2003

A barely covered veil of excitement shrouded Alain Young as she walked through the Manhattan FBI headquarters glass doors. Dressed in a smart, black skirt suit, with her long auburn hair pulled back in an impeccable ponytail, she walked with confident steps through the lobby of the building, heading toward the row of elevators at the back of the spacious room. Other agents milled around, chatting about their latest endeavors, but she ignored them as she passed. The only subject on her mind was the new assignment she was expecting to receive that day.

Strolling into an empty elevator, she pushed the button for the fifth floor (Criminal Investigations Department) and waited. No one else paid any attention to elevator as the doors slid shut. Two years had passed since she had been employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigations, two long years filled with small, docile assignments that provided no opportunity for advancement. Since she was a young child, she had wanted to work fighting crime, defending the innocent and locking away the criminals; her father, the only person she looked up to, was a Colonel for the Air Force and had told her stories about honor and loyalty, about justice and the ‘good’ side, and she wanted to follow in his footsteps without joining the military. Immediately after high school, she joined the police academy, and was one of the top pupils in her class. After an unfortunate accident with fingerprint powder left her in the hospital (she was severely allergic to the dusting powder), she was forced to reevaluate her job options. One of her commanders in the academy had spoken to her about the Bureau and without much thought she was convinced the FBI was right for her; she enrolled in college that next semester. She graduated four years later with a Bachelors degree in Criminal Investigations and Forensics and immediately applied to the Bureau. Her ranking officer in the academy put in a good word for her and she was hired straight out of college.

For the first several months, she was a peon worker, stuck with hours of paper work and no field work. As she approached one year of employment, her supervising agent took pity on her and started giving her smalltime assignments, simple trailing and reconnaissance jobs that gave her experience but no chance of movement in the company.

And now, after almost two years, her supervising agent, Agent Scott Vargo, had mentioned a new assignment to her, one that would propel her career forward if she met the deadline and completed the assignment to the best of her ability. His answers to her questions about the assignment had been vague, leading her to believe that the job was fairly dangerous and maybe something she would have to be cautious with. It was her dream, the one goal she had been working toward for as long as she could remember, and it would soon be hers.

The elevator stopped with a jolt on the fifth floor. The fifth floor was nothing but row after row of cubicles, with two offices at the back of the room. She walked through the rows of cubicles, heading toward the far left wall, until she came to a small cubicle that was immaculate; dust free, everything straightened and in its right place, with very little personal artifacts. The neat desk was hers. Alain automatically set her leather satchel under the desk and grabbed her plain chair, rolling it around to sit in it, and gasped; lounging in the chair was the fifth floor memo cat.

“Zell!” Alain’s shocked expression softened and she ruffled the scruffy blond fur between the cat’s ears. “Got a message for me?” Post-it notes of all different colors, with random messages, were stuck on the cat. He walked the fifth floor, accepting and delivering the notes with amazing accuracy. Break room gossip said the cat was once human, a horrible genetic experiment gone wrong, and was given to the FBI by the government to keep word from getting out to the public about the experiment. Alain didn’t know what she thought about that, but she certainly didn’t believe it.

“Mrow,” the cat mewed at her, and licked a note on its forearm. She picked up the plain yellow Post-it with familiar block lettering, and a small amount of cat saliva, and read the short memo, not noticing the cat darting away to deliver other messages.

Young, it read, come to my office as soon as you get in. It was signed --Vargo.

Vargo probably wanted to meet with her about the assignment he had mentioned. With a hopeful heart, Alain ignored the paper work she had intended to finish first thing that morning and walked to the back of the large room. The first office, on the left, had a wooden door with no nameplate. The second door had a large glass window and a glass door with a nameplate that read ‘Agent Scott Vargo.’ She tapped the door anxiously with her knuckles, and glanced inside. Vargo, an elderly gentleman with an aging beer gut, glanced up from a file on his desk and nodded at Alain, his silent invitation to enter.

The door opened and shut silently. Alain sat in one of the two chairs facing Vargo’s desk and smoothed her skirt out.

“Sir? You wanted to see me?”

Vargo nodded and leaned back, his leather chair squeaking. “Yes. You received the note?” Alain nodded, holding the note out dumbly. Vargo reached over his desk, took the note, and threw it in his trashcan. “Good. You’ve probably guessed that this meeting is about the assignment I mentioned to you yesterday, correct?”

“I presumed as much, yes,” she said, worry starting to tingle along the same lines hope had ran just moments before.

Vargo clasped his hands together over the open file on his desk. “I didn’t tell you this yesterday, but I recommended you for the assignment. It’s not under my supervision. Are you familiar with Agent Smith?”

