Editing Alicia McBride

'''Age 7 - October 1937, South Bend, Indiana'''

It was Wrong to tell a lie.  Alicia knew that.  But it was wrong for Mike to abandon her, and completely forget their Satrday morning routine, just because he liked some stupid girl from his stupid middle school, too, wasn't it?  So if she had to tell a lie, or two, or, well, a lot of them so she could follow him, that wasn't so bad, was it?

She told her mother she was going to play over at Rebecca Maitland's house, three blocks over.  Alicia knew that her mother didn't know Mrs. Maitland very well, and she probably wouldn't call over there to check, so she'd never know that Alicia wasn't there.  She told the bus driver that she had to ride the bus alone to go downtown and pick up the medicine for her mother, who was sick, and it had to be her because her father and brother were up at the stadium watching the Irish play.  She told the usher at the movie theater that her father was outside waiting in the car, and she just had to run in for a minute to fetch her brother so could she please go in without a ticket.  And she told the stupid girl her brother liked (waiting until she was alone, when Mike had gone to get popcorn for them) that she knew that Mike really liked another girl in his class, and he was only going with the stupid girl on a dare from one of his friends.  

When Mike got back to the seat, and saw that the stupid girl was gone, Alicia didn't tell a lie at all; she told the absolute truth, that she had missed him, and took the bus downtown all by herself just to spend Saturday with him like they always did.  Mike wondered for five minutes where the stupid girl had gone, but then he forgot about her, and Alicia had him all to herself.

And, thinking about her big adventure, and how it had all turned out so well, Alicia decided that, maybe, telling lies wasn't so Wrong after all.


'''Age 14 - December, 1944, South Bend, Indiana'''

The only thing missing from the day was her brother.  Her parents were in the audience, and all her friends, and most of her neighbors.  She'd been disappointed, at first, that she hadn't won the role she originally auditioned for, the Katharine Hepburn role.  But she had to admit that the Ruth Hussey role ("Miss Imbrie!  I told you, call me Miss Imbrie!  It helps me get into character!") suited her better.  Sneaking and lying her way into a big society wedding was much more her style than playing the big society matron.  Besides, while in real life she would have picked Cary Grant over Jimmy Stewart any day of the week, the boy playing the Grant role was nowhere near as handsome as the one playing Stewart's role...

...two hours later, the South Bend Central High School production of "The Philadelphia Story" was over, an unqualified success.  Alicia was, according to everyone, the big star, and modesty didn't prevent her from agreeing.  She clearly outshone poor Grace Campbell, who tried really hard but couldn't pull off a convincing Tracy Lord.  But Alicia just disappeared into the role, and that's exactly how it had felt to her.  For those two hours, she really was Elizabeth Imbrie, and there wasn't a single person in the audience who could disagree.


'''Age 14 - March, 1945, South Bend, Indiana'''

She’d had to read the letter over three times before she understood everything.  Mike had done a good job, writing between the lines, concealing what he was really trying to communicate from any eyes less alert than his sister’s.  And then it had taken Alicia a further two hours to explain to her parents, in wearying detail, precisely what their son – their heroic son! – had been involved in, over there in Germany.

Thanks in large part to her brother, a pair of senior German rocket scientists were on their way to America instead of Russia.  The only disappointing thing about it all was that instead of earning Mike a reward, maybe a couple of weeks’ leave or even a trip back home escorting the scientists, it had won him a full-time job in the OSS, so he could do something even more dangerous next time.  

Rereading the letter yet again, Alicia imagined herself over there with her brother, working in secret, doing the most important jobs that simply no one else could handle…


'''Age 18 - October, 1948, Cambridge, Massachusetts'''

The trick to getting people to do what you wanted, Alicia knew, was really very simple.  What you had to do was to arrange matters so that other people saw the thing you wanted to do as something they wanted, even needed to do.  Ideally, you arranged things carefully enough that they thought it was their idea in the first place.

It wasn’t difficult at all, really.  It did take careful observation, a solid understanding of human behavior, and patience, but, then, those were all things that Alicia excelled at.  

In this case, the goal was to get into the Alpha Phi sorority.  That seemed to Alicia the best route for getting access to the people who could help her secure a place in the CIA when she graduated.  Having a brother already inside wouldn’t be enough.  She’d need more help than that.  Help that the wealthy and well-connected families of her fellow students – and their Harvard boyfriends – could provide.  Joining an elite sorority would put her directly into their world.  

