I get to a cafe somewhere far away from where I live on 55th Street. There, I open my laptop, log in to a separate OS on it, plug in headphones, open the emulator, and enter my credentials.
The software has only one purpose: to anonymously call a single number for emergencies.
“It’s me,” I say when the ringing stops. “I have an interview for a research assistant position. It requires a background check, a polygraph, and a resume review. I need it to go away.”
“What agency?” says my contact. The one who got me the necessary paperwork in the first place. He comes from the network I worked for.
“DCSA,” I say as I look at the email sent to me on my phone. “Friday, 11 am.”
I wait.
While I do, I watch the busy people rushing past the window. People of all different kinds. People who are the reason why I fell in love with New York City. Because they allow me to blend in.
“Dionysus Eta 6, a CIA program for the neurochemical modulation of behavioral risk through directed cognitive intervention, led by Professor Jane Arabella McKenzie,” he says. “Interesting. There will be no appointment. Clearance will beissued on Monday. Access will be granted program-wide under classified assessment. You may not speak of it. Sixty stones.”
With that, he hangs up, and I open my Bitcoin wallet on the encrypted device and enter the verification code to transfer $ 60,000 to the designated wallet.
It is sent within a minute, and I wipe my history from the system. I log out and leave the cafe.
It is a wonderful feeling I have right now, because who has the ability to make a national security check go away? I feel invincible. The way I only feel when I get high with El.
And while I don’t give it another thought right now, my mind can focus on the information I just got.
A CIA program for the neurochemical modulation of behavioral risk through directed cognitive intervention.
A very questionable approach, because messing with someone’s biology is a very thin line to walk on.
I get back home, and to my surprise, El is back. After what happened between us, I don’t even know what we are doing here. We let our confessions die in silence and never talked about it again, and then El had to accompany her father to some business meetings.
“How was L.A.?” I ask her as I get inside. She lies on the floor, her leg up on the couch.
“Don’t ask,” she says. “My father is such a fucking bastard.”
“What did he do?”
She doesn’t answer. I walk over to her and sit on the couch. Only then do I see the red swelling around her nose with dark eye rims. I am on the floor immediately and grab her jaw, kneeling above her and looking at her nose.
“Did he do that?” I ask angrily.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“Nothing is fucking okay. Did he do that?”
“It’s okay, really, we fought, I was drunk and high, I slapped his face and?—“
“I am going to kill him,” I say, and get up, completely forgetting that I am Amelie, and not a trained professional anymore. El jumps up and grasps my hand.
“Seriously, it’s nothing!”
“Nothing! He beat you up, El. He beat you up. Just because he’s a rich untouchable asshole, he can’t do that!”
“I was out of bounds, he just?—“
“You are his FUCKING CHILD!” I shout at her. “It doesn’t matter how much out of bounds you were; no reason in the world legitimates him hitting you!”
She looks at me, close to crying.
“Amy, please,” she says ever so silently with pleading eyes.