She wanted to retort, “Who isn’t familiar with Agent Smith?” but refrained. Agent Smith was notorious throughout the Bureau as being a cold, demanding supervising agent, a human without any emotion except the occasional anger. He was very difficult to get along with, people said, and even worse to work with.

Instead of snapping back, or commenting at all, she simply nodded, and let Vargo go on. Faintly, she knew where the conversation was going, and dreaded it, but the assignment was too good to pass up.

“This job is one of his.” Vargo hesitated, staring hard at Alain. She thought he might have seen the rapid indecision that flickered across her face. “It would be beneficial to you to accept this assignment, Young. Regardless of what you’ve heard about Smith, he’s a good agent. One of the best. Working for him would only do good things for you, further down your career.”

“But, sir?” Vargo let her interrupt. “I don’t know anything about this mission. How can I refuse it if I don’t know the details?”

Amused, Vargo said, “That’s why I asked you to see me. Agent Smith has looked over your file and thinks you would be a suitable candidate for the assignment. However, since this is his assignment, he’ll have to speak with you, personally, before giving you any particulars about it. After he has spoken to you, he will give you a choice: to accept or deny the assignment. At that point, you will have enough information to know whether you want to take it on or no. But, Young? If you turn this job down, there is a very good chance you may not have any job offers from Smith later. He’s not very…receptive to female agents. He also refuses to offer missions to agents who have previously turned missions down. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Vargo peered at her over his wire-framed glasses but Alain was deep in thought.

Black-balled, her mind echoed. If you turn this down, you’ll lose the momentum you’ve gained. Your job will be over. Alain glanced at Vargo.

“What if I take the mission and fail?” Vargo didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Her mind provided her with the simple answer: fired.

It wasn’t a tough decision, not with the consequences laid out in front of her. With a sinking heart, one that had started falling the moment Vargo mentioned Agent Smith, she met Vargo’s gaze.

“I’ll take it.”

***

Agent Smith’s office was located on the ninth floor. Stepping off of the elevator, Alain was met with an intersection of hallways, and the floor was a labyrinth, just like Vargo had described.

She consulted the directions Vargo had jotted on a slip of paper for her. Immediate left. Second Right. First door on left, has no nameplate. Giving one last look at the elevator, her last chance to cop out, she turned left and started walking. The second right took her down a dim hallway with flickering fluorescent lights and she walked several yards before the first door on her left appeared. Like the directions said, there was no nameplate on the wooden door.

This is your last chance, her mind whispered. You could walk out now with minimal consequences. With a lump in her throat, and shaking hands, she ignored the voice and timidly knocked on the door.

The opened in to reveal a short, pale woman with a head full of curly, blond hair. With a bland expression and a smile that could be mistaken for a frown, the woman said, “Hi, may I help you?” She was rather pretty, with small, detailed features and minimal makeup, and a plain navy suit. Irrationally, Alain wondered for a moment if the woman was Agent Smith.

“Yes,” she said, fighting the impulse to straighten her skirt, a nervous habit, “I’m Alain Young. I’m here to see Agent Smith?”

The woman smiled coolly and opened the door fully, exposing a small foyer with a messy desk, another door, and three hard, plastic chairs. The nameplate on the desk read “Perdita Reznor, secretary,” and Alain felt herself relax.

“Of course,” Perdita murmured, “come in and have a seat. I’ll buzz him and let him know you’re in.” Alain walked in, sitting in one of the plastic chairs, and Perdita shut the door behind her before taking her own seat behind the desk. She pushed a button on the standard black telephone and it emitted a loud beep before an icy voice answered.

“Go ahead, Perdita.” Alain could see where Perdita picked up her chilly demeanor.

Perdita gave Alain a brief, assessing look. “Sir, Agent Young is here to see you. Shall I send her in?”

“Yes.” The line went dead with a dull click.

Perdita pressed another button on the phone and gestured toward to door. “You may enter his office, Miss Young.” Almost immediately, the secretary turned to the computer on her desk and began typing.

Bewildered, Alain approached the door with much apprehension. Giving in, she smoothed her skirt once before twisting the knob and pushing the door open.

The first thing she noticed about the office was how spacious it was. A large desk was the center of the room, with two chairs facing it and one large desk chair on the other side. The wall behind the desk, the wall she was facing, was nothing but glass; she could see other buildings and a bit of the sky thought it. A few plaques and diplomas occupied the wall on her left; bookshelves took up the wall on her right. Her second conclusion about the office was that, although it was large, it was extremely impersonal. The desk was, like her own small desk, immaculate, and she could see no personal belongings anywhere in the office.

