Dark Zone

23

Lia’s flight arrived in Baltimore at 7:00 a.m. Two NSA security types — unofficially known as “the men in black” because they habitually wore black suits — met her in the terminal and drove her to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Take away the security barriers and high-tech sensors and ignore the electronic surveillance doodads scattered around the campus, and Crypto City could be the home of GE or IBM. The big black buildings at the core of the complex looked like big black boxy buildings at the core of many corporate complexes. A huge parking lot surrounded the central buildings and looked no different from the lot around a suburban mall — though here it was a very bad idea to block the handicapped parking zone without authorization. The men in black were under orders to blow up suspicious vehicles.

Lia sat in the back of the car as the two security men drove her through the main gate. She didn’t bother acknowledging when they told her they’d take her bag inside for her. She merely got out and walked into the main building, eyes pinned to the ground.

She went to the medical area, even though she’d already heard the results of the tests she’d taken in Japan. She was OK — that was how the nurse put it. OK.

Right. OK.

“Take these pills. Here’s a shot.”

“What’s the shot for? And these pills?”

“You have to take them.”

“Why do I have to do anything?”

“You want to.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“I know it’s terrible.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Lia remembered the conversation now and felt embarrassed for getting angry. It wasn’t the woman’s fault. She was trying to be sympathetic.

So was the NSA doctor, a woman internist about Lia’s age. Lia said nothing, following directions mechanically, nodding or grunting in answer to the questions. Finally, exam and tests over, she went downstairs into the restricted area used by Deep Black, making her way to a small lounge the ops called the squad room that was used to debrief missions. A half-dozen upholstered chairs were set up in a circle. A small credenza for coffee, tea, and soft drinks sat on one side of the room; opposite it was a media center with a large flat-screen video panel on the wall. A rolling cart held laptops that interfaced with the dedicated Desk Three system as well as the rest of the NSA and government. There were also small digital video cameras for recording mission reports.

Lia took one of the laptops and sat down, deciding to check the news on the World Wide Web before starting her report. She surfed aimlessly for a few minutes, bringing up pages on the MSNBC Web site devoted to entertainment and then love and lifestyles. These were things she never looked at, and now she looked at them with an odd fascination, as if she had found an alternate universe.

“Ms. DeFrancesca, I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Startled, Lia nearly dropped the laptop. William Rubens was standing above her.

“I’m OK,” she said.

“I’m on my way up to my office. Can we talk later?”

Lia shrugged.

“Your report can wait a few days,” he added. “You might just take some days off now. Relax.”

Rubens had established the policy of “fresh reporting” following a mission and was ordinarily a stickler for following procedure. He was trying to be nice.

“It’ll only take me a minute,” she said, getting up for one of the recorders.

It took her over an hour, though the report itself ran less than three minutes, once recorded. She described how she’d gotten into the country, her contact, the minder, the officials, the airport. She mentioned the attack and the people who had been there in the barest number of words. She had to do it twice; without hearing or seeing her first version she decided it had been too emotional and erased it.

The second version was nearly identical, in word and tone.

Report finished, she hand-delivered it to the Desk Three operations personnel director, Kevin Montblanc, an NSA lifer who acted as the Deep Black den mother. Montblanc’s walrus mustache drooped at the corners of his face as he asked if she was all right. Despite her repeated protests that she was “fine, Kev, just fine,” he told her she should — she must—see a counselor.

“I must, huh?” she said finally, walking out of the office.

Rubens had just gotten off the phone with Montblanc when Lia showed up in his office.

“You’ve refused counseling,” he said as she sat down. “Why?”

“Because I don’t need it.”

“It’s customary.”

“Oh really? This happens a lot?”

“Ms. DeFrancesca. Lia.”

“Don’t start that crap with me.”

Lia had always been a prickly person to deal with. She was the only woman on the team — in fact, one of only two who had ever passed the qualifying course. She’d also proven herself in the field, but Rubens sometimes wondered if she was worth the trouble.

Not today. Today he felt sympathetic. He held his chin in his hand and considered what he should say next.

Besides LaBlanc, Rubens had spoken to the medical people upstairs as well as in Japan. The preliminary tests showed that she wasn’t pregnant and hadn’t been given any sexual diseases. Her right eye was swollen, and there were bruises on her legs and arms. But the physical injuries were minor, considering.

“I could order you to get counseling,” he said finally.

“You might as well order me to get a lobotomy.”

“How much time off do you want?”

“None.”

“None?”

“I was just on vacation. I want to work.”

“You should get some rest.”

“Screw rest,” she said.

Rubens got up from his desk and began pacing around his office. She was as cranky and feisty as ever. A good sign?

“You can send me. I’m OK,” she told him. “I know there’s a mission you need a woman agent for. Marie told me.”

“That can be done by anyone.”

“All the more reason not to worry, then,” said Lia. “I’ll get better makeup for my black eye.”

Maybe that would be the best thing for her, Rubens thought The mission itself was indeed straightforward. And Lia — Lia was Lia. She needed to be in action, to taste it.

But this wasn’t like getting up off a horse after you fell. If she were a man, would he send her out?

“Lia, for the record, let me state that I urge you to get care. You know we have plenty of people who can help,” he added.

“Help me do what?” She put her hands on her hips, face tilted forward — she could have been a gunfighter daring him to draw.

“I would feel better if you went to counseling.”

“Do we have another mission? Because I’m bored. I’m not sitting around knitting for a month until some dope of a doctor decides my inkblot test is normal.”

It was her right to be difficult, wasn’t it? Just as it was the General’s right to name his guardian and not live where his hated cousin lived.

“I should order you to see a psychologist,” Rubens told her stubbornly.

“You need me too much. Where am I going?”

“All right,” he said finally. “All right.”

He began telling her about Morocco.