But how would a middle-class girl from Indiana on partial scholarship and with no “proper” family connections ever get into an elite sorority?  A little research provided the roadmap.  Cassandra Morgan, the sorority’s president, would normally never consider someone like Alicia.  But Cassandra, Alicia learned, was desperate to go to medical school, and with less-than-stellar grades, she needed an especially strong faculty recommendation.  The faculty member best placed to provide it was Professor Stendhall, a woman who had very strong views on social class and greatly disapproved of the way that the sororities excluded girls who were “less fortunate”.  

Coincidentally, Professor Stendhall was also Alicia’s freshman academic advisor.  Alicia made a point of telling the professor how much she’d enjoyed going to the sorority events, and how welcoming they’d all been, especially the Alpha Phis, and most especially their president.  She confessed to the professor how dearly she wished to be invited to join.  

It came as no surprise to Alicia a few weeks later when she’d been extended an invitation to join Alpha Phi, and she was equally not surprised that Cassandra personally took Alicia under her wing as her “special project”, picking out clothes, advising her on etiquette, introducing her to all the “right” people.  Alicia, for her part, did everything Cassandra said, and by the end of freshman year, she’d been elected vice president of the sorority.  

Her roommate, poor Vanessa Kingbridge from Indianapolis, did not receive an invitation.  Vanessa ignored Alicia’s advice, and loudly bemoaned her fate.  Clearly, Alicia decided, not everyone had the knack of getting results…


'''Age 19 - September, 1949, Cambridge, Massachusetts'''

Sophomore year.  Alicia’s freshman roommate Vanessa still wanted to join the Alpha Phi sorority.  Alicia promised to get her in.  “But it’ll only work if you do exactly what I say, act exactly how I say, dress exactly how I say.  Trust me, and I’ll get it done.  But it won’t work unless you do everything the way I tell you.”

Vanessa didn’t.  She apparently wasn’t capable of following instructions, and it only took two days before it was clear to Alicia that the project was a lost cause.  Out of kindness, she gave Vanessa a week, but it was no good.  She had to cut the girl loose, before her own reputation was affected.  

She felt bad, for a little while, but ultimately, it was Vanessa’s own fault.  She’d done her best but she wouldn’t – couldn’t – let someone else drag her down.   
 

'''Age 21 - November 1951, Dover, Delaware'''

The last time she'd talked to Mike - it took all Alicia's self-control to hold back tears at the thought that it ''was'' the last time - he had told her about the turf wars between the CIA and the occupation brass in Berlin.  He was afraid, he'd said, that the infighting would cause a real problem, that it might get someone killed.

And so it had.  She knew that the way he was coming home, here at Dover where soldiers killed in action came back, was a message; to who, or from whom, she wasn't sure.  But she didn't care; she was just grateful that he was being honored as he deserved.  

Later, once his body had been put into the hearse for the drive down to Arlington National Cemetary, she'd had the talk with her parents as they followed their son's body down the highway.  They weren't surprised at her intention to follow in Mike's footsteps; they barely even tried to talk her out of it, realizing how pointless that would have been.  But they did have a surprise for her; she knew she had been adopted, but she'd never questioned what she'd been told about that.  During the two hour drive, though, she learned that it had all been a lie...


'''Age 22 - October 1952, Indianapolis, Indiana''' 

Alicia had rehearsed this meeting for months, and, so far at least, the endless practice was helping her maintain her composure. This was her best chance - her only chance, really - to get into the CIA. 

She'd used her time at Radcliffe well, building relationships that ought to have gotten her in, but she hadn't reckoned on the stultifying bureaucracy, or the way that everyone seemed to have forgotten the amazing contributions female operatives had made in the OSS during the War. She still saw a path, but it was a much longer and more difficult one than she'd originally imagined; she couldn't see getting into the Agency in less than five years. And that wasn't acceptable. 

So she looked for an alternate route, and in the current Director of the Agency, she'd found it. She'd done all the research, and she'd gone over and over and over every detail until she could have executed the whole plan in her sleep. And now she sat across from the man himself. 

"What do you expect me to think, Miss McBride? You accost me during what ought to have been a very civilized meal, to what purpose?" 

She'd expected that. "My brother was a great asset to the Agency, and to his country. I will be, too, but only if you open the door for me." She assumed that he'd be familiar with her. 

