A World Without Secrets (16 page)

I looked at the schedule of payments and was surprised by the amounts. Although they weren't close to the money I could earn for art recovery, they made my earliest skip recovery fee look like chump change. I stared at Sobert for a few seconds. "Some of the bounties on the most wanted get pretty high."

"Yes, but I don't want to delude you; those are highly unusual cases. The chances of one person finding a most wanted is— astronomical. But if you work as quickly on our cold cases as you have on your art theft cases, you can make a tidy sum, even when collecting only the schedule payment. There's also the fact that you'd be helping your country."

"If I was to do this, how many hours would I be expected to work each week?"

"You wouldn't be treated as a Special Agent. In the files, you'd be listed as a Special Investigator."

"I've never heard of that designation being associated with the FBI. Is it just for me?"

"No. While the job title isn't common, it's not unique either. Special Investigators are normally retired law enforcement personnel who perform background investigations, or BI's, for us. We believe this system makes for a more efficient use of Bureau funds. However, this payment schedule was created specifically for you. You'd decide how much effort to put in, but if you didn't produce you wouldn't get paid. And if we found that you weren't paying sufficient attention to the caseload, we'd have the right to terminate you."

I smiled and said, "I sure hope you mean terminate my employment."

"Exactly," he said, and then smiled also.

"And I could still work my other— more lucrative— investigations as I saw fit?"

"No one would be looking over your shoulder. If you needed time for a private investigation, you would just notify your supervisor, then alert him when you're ready to resume work. Once you solved a case for us, you'd step aside and Special Agents would move in to make the arrests and wrap things up."

"I wouldn't have to go through any kind of school, would I?"

"All Special Agents are required to complete and pass a mandatory twenty-one-week training course."

"But you said I wouldn't be a Special Agent."

"You'd be listed in the files as a Special Investigator once you graduated from the Academy and were ready to begin your investigation work, but that's only because you'd be allowed to make your own work schedule and because of the compensation arrangement. Until you graduated, you would be a Special Agent Trainee, and if you graduated, your credentials would say Special Agent. And there may be unique occasions where you'd be required to participate as a Special Agent in certain large operations. You'd have to be able to work as a team member when necessary. It's never a waste of time to learn the law and how to defend yourself. You're a little older than many of our recruits but still well below the maximum recruitment age. You have size and you appear to be in decent physical shape. You played football, didn't you?"

"I was a quarterback in high school and college, but my throwing wasn't as accurate as the other guys so I was only third string. In college I got tired of sitting on the bench, so the coach made me a tight end. I was still available to go in as a QB if the other two guys got injured. They never did. At least they were never both sidelined at the same time."

"That's great. The Academy is sort of like a football training camp in many respects."

"You mean up at dawn, bust your ass 'til dark, study until lights out, and then collapse into bed?"

"Pretty much, except we have a substantially greater emphasis on the academic part, and there are also some night training operations. I can promise you'd
hate
the training while you were going through it, but if you make it through successfully, you'd never for a second regret it when it was over."

I thought the offer over for a minute. I had obviously been under surveillance. Accepting this job might allow me to continue my gizmo activities without such surveillance because I'd be inside the organization. And being able to better defend myself might come in especially handy if someone came to take my gizmo, or if they were seeking revenge for being arrested.

"Okay, ADIC Sobert," I heard myself saying, "I'll give it a go."

"Excellent. Osborne will take you down to have your temporary ID made, and then we begin the testing."

"Testing?"

"Of course. We have to thoroughly test every candidate. We can't just hire someone off the street and give them the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. And we'll have to perform a complete background security check. Our investigators will scrutinize every aspect of your life since the day you were born."

"That must take a considerable amount of time."

"Yes, it does. Months, usually. But you've already passed an initial investigation. If you can pass the written tests and then the oral tests, the full background security investigation will take place while you're at Quantico."

"Okay. When do we start?"

"Now." Looking to Osborne he said, "Take James down to get his temporary ID."

Osborne remained with me until my temporary ID was ready, then took me to a testing room. To me it looked like the interrogation room where I'd been taken earlier. The only furniture in the room was a table and one chair, and there was a one-way mirror on one wall. I wondered how many people, cameras, and electronic devices were on the other side.

Osborne left almost immediately, to be replaced by a young woman with a packet of papers. She explained the procedure and then left me alone. I waited until a voice told me to begin, then opened the packet and began answering the questions. Some were multiple choice and some required a written answer. I had taken a number of written tests for employment after college, but they hadn't come close to the complexity and thoroughness of the FBI test.

By the time I was finished, I was finished. I didn't feel that I had any more in me, but Osborne returned and took me to Personnel where I was handed another thick document and told to fill it out. It was the security questionnaire that would form the basis for the top-secret look into my past. I did my best to answer everything as accurately as possible, but they practically wanted to know when I cut my first tooth. I gave names and last known addresses of friends, fellow college students, and co-workers as best as I could remember, but some of the info was hazy. I wished I had my computer with me because I could have answered questions that asked for telephone numbers and such.

When I completed the questionnaire, a young woman came and took it. She told me to be back the following day at nine a.m. to continue the process and pointed the way out.

My escort, Osborne, was gone, so I walked to the elevator and descended to the ground floor. I passed out of the security area, nodded to a guard, and removed the temporary ID clipped to my breast pocket as I emerged from the building. I flagged a cab and returned to my apartment.

