Desert Dark (4 page)

“I should console her,” Noah continued.

“Seriously,” Jack said. “Don't mess with my team.”
What if it's true?
The idea of a threat to the school troubled him—Desert Mountain meant everything to Jack.

“Afraid she'll figure out I'm better than you?”

Jack smiled. “I'm concerned about team cohesion, not that she'll suddenly lose all sense of reality.”

Jack's grandfather had been a war hero, and he'd instilled in Jack an intense loyalty to the United States. As an extension, he felt intrinsically indebted to the Academy and, more specifically, the dean of students.

As if on cue, Dean Wolfe turned up the sidewalk from Hopi Hall. Jack straightened in his seat. He peered over the balcony, watching. Someone followed—a girl he didn't know.
We don't get a lot of visitors
.

“Why don't you ever go out?” Noah asked. “Girls call for you all the time.”

“I'm busy,” Jack said. Dean Wolfe escorted his guest toward the library. She rushed to keep up, leaning into the hill as she followed. A lock of hair slipped from her bun and fell along her face.

“What are you looking at?” Noah twisted around in his chair. “Who's she?”

“How should I know?”

Wolfe stopped in front of the library. He pointed toward the patio—toward Jack—and the girl looked up. Her full lips parted slightly as the loose curl blew across her cheek.

“Wow,” said Noah. “Not bad, huh?”

Jack's breath quickened. He leaned back in his seat so his face was out of sight.

No. Not bad at all
.

Nadia followed Dean Wolfe up the sidewalk to the library. He pointed to the stone fortress at the top of the hill. “The Navajo Building houses the dining hall and the student lounge.” On the upper patio, students gathered at tables, books and papers spread around them. A rush of anxiety washed over her. She was glad for the uniforms. Maybe she could fake fitting in. He gestured toward a shaded path lined with olive trees. “And the psychiatrist's office is through here.”

Nadia hesitated.

“It's standard procedure.”

“Okay. I, uh—why?”

“He's the school counselor.”

“I see.”
So why didn't you say, it's time to meet the counselor?

Across the lawn Nadia's recruiter, Marcus Sloan, stepped from the side door of a Japanese-style building and glanced around. When he saw Nadia and the Dean, he stopped.

Wolfe narrowed his eyes as they settled on Sloan. “He's got some nerve,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry?”

“Wait here,” he said. “Marcus!” Dean Wolfe marched toward him. Nadia barely caught his next words. “She's here; are you happy?”

Is he talking about me?
She tried to watch the interaction without looking directly at them. She could no longer hear the words, but it was clear they were arguing. Dean Wolfe pointed at Mr. Sloan in quick, decisive movements. Sloan stood with his arms crossed, a small smile on his lips. Nadia waited in the crushing heat, nervous about their argument, nervous about meeting the shrink.

When the Dean returned, she asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine.” His tone was sharper now. “Dr. Cameron is expecting you. Through here.” He showed her to a small waiting room. “He'll be out in a minute. If you have questions, stop by my office.” He left before she could answer.

Nadia had never visited a psychiatrist.
He's a guidance counselor. It's no big deal
. She paced back and forth across the terra-cotta tile.

Dr. Cameron's door opened and he invited her in. His stark office, devoid of personal effects, was nothing like she'd anticipated. The naked concrete floor and bare walls gave the feel of an interrogation room. She sat in the only chair available, a folding chair with a metal frame and built-in seat cushion. Nice as far as folding chairs go, but she'd expected a couch. Dr. Cameron pulled his seat from behind the desk.

“Nadia, I want you to know I'm here for you. If you ever need to talk, please don't hesitate to come by.”

“Thank you.”

“I like to get to know each of our students personally. I hope that, in time, you'll come to consider me your confidant.”

“Okay.” Nadia rubbed her arms. The AC vent directly above shot a constant stream of cold air across her back.

“As part of your orientation, I have a few questions to ask. Have you ever been approached by anyone claiming to represent the US government?”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“Please answer the question.”