She wasn't mistaken. "If your record is anything to go by, you don't seem to be a young woman who waits for doors to be opened for her." 

"No, sir. But it's your house, and the servants have deadbolted all the doors. You ought to think of this as me crawling in through your bedroom window." And she handed him the box. He opened it, swore under his breath. 

"How did you...?" 

Alicia allowed herself a smile. "It's not difficult to unlock the trunk of a car, once you know the trick. And so you know I did my homework, I know how you got it, too. You fought off three men and dragged your wounded commanding officer back to safety. All with a bullet lodged in your..." 

He flinched; Alicia imagined it was an unconscious reaction. "Well, anyway. Before you ask, my grandfather," she paused at a glare from the Director, "my ''adoptive'' grandfather, yes, was part of the Pancho Villa expedition as well, sir." 

That surprised him; Alicia thought it might. "McBride? Rusty George McBride? That's your grandfather?" he shrugged, corrected himself, "''adoptive'' grandfather, I should say." Alicia nodded. "I should've read your file more closely, Miss McBride. I shouldn't have allowed you to put me at such a disadvantage. It's been a long time since anyone has." 

Alicia gave him the slightest hint of a smile, but held her tongue. "Yes, I'll unlock the door for you. But you're going to have to walk through it on your own two feet, you understand me?" 

"Yes, sir," Alicia answered, and now she allowed herself a real smile. "I understand, sir. I'll report down to Langley in...three weeks, is it?" 

"Indeed it is, young lady. If that's all..." Alicia nodded, "perhaps you'll do me the kindness of sharing a meal, and I'll tell you some stories that I'm sure your grandfather would prefer you never heard about..."


'''Age 24 - August, 1954, Langley, Virginia'''

Alicia struggled to reach an arm over to the handle, and managed, somehow, to pull it.  She kicked, as hard as she could, and the door came open, enabling her to crawl slowly out of the overturned car.

"Congratuations, Miss McBride!"  the course instructor wasn't laughing, but even in her somewhat addled state, Alicia could see that he was fighting to keep a straight face.  "You've officially set the record for the most cars destroyed in the Survival Driving course.  I hope you're proud of yourself."

Alicia sighed, looking at the mangled wreck she'd just emerged from.  "I'm just glad they're not taking it out of my pay, to tell you the truth.  And I did do better this time!  I almost made it."

The instructor shook his head.  "Almost doesn't cut it."

No, it didn't.  "Almost" could get you sent home to Dover in a box.  "Give me one more week, and let me have an extra practice run or two.  I've never had to repeat a class in my life, and I don't want to start now."

It took two extra weeks, and many, many practice runs, but in the end, Alicia got through the course.  Barely.  She devoutly hoped she'd never need to put her Survival Driving skills into practice.


'''Age 25 - January, 1956, Prague, Czechslovakia'''

Alica watched as the bag bobbed up and down in the current of the Vltava River.  If you didn't know to look for it, it would be almost impossible to see on this moonless night.  It might never be found, if it made it as far as the confluence with the Elbe.  It didn't matter, ultimately; when Gregor failed to report in two days in a row, they'd go to his flat, and once they realized he hadn't ever come home, they'd track down his minders, and then they'd know.  Alicia watched until the bag passed completely out of sight; he had been an enemy, and what she'd set in motion had to be done, and she would do it all again without hesitation, but even so, he'd still been a human being.  She felt that she owed him at least that little dignity, to keep a watch for these few minutes, when no one else was there to do so, or even to know that there was anything to watch.

It had been his own people who'd done the actual killing.  All Alicia and her team - ''her'' team, and there was no doubting that now - had done was to set things in motion.  They'd been brought in to work with the Prague station chef to help track down a mole.  But Williams had gone and broken his leg climbing down the jetway after a flight to visit his wife in Geneva, and orders had come from Langley to abort the operation.  Alicia had ignored them; her instincts told her they wouldn't have another chance like this, and she'd been right.  

She'd taken charge, claiming authority from the Director himself, and ordering complete communication silence so that nobody could verify it.  She'd planned out the trap they set for the mole, using Williams' accident as the bait, and when the mole had brought bck to his minders the documents he'd stolen right out of Williams' flat - documents fingering the minders themselves as double agents, they'd done the only thing they could, they'd killed Gregor themselves.

