25

Syracuse, New York

March 2002

“Rise and shine, Shirazi—you’ve got a visitor!”

David heard the words but had no desire to open his eyes, much less get out of bed. He had caught a stomach flu. He’d spent much of the last few nights puking his guts out. But the guard kept rapping his nightstick on the steel bars, and just to make him stop, David leaned over, put his glasses on, set his feet on the cold tile floor, and ran his hands through hair in desperate need of a trim. It was day thirteen of a fourteen-day sentence in juvie hall.

One more day in hell, he told himself.

His parents visited every day, looking older and grayer each time he saw them. His father said he was working on getting him admitted into a private, all-boys academy in Alabama where he could try to salvage his education and get his life back on track. David knew he should be grateful, but he wasn’t.

David quickly threw on his standard orange jumpsuit over his boxer shorts and slipped into the white tennis shoes he’d been given. When the guard ordered his cell to be electronically unlocked, David was led down a series of hallways to a small meeting room not far from the director’s office. He had expected to see his parents or his lawyer or both. Instead, he found an older gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties flipping through a magazine and fidgeting as if he badly needed a cigarette. As David entered the room, the man stood and smiled warmly. Sporting a gray beard, black-rimmed glasses, and an ill-fitting green suit, he was not anyone David had ever seen before, but David immediately had the impression that the man knew him from somewhere.

“Fifteen minutes,” the guard said.

When the guard then stepped out of the room and closed the door, the man shook David’s hand firmly and suggested that they both sit down.

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again for a long time, David,” he began.

“Have we met before?” David asked.

“We’ll get to that in a minute. I’ve heard you’re a pretty sharp kid.”

“And yet . . . here I am,” David said, looking down at his shoes.

“You made a mistake, David. You’re not the first kid to beat the crap out of a couple of morons who deserved it. I don’t suspect you’ll be the last.”

David looked up again. Who was this guy?

“Actually, they didn’t deserve it,” David confessed, suspecting that this might be someone from the DA’s office checking up on him.

“Sure they did,” the man said. “Didn’t one call you a raghead?”

“I still shouldn’t have hit them,” David answered, remembering that all their conversations were being monitored and recorded.

“Fair enough,” the man continued. “But you clearly know how to handle yourself. I’ve seen your file. You won every fight you were in at Nottingham, even when you were outnumbered.”

“Not exactly something you can put on your résumé.”

“Well, that depends, son.”

“On what?”

“On what kind of job you’re applying for.”

Then the man slid a magazine across the table to David. It was a recent issue of U.S. News & World Report. He pointed to a headline that read, “Not Your Father’s CIA.” Puzzled, David looked at the headline, then into the man’s eyes. The man nodded for David to begin reading.

Cautiously, David took the magazine and scanned it quickly.

The CIA is growing—and fast. To fend off America’s enemies and take on terrorists and other bad guys worldwide, the nation’s premier spy agency is undergoing the most rapid growth since its inception almost sixty years ago. . . . The CIA has embarked on a nationwide ad campaign, hoping to attract a new generation of spies. For a look at its new pitch to young people, check out the agency’s online rock-and-roll recruiting ads. . . . Trailers at movie theaters and posters at airports have tempted the adventurous with positions in the National Clandestine Service—the latest name for the agency’s fabled directorate of operations, which recruits spies, steals secrets, and runs covert operations.

Suddenly, the man grabbed the magazine back from David.

“Hey, what the . . . ?”

But the man quickly cut David off before he could complete his sentence.

“Finish it,” he said.

“Finish what?”

“Finish the article.”

“You’re crazy! I didn’t have time.”

“You’re lying. Now, give me the rest of the article. Word for word. I know you can do it. I know all about you, David. I know you’ve tested at genius levels. I know you had a straight 4.0 average before Claire Harper died and her only daughter, Marseille, moved to Portland with her dad.”

The hair on David’s arms stood up.

“You have a photographic memory,” the man continued. “You’re only sixteen but you’re supposed to graduate early—two years early—this June. You scored a 1570 on the SATs. The Ivy Leagues were in your future before you began to implode. That’s actually where you and I were supposed to meet, a few years from now. But your little departure into self-destruction made me intervene sooner than I’d planned. Now cut the bull and recite the rest of the article for me, son. Before I walk out of here a very disappointed man.”

The room was silent for at least a minute, save the buzz from the fluorescent lamps above them. David stared at the man for a while, then at the magazine, crumpled in the man’s hand. Then he closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and began reciting from memory.

“‘It was an impressive group, among the most diverse, most experienced ever hired by the CIA. Ages ranged from twenty to over sixty-five. More than half have spent significant time overseas, and one in six is a military veteran. They bring backgrounds as diverse as forestry, finance, and industrial engineering. And they’re a well-educated bunch. They represent schools ranging from Oregon State, UCLA, and the University of Denver to the U.S. Naval Academy, Princeton, and Duquesne. Half the new recruits sport a master’s or PhD. And if you want to work for the CIA’s analytic corps, the directorate of intelligence, you’d better keep your grades up—the average grade-point average is a respectable 3.7.’”

“So why am I here?” the man asked. “Simple—to recruit you.”

“You want me to work for the CIA?” David asked.

“Exactly.”

“And you’re looking for a few good ex-cons?” David quipped.

“Don’t flatter yourself, son. Two weeks in this Holiday Inn hardly qualifies as hard time. For most people, a criminal record—even a juvenile record—would disqualify them. But not in your particular case.”

“My particular case?”

“You’re fluent in Farsi, German, and French. You’re conversational in Arabic, and I suspect you’ll master that pretty quickly once you put your mind to it. You’re already five-foot-eleven. In a few more years, you’ll be six-two or six-three. You know how to handle yourself. You could be valuable.”

“Valuable for what?” David asked.

“You really want to know?”

David shrugged.

The man shrugged too and stood up to leave.

“No, wait,” David said, jumping to his feet. “I really do want to know. What would I be valuable for?”

The man looked back at David. “I have no use for pretenders.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then I’ll tell you—hunting bin Laden.”

David stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You want me to help hunt down Osama bin Laden?”

“Actually,” the man said, “I want you to bring us his head in a box.”