“No, I haven't.”

“Do you work for an agency not associated with the United States?”

Nadia laughed. “Is this a joke?”

Dr. Cameron smiled. “It is not.”

She stopped smiling. His pleasant expression didn't waver. “Okay. No. I don't have a job. I mean, I worked at Mr. Softee's Frozen Yogurt Shack one summer, but I got paid cash, like under the table, so . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Should I have admitted that?
“I mean, I don't think I made enough money that I would've been taxed, even if I had received a proper check—it's not like I was deliberately engaged in tax-evasion. I'm not even sure that counts.”
Stop talking
.

She shifted her weight. Crossed her legs, uncrossed them. Crossed the other way. She considered moving her chair from the arctic zone, but if she moved toward him he would think her too forward—aggressive. If she moved back, he'd think she was subconsciously trying to escape. She'd watched enough television to know that with a psychiatrist, a cigar is never a cigar.

“Are you nervous?” Dr. Cameron asked.

“A little.”

“Most people are their first time in. Try to relax; I'm not here to judge you. Consider this a getting-to-know-you visit. Please fill this out for me.” Dr. Cameron handed her a booklet and a clipboard. “Be as honest as you can. If you're unsure about something, take a guess.”

Nadia opened the book and read the first few questions.
Do you hear voices? Are people out to get you? Have you ever been abducted by aliens?
She filled in the circles and turned the page.
Please finish these sentences: I love my father, but ___; God is ___; I wish my country were ___
. Nadia glanced at Dr. Cameron before scratching out her answers.

Twenty fill-in-the-blanks later, Dr. Cameron said, “Okay, I'm going to administer a polygraph.”

“A lie detector? Why?” Freezing now, she rubbed her thighs to warm her hands. She'd be shivering even if his thermostat wasn't set at forty. Nerves made her cold.

“Don't worry; my questions are general. Nothing too personal or embarrassing.” His voice was friendly, encouraging.

For the next hour, he pelted her with questions:
Have you ever used illicit drugs? Do you believe that an inefficient national leader should be removed from office, using whatever force necessary? Have you ever been photographed in a compromising situation?
For the first twenty minutes, Nadia considered each response: what her answers might reveal, what private information Dr. Cameron could ascertain. Eventually, mentally exhausted, she gave up, answering from her gut:
no, yes, I don't know
.

Finally, he powered down the machine and asked, “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“That's your idea of ‘nothing too personal'?”

Dr. Cameron smiled. “Now, there are a few things we need to discuss. First of all, if you ever have comments or concerns about your fellow students, I ask that you bring them to my attention immediately. Secondly, what I'm about to tell you isn't meant to frighten or threaten. I'm merely informing you of the rules. All right?”

Nadia nodded, rubbing her arm where the blood pressure cuff had been.

“We have carefully prepared a program of study designed to fast-track the best and brightest our nation has to offer. As such, at Desert Mountain we take security very seriously. Our specialized curriculum is geared toward a career in intelligence. Do you understand what that means?”

“I'm not sure.”

“We are the preliminary training school for a very specific branch of the Central Intelligence Agency. If you graduate, you will be invited to join.”

“I'm sorry . . . I'll be invited to join the CIA?”

“A branch of the CIA. Our program stresses both mental and physical development because we train recruits for one purpose: to serve in the CIA's Black-Ops Division. The division is off-books; it's not subject to Congressional oversight. This gives us the freedom
to perform vital, high-risk missions with complete anonymity—it is absolutely the most critical arm of our nation's intelligence force. However, everyone who works Black-Ops—field agents, communications specialists, tech staff, medics—must be in top physical form. Any one of these assets may, at a moment's notice, be forced to evacuate their location, assist with a high-target extraction or fight for their lives and the lives of their fellow officers.”

Nadia nodded along. “You're telling me I've been recruited as a spy?”