When she entered the room, Agent Smith was facing the window, overlooking the city, but as the door shut behind her, he swiveled around to face her. When he stood, he appeared to be extremely imposing; his black suit was wrinkle free and the creases were sharp and well-defined, his thinning hair was combed back perfectly, and he held the aura of a person who knew what was going on and what they were doing. His features were sharp and neutral, though his eyes were cool, much like his voice.

“Agent Young,” he said, holding his hand out to shake. She stepped forward to accept the handshake, and noticed how her hand was dwarfed by his. His shake was firm and confident, which she tried to mimic. “I’ve never had the pleasure of being formally introduced to you. As you already know, I am Agent Smith.” Smith pulled his hand back and gestured to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Alain sat, and her fingers itched to tug at her skirt. She had never been so intimidated by anyone in the Bureau before, not by their sheer presence. She forced herself to keep his calm, calculating gaze.

“You’re here about the Liberty City assignment.” It wasn’t a question, but Alain nodded anyway. “To begin, why do you want this mission?”

She started to answer automatically, to tell him that she didn’t know much about it, but refrained. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t be pleased with avoidance.

Carefully, she chose her words and replied, “Any opportunity I have for advancement in the Bureau is an opportunity I have to take, sir.”

Smith nodded, taking in the answer but not showing any sign of whether it was satisfactory or not. “The mission, initially, sounds simple. You will be sent to Liberty City, USA, to stop a leak. Someone who has inside info about the Bureau, or who works for the Bureau, is passing on top secret information to a powerful member of Liberty City’s criminal society. The leak needs to be found and terminated, and the person they are passing information to needs to be brought in for questioning.” Alain took all of the information in; the job did sound easy. “However, initial impressions are almost always incorrect, Young. The criminal activity in Liberty City is enormous; you will have to go to the streets to find this leak. The Bureau division there will offer you no help and the more, ah, formidable members of Liberty City’s society do not take kindly to outside law officers. I expect you to be in the city for no less than one month; it will take you that long, at least, to establish influential and consistent connections.” He paused, giving her a moment to take everything in. “Do you understand what kind of work this assignment will entail?”

Alain thought she did. Dirty work, from the sounds of it, but she could work undercover. She was sure of it. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” he opened a file that was laying on his desk, “if you don’t, you will.” The file, she noted, was hers. “What kind of gun do you use, Agent Young?”

“A .357, Glock 31, sir,” she said, reaching down to pull the gun out from her calf holster. It was nestled comfortably between her thick, black boot and her mid-calf. She held the gun out to him.

He took it, weighing it with his hand and giving it an appreciative once-over. “This is a very powerful gun, Agent. Can you handle this?” Smith’s cold eyes challenged her as he handed it back.

“I wouldn’t carry it if I couldn’t,” she said. “Sir,” she added as an afterthought.

Smith didn’t smile, but an amused expression crossed his face. “Good. Regardless, if you accept this assignment it will be mandatory that you carry a .45 at all times, with or without your gun.”

“Sir?” Alain was picky about guns. Her .357 was her proverbial baby, the only gun she used in practice and the only gun she liked to carry.

Smith no longer looked amused. Alain visibly flinched under his frigid gaze. “A .357 is powerful, Young, but slow. If you’re going to be on the streets, for any period of time, you’re also going to need a quick gun. Whether you use it or not is at your discretion, but it will remain mandatory that you carry it.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, fingers twisting the edges of her skirt.

Flipping through a few pages in the file, Smith snapped it shut, drawing Alain’s attention from her skirt to him. For longer than she liked, he regarded her with a contemplative expression before speaking. “I like you, Young,” he told her frankly, “you seem like you could go far with the correct training. Although I have my own doubts as to your weaknesses, you are suitable for this assignment. My last question is about your opinion on the matter: do you think you can handle this assignment?”

Alain thought it over for a moment. Finally, she replied. “I think so, yes; but neither of us will really know until it’s over, will we?”

With a bland, wry smirk, Smith agreed. “I suppose not.” He stood, and Alain followed suit. “You’ll get the official paperwork tomorrow from Agent Vargo. I expect it to be filled out and returned to my office in person by noon tomorrow. When you return that, we will discuss deadlines and all other pertinent information, such as housing, and I will give you all of the information I have on the people you’re going to be tracking down.” Startled, Alain realized the issue of accommodations in Liberty City had never crossed her mind. She wondered if there was anything else she had not thought of. Smith seemed to sense her sudden uncertainly and smiled, a slow, chilling smile. He held his office door open for her.

“Good day, Young,” he said, watching her walk out of his office through narrowed eyes. She didn’t seem to notice; she just kept walking.

***

© 2003 Brianna Jackson.