Those two minders would return home to find envelopes that had been delivered at Alicia's order, containing hastily-developed photographs she'd taken herself, among other information, and instructions on what they were to do next if they didn't want copies of those photos to be passed on to their superiors.

It had been a very successful week's work...


'''Age 26 - October, 1956 - Ann Arbor, Michigan'''

She'd reached a dead end.  It was not something that Alicia was used to; in her experience there was always a way, always a Plan B or an alternate route to get what you needed.  

She'd been here two weeks, calling in a favor to extend her leave in order to have that much time, but all she found were brick walls in her way.  She knew who her birth mother was, and she knew she'd been, by two minutes, the firstborn of fraternal twins.  But the woman was dead, having left no other family.  There was literally not a single person working in the hospital who'd been there 26 years ago, nor in the church that had facilitated her adoption.  Her mother's house had been sold, the school where her brother had gone had spotty records, and from what she could tell he'd changed his name and identity at least once since leaving Ann Arbor.

With another month, she imagined, she might come up with another lead, another clue.  But she didn't have it.  Duty called.  Maybe in six months, or a year, she could come back, and comb over a trail that would be just that much colder.

In the meantime, she had a flight to Washington, and from there to Vienna, and then on to Moscow...


'''Age 28 - April, 1959 - Moscow, Soviet Union'''

She peeked out from the curtain, and there he was - third row, second from the aisle on the left side of the orchestra.  Alicia looked for her contact; there he was, exactly as instructed, posing as a stagehand, carrying an armful of costumes for Act II, not looking where he was going.  She got herself set, stepped into his path, and right on cue he hit her.

She went down hard, snapping the emery board in her hand just as her leg hit the floor.  It had taken hours to get it just right, so tha the sound would emulate that of an ankle snapping.  She let out a stream of curses in French - it was ''Carmen'' she was supposedly singing, after all.  The director and the conductor rushed over, expressions of horror dawning on their faces.  "Miss Linden" the director cried out in broken English.  "Tell me, please, no!"

Alicla let the stagehand help her up, and immediately she allowed her right leg to buckle, shrieking as she did.  "It's no good.  Broken," she said, letting her voice edge towards hysteria.  

"Go tell Alexandra to prepare herself!" the director called out.  "And fetch a doctor!"  He disappeared then in front of the curtain, to announce to the packed house that there would be a delay in the opening of the performance, an unavoidable change in the cast, and that the great American soprano Jenny Linden would be unable to perform.  ALicia could hear the disappointed murmurs of the audience, and the shuffling as the crowd took advantage of the delay to use the bathroom, have another drink or a smoke or otherwise stretch their legs.

In "Jenny's" dressing room, where Alicia waited once the stagehand and the conductor had carried her there, she waited precisely seven minutes for a knock.  "Enter," she called out in Russian, and her stagehand, and her target, the man from the third row, also the man who'd designed the security systems for more than 30 Soviet embassy buildings across the world.  She gestured to a small bag on the floor, and the target opened it, dressed himself, and took up the small medical satchel.  The stagehand took the target's clothes and put them on; Alicia had chosen well, at a cursory glance, they could be taken for each other.  He left, hurrying back out to the front of the house to take "his" seat in the orchestra.  The newly minted "doctor", meanwhile, put an arm around Alicia as she stood up using a pair of crutches, favoring her bandaged and "broken" ankle as they headed out back to the waiting car, and then to the airport.

Two hours later, once the plane had crossed the border and she could relax, Alicia turned to her defector and sighed.  "You know, there is one thing I regret.  I really would've liked to have seen the performance."

The defector nodded in agreement.  "They say that your Metropolitan Opera is almost as good as the Bolshoi, though.  Perhaps once I've been debriefed, they'll let me go to New York to see it?"

Alicia gave him a grin.  "It's a date."


'''Age 29 - January 1960, New York, New York'''

Sergei, her prized defector, was still applauding.  After sive hours of Wagner and eight curtain calls, Alicia was amazed he still had the energy.  He finally, mercifully, sat down as they waited for the crowd to thin out.  "What did you think?  Was it worth it?" he asked her.

She considered it.  It had taken quite a bit of string-pulling to arrange this outing; she'd had to go to Director Dulles himself in the end, and she was fairly certain that it was only the fact that he was a devotee of the opera himself that swayed his opinion on the matter.  "It was quite something," she said at last.  "It did stir up the emotions," Alicia admitted, "but it ''was'' a bit heavy for my first time."

