Washington, D.C. – May 2004
Despite her less-than-luxurious accommodations in the back of a military cargo plane, Emily slept almost the entire flight from Italy, waking only when the wheels of the plane hit the runway at Andrews Air Force Base on a spectacularly clear spring morning.
Emily wasn't sure who screamed louder when she entered her apartment for the first time since leaving for her second stint in Afghanistan nearly two years prior—Emily, or the cleaning lady who clearly wasn't expecting anyone to come home.
"Who are you?" Emily asked, bewildered. She'd instinctively reached for the Glock in her pocket only to remember that her sidearm had never made it back to her from Ian's villa. For that, Emily was temporarily thankful. The woman was barely older than a girl and her wide beetle-black eyes telegraphed her fright at Emily's sudden appearance. Emily would have felt awful for scaring her with a gun.
"My name is Cecillia. I clean," she explained, clearly struggling with limited English.
"Do you speak Spanish?" Emily asked. "We can speak Spanish."
"Yes. Yes. Thank you," Cecilia said, relieved.
"Who hired you?" Emily asked "This is my apartment. I didn't hire you."
"I don't know, I work for an agency," Cecillia answered. "But I heard my bosses say something about a Ms. Elizabeth."
Of course, Emily thought.
"I only come two times a month just to dust," Cecillia continued.
"Who gave you the key?" Emily demanded suddenly but gently.
"My agency keeps the key. I give it back when I'm done."
"How many copies of the key do they have?" Emily asked.
"I'm sorry Ms…" Cecillia trailed off.
"Emily."
"Ms. Emily. I'm sorry I don't know how many they have."
Emily did not like that.
"Thank you, Cecillia, for keeping this nice while I was gone. I'm not going to need your services anymore."
The woman looked like a struck puppy.
"Oh, Ms. Emily. I'm so sorry. I did not mean to scare you today I just…"
"No. No. It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just. I just don't need it anymore," Emily said. "Tell your agency I will keep paying for the rest of this month. I'll do next month too. And you can take this." Emily withdrew all of the American cash she had in her wallet, which added up to nearly three hundred dollars. This seemed to soften the blow substantially.
"Thank you, Ms. Emily," Cecillia said. "I can finish up if you.."
"No, that's alright," Emily assured her. "You can go."
Later that afternoon, Emily rode the Metro to the nearest hardware store and changed the lock on her apartment. She was probably violating six different clauses of her lease agreement by doing so, but she didn't much care. They could fine her when she moved out.
…
Emily'd arrived home on a Thursday. The Agency had encouraged her to take the following week off before reporting to Langley. But after only a few days back in Washington she was already restless. Ambassador Prentiss had seen to it that Emily's apartment was maintained while she was gone, so Emily had no real chores waiting other than to stock up on groceries. On Friday, she pulled her car from long term storage and waited an interminably long time at the DMV to re-take her driver's license test. But once she finally got in a car with the patrol officer, she passed with flying colors. Though the testing officer knocked a few points off because she was checking her rearview mirrors too much.
With her fridge re-stocked and her license renewed Emily had nothing to do and no particular desire to spend the next week hitting up the town alone. She decided she'd head to Langly a week early on Monday and see if she could get a jump start on getting cleared for return to the field.
"Agent Emily Prentiss," she presented herself to the Marines guarding the entrance to the parking lot. "I'm here to start the Agent Reintegration Program." Emily really wished they'd pick a different name. It made it sound like she was going to rehab.
One of the Marines scrutinized her badge while another, who barely appeared to be out of bootcamp, started running her information through a computer.
"Um, Agent Prentiss, you're on here. But it says you're not due until next week," the young man told her, looking slightly confused.
"I was told today," Emily fibbed. If she got turned away and sent home for a week, it was not going to be by this 18-year-old with a buzz cut.
The young Marine hesitated for a moment before picking up a phone in the guard booth to call it in.
Jig's up, Emily thought. Someone would tell the Marines she was early and to turn her away. To her pleasant surprise, after a few moments on the phone, the Marines cleared her through.
"Go on through, ma'am. They want to meet you at the OHB."
"Thank you, Private."
After parking her case, Emily made her way to the Old Headquarters Building, a brutalist monstrosity that she had always intensely disliked.
Awaiting her inside was a familiar sight she liked quite a bit better but that she was not expecting at all.
"Would you kindly not bullshit the poor Marines on your first day back," Agent Jack Peterson teased her, looking mock disappointed at his protégé.
"Hey, you," Emily said, pleasantly surprised, giving her old mentor a short but sincere hug. He somehow looked even older and more weary than when she'd seen him the year before in Berlin. And the formerly shaved, buttoned-up agent had sprouted a gray beard and wore his tie loosely. "Maybe don't put a child in charge of security. I don't think that kid could even shave."
