1 Austin, Tuesday February 13, 2018: You’re going to Houston

Waves are lapping against our feet as I slowly lower myself onto my husband. The beach is deserted; the air is cool, and the moon is just coming up. "I love you, Elizabeth," he murmurs as he slowly fills me.

The deck chair groans under the strain of our combined weight, but it holds. Soon I'm straddling him, his entire shaft buried inside me up to the hilt. I don't start moving right away, taking a moment to revel in the feeling of him inside me. It is an indescribable feeling. I never want him to leave. I want us to stay like this, joined forever at the hip Literally.

Both of us are naked as the day we were born. We haven't been wearing clothes much lately. We have this stretch of beach to ourselves. We've been copulating like rabbits but it's our honeymoon. What else are we supposed to be doing?

He says my name again in a hoarse whisper and kisses me passionately. He has one hand cupping my head while the other fondles my left breast. I stay immobile for the entire duration of the kiss, relishing the exquisite feeling of him inside me.

I brace my legs against the wet sand and start moving slowly. The kissing intensifies as I grind down harder on him. Then I really lean into it. I grip the back of the deck chair, dig in my feet, and ride him like he's a bucking bull.

It doesn't take long before we're both undone and climax together. He cries out my name one last time and shoots his warm seed deep into my insides. I hope I get pregnant. I shudder and tremble before collapsing on his chest. I want to kiss him again but his face keeps shifting. It always does. Not him, I recoil as my subconscious settles on Ralph's face.

I come to my senses just as my thighs stop trembling. A wave of embarrassment instantly washes over me. I'm ashamed of myself. This is pathetic. I joined the CIA so I could spend my days in car chases and shootouts when I wasn't smuggling dissidents through airports in suitcases, seducing handsome Russian spies named Sergei, and defusing bombs. My career at the agency has been anything but.

Rubbing one out in the bathroom is the most exciting thing I've done all week. Hell, I have done nothing remotely exciting since I left the CIA training school, The Farm, nearly two years ago. I've spent that time poring over balance sheets, bank transfers, and tax returns of one shell company or another trying to untangle the massive web of terrorist financing.

It's important work, but it's just not how I envisioned my career at the agency would be like. Who would have thought an accounting major at the CIA would be assigned the unenviable task of auditing terrorist accounts?.

Alan Raskin says we're the real heroes, not the guys running around with guns in foreign cities assassinating America's enemies. It's an empty platitude and I hate it. I didn't join the agency to spend my days bent over a computer on the third floor of an Austin accounting firm. Yet it appears to be my fate for the foreseeable future.

My personal life is just as unsatisfying as my professional one. I hope to get married and maybe have kids someday but have had little dating success since my break-up with Ralph. Three and a half years ago. Right before I walked into Langley and filled out an application form. I was so angry back then.

I brush away my disappointment, stand up, pull up my panties, and smooth down my skirt. I flush the toilet, head to the sink, and wash my hands thoroughly with soap.

Some girls from the office have invited me to join them for drinks after work. I've been feeling very lonely of late. I've also been thinking a lot about Ralph. Every man who smiles at me vaguely reminds me of him.

I haven't been with anyone else since we broke up. I've been on a couple of dates, but the spark just wasn't there. Sometimes I wonder... But it couldn't be. He's married now. To her! Flicking the bean in the bathroom was shameful, but I suppose it was the right call. I don't want to go get drunk on the night before Valentine's Day while simultaneously feeling horny and lonely. I'd hate waking up with some stranger in my bed.

I dry my hands and walk out only to come face to face with Joseph Welch. He's the other half of Raskin & Welch, the accounting firm cum CIA front I work for. What the hell is he doing outside the ladies' room?

"Elizabeth, come with me." Welch turns and starts walking away after his curt order. I obey and follow him wordlessly. What's going on? Joe Welch never comes to the office. The first time I met him was last Friday during the office party. We chatted for a while, but he made me uncomfortable. He was staring. A lot.

He's middle-aged, balding, portly, and walks with a slight limp. Welch looks like he's one divorce away from a midlife crisis. We all thought he had retired. I worked here for two years before I even met him. But he was at the office last Friday and now he's back mere days later on a Tuesday afternoon? Something's up.