Sergei nodded in agreement.  "Da.  'Tristan and Isolde' will, as you say, stir the emotions.  And It is not for the faint of heart.  But sometimes it is better to be thrown into the pool than to put a toe in, no?  It is just as true of art as it is of our profession, you agree?"

He was right, Alicia had to admit.  Her own career was proof of that...


'''Age 30 - April, 1961, Langley, Virginia'''

Alicia checked her desk tells one more time before unlocking the drawer. Her papers had been rifled through, but the drawer, though the lock had been tested, had not been opened. 

She sat back with her tea and thought for a few moments before really starting her day. Savoring the first work moments after her "vacation" she wondered about the odd, and sometimes crude, people she worked with:

Killean, who claimed to be Irish but had such a Hamburg accent that she wondered who he thought he was fooling.  Sometimes useful in a fight, but his real value was the fact that he was a master chemist. He could prattle on for hours about the oddest effects on drug interactions. Alicia tried to not think too deeply about where, and upon whom, he had done his experimenting. 

Gregg was not quite so serious, but a serious pain in the...rear. His was the honor of getting turned down by Alicia at least every other sentence and of course, he really seemed to think he was reeling her in. He was good with some women and had a con man's confidence. Too shallow though, and no one really seemed to care about him. 

Becker and Laszlo, suit twins down to their matching cuff links, seemed to be going nowhere with pedantic fervor.  Superficially, she had much in common with them.  Like her, they were products of the best schools (Yale and Stanford, respectively), both born to middle class American families.  But where they differed from her was in their work: they teamed up and didn’t get much done, other than generating mounds of reports and official looking paperwork that, sadly, appeared to fool at least some of their superiors. 

It was Laszlo that started the rumor that he had seduced Alicia some months ago. The rumor had burned bright for some time, the other guys really eating it up.   Alicia was in the middle of a great plan to exact a painful revenge (though the decision to actually inject syphilis virii into his bloodstream was still even odds with merely making him believe he had been injected) when her plan came to an abrupt halt. Laszlo was bending over her desk possessively, acting every bit the conqueror and making what he clearly thought were husky remarks when Tom said "That’s extremely odd behavior for coworkers, Mister Peder."

Laszlo had frozen, spasmed, and gone pale as a sheet in the blink of an eye. Tom, their boss, wasn't much older than some of them and not as old as Killian. Tom was soft spoken, always referring to his employees as "Mister" on in her case case, "Miss.” His tone either left you feeling like you were on top of the world or that you had just been flayed alive, depending on whether you had done well or not. 

Alicia held her breath, as there was too much riding on this moment. While she really enjoyed seeing Laszlo in such pain, she knew Tom would not spare her if she misspoke. He had the relaxed poise of a cobra eyeing a frightened snake charmer.

"Mister Peder, you failed to file a 2319 with your travel T-3 last week. Is there a reason for that? Perhaps you could take care of that for me?"

Laszlo mutely nodded and slunk to his desk to fill out the paperwork. Tom looked at Alicia for a moment, his gaze lingered on her eyes, and then he quietly said "My office, Miss McBride. You may bring your tea."

Alicia's throat tightened ever so slightly. She had been away for a month researching her brother, and though she thought she’d kept an ear to the ground, perhaps she’d missed a shift in the political winds?  Tom certainly could not think Laszlo's insinuations were true, but how would he take the effect on this motley collection of agents he called a team?

Seated across from him, she still wondered where he had come from and how he had gotten this assignment. No one knew his background, outside of Harvard right after the war. His clothes were middle class, he seldom wore a jacket, except when outside and armed, and here he was in a small plain office, leading a team of people more skilled and certainly more experienced than he appeared to be. 

But as he gazed at her, she wondered. She knew he could kill, had killed.  Some things mark a person and, sitting across from him, Alicia understood that Tom could deal with an enemy of the state with no real remorse or second guessing. Maybe that was what the guys feared about him, that they built up their reputations while Tom spoke to you instead of just killing you and doing the job himself. 

"Your brother, this Leonardo, how is he?"

For all her training, her ability to remain calm in the face of adversity, she nearly jumped out of her chair. How much does he know, she asked herself, and then, just as quickly she wondered, since he clearly did know, why hasn't he said something before now?

