October 28, 2010

I spy

She was a patriot. Serving her country. A foot-soldier.

Her controller told her she was the best agent he had ever worked with.

Paranoia was a way of life. If any event, no matter how small, seemed out of the ordinary, it had to be investigated until no threat could be gleaned.

She knew seven languages and could speak them with the accent of a native. She had two passports stowed in her apartment, and more of them stowed away in a safe location, all of them guaranteeing a safe window of exit.

She had always wanted to be a spy. Her father had been a diplomat, travel, a constant companion. She shook off the unhappy memories. She had wanted to protect her mother, and escape with her, away from the cruelty and abuse.

She did not want to end up like her sister, with whom she lived now. Meek and insecure, she worked in a government office and tried desperately to hide and remain unnoticed. She was her twin, but she referred to her as l'autre. She knew everyone saw l'autre with contempt. If they saw her at all. So alike they were, and yet so different.

Her ears had picked up when l'autre had mentioned a tracking program, a piece of software that her company was developing. L'autre didn't know the potential and value of the program. She had discussed the program with her controller, and was planning on getting her hands on the program.

So she sat at l'autre's desk. Rifling through it hadn't yielded anything. Just as she had expected. L'autre was useless, she thought contemptuously and peered into l'autre's boss's office. Two men were drinking coffee and they both turned to smile at her, at the same time.


'Why did you want a psych evaluation of your colleagues?' said one of the men in the office.
'We are working on a sensitive project, and the government is required to conduct psych evaluations. I was just following procedure, Doctor' said the other.
'We may have a problem with her' he said, as the two men looked out and saw her looking at them. They smiled inconsequentially and returned to the conversation. 'She appears delusional. I will need to talk to her some more.' He didn't elaborate.

The next day, the good doctor was found murdered in his apartment.

There was a breach in the security system, with the risk of the tracking program being compromised.

A search of her apartment by the authorities indicated only one person could have possibly lived there.

A woman with a burgundy passport, all papers in order, boarded a flight bound for an international destination. One of many.

The l'atre has been submerged, she thought, triumphant. She had completely forgotten about the paper she had torn out of the psychiatrist's file on her. The crumpled page still sat in a corner of her suitcase. "Delusions of abilities? Dissociative identity disorder? More sessions" said some of the nearly illegible squiggles.

It would be a while before she realized there was no controller.

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