"Dr. Marcier?" The lab assistant called out tentatively, "will you be in the office, this weekend?"
"I'll be in my bedroom," the professor corrected, gathering up a pile of petri dishes from the sink nearest to the door, and placing them carefully in a cupboard under labeled sections. "I have papers to grade and half a dozen reports to send, I'll see you back at work next week."
The small, dark-haired student pursed her lips and almost responded, but the professor, gathering her bags, flicked off the light. "You're still undergrad, Alicia. Get some rest, go out, get drunk, finish your research project you mentioned on the, what was it?" she paused "Nigerian political history," she finished, remembering; you need some time away from the lab. You don't need to worry about deadlines. That's my job; goodnight."
The student raced to hang up her lab coat and grab her flower-studded backpack before the door closed on the professors heel, turned in the direction of the dorms, and pulled out her phone, knowing that drinking wasn't on her list of Friday night to-do's, but remembering the mountain of homework ahead of her, a night in her dorm on a few government databases with music blaring, and popcorn popping might be.
The professor, however, Dr. Jeanette Marcie, had other plans, none of which included grading papers. That was for her TA to do; she was overpaid by the private university to check off whether or not her undergraduate biochem students had the correct significant figures on chemical equations; Jeanette Marcie was on track to meet with an old, old friend.
As French as the young professor's name sounded, she was california born and raised by russian parents, a mathematics and biochemistry double major, musician, dancer, and Northwestern surf champion, and joined the military after receiving her masters in mathematics, and spent the next six years, programing and decrypting for every branch of the state department. Her name was Jane at the time; Jane Mineyev. Programing and serving the needs of there most powerful nation on the planet didn't last long though; a leak in information by a former once-loyal CIA operative put her and her colleagues's location in Northern Utah on the map, and two hours after the information was made public, too long, her decryption location was set alight by a group of well-known, anti-government mobsters, apparently set on revealing the identity of every cryptographer and undercover operative in the state department. Jane was the sole survivor of the attack. Under amnesty, Jane was sent to France with her new alias, to work under the cover of a programer for an emerging technology company, but since the organization had been dormant for the past four years, she had returned to the U.S, specifically New York to gain a life back. One specific life however. Once under the cover of another identity, Jeanette had been told by a case manager, since she'd been a target, it would near-impossible to return to what she lived as before.
What life did the cryptographer want? It wasn't her old life she was looking to get back, it was an old life she never had.
Two weeks earlier, a rising senator representing the state of New York had contacted her under her alias, inquiring about research she'd been conducting with the Earth Institute of Columbia University, multidisciplinary-based research measuring global growth and expected economic, environmental scientific, and political trends with programs she'd been writing, accompanied by inputs of data from chemical, biological, economic, and social research from projects conducted worldwide. She and her dark-haired undergraduate lab assistant, along with five other undergraduate researchers at the university had been working with water samples collected from bodies of water across the eastern seaboard, measuring anthropogenic changes in chemical composition to predict environmental changes. The senator had asked to meet with her for dinner this evening to discuss her research and its potential political implications for the next ten years, a period in which it was known he intended to run for president.
The professor shook off the thoughts that filled her head as she walked towards the subway station, barely visible in the falling december evening. She wondered if the senator would remember her. Still under a cover, and according to her faculty and her students alike, still a cryptographer and biochemist from a small town outside France, no one besides her elder brother and case manager knew she still preferred the name Jane, still missed the thrill of the surf in Humbolt, California, and still thought of her Irish dance competitions she performed as a freshman in college; no one besides two out of over seven billion knew who she was; it was difficult still to come to terms with that aloneness.
Descending down into the flourescent-lit subway underground, the professor ducked into a single-stall restroom to change, unnoticed by anyone. Reaching into her small satchel, the professor brought out a flowing burnt-orange shirt barely worn, and completely untouched since the summer after high school. Untying her auburn-red hair from its knot above her skull, and tightening a simple rope necklace around her neck, partially hidden by a scarf, the doctor stepped out, and half jogged to catch the Q train just pulling in, heading uptown towards Little Italy. Ten minutes later, after a soft brushing of powdered foundation and an extra layer of mascara, the professor stepped into the small, intimate restaurant, vibrant with the smell of basil and fresh olive oil. She caught the senator sitting at a window table, gazing out the window as snow started to fall outside the well-polished glass.