She took a deep breath.  There was no point lying now; she’d lost control of the situation – maybe never really had it to begin with – and she had to play this out.  "Fine, sir. As far as I can tell.  I haven’t met him yet, but I do have some insight into his activities. He’s a free-lancer.  We’ve been using him for for European jobs, and the odd bit of work in the Far East."

Tom leaned back and looked at her. Alicia felt a chill run down her spine. She was used to men in the agency looking at her either as a secretary or a potential conquest. Even, occasionally, as a rival, but never like Tom looked at her right now. As if her mind were completely open to him and he knew every mistake she had made, as well as how much coffee she had yesterday.

"What will you do when you do meet him?"

Alicia paused at that. Tom's gaze had moved on and she was back in control of her own will. But she wasn't sure what she would do when she talked to her brother. Certainly her adoptive parents were loving and supportive, and a birth mother who’d given her up – no matter how good the reasons at the time - could not compare to them. What could the man now known as Leonardo give her that she didn’t already have?

"Honestly?  I don’t know, sir."

Tom looked at her for an eternity. "You are an asset to this team, Miss McBride." Sliding a thin file across his desk, he added. "You were not authorized to get this when you did your file request. Eyes only, and you will have forty-six minutes after leaving my office before one of your team mates gets the courage to look over your shoulder. The entire contents, as well as the cover, must be totally destroyed before then. Shred, burn, paste, and reburn."

Alicia nodded and reached out for the file...


'''Age 31 - December, 1961, Annapolis, Maryland'''

Alicia saw him there through the window.  Same table as always, near the back, against the wall, good view of the door.  Exactly like they taught at Langley – never sit with your back to a door or a window.  

On the other hand, he’d been coming to the same restaurant once a week for the past two months.  Same day, same time, same meal order.  Surely he knew better than to fall into a pattern like that.  

But then again, maybe it was his way of inviting her to meet. There was hardly a protocol for this kind of thing, after all.  And she did want so badly to meet him, to know all the things he could tell her.  

Clearly that was it.  She’d studied his file.  And she knew his reputation.  He’d never be so sloppy, it had to be intentional.  All these weeks, he’d been waiting for her to make the next move.

She watched for a few minutes more, shivering as the cold wind blew in from the sea.  It was that, more than anything else, that pushed her to do it.  

In the end, the thing itself was so much easier than all the waiting and planning and wondering how it would go.  She went straight in, passed the hostess with barely a nod of her head, and sat herself down at his table.  

“I can’t even count how many hours I spent going through records in that hospital in Ann Arbor.  You’d be amazed what you can learn, if you’re just patient and persistent enough.  I’m really hoping it was all worth it, little brother.”


'''Age 31 - January 1962, Falls Church, Virginia'''

Tears streamed down Alicia's cheek as she checked her apartment door for entry and then unlocked it. She had held back for the entire drive home but here, now, it was just too much.  Laszlo had been promoted to her spot, she had been fired based on nothing but hearsay and lies – and stupid lies at that.  Not a single one of her co-workers had stood up for her! Even Killian, normally a helpful if mildly sadistic soul, had turned his back on her. 

"The investigation was not blown because I was in love with the Mark!" She said aloud, drying her eyes. "We did not go..." she slammed her briefcase onto the coffee table "to Vegas for a $20,000 gambling and sex holiday with the Agency paying the tab..." she slammed down her now empty holster, "and we most definitely did not have a conversation about defecting to Cuba!"

Alicia had balled up her overcoat to throw it at the cat but she just collapsed, sobbing again. "Years..." she rocked herself "What would Mike have thought...what would her parents think?

"Interesting exercise regimen, Miss McBride."

Startled, Alicia sprung up and grabbed the letter opener that perfectly balanced for throwing, and much sharper than a letter opener generally was.  She crouched and then faintly saw the outline in the shadow by the refrigerator.

Tom opened the fridge, pulled out the milk, and sniffed it. "Job hazard, I'm afraid. Fresh food never really gets eaten on time in our line of work, does it?"

Alicia's mind whirled. Tom was here; the same Tom that fired her not four hours ago. The same Tom that oversaw the disaster that trashed years of her life. 

Tom shrugged and put the milk back. "Don't drink it, Miss McBride. It went sour a couple days ago." Buttoning up his overcoat, one that looked almost exactly like hers, he added. "I must be off. Difficult day at the office, as I'm sure you understand. I'll just excuse myself."

