Redux: Chapter 1
I'm not stupid. I had the highest GPA in all three programs at George Washington and graduated second in my High School class; that damn Christina Ortiz graduated valedictorian because she got an A in AP Physics and managed to pull it off with only an A (and it was a low A) despite the fact my thesis on Catullus had been published. Simply, Physics is not my forte.
I was raised an intellectual capable of defending herself; that is what I am. By my eleventh birthday, I could speak Italian, French, Spanish, and English, I could read Caesar (even if I didn't truly understand what I was reading until college). Vaughn insisted I learn Latin, something about finishing off the romance languages and reading Catullus and Virgil with my feet on the fireplace (again, in college I discovered my father's true meaning). I'm not claiming to be a genius – technology, automobiles, physics are all Greek to me; however my parents seemed determined to raise an intellectual and cultured daughter, and here I am twenty-one years later, the product of a language professor and CIA Officer's dream.
That's right: CIA Officer. As I said, I am not stupid and can't believe it took me this long to decipher the truth. Perhaps it's because passing Physics, not the CIA, was high on my short list before training. Being here though makes me feel like an idiot; the tacit questions the recruiters ask, his business trips, his little quirks and paranoia, and his work at the "State Department" added up to only one conclusion: Vaughn was, or still is, CIA.
Vaughn was paranoid about my safety, borderline obsessive and Mom ten times as worse. I was the only second grader with a cell phone. When I was seven, I told them I wanted to learn to fence like Inigo Montoya. They enrolled me in lessons the next week. Mom taught me how to throw a punch and successfully do a roundhouse kick at the age of ten. They kept me active, healthy, and alert.
But here's the kicker. Sometime in May when I was thirteen, Vaughn sat me down and gave me a 9mm, semi-automatic (standard CIA issue, but I didn't know that then). Flabberghasted, doesn't begin to describe my confusion and alarm that my father was giving me a gun. I didn't even know we had guns in the house! Where did he get it? What is the point of the exercise? I told him I do not like guns, and he nodded giving me his Guns-Are-Bad-Do-Not-Play-With-Them spiel; subsequently he taught me how to change the magazine, remove the safety, and fire with less kickback as possible. After the theory lesson, he took me into the backyard for the real thing. I hit three out of the five targets; and when I was done, I wanted to try again. But, he only gave me five shots. His last piece of advanced, aim for the chest, you're bound to hit something, pops in my head during every target practice.
At the time I didn't understand his methods. When I asked him he told me the world's dangerous. He wanted me to be prepared. I looked at him odd, for what? To protect myself? Isn't that what I have him for? Vaughn smiled his Father Smile when I said that, and he pulled my ponytail (I openly hated, but secretly loved when he did that). I got all warm and fussy. He vowed to always protect me that day in the backyard, but the practice was just his "paranoia and obsession with my safety." God, I loved him. We laughed, went inside, made popcorn, and watched To Catch a Thief. Half way through the movie, he said: don't tell Mom. I never did.
So many little things you miss when you aren't looking for them. At the Farm, they spent days teaching you to always be prepared and alert. That's why when all of the piece fall right into place I felt like such dumb blonde – even though I was brunette.
The CIA trainee program was a long, tiresome, political, and slow process. Thank god, I was not training to be a case officer. They spend far too much time at the Death Star (ala Headquarters) for my liking. All trainees go through CIA 101 there. It's… tedious. You learn how to file papers, type up reports, apply for dental insurance, and other basic Epionage for Dummies rules and regulations.
Most of the people there were older, I am sure I was the youngest. Three or four looked to be twenty-six, twenty-seven; most were males; most were in their thirties and either relatively attractive or so plan they blended into the wall; lots were ex-military. One guy in the front row, in the corner caught my attention. He looked to be the second youngest. Not a bad looking fellow, he had black bed-hair and a nose that fit his face well. He wasn't stunning, but he wasn't bad to look at either. I sized up the entire room as the instructor who introduced herself as Dolly detailed our training.
I felt way out of my league. At the time I thought I was too young and going to wash out. I wasn't mature enough to handle the responsibly or the pressure. What the hell did they see in me? I was just a girl from Arlington whose only dream in the world was to became Press Secretary one day. That's it – not Congresswoman, not Supreme Court Judge, not President, certainty not CIA field agent. I just wanted to be the White House Press Secretary.
How things changed. Once you go CIA, you never go back.
To my surprise (but not my instructors) I was good.
Quite good in fact.
Okay. I was the best in the class.
Something inside me clicked, because I felt built for this stuff. I thrived off of coffee and two hours of sleep. The less sleep I got the more I turned into Mary Sunshine. I passed the fitness test in two skips and a jump, and actually knocked out one of my instructors once. I felt horrible afterwards, and thought I was so screwed. He came around a minute later, cursing and demanding to know where the hell I learned that. My parents, I replied. He looked at me hard, and squinted while asking, "What's your name again?"
"Alicia Vaughn, sir."
He paused for a second, and I wanted to know if I did something wrong. He opened his mouth, letting out an "Ah" before saying, "The Protég
And that was the moment I knew my father's dirty (not-so) little secret. "You knew my father?" I blurted out before I knew what I was doing.
He responded in that damn CIA ambiguous tone I hated. "I know of him."
"What does that mean?" I snapped, and then thought I needed to learn to control my mouth.
"That means what is means, Miss Vaughn. I know of your father. Now I suggest you go take a shower and get down the mess hall."
Fucking prick. That was like dangling heroin in front of an addict and laughing at his failed attempts to snatch it from you. I didn't object though; I went down to the mess hall and thought more about Vaughn.