"Eh, he just works the phones. The snipers were around if you caused real trouble."
"Well thank you for not shooting me," Emily joked. "I'm surprised to see you of all people though."
"Well get used to it," Peterson said. "Until you complete all of your evaluations, you're looking at your commanding agent."
Emily's brow furrowed.
"You've been here what? Twenty? Twenty-five years?" she pressed. "What are you doing babysitting the sidelined agents?"
"Long story," he muttered. "Walk with me and we'll talk."
The followed Peterson through a meandering hallway she vaguely recognized from years before, and past a brightened little coffee nook, surrounded by a huge line of business-suited agents, which she definitely did not.
"When the hell did we get a Starbucks in here?" she asked, mystified.
"Last year," Peterson explained. "It's a life saver on late nights. And kind of fun. The baristas aren't allowed to know our real names so we just make them up. Or they make them up for us. I've been Obi-wan ever since I grew the beard."
Emily momentarily amused herself with the idea of using "Lauren Reynolds" for her coffee orders before deciding that would probably get her into some trouble.
"Anyway, here we are. Have a seat," he said, directing her into one of the thousands of windowless, unmarked offices in the building. The interior was almost as austere, with just a desk covered by a computer, a clock, and some paperwork. Emily took one of the two chairs across from the desk.
"So what's up with you?" Emily asked. "When I met you were all Mr. No-Nonsense Buzz Cut leading the psychology task force and now you're rumple suited Obi-wan Kenobi making sure we all take our vitamins and go to our doctor's appointments until we can go do real work?"
Peterson smiled wryly.
"First of all, stop profiling me. You know I hate that," he said. "Second, it's like I told you in Berlin. The War on Terror has changed things here. In a way some of us haven't liked. I've made my opinions known, and the brass has responded by busting me down here. I still love this Agency, but it's hard for an old Cold War relic guy like me not to grow a little jaded by it all. You can laugh or be mad. I've chosen to laugh and wait out my last three years until retirement."
"Well that's depressing," Emily observed.
"It's just a new era, everything's changing," Peterson continued. "I'd expect a shakeup at the top soon. Director Tenet's not going to last the summer. Between being caught with our pants down on 9/11 and not being able to find a single damn WMD in Iraq, the administration's looking for a scalp. People like you will be fine. You're too young to be responsible for bad decisions and too talented to get lost in a shakeup. But some of the geezers like me have to keep our heads down until pension time. My only advise to you is the same it was last year – know where your line is and don't cross it."
"Understood," Emily said. "Can't cross any lines right now anyway until I get cleared for return to field duty. So if you could just make that happen for me…"
"No. No. No." Peterson interrupted her with a wag of his finger. "Just because I'm a jaded old man doesn't' mean I've lost respect for all protocol around here. And just because you're teacher's pet doesn't mean you get to ignore protocol. Four things: finish your JTF profile, re-qualify on the range, pass your medical, pass your psych eval, then we'll talk."
"I suppose I don't have much of a choice," she observed.
"That you do not," Peterson confirmed.
"Since you decided to show up early, you're going to have to do your evaluations next week, but you can start working on your profile. I'll show you your office."
"Hope it's as nice as this one," Emily quipped.
"Oh you're going to love it. It's about half the size."
…
The "office" she'd been given was little more than a concrete closet with a steel desk that looked more suited to a high school teacher, but Emily didn't mind terribly. It was only a temporary accommodation. And some of her "offices" in Colombia and Afghanistan had consisted of a folding table in a tent.
During her first week back, she came in every day to work on Ian's profile, including the weekend. While she didn't finish during the first week, she'd made a pretty good dent, with the able assistance of the new Starbucks where the baristas had taken to calling her "Bangs." Emily decided to grow them out.
By the end of the first week working on the profile, Emily had Ian's over-arching traits down. Ian Doyle was a power-assertive psychopath. Possessive and controlling. Meticulous. Explosively angry when things went wrong, but no fool. He was street-smart and business smart—it was no accident he'd eluded death or capture during the Troubles and then made millions dealing weapons after. And he enjoyed that money. He was extravagant. Emily planned to add as much detail as she could. She decided she'd let the JTF know everything, no matter how intimate. Everything except Declan.
Her progress was slowed in her second week when she was actually able to take her evaluations. She had her medical evaluation first. The physician recorded a slightly elevated blood pressure, but deemed it within acceptable range. She easily re-qualified on firearms. But the Agency declined to issue her a new Glock until she was re-assigned. Agents weren't authorized to carry service weapons outside of combat zones or high-threat areas. Emily was fine with that at the office, but didn't like the idea of being unarmed at home. She applied for a concealed carry permit in DC.