“Don't get ahead of yourself: you've been recruited as a trainee. As I was saying, your workouts may feel excessive, but the instruction we provide serves a purpose. Your physical reactions will become so ingrained in your muscle memory that you will react to a threat before your conscious mind realizes you're in danger.”

Nadia smiled involuntarily. “No kidding?”
The CIA!

Dr. Cameron smiled back. “No kidding. Whether or not you remain in this field is entirely your decision, but in the meantime, we do have specific protocol. You are not to discuss the curriculum with anyone outside of our community. Not your parents, not your friends, not the waiter at your favorite restaurant. If you do, the Patriot Act enables the government to take you into custody. You will be held as a suspected terrorist indefinitely and without formal charges.”

“No problem,” she said.
This is so cool. I'm gonna be a spy!

“I'm sorry to put this on you all at once. We prefer to familiarize the juniors with our program slowly, but as a transfer student you don't have that luxury.”

“I understand.” Nadia tried to suppress her smile.
Grinning like a lunatic at the psychiatrist might not be the best way to start my career
.

He handed her a sealed plastic bag. “Please use the swab on your inner cheek. I also need a tiny sample of your hair. A half-inch from the end will do nicely.”

Nadia swiped her gum line and placed the swab in the included vial. Dr. Cameron helped her with the fingerprint kit, then gave her a wet-wipe to clean her hands.

“There is one other thing I need to tell you about.” Dr. Cameron hesitated. “The recruiter may have downplayed what you've missed.”

Nadia shook her head. “I don't follow.”

“Your cohorts arrived in June. While it's true classes have just formally begun, our new recruits trained all summer. In addition to extensive physical instruction, they were required to complete an exhaustive list of prerequisite reading. As a result, they've started with a strong background in the coursework. Mr. Sloan wouldn't have chosen you if he felt this was a problem, so rest assured, you can catch up. But it will be challenging. Do you have any questions?”

Nadia took a deep breath. “I wouldn't know where to begin.”

Dr. Cameron smiled. “I'll send my report to the Dean and, unless you hear otherwise, you have nothing to worry about. You can wait outside. Ms. McGill will be along momentarily.”

Nadia stepped out of his office.
So I'm a little behind. Who cares?

Ms. McGill led her across campus to the girls' dorm, an adobe-style building surrounded by soft desert grasses. She introduced Nadia to the woman at the front desk. “Your dormitory assistant, Casey Tarlian.”

Casey's red hair surrounded her face in a mass of coils. She wore a peasant blouse and a pair of faded jeans. She came out from behind the desk, teetering on lime-green platform shoes.

“Glad you made it,” Casey said. Her translucent skin reminded Nadia of a butterfly. “I'm sure your roommate is anxious to meet you.”

I know exactly how she feels
.

An excruciating five hours later, Libby's new roommate finally appeared. Nadia arrived before her luggage—not that Libby would've gone through her things. She respected other people's privacy and expected the same courtesy. Casey showed Nadia to their room, then returned to her post as Libby stood to make her own introduction.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Nadia.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Libby was a tad disappointed about Nadia's size—she was no bigger than a minute. She'd been hoping for a roommate with whom she could swap clothes. Drew had been heavier than Libby. Not that it mattered, because their tastes were so different. Libby would never have worn baggy pants and shapeless sweatshirts. The appearance one presented to the world could be considered a direct reflection of one's internal state, and Libby took great care putting forward an image of grace, competence and beauty. Even when she didn't feel that way.

Nadia was cute, though, in an athletic, outdoorsy sort of way. Her wide mouth provided a generous smile. She wasn't wearing makeup. She looked pretty enough without it, but she might do with a dash of color. Her lashes were dark and long so she didn't need mascara, but a sweep of eyeliner would do wonders.
And everyone ought to wear a little concealer
.

“Am I completely invading your space?” Nadia asked.

“Not at all! I'm so glad you're finally here. Most of the kids are nice enough, but everyone tends to hang out with their own team, and after Drew died—God rest her soul—it's like I'm a pariah. No one knows what to say to me.”