"Do you have a reservation?" A tall, blonde woman with a thick venetian accent interrupted the professors thoughts as she stepped over the threshold.
"Eight O'Clock, meeting with Senator Brown," the professor responded in her now-accustomed french dialect, as the woman stepped away from her podium and beaconed her over to the Senator's table, gesturing to the table before she returned to her position by the door in the rhythmic click of the high-heeled shoes.
"Professor," the senator rose fluidly to meet and shake the doctor's hand. "Thank you so much for meeting with me on such short notice."
"It was my pleasure, Senator," Jane responded in her pseudo-french accent, removing her coat, and unwrapping her scarf about her neck. "It is not often researchers get called away from such a social life of and writing about our findings in the laboratory," she smiled, and the senator gave a chuckle. "It is nice to get out for a change, and I hope we can both benefit from our meeting tonight." Jane removed the last layer of the scarf, revealing the rope necklace about her neck, at which moment the Senator's eyes darted down to her collarbone, took in the engraving on the pendant at the base of her neck, and gazing confusedly at it. Another second of notice at the scientist's deep-colored blouse, the politician cocked his head to the left slowly, his eyes narrowed before he returned to his full politician's facade, eyes warm and welcoming, body language to make anyone feel like he was their man.
"Is there a problem, Senator?" Jane asked, knowing very well the thoughts racing through the mind of the young politician. "You looked worried for a moment."
The Senator gave a well-mannered laugh and a smile, placing his hands on his thighs. "Nothing at all," a pause, "I'm out to dinner with a beautiful woman on a Friday night. I have absolutely no complaints." Another smile and a glance down at his clenched hands. "Your necklace, it reminds me though of one an old friend used to wear."
"Oh I'm sure," Jane responded, her fingers itching with anticipation. "It's a beautiful design. Simple but beautiful. I'm sure its a commonly sold piece." With one hand, the scientist loosened the knot and brought the rope up and around her brushed auburn hair; "care to take a look?"
Under normal circumstances, the senator knew such a proposal to analyze a colleagues jewlerey would usually be considered absolutely ludicrous, and unprofessional at best, but the design was one the senator had seen only once before, and was nothing he'd call common in the least. It was also curious the scientist had chosen to wear this modest, even cheap by New York standards, piece to a professional dinner that could mean more publicity for her research and her personal position than anything, but he slowly felt his hand coming up from beneath the table to accept the small coin-like pendant. On the front was the engraving he'd once given to a given to a girlfriend as they both were leaving off to college, a design that could have been on any piece. But on the back, he recognized his own handwriting, miniaturized as tiny as possible as to fit on the small piece of metal. It read 'Iwalu,' a phrase he and his old lover had used often to say 'I will always love you.' A few years after their split, and after several months of busy schedules and little communication, the girl seemed to have disappeared completely, as if she'd gone off grid. Her phone numbers rendered useless, her online profiles, email addresses and blogs rendered useless and defunct, and no information anywhere of where or how to find her, he'd given up hope of seeing her again, as he once had hoped, of seeing her, reconciling their friendship, or even their love, after her death.
"Senator?" Jane could barely contain the excitement quivering in her stomach at the reaction of the young politician.
"So sorry," the senator responded quickly, looking almost startled. "It looks almost identical to the one my friend wore." He paused, "might I ask where you got it?"
The doctor reached across the table to receive the rope and pendant back, before tying it around her neck again. "I might have asked who you gave it to."
Abandoning all cordiality at this point, the senator looked into the brown eyes of a young girl, grown up, pushed back his chair and stood. "Care to join me for a walk, Dr. Marcier?"
Standing to meet the politician before the table, for the first time in years now, the scientist reverted back to her American english, "Please, call me Jane."