As a wife and mother, I'm the heartbeat of my family, the glue that holds us all together. I dreaded telling them I'd be gone for a while. I
knew they'd take it hard."I've got a new job," I said casually to the kids over dinner.
Eli ignored me, preferring the important business of covering his peas with chicken bones. The other two were
arguing about whose turn it was to clear the table. I'd already filled Alan, my husband, in on my fictitious magazine job, supplying him with an office number that connected to a phone WUSS agents would monitor.
I'd
finally broken the news to the kids. Of course, they heard what they wanted to hear.
"A housekeeper?" Leah asked. "Like all the rich people have? Cool. I won't have to clean my room any more."
"Or clear the stupid table," Sam added.
No one seemed overly disturbed they wouldn't see me for a month, maybe more.
"I really hate to leave you. I know it'll be difficult for you," I said, tears
stinging my eyes. I looked around the table: Eli had piled all his food in the middle of his plate and was using his silverware to build a Stonehenge-like structure around the leftovers. Sam was flicking peas at Leah,
who was catching them and flicking them back. Alan was reading the newspaper, oblivious to everything else.
"But," I continued, "I know I can count on you to keep this family running as smoothly as it
always does." A pea, sailing out of control, smacked me in the forehead. The kids laughed. I scraped off the pea residue.
"So, Mom, what kind of job is this anyway?" Eli looked up from his architectural
project.
"I'm going to be a master spy and infiltrate the enemy to bring back information that will save the world," I said, starting to clear the table.
"Yeah, right," he said, returning his attention to the mess on his plate.
Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a bad idea to take a little time off from being a mom. Later I took a bubble bath and climbed into
bed with an Ian Fleming novel, falling asleep with "Bond, James Bond" reverberating in my head.
Blake picked me up the next morning and drove me to my final briefing. Now that I was on the payroll, I didn't
have to wear that stupid bag over my head. Agnes, he told me, would be there some time this morning to take over the housework and cooking. She would be staying in the extra downstairs bedroom.
"Where are we going?" I asked as I slid into the car.
"First we hit identity and pick up your documents...."
"Documents?"
"Yeah. Driver's license, credit cards, passport...."
"Passport! What do I need one of those for?"
"Your new employer is an Arab, remember?"
"Yeah, but I'll be working in this country...won't I?"
"Never know," Blake said. "Here we are."
We made our way through the halls of WUSS, Blake guiding me to the Identity section where we met with a little man he called a "cobbler."
"I thought I was here for a passport, not shoes," I whispered.
"It's slang for someone who makes phony passports."
"Oh. Spy talk."
"Yeah. Here, take a look at this," Blake
handed me the passport. I opened it and found myself staring at -- Cruella DeVille.
"Oh my God!"
"Shhh. Keep your voice down."
"But I look like a Dalmatian. Look at the spots on my face!"
"Well, it's not a very flattering picture, but remember your hair was kind of flat that day..."
"Thanks to you and that paper bag..."
"Sorry about that. Time to drill with the professor." Blake led me over to the office where a little man who was the head of the Identity Section threw
questions at me for over an hour, testing my ability to remember my cover story -- and mission.
"My name is Eileen Baxter. I'm a nanny by profession. I quit when I married and am returning to active duty
following the death of my husband," I said, finishing up my spiel. The professor nodded.
"Fine. Blake, she'll do. Mr. B said to bring her to his office after you're through here," the professor -- whose
name I never did learn -- dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Blake touched my sleeve.
"Let's go see the Mr. B," he said.
I stood in front of the Mr. B's desk, nervous as a 10-year-old in the
principal's office. He glanced over the paperwork and nodded, apparently satisfied.
"Very good, Mrs., uh what's the last name we settled upon -- ah, yes -- Baxter. Please tell me what you are officially doing at
Abu Assad's residence."
"I am the nanny. I will be taking care of Mahmoud, the 10-year-old son of Abu Assad. The child's mother is deceased."