We head up to Alan Raskin's office. Raskin is not there. Raskin oversees the day-to-day operations of Raskin & Welch. He advertises in the local dailies and we handle tax planning and accounts for quite a few local businesses. This gives us the appearance of a regular old accounting firm.

A woman is occupying Alan's chair. She stands up as I walk in and makes her way straight to me. She's tied her graying blonde hair back in a tight bun to reveal a lined, austere, and stern face. Her pantsuit is a drab dark gray, her shoes sensible, and her eyes a piercing blue. Unlike Welch, she looks very much the part of someone who works for the government.

"This is Majorie O' Brien," Welch says by way of introduction as the woman pauses in front of me. She cups my chin and stares directly into my eyes. Her fingers are surprisingly strong. I feel quite a bit of pain from their iron grip. What the hell! I want to stare back in defiance, but I can't hold her gaze for long. I turn my eyes away before she can see them start to water.

She tilts my chin to the side and examines my cheekbones before releasing me. "Incredible," she says to Welch. Her tone is completely flat. Almost robotic. Then she turns to me, "Are you a natural brunette?"

"Yes," I answer. I'm still confused. "Get rid of the bangs. You're going undercover," she adds matter-of-factly. There is no illusion of choice in her voice. It's an order. Welch walks out, leaving me alone with her.

That's fine with me. I'm finally going to have some fun at last. "Where? The Middle East? Russia? China?" I'm giddy with excitement. The answer she gives is extremely disappointing, "You're going to Houston."

"But... but… we're not allowed to operate on American soil. That's the FBI's job," I stammer.

Majorie appears amused, "And you think I don't know that? You won't be running any operations. You're going to observe and report. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am." I'm feeling quite timid. "But that's still espionage," I try to argue again.

"Yes, Elizabeth. It is. You'll be well protected. This operation has already been sanctioned at the highest levels. Sit down." I comply. Marjorie heads back behind Raskin's desk.

"You are the perfect candidate for this assignment, Elizabeth," Marjorie sounds almost friendly.

"You're sure?" This is worrying and exhilaratingly flattering at the same time.

I don't know what to feel. On one hand, I'm going to do some real spying. On the other hand, it's Houston, so almost certainly zero shootouts for me and a senate hearing or two down the road if anything goes wrong. But the agency rarely gets punished for all the shenanigans it pulls. I might just get out unscathed.

"Elizabeth, you're perfect. Some might say this is what you were born to do." Marjorie's words feed my ego. Yay! I'm special.

"So, what's the assignment? How long will it last? What's my cover identity? I want a Spanish name. Something long and complicated. Show me the gizmos. I want a gun that shoots tranquilizing darts. Oh! And bugs. Lots of bugs..." the words come pouring out. I'm going to live out my female Bond fantasies at last.

"Calm down Elizabeth," Marjorie has a slightly amused look on her face. "You won't be needing any of those things."

This is confusing. "But I'm going undercover?" What kind of assignment is this? "I'll be hunting terrorists and traitors, right?"

"In a way, yes. But that won't be your job. Your job isn't to hunt or spy on anyone. You'll simply observe and report. You'll never need to follow, bug, or shoot anyone," Marjorie says those words to me like I'm a stupid petulant child.

"What will I be doing exactly?" This isn't what I signed up for.

"You'll be an assistant to the CEO of Strauss Industries. You'll fetch her coffee, schedule her days, take her calls, attend her meetings, and do anything else she wants you to do." Boring, the thought comes unprompted.

"An assistant?" I'm turning 26 in a month, for crying out loud.

"I see the job disappoints you, Elizabeth," Marjorie starts. "You will officially take a pay cut, but you will still be unofficially receiving your agency salary, so it shouldn't matter. And you do have some valuable skills. Karen Strauss-Klein can't read a balance sheet and has little interest in running her company. Your official title will be executive assistant but in reality, you will be doing her job for her. If your performance is satisfactory, your position at Strauss Industries and right here at the agency will be greatly improved."