TBC...
I'm not stupid. I had the highest GPA in all three programs at George Washington and graduated second in my High School class; that damn Christina Ortiz graduated valedictorian because she got an A in AP Physics and managed to pull it off with only an A (and it was a low A) despite the fact my thesis on Catullus had been published. Simply, Physics is not my forte.
I was raised an intellectual capable of defending herself; that is what I am. By my eleventh birthday, I could speak Italian, French, Spanish, and English, I could read Caesar (even if I didn't truly understand what I was reading until college). Vaughn insisted I learn Latin, something about finishing off the romance languages and reading Catullus and Virgil with my feet on the fireplace (again, in college I discovered my father's true meaning). I'm not claiming to be a genius – technology, automobiles, physics are all Greek to me; however my parents seemed determined to raise an intellectual and cultured daughter, and here I am twenty-one years later, the product of a language professor and CIA Officer's dream.
That's right: CIA Officer. As I said, I am not stupid and can't believe it took me this long to decipher the truth. Perhaps it's because passing Physics, not the CIA, was high on my short list before training. Being here though makes me feel like an idiot; the tacit questions the recruiters ask, his business trips, his little quirks and paranoia, and his work at the "State Department" added up to only one conclusion: Vaughn was, or still is, CIA.
Vaughn was paranoid about my safety, borderline obsessive and Mom ten times as worse. I was the only second grader with a cell phone. When I was seven, I told them I wanted to learn to fence like Inigo Montoya. They enrolled me in lessons the next week. Mom taught me how to throw a punch and successfully do a roundhouse kick at the age of ten. They kept me active, healthy, and alert.
But here's the kicker. Sometime in May when I was thirteen, Vaughn sat me down and gave me a 9mm, semi-automatic (standard CIA issue, but I didn't know that then). Flabberghasted, doesn't begin to describe my confusion and alarm that my father was giving me a gun. I didn't even know we had guns in the house! Where did he get it? What is the point of the exercise? I told him I do not like guns, and he nodded giving me his Guns-Are-Bad-Do-Not-Play-With-Them spiel; subsequently he taught me how to change the magazine, remove the safety, and fire with less kickback as possible. After the theory lesson, he took me into the backyard for the real thing. I hit three out of the five targets; and when I was done, I wanted to try again. But, he only gave me five shots. His last piece of advanced, aim for the chest, you're bound to hit something, pops in my head during every target practice.
At the time I didn't understand his methods. When I asked him he told me the world's dangerous. He wanted me to be prepared. I looked at him odd, for what? To protect myself? Isn't that what I have him for? Vaughn smiled his Father Smile when I said that, and he pulled my ponytail (I openly hated, but secretly loved when he did that). I got all warm and fussy. He vowed to always protect me that day in the backyard, but the practice was just his "paranoia and obsession with my safety." God, I loved him. We laughed, went inside, made popcorn, and watched To Catch a Thief. Half way through the movie, he said: don't tell Mom. I never did.
So many little things you miss when you aren't looking for them. At the Farm, they spent days teaching you to always be prepared and alert. That's why when all of the piece fall right into place I felt like such dumb blonde – even though I was brunette.
The CIA trainee program was a long, tiresome, political, and slow process. Thank god, I was not training to be a case officer. They spend far too much time at the Death Star (ala Headquarters) for my liking. All trainees go through CIA 101 there. It's… tedious. You learn how to file papers, type up reports, apply for dental insurance, and other basic Epionage for Dummies rules and regulations.
Most of the people there were older, I am sure I was the youngest. Three or four looked to be twenty-six, twenty-seven; most were males; most were in their thirties and either relatively attractive or so plan they blended into the wall; lots were ex-military. One guy in the front row, in the corner caught my attention. He looked to be the second youngest. Not a bad looking fellow, he had black bed-hair and a nose that fit his face well. He wasn't stunning, but he wasn't bad to look at either. I sized up the entire room as the instructor who introduced herself as Dolly detailed our training.
I felt way out of my league. At the time I thought I was too young and going to wash out. I wasn't mature enough to handle the responsibly or the pressure. What the hell did they see in me? I was just a girl from Arlington whose only dream in the world was to became Press Secretary one day. That's it – not Congresswoman, not Supreme Court Judge, not President, certainty not CIA field agent. I just wanted to be the White House Press Secretary.
How things changed. Once you go CIA, you never go back.
To my surprise (but not my instructors) I was good.
Quite good in fact.
Okay. I was the best in the class.
Something inside me clicked, because I felt built for this stuff. I thrived off of coffee and two hours of sleep. The less sleep I got the more I turned into Mary Sunshine. I passed the fitness test in two skips and a jump, and actually knocked out one of my instructors once. I felt horrible afterwards, and thought I was so screwed. He came around a minute later, cursing and demanding to know where the hell I learned that. My parents, I replied. He looked at me hard, and squinted while asking, "What's your name again?"
"Alicia Vaughn, sir."
He paused for a second, and I wanted to know if I did something wrong. He opened his mouth, letting out an "Ah" before saying, "The Protég
And that was the moment I knew my father's dirty (not-so) little secret. "You knew my father?" I blurted out before I knew what I was doing.
He responded in that damn CIA ambiguous tone I hated. "I know of him."
"What does that mean?" I snapped, and then thought I needed to learn to control my mouth.
"That means what is means, Miss Vaughn. I know of your father. Now I suggest you go take a shower and get down the mess hall."
Fucking prick. That was like dangling heroin in front of an addict and laughing at his failed attempts to snatch it from you. I didn't object though; I went down to the mess hall and thought more about Vaughn.
TBC...