I had to get up early the next day— well earlier than I probably would have if I hadn't had to be at FBI headquarters— so I didn't stay up late writing, which I probably would have done now that the Merchendes case was finished. As I lay in bed before drifting off to sleep, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I had sort of gotten caught up in everything and really hadn't examined it from every angle as I usually did before making such a heavy commitment. I didn't regret a possible association with the FBI. I loved my country and believed that the FBI was a great law enforcement agency. I was only second-guessing whether I was right for them. I wasn't really a genius investigator. I owed everything to the gizmo. I guess I just didn't want to do anything that would make the agency regret their recruitment effort.
Oh, hell,
I thought,
I probably won't pass all their tests anyway.
I had my doubts about some of the answers I'd put on the written tests. I wondered if they were already laughing at some of the responses made by the great art recovery detective Colton James.

* * *

There was an escort waiting for me when I arrived at the FBI headquarters in the morning. It was Osborne. I was more than a little surprised. He didn't say anything until we reached our apparent destination. As he stopped outside a corridor door and pointed to it, he asked, "Ever been to hell, kid?"

"Uh, not yet," I said.

"You're about to get your baptism."

"It's only a test, isn't it?"

"You tell me— after it's over." I was surprised when Osborne extended his hand to me and said, "Good luck, kid."

I took his hand and shook it, but said, "I don't understand."

"You will. This is probably the last time we'll talk. I don't think you have a chance of passing."

I smiled at him and said confidently, "Sure I do. You made it after all." I wished I felt as confident as I tried to sound.

Osborne grinned and said, "We'll see," then turned and walked away.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. The room was a good size, but almost devoid of office furniture. An eight-foot table with a woman and two men sitting behind it faced the door. There was also a single, empty, straight-backed wooden chair facing the table.

"Come in, James," one of the men said.

I closed the door behind me and walked towards the chair. The woman told me to take my seat.

"Before we start," one of the men said, "this is your last chance to come clean with us. If you were less than accurate with anything you've written or said up to now, tell us. After this, if we discover you've lied or omitted information, you'll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

I was really taken aback and must have looked a bit foolish. But I shut my mouth and composed myself before saying, "I have been completely honest in everything I've said or written. If I've omitted anything, it wasn't intentional. It would be the result of a lapse in memory. I couldn't recall all of the exact dates when I filled out the security questionnaire yesterday, so I answered to the best of my recollection. If I put June where it should have been July, it was not an attempt to deceive."

"You stated that you tried marijuana during college," the other man said. "How many times have you smoked it during the past three years?"

"Not once. I was never a heavy user. I've never even purchased any. I tried it a few times at parties where a joint was being passed around. It wasn't my thing."

"You're sure that's the story you want to go by? This conversation is being recorded."

"It's the truth. It's the only story I have."

The man looked at me with skepticism, but I stared back with a resolute expression.

After that, the grilling began in earnest. They would ask me a question, and before I could answer they would ask another. Many of the questions were similar to ones I'd answered on the security questionnaire, so it seemed like they were trying to trip me up to see if I would answer differently today. Then they started throwing scenarios at me, such as— if I was in such and such a situation, how would I respond? It was difficult to keep my thought processes organized when three people were rapid-firing questions at me because I was both trying to listen and compose my answers.

The grilling lasted for over an hour, but it felt like eight. When they were finally done, the woman pointed to the door and said, "That's all, James."

I didn't know if I should say anything or just leave, so as I stood up I said, "Thank you," then turned and walked out. I had never even gotten their names.

Osborne was waiting outside the door. He looked at me and chuckled before saying, "How'd you do, kid?"

"I don't know. What month is this?"

He chuckled again and said, "C'mon, I'll walk you out. You probably want to go home and have a beer."

"Maybe even two," I said. I was seeing a whole different side of Osborne. He had dropped the 'no nonsense professional cop' persona I'd seen originally and seemed to be treating me almost like one of the FBI family. He was still businesslike, but the authoritative demeanor had vanished.

Before I passed through the security area at the entrance, I said, "What now?"

"Someone will be in touch when the people in charge reach a decision."

I nodded and left.

* * *

I needed to get my head screwed back on straight, so I turned to writing and forgot everything else except Kathy. Over the following week, I made time to have lunch with her three times. During the first lunch after my recruitment when I broke the news to her about possibly becoming an FBI Special Investigator, she slammed her fork down onto the table. "I thought you said no more secrets?"

"What are you talking about? I'm telling you about it, aren't I?"

"But people don't just decide to join the FBI and then disappear off to a training school. How long have you been thinking about this?"

"First, I didn't decide to join. I was recruited. They picked me up, took me to FBI headquarters, and told me they wanted me to work for them. It happened so fast I didn't have time to tell you first. Would you rather I didn't agree to take the job?"

"I thought you were going to take time off and do some writing. Now you tell me you're going to be in even more danger than before."

"It's not necessarily more dangerous."

"Don't tell me that. I've watched X-files. Practically every week they're in a shoot-out of some type."

I chuckled. "That's television. It's all phony. People wouldn't watch if it was as boring as real life. Do you know that most New York City cops
never
fire their weapon in the line of duty during their entire career?"

"What about FBI agents?"

"I'm not going to be a Special Agent. I'm to be a Special Investigator. And that's only if I pass all their tests and then pass the course at the Academy. All I'd do is look at evidence, hunt for clues in the computer files, and then point them to the right path if I find anything. I wouldn't have to arrest people or anything. I wouldn't even be wearing a gun."

"No gun?"

"I swear. Want to search me now?"

Kathy grinned. "Not right now— maybe tonight in my apartment."