…
Short of finishing her profile, all Emily had left to do was the psych evaluation, which was scheduled for the Friday morning of her second week back. It was held in the more modern New Headquarters Building, in one of the few windowed offices available. It didn't exactly have the serenity of a therapist's office, but with natural sunlight and cushioned chairs, it passed as downright quaint compared to most of the rest of the building.
Emily made sure to arrive a little early, but apparently still hadn't beaten her evaluator. She was stunned by his appearance. The man before her was skinny as a pipe, with his narrow face nearly overwhelmed by circular spectacles. If not for the few flecks of white in his unruly mop of curly black hair, which Emily assumed betrayed his true age, she would have guessed he was no more than 28 or 29. But while his hair was a mess, he was quite impeccably dressed in a cashmere cardigan and tie. He spoke rapidly but with an air of polite erudition.
"Agent Emily Prentiss, I presume," he said, extending a long, well-manicured hand, which Emily shook.
"That is me," she confirmed.
"Excellent. Dr. Steven Katzman, behavioral psychologist. I'll be chatting with you today. Have a seat," he offered.
Who the hell is this guy? Emily thought.
It almost seemed like the agency had sent a graduate student to do her evaluation. Though the Dr. part indicated he was at least old enough to have his PhD. Emily didn't much care either way. She just wanted to get this over with. For the next two hours Dr. Katzman peppered her with a variety of questions. Some were general, but others revealed he must have been given access to a good bit of her file.
"You were undercover about nine months?"
"That's right."
"Alias Lauren Reynolds?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever feel unable to distinguish your identity from hers?"
"It was strange at first, but not really. No."
"Do you ever currently have trouble distinguishing your identity from hers?"
"No. She's dead."
"You were intimate with this Ian Doyle?"
"Yes. That was the cover and the way we determined we could best access him."
"Did you develop any emotional attachments?"
"No. I was doing my job."
"Did you fear for your safety?"
"Sometimes. I was hanging out with a terrorist."
"Do you fear for your safety now?"
"Only during rush hour on the Beltway."
Emily struggled not to be impatient as the interview went on. She had a profile to finish. And she wanted to be near done as possible by Monday, when she would meet with Peterson to discuss her progress and, she hoped, her next assignment. But he was polite, even likeable, if slightly awkward. And Emily knew he had a job to do before she could get back to hers.
Dr. Katzman finally released her a couple of hours after noon.
"It was good to meet you Agent Prentiss," he said, shaking her hand again. "I believe you meet with Agent Peterson on Monday? I'll have your report to him by then."
"Thank you, Doctor," Emily said. "And take care."
She spent the rest of her Friday and the weekend continuing to work on Ian's profile.
…
Emily was downright antsy by the time Monday morning rolled around. She anticipated she'd have an initial draft of her profile done sometime during the week, and she was anxious to get off her ass and off to a new assignment. Despite the raging spring thunderstorm, she'd driven to work at a borderline irresponsible speed and plodded through the parking lot in the rain because she'd forgotten her umbrella at home in her haste. At least she was wearing a dark shirt.
"You look like a wet dog," Peterson commented when she showed up to his office for their meeting.
"At least I don't smell like one," she said, plopping herself down in one of Peterson's chairs. "Tell me you have some news for me."
"I do," Peterson confirmed.
"Great, where am I off to next?" she asked eagerly.
Peterson took a deep breath, as if girding himself for battle.
"Here," he said, finally, exhaling heavily.
"I'm sorry what?" Emily pressed. Surely she'd misunderstood.
"You're staying here," he said again. "You failed your psych eval."
"What?!" Emily again demanded indignantly. "How's that possible?"
"Relax, Prentiss" Peterson said, raising his hands slightly defensively. "Around 90 percent of undercover agents fail their first psych eval after long-term assignment. Living a duplicitous life 24/7 does things to your mind. It's inevitable."
"I didn't give any answer in that interview that would cause me to fail a psych eval," Emily insisted.
"Which is exactly how you planned it," Peterson said matter-of-factly, folding his hands in a slightly arrogant manner Emily found quite annoying.
"Excuse me?"
"You lied, Prentiss," Peterson said plainly. "You said whatever you thought would get you back in the field the fastest."
"Katzman said that?"
"I believe his exact phrasing was 'evasive and not forthcoming,' but yes." Peterson said. "I assumed you might. That's why I made sure you saw Katzman. That guy is as good as a polygraph test but with a lot more subtlety."
"You're telling me that little Harry Potter-looking guy is a human lie detector?" Emily demanded, genuinely astounded.