"So Karen Strauss-Klein is my target?" I want to know.

"Strauss Industries is your target. Since you'll be spending a lot of time around Karen, I expect you to report on her movements, meetings, and everything else that comes across your desk. You'll also report on everyone you interact with during your time undercover, both professionally and personally. You will submit your reports at the end of every day. "

"How exactly will I be submitting that report? I can only make so many dead drops before someone gets suspicious."

Marjorie smiles for the first time, "We're not in the '80s Elizabeth. Are you familiar with Dear Diary?"

"It's a journaling app, yes? Wait, do you monitor it?" The agency has done worse, but reading the diaries of 14-year-old girls would be a new low.

"No, Elizabeth," Marjorie tries to look horrified. "We provided some funding for its creators, but the agency is not interested in reading about the crushes of teenagers. Dear Diary has very good encryption, so there is little risk of snooping. We needed a way for field agents to submit reports and figured out a service that is used by large numbers of people would perfectly hide any spy traffic."

"We've already created a Dear Diary account for you. You just write an account of your day and we'll read it. If anyone catches you, you're simply updating your diary, not submitting a surveillance report."

That is quite smart, but I still have more questions. "So, what will be my cover identity?" I hope they'll let me pick a cool name at least.

"None. You'll be Elizabeth Heaton. Accountant and executive assistant to the CEO. You're only performing low-intensity corporate espionage, not infiltrating Al Qaeda."

"But…" I can't believe it. These clowns are sending me undercover with no cover.

Marjorie cuts me off curtly, "You have no field experience, Elizabeth. Most agents go undercover for a couple of weeks and interact with their targets only a few times throughout their assignment.

You, on the other hand, will interact with your targets every waking moment of every day for at least a year, and maybe two. A fake identity poses an unacceptable risk. How do you know you won't trip up and blow your cover?

The targets in your orbit are extremely careful and suspicious. Even the best cover identity isn't bulletproof. We could take the birth certificate of a dead kid and build an identity from there, but anyone who digs far enough will find the death certificate.

Then they'll interview your supposed classmates, teachers, and neighbors. Not a single one of them will remember you if you aren't real.

But Elizabeth Heaton is a real person. However far you dig, you'll always find people who can vouch for her existence."

"What about my employment with the CIA?"

"Nobody can find those records. CIA personnel files are the most confidential in the world. The people with access to them have the highest of security clearances and there is only a handful of them. If your records were to leak, America would have far bigger problems than losing one spy in Texas.

As for Raskin & Welch, only the people who work here know what it really does and none of them will know of your mission. As far as your co-workers are concerned, you're quitting because you can't handle the pressure."

"But won't it be suspicious for me to move to another city just to take a lower-paying job? And you also said I would continue receiving my agency salary. How is that going to work out?"

"You paint, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You'll put up your paintings for sale at a gallery and we'll send people to buy them. If anyone asks why you opted for a pay cut, you can just say you started making a little money from your art and chose to take a lower pressure job instead."

I have more questions, "How are you going to get Karen Strauss-Klein to choose me out of all the other applicants?"

Marjorie seems to enjoy this line of questioning. "By sabotaging the other applicants." Of course. How the hell did I not figure that out? The agency has sabotaged entire nations. Gaming a job application wouldn't even register as a challenge on their radar.

One last question, "What exactly is Strauss Industries doing that you're so interested in?"

Marjorie tries to dodge, "That's at least five security clearances above your current level. This mission is carefully compartmentalized. Everyone involved knows only what they need to know. You can't give anything away if you know nothing."

"But you know everything!" It doesn't seem fair.

"Ok," Marjorie concedes. "The Chinese have spies embedded within some of our defense contractors and their subcontractors. Strauss Industries is a subcontractor for Lockheed and Northrop. It's a pretty small fish in the larger scheme of things, but we believe someone there is leaking production numbers to China."

"Can't you just send the FBI to investigate?"

Marjorie scoffs, "Those clowns are only interested in parading in front of cameras. We don't want to lock up this spy. We want to turn him."

"What if I can't identify him? What if he resists?"

