxed now than he did back when he patrolled the yard around my dad’s house. Back then, when my girlfriends would come over to ogle the security men my dad hired, he would never engage. Others would wink or at least smile. But not Fisher. It was like we weren’t there or he was a guard in front of the Queen’s castle. In all likelihood, he found us to be irritatingly silly, because we were.
Of course, that’s entirely my dad’s fault. He could’ve hired men who resembled mall cops and they would’ve gone unnoticed. But no, he hired former elite military men from the security firm that rescued me.
I don’t want to think about that time in my life, so I ask, “What’s Sheila like?”
“Met her on the same day you did.”
Huh. The redheaded assistant outside of Bauer’s office had been nice. She must be new if Fisher just met her.
“I’ve been out of the country for years.” He leans forward, using a low voice.
That’s right. Fisher’s a legend within the CIA, as I learned when a colleague told me I could learn a lot from him. He must’ve been deep undercover if he didn’t make it home for years. I specifically asked Bauer if Fisher is my commanding officer, but he’s not. We’re partners in what I’ve been told should be an easy operation.
In the FBI, as an analyst, I studied the cartels. The Toro cartel is one we didn’t have a substantial amount of information on. Like many of the modern-day criminal organizations, they foster legitimate business enterprises, which makes it more difficult for authorities to catch them breaking the law.
My objective is to get our target’s phone number. The CIA can do a lot with a phone number. Potentially gain significant intelligence or understanding of operations. If she becomes a source, even seemingly innocuous information could be useful to building our understanding.
I’d been surprised to learn our target was Rafael Toro, as I’d thought he was an athlete.
I didn’t question the intel in our meeting, but at this table, when it’s just me and Fisher, I broach the subject.
“Wasn’t Rafael a superstar athlete?”
Fisher sets his beer down on the table and pulls the sleeves of his sweater up on his arms. He’s wearing a platinum Rolex on one wrist and a faded braided leather bracelet on the other. He rests his elbows on his thighs, and his forearm muscles flex when he picks his beer back up. Forearm candy is what Lauren would call it, and he’s packing enough candy to equal an insulin shot.
