The gun was meant to be a last-ditch effort. Her employers would, no doubt, have preferred that she use it on herself if she were compromised. Still, knowing it was in her purse made the tedious job of watching and waiting a tad more exciting. Cecily Lung had graduated from MIT with a degree in EECS — electrical engineering and computer science — one year after she’d been recruited by Department Two, the intelligence arm of the People’s Liberation Army. Both her parents were Taiwanese. They’d immigrated to the U.S., where, overwhelmed with the prosperity and free speech of her new country, Cecily began to display a revolutionary streak while she was in high school. At first she’d been wise enough to keep her thoughts off social media, but she was quick to grow bored and was on the verge of shucking it all to join an activist group when she was approached. Her recruitment could not have come at a better time. A life designing computers made her want to scream. A life of espionage
If it didn’t get her arrested — or worse.
She glanced at her watch again.
Dr. Li was on the phone, talking in animated tones, but hushed enough that she couldn’t make out his words. He was a decent enough man for a capitalist, and Cecily really didn’t want to have to shoot him. In truth, her superiors had never said anything about shooting anyone. They did not even know she had the pistol. But she was a spy, wasn’t she? Was she supposed to go in and do all this unprotected?
“Hey,” Phil Beasley said, rolling back from his workstation to show he was giving Cecily his full attention. He was no more than ten years older than her but dressed like her grandpa, with wide brown ties and stodgy leather wing tips that were so scuffed it looked like he’d worn them camping. He had a habit of clutching his hair while he worked on a computer problem, leaving a spiked forelock that would have been cool on a high school kid but looked absurd on a man in his mid-thirties.
“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he asked, playing imaginary bongos on his desk.
“To be honest,” she said, glancing at the clock — less than a minute now. “I need some help moving an old clothes dryer out of my apartment. I’ll buy you lunch if you could help on Saturday.”
“Color me there,” he said.
“Great. I’ll text you my address.” She took her phone out of her purse, fumbling so it dropped between Phil’s feet and bounced under his desk. Ever the gentleman, he reached to retrieve it for her. When he bent down, she snatched his ID badge from beside his computer.
It seemed a thousand eyes were on her, but no one stood up, no one pointed an accusing finger.
Phil sat up and handed her the phone at the same time she stuffed the ID into the pocket of her slacks. She looked at the clock again.
“I have to pee,” she said, bouncing a little — from nerves, not her bladder, but the effect was the same. “I’ll text you my number in a second.”
Phil rolled back to his computer. “Cool, cool, cool,” he said.
Cecily made it through the door of the ladies’ room five seconds before the fire alarm went off. She went in a stall and shut the door, standing on a toilet so her feet didn’t show. It was standard operating procedure for the floor warden — one of the engineers who’d been designated — to poke her head in to see that everyone had made it out. They didn’t expect people to hide on the toilet. She heard Mr. Li shouting for everyone to log off their computers — which she’d conveniently done before going to visit Phil’s cubicle. With any luck, he’d rush out without looking for his ID, believing she’d gone on ahead without him. Rude, considering he’d just agreed to what amounted to a date, but people behaved strangely during a possible fire.
Teetering on the flimsy plastic toilet seat, Cecily braced herself against the stall for another two full minutes, allowing everyone to clear the floor. Her handler assured her he would take care of the security video feed that covered the door to the secure computer vault — and she would have to trust him on that.
She stepped down gingerly, shook a cramp from the prolonged half-crouch out of her calf, and then peeked out the door. The alarm — which her handler had activated — still blared, giving the deserted cubicles a postapocalyptic feel.