Alicia watched him as he headed for the door. She couldn't get out what she really wanted to say; there were too many words and not enough time. 

He paused at the door. Turning, looking back at her, he gave a slight, half smile. "Alicia...I can call you that now, can't I?" The smile seemed pained. "There is a tidy sum of cash in unmarked bills on your kitchen counter, as well as a sidearm. Consider them your severance pay for work always done well and always meeting my high expectations of you."

Alicia looked puzzled, and then just moaned "Why? Why! WHY!"

Tom raised a hand and quietly said "Calm yourself, Alicia." A chill ran through her spine and she felt frozen. "You did what I needed you to do these past few months, and the trap you fell into was for your own benefit." He looked at her and, as far as she could remember this was the first time, his smile was genuine. "You will be contacted in a few days. There is another team forming, one that cannot be officially on the books. You could not join if you still worked for me. It is a promotion, Miss McBride." The formality had returned. 

Tom turned the knob and then stopped. With a look that Alica really didn't understand, mischievous, maybe, he added. "He will be there, Miss McBride. Enjoy your new job."

Alicia watched as the door closed behind her old boss...her old life...


'''Age 31 - February, 1962 - Paris, France'''

She had needed time to think, and what better place to do that than in the City of Lights?  ALicia had been there for three weeks now, renting a flat, spending time as a tourist, taking in the sites that she never had the time to appreciate when she'd been here on business.

It would be back to business soon.  She was going to take Tom's "promotion"; there had never really been any question.  She knew of, or at least had heard rumors of, such "midnight operations" as they were referred to; teams more invisible than the "black ops" that were an open secret in the Agency.  Alicia had her suspicions that the midnight teams reported - if they reported to anyone at all - directly to the DCI, bypassingh all the tedious bureaucratic oversight and requirements to adhere to even the barest modicums of law or morality.  Which, considering the things that she'd done as a regular member of the Agency, was somewhat alarming.

But there wasn't any choice.  And whomever had recruited her - the DCI himself, she assumed - knew her well enough to know that.  That was, ultimately, what hurt the most.  It wasn't getting deliberately burned by her superiors, galling as that was.  It was the fact that she'd let her guard down, and allowed herself to be played so completely.  She would not make that mistake again...

  
'''Age 31 - February, 1962, Trenton, New Jersey'''

Alicia had been watching the house for two days, waiting for some sign of Leo’s return, when the boy showed up.  He was 12 or 13, healthy-looking, wearing a scowl.  He threw down his schoolbag, took off his jacked and threw that too on the ground, and then started attacking the weeds in Leo’s garden.

He tore them out of the ground roots and all, and from the expression on his face it was clear he would rather have been attacking someone, probably a classmate, than the defenseless weeds.  She watched for half an hour, as the anger gradually drained away, before she approached the boy.

Alicia knew who he had to be; he knew her brother had taken an interest in the cleaning woman and her son, though she wasn’t yet sure if Leo himself knew what his intentions were.  

“Hello,” Alicia said, smiling brightly.  “I was looking for my friend, but I guess he isn’t back from his trip yet?”

“Don’t think so,” the boy mumbled.  

“I’m Alicia,” she offered, extending a hand.  He regarded her warily but finally shook it.

“I’m Billy.  Mister Leonard has me take care of his garden,”

“Well, any friend of Mister Leonard is a friend of mine,” Alicia answered, sitting down on the steps in front of the house.  “Looks like you had a little mix-up today,” she gestured to the bruise on Billy’s hand.  “Trouble with somebody at school?”

“Just Johnny Morton and his gang,” Billy replied, talking almost without realizing it about things with this stranger that he didn’t tell his mother or Mister Leonard.  He quickly went through the whole miserable story of the fights over the last three years.

Alicia listened to the sad tale, letting Billy get it all out.  Even knowing that it was a well-known facet of human behavior that people will sometimes open up to complete strangers before they say a word to their loved ones, she still marveled at it.  

“You know, I know a thing or two that could help,” Alicia finally said.  “You can keep out of a lot of trouble if you know about human nature. The first thing you have to know is…let me try it this way.  Do you know how to play chess?”

Billy was puzzled, but answered, hesitantly.  “Kind of.”