"Oh yeah. It's hilarious isn't it?" Peterson grinned. Emily was not amused. "He's probably the best behavioral analyst I've ever seen. Even better than you. And you're very good."
"Thanks," she scoffed, not exactly mollified. She was genuinely pissed that the demure little man in the cardigan had apparently gotten one over on her.
"Unfortunately, his only foreign language is German, which isn't super useful to us these days, and he's allergic to field work," Peterson explained.
"So you keep him here to shrink the rest of us?" Emily asked.
"Usually just those of you we think might be capable of duping the rest of the psychologists," Peterson explained. "And you are very much on that list."
Emily ran her hands over her face. Katzman and Peterson were both doing their jobs, but Emily still felt a bit betrayed. She was stuck. The only question now was…
"How long?" she asked.
"What?"
"How long do I have to stay here?"
"I want you to see Dr. Katzman once a week, and then we'll reevaluate in two months' time."
"Two months?" Emily protested. "How many IEDs are going to blow up in Iraq over the next two months because they don't have enough interrogators?"
"Prentiss, trust me, you are not going to single-handedly save Iraq from IEDs, that place is a quagmire."
"But…" she started.
"Listen," Peterson said. His tone was not mean, but was dead serious. Some of the new, jaded but genial Peterson had melted away and Emily suddenly recognized the strict, serious man who had recruited her in that stuffy classroom at Georgetown nearly a decade earlier. "I am going to level with you. You spent the last two years doing some seriously messed up shit."
Peterson began ticking off the "messed up shit" on his fingers, as if counting.
"You, who are not a solider, were deployed to a combat zone. You were in a helicopter crash. Then you went undercover. With a terrorist. During which time, if I'm understanding the reports from your JTF team, you got shot. And then you spent two days in jail and faked your own death just to wind up back here asking me to send you to another war zone after a couple of weeks."
Emily couldn't find the right words to argue.
"Look," Peterson continued, his tone softening up again. "Prentiss, you might very well be solid. And if you're not solid, we will get you solid. But I just have to be sure. Because if I send you to Baghdad or Fallujah and then suddenly this all catches up to you at the wrong moment and you freeze, or panic, or have a break, you could get yourself and other people killed. So just help me and Dr. Katzman make sure you're good."
"Alright," Emily agreed, nodding slowly. "Alright, I will."
"Well, it was an order, not a suggestion" Peterson smirked slightly. "But I'm glad you're on board. And look, if you really need an 'assignment' right now, I'll give you one. Because I know you're almost done with your profile."
"Sure," Emily agreed, eagerly. "Anything."
"Get Emily Prentiss back."
"I…don't understand," Emily blinked.
"I've been watching you since you came back," Peterson said. "You show up a week early. You work late into the night. You work on the weekends. I'm going to take an educated guess that other than spending time here you never leave your apartment?"
Once again, Emily wasn't in a position to argue.
"You have to get your life back" he said. "Go look up your old friends. Have dinner with your family. You've always been a workaholic but not a recluse like this. I remember you. So finish your profile. Shoot straight with Dr. Katzman, and find the old Emily Prentiss. And then we can talk. But that is your assignment. Starting now. So get out of here and go do something not work the rest of the day."
He locked eyes with Emily, who felt an indescribable mixture of annoyed, angry, vulnerable, and slightly moved. Her arsenal of snarky retorts was depleted.
"Okay," she agreed, rising to leave.
"And take this with you," he said, tossing her a small black box. She caught it and opened it to find a gold medallion on the end of a straight ribbon with blue and red vertical stripes.
"Agency commendation for bravery in service," Peterson explained. "On the recommendation of me, Chief Shirer in Brussels, and your JTF man Easter. Since you earned it in confidential circumstances, we can't exactly have a big cake and punch ceremony for you at the Pentagon with your Mom and Dad and Secretary Rummy." Emily briefly pictured such an event. The Ambassador would eat that up. Emily would hate it.
"Mabe," Peterson went on, "you can put it on your mantlepiece someday if this all gets declassified and show it off to your grandkids."
"Thanks, Peterson," Emily chuckled softly, slightly touched. "Though I don't think I'm exactly on pace for grandkids at this rate."
"Well, whatever you want. Get a cat. They like shiny things," he said. "But I'm proud of you. You earned it. Now go hang out at the Smithsonian or something, but for God's sake grab an umbrella. You'll drown out there."
….
Author's Note: Just a random fun fact: There really IS a Starbucks at the CIA headquarters where people are not allowed to use real names when they order. Learned that random tidbit while researching for this story. Don't know if it was there during the timeframe this takes place, but I couldn't resist putting it in. 'til next time!