"And covertly?"
"I am to unofficially
monitor his father's movements and communications and report all findings back to you."
"And what are you to look for?"
"Anything that might have to do with his role in international terrorism.
Assad is believed to be the point man for a renegade known only by the name Abdul Razzak," I said.
"And who is this Abdul Razzak character?"
"He's an international terrorist and assassin,
masquerading as an Arab, but believed to be of European extraction, who plays both sides -- one against the other -- and has no known ideological convictions. In other words, he's for sale to the highest bidder," I
said.
Mr. B nodded, his Alfred Hitchcock jowls quivering.
"That should be all for now. Blake, is she ready?"
"Yes, sir. I believe she is."
"All right. Eileen -- may I call you by your first name?"
I nodded.
"Eileen, as you know, we believe Assad is helping Razzak mount an operation aimed at discrediting the nation of Madya. Madya is a
small, very rich Arabic country that has remained moderate in its politics. It's ruler, Sheik Hamir, is carefully guiding its citizenry toward modern statehood. Our informant managed to pass information that Razzak is
planning an act of terrorism so horrific it will bring the world to the brink of war, while blaming it on Hamir and his country.
"We do not know what it is nor how he plans to accomplish it, but we do believe
Assad is the key to this equation. At least our informant indicated as much before he was killed.
"You will stay in touch with us at all times and pass all information you come across to Blake without delay. He
will be your control. I suppose that's all. Blake?"
"Yes, sir. We know Assad's background check on Eileen has proven satisfactory and the agency is sending her over for an interview. Ready, Eileen?"
Blake stood and motioned to me.
"Uh, yeah. I guess. Just one small thing. The informant?"
Both Alfred and Blake looked at me.
"You said 'before he was killed.' Could you elaborate?"
"What's there to elaborate on? He's dead. This has nothing to do with your assignment...." Alfred said.
"Oh, I beg to disagree with you. Dead may be dead to you, but I want to know how this particular
dead person ended up going from alive to room temperature. Humor me."
Mr. B shot Blake a look. Blake raised his eyebrows and turned to me. I could tell he was carefully weighing his words. I've known Blake a
long, long time. He can't pull much over on me because I also know when he's lying.
"Um, Dan -- the informant -- was, um, subjected to a teensy bit of torture before he was dispatched."
"Teensy bit of
torture! What's considered teensy in this business? Bamboo shoots under the fingernails? Hot cigarettes on the tummy? What?"
"You've been watching too many television shows, Mrs., uh, Baxter," Alfred
said.
"Perhaps I have but I'm getting ready to put my neck on the line for you and all the other wusses around here -- so to speak. And you don't even have the decency to tell me what I'm getting into. I'm
entitled. Now what happened to old Danny Boy?"
Alfred nodded at Blake, and my dear old pal and one-time partner, whose bacon I've pulled from the fire many times, took a deep breath and told me:
"They sort of skinned him alive and dropped him into a vat of alcohol."
"What do you mean sort of? Did they or did they not skin him, as in peeled off his skin?"
"Well, I guess they did."
"And then they dropped him into a vat of alcohol? The kind you drink or the kind you rub on?"
"Uh, the kind you rub on," Blake said.
"What kind of jerks are these people?"
"They're modern jerks, Miss Baxter, and they're cruel, make no mistake. The men you are going up against are the worst of all. They're terrorists and they kill
without caring about the people they hurt. That's why we so desperately need to stop them. And we're hoping you're the one person who can help us. Are you still in?" Alfred fixed me with a look that demanded an
answer.
"All right. I guess I am. But if I end up getting myself peeled like a cucumber and swimming in alcohol, I'm going to be pretty ticked off."
"Very well. Blake, have her change clothes and send her on in."
And with that, I was off to meet my very first international terrorist and his 10-year-old son, who -- as it turns out -- was the real
terrorist in the family.
