Card.

Panama.

July of 1990.

"Why did you join the military?"

Spies are trained to look into the eyes of strangers and see their life stories. Unflinching, unsettling, they dig into the meat of their target, until there is nothing left but the bare bones – the truth. Spies are dogged, unrelenting predators, and everyday people are their helpless prey.

"I wanted to leave home."

"I see you were arrested fourteen times in a three-month span when you were only eleven years old. What was that all about?"

"We needed food, so I stole it."

"Were you poor?"

"No."

"So why not just buy your food?"

Spies have blank faces and they don human masks in whatever expression they find themselves in need of. Even the simple things come from careful control – a smile, a blink, narrowed eyes, a clenched jaw. Some people fail to see through the ruse, and so get sucked in. Some people believe what they see beyond what they feel. But in the wounded, in the experienced, in those weathered by circumstance, there lives an instinct to protect against this deception. People like me feel a cold chill down their spine. We sense that things are not what they seem. We look at liars and see the blankness beyond their expressions.

We recognize people who are like us.

Card stared at me and I stared back, not letting his probing questions unnerve me. But the words, tranquil as I was on the surface, awoke a frustration inside of me. Every rank I gained in the army brought these questions up. Everyone sought to define me by who I used to be, not who I had become. I was so different as a child – so different before I went to war – that it almost seemed like that was another life. How could they look at that scrawny kid and think he was like me?

I answered with the same level, detached voice I had used throughout the interview, keeping my feelings tucked away.

"We had an income, but my father was on a bender. He spent everything we had."

"Do you drink?"

"No."

"You were caught stealing fourteen times. Not very sneaky."

"I got caught on purpose, so my little brother could steal while I had their attention."

Card nodded, and it was the first time I saw him show a genuine emotion. He was impressed. He wrote something in his folder and went on as his pen worked. "You have a decorated history for someone so young. Excellent exam results in basic… highest in your class."

I was completely different when I taught my little brother to slip snacks into his jacket pockets, but the difference between then and now seemed just as profound as the difference between now and basic training. It was a lifetime ago. Some other boy had enlisted and made those friends. Some other boy had watched them drop out, struggled through obstacles with them, learned from a patient teacher and wondered about the future.

"Exemplary work in Kenya…"

"Sir?"

Card looked up from his notes, his eyebrow cocked. "Hmm?"

It was too late, but my brain told me to shut my mouth.

"Kenya was…"

"Kenya resulted in the acquisition of a new resource and the elimination of a dangerous enemy." Card spoke firmly, inviting no questions. "Given time to grow, backwoods kings can become a real thorn in the ass. I know you got yourself captured on purpose, to give Larry Sizemore a chance to catch the king himself out in the open – I have it all here, every word."

Card stared at me, and I did everything I could to meet his gaze confidently. But something told me he knew the truth, that my capture was an accident and a result of disobeying orders – he was choosing to ignore that, to believe whatever Larry had told him.

He went on like I had said nothing.

"Jason Sadler gave you a glowing review… five missions in Russia in a four-month period – talk about getting started with a bang. It seems you were made for this line of work."

Card was quiet for a while, writing in his folder, turning pages, circling things, and glancing at me every now and then. When he was done writing, he placed his pen carefully in an otherwise empty pencil cup and rested his chin on his hand.

He looked into my eyes, and asked, "What makes you think you can do this job, son?"

Spies are many things – bold, creative, resourceful – but what makes them truly effective are the less glamorous traits. Larry was innately cold and detached, with a burning rage inside of him, a desire to control things and get his way, an almost obsessive determination that made him a very dangerous enemy. But did I have any of those qualities? Did I want them?

If there was one right answer to this question, I was sure to miss it by a mile.

"I'll do whatever it takes to get the job done."

"Do you have a death wish, son?"

"No."

"I can offer you a position with the CIA, an unofficial operative. You will perform missions given to you by me. If you choose to accept, there is a very high chance you will die. Every mission is perilous, and no one will be there to hold your hand or back you up. Do you understand?"

I thought of Larry and the two dead police officers in Chechnya. "Yes."

"When you begin a mission, you forget about your life outside of that mission. You become whoever we tell you to be, and you do whatever we tell you to do. You have no home, you have no family, you have no friends. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Card wore a hard expression now, one that was so genuine it planted a seed of doubt in my head.

"I see myself in you, Michael."

His words were obviously not part of the script. I had no response planned. When people said things like that, they usually seemed happier about it.

Card stood up and walked around his desk to give me a hearty handshake.

"As of right now your deployment in Panama is over. You will have no further contact with the delta force team, including your superior. Your personal belongings will be confiscated. You are not permitted to make any phone calls. You will not leave my side until I deliver you to the initiation site. I am your resource and connection during your training, no one else."

His words carried more weight than anything anyone had ever said to me. I was suddenly intimidated by what I had gotten myself into. As I followed him down the hallway of a lush business resort, I felt like I was walking into a very obvious trap.

"Relax," Card said as we entered an elevator. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "I have to say all that, as a formality."

I tried to relax, but my body refused.

"You have a big future ahead of you, Michael."

We rode down six floors, and when the elevator dinged I got a view of the front lobby. It was so tranquil, so beautiful, and so empty. Where were all the people I had seen on my way in?

Card steered me out, and said again, "Relax."

Something stabbed my arm and my muscles burned and locked up. I had time to look at Card, puzzled, and the strength to grasp at the front of his suit as he guided me gently to the ground.

His beady blue eyes were the last thing I saw before the blackness.