"We don't expect you to identify him right away. That's why we figure it might take a year, maybe longer. You shouldn't try to identify this person either. We don't want you compromised. I expect the target will come to you or reach out through an intermediary."

"Why would a spy do that? It makes no sense."

"You have access and you'll be the new girl. This fellow will immediately suspect that we sent you. He will try to get close and find out what you know. Your job will be to convince him otherwise by acting as normal as possible. That's why we need you to report all your interactions. We will handle the investigations. That way, when we catch him, he'll never suspect your involvement."

"But what if you can't turn him? What if he flees back to China?"

"He's not Chinese. Intercepted communications show that he's an American citizen. He has no option but to become a double agent. Leaking military secrets to a foreign enemy is treason. That's a federal death penalty offense. He can cooperate or die."

"If he's an American spying for China here, then he's doing it for money, or he's being blackmailed. How does turning him help you? I'm pretty sure they don't trust him enough to tell him anything important."

"Have you ever heard of the Strategic Defense Initiative?"

"Yes. The Star Wars program. From the '80s. It never worked."

"It was never meant to," Marjorie asserts. "It was a fake program, one of several that we intentionally leaked to the Soviets. They went bankrupt trying to create deterrents for superweapons that didn't exist and could never even work if they did. It was quite funny. I worked on that, you know."

"And you want to do the same thing to China?"

"Yes. Find their most trusted spies here, turn them, and have them feed their masters coordinated fake intel. They're more likely to believe it if they hear it from multiple unconnected sources."

"That's quite clever," I compliment her.

"I know," Marjorie nods. "Time for field protocols. Avoid electronic communication as much as possible. The risk of interception is too high. Your phone will probably be bugged and you can expect the GPS on your car to be hacked as well."

"Then I'll just remove the GPS and use burners."

"No!" Marjorie looks horrified.

"Why? It's the logical thing to do..."

"For a spy," she interrupts. "Not a civilian. You need to act oblivious. If you act like you know you're being spied on, the people spying on you will start wondering about how you know."

"Maybe I can catch them following me..."

"You never will," Marjorie replies with absolute certainty. "These are professional operators. Very sleek. You'll never catch a whiff of them. They already suspect you of being a spy. You need to dissipate those suspicions by acting as clueless as possible. Do all the normal things you do on your phone and drive to all the usual places. Act like an ordinary citizen without a care in the world."

I nod along, finally understanding Marjorie's plan for confusing the enemy. I'll have to do the exact opposite of what a spy would do.

Marjorie plods along, "Never call me. I'll call you. You're not to make direct contact and you're not to write anything in your diary that alludes to your work with the agency. You're not to speculate on who is the spy either. Just write down your day-to-day interactions. Make the report look as natural as possible. That way, if your diary falls into the wrong hands, there will be nothing compromising. Just an account of your days."

"Ok."

"Strauss Industries rents five of the top six floors of the Delphi tower," she continues. "Opposite the Delphi Tower is a deli. Ziggy's Delicatessen. Many people who work in the Delphi Tower have lunch there. They write lunch and dinner specials on a chalkboard outside the deli. Check it every weekday. On ordinary days, they write the specials in white.

If you see them written in colored chalk, then we'll have to meet in person. Lunch specials mean an afternoon meeting, and dinner specials mean an evening meeting. Go to Craigslist and find a 'World's Best Boss' vanity mug. It will be the most expensive on the site by a good margin. Go to the sales listing. You'll find an address. And don't forget to buy the cheapest mug after looking at the expensive listing.

If you need to initiate contact, go to the deli and order a tuna sandwich to go. Take it back to your office right away. Someone will get in touch with you about an appointment in 20 minutes. Go to the provided address."

I just nod along.

"If your life is threatened, call 911, order a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, and provide your address, or cough twice if you don't know exactly where you are, then hang up. Do you understand all the protocols, Elizabeth?"

"Yes."

"Repeat them back to me," she commands. I repeat them back and almost forget the last bit, but it comes back to me.

"Good. You need to prepare for your move to Houston. We already sent in your application. Karen Strauss-Klein should call you anytime from tomorrow morning."