“Me, too,” Alicia laughed.  “But here’s what I do know.  Most people only know ‘kind of’.  When they play, they see what’s right there in front of them.  You know, they see if they move their Queen, they can take the other player’s horse.  Right?”

“It’s called a Knight,” Billy corrected.  

“So it is,” Alicia agreed.  “But you understand my point?”  The boy nodded.  “OK.   Well, some people see a little further than that.  They see, if they move their Queen, the other player will move their Knight out of the way, and if that happens, then they can do something else.  They see one or two moves ahead.  Still with me?”

“Sure.”

“Well, the best players, the grand masters, they see twenty moves ahead.  So when they move their Queen, it’s not just to capture the other guy’s horse.  Nope.  When they move their Queen, they’re setting up the next twenty moves, so that an hour later the other player’s king will be right where they want it, and they’ll win.  And the other player probably won’t have the slightest idea what hit them.  That’s chess.  But it’s true for all of life.  Most people only see what’s right in front of them, and they only think about what they’re going to do in the next five minutes.  And I can just about guarantee you that idiots like this Johnny Morton are like that.  You see what I’m saying?”

Billy was processing it.  “Uh…”

“Johnny doesn’t plan ahead.  Or if he does, it’s only as far as the next period at school, or maybe, on a good day, what he’s going to do after school lets out.  The way that you beat people like him is, you figure out what he’s going to do, which isn’t very hard, and you think a move ahead.  Or five moves ahead.”

“But how does that stop him coming at me?”

Alicia had had to learn all this on her own; she was glad to be able to pass it on.  “It takes time, and patience, but I promise you it works.  If you can outsmart him, if you think ahead of him, you’ll find that he won’t be able to come at you anymore.  Think about it.  If you knew he was going to find you right after school to fight you, what could you do to avoid it?”

“Sneak out the side door and get home before he sees me?”

“That’s one way, sure.  But how about this?  What if you made it your job to learn the Principal’s schedule, so you know what time he goes out to his car to drive home at the end of the day?  Let’s say you do that.  And let’s just say for the sake of argument it’s 4 o’clock, and let’s say you go the extra mile and you go to see where he parks his car every day, let’s just say it’s right at the end of the parking lot, by the baseball field.”  Billy nodded, following along.  “So instead of waiting for Johnny to find you and hit you, you challenge him to a fight instead.  And you pick the time and name the place.  4 o’clock, right by the ball field.  You see where I’m going with this?”

“Yeah!” 

“Great,” Alicia went on,  “So Johnny shows up, with all his little friends.  And you’re there.  And they’re all looking at you, but what you’re looking for is the the Principal coming out to his car.  There he is.  And you say, ‘I don’t want to fight, Johnny!  I’m sick of you beating me up!’  And being an idiot, Johnny takes that for you being weak, and he takes a swing at you.  And what happens then?”

“I get punched in the face.”

Alicia sighed.  “Maybe.  Unless you learn to duck, too.  But fine, he hits you.  What else happens, though?”

Hesitantly, Billy said, “The Principal sees him?”

“Right,” Alicia smiled.  “The Principal sees him hit you, and he sees you not hitting back, and remember he just heard you saying you didn’t want to fight.  Right?”  Comprehension dawned in Billy’s eyes.  “So what happens then?”

“Johnny gets punished!”

Alicia nodded.  “Johnny gets punished.  And his friends rat him out, too, because they don’t want to get punished.  So now he looks like an idiot to his friends, and he doesn’t trust them anymore because they ratted him out.  Maybe he gets suspended, if you’re lucky, but even if not, he’s got bigger problems than you now, because he’s mad at his friends, and the Principal’s going to be watching him more closely from now on.”

“How’d you figure all that out?”

“It’s not that hard.  It just takes time.  You watch people, and pretty quick you’ll start to figure out what they’ll probably do in different situations.  Then you’ll start to see how you can use that to your advantage.  It’s not totally foolproof, because some people out there are like us, looking ahead, using their brains.  But mostly they’re not.  You understand?”

“I understand.”

They chatted for a few minutes more.  “I guess Mister Leonard isn’t going to show up today,” Alicia said finally. “If you do see him, I’d rather it be a surprise, so please don’t tell him I was here, OK?”

“Sure thing, Miss!  Thanks!”

Turning to leave, Alicia wondered if Billy would really take her lesson to heart.  She hoped so; the boy could certainly use it.