Finding the Fit Chapter 3
Rick affixes his last signature and hands the stack of papers to his gorgeous overseer. "Finished. What now?"
"Now," she replies starting toward the door, "you wait. But I shouldn't be very long."
"So you'll be coming back?" Rick questions.
She holds up the papers. "If everything checks out, I'll be your training officer and handler."
"So, do I call you 'Training Officer and Handler,' or do you have a name?"
She points to the paperwork. "For now, you won't have to call me anything. But if these pass scrutiny, I'll let you know."
Rick hears the door click behind her. The bare walls and empty table don't give him much to see or even trigger imaginings. His mind's eye image of the woman is another matter. He can picture her seducing foreign agents into revealing all their secrets. She might even have pried some out of him if he had anything worth revealing. He suspects that his life has already been examined under a high-powered microscope, or he wouldn't be here. The paperwork is most likely a formality, but bureaucracies need something to stuff in their bureau drawers. From the length of his descent to get to this room, he figures that this structure has more than enough storage space carefully shielded from human and electronic eyes. He occupies himself with mentally composing a story to tell the kids at Compassionate Hearts the next time he sees them, and is almost finished when he hears the door lock release.
Her heels clicking against the floor, Rick's beautiful keeper strides into the room, carrying a thick metal ring binder. "Mr. Castle, you can call me Agent Turner."
"Then can I assume, Agent Turner, that you're now my training officer and handler?" Rick queries.
"I am," Turner replies.
"So how does the training and handling begin?"
She taps on the binder. "I'm going to give you a copy of the stage one manual for CIA operatives. It's the same one you would get if you were a recruit at Langley."
"Am I supposed to take it home and study it, or what?"
"It can't leave this building and for your purposes, can't leave this room. You will study it until you believe you have all the information down. Then I'll quiz you on it. Normally, for an agent in training, that process would take place during weeks of classes. However, your records indicate that you are not only a speed reader, but possess a very high level of recall. Is that correct?"
"It got me through high school and college with enough time to write," Castle admits.
"Good. Then start reading," Turner orders. "I'll be back in an hour to see just how fast you are."
After tossing the binder on the table in front of Rick, Turner quickly departs the room again.
Rick starts reading. After what research he could do for his stories, he isn't immediately surprised, but as he rapidly turns pages, he begins to realize just how much the public isn't permitted to know. It's probably for the best. If they did, they might not sleep as well. He's been through the manual three times, which is two more than he usually has to go through anything when Turner returns with another notebook and a pen. "Ready, Rick?" He nods. "All right. Let's begin."
After hours of quizzing by the seemingly indefatigable Turner, Rick feels exhausted yet exhilarated. Her expression remained passive, but he could make out light growing in her dark eyes. "All right, that does it – for now," she announces. "You'll need to put your hood back on, and I'll have an operative take you home."
"So I haven't qualified to know where I am yet?" Rick queries.
"Not even close," Turner declares. "At most, you're still the equivalent of a raw trainee who could wash out at any time. You'll be informed when it's time for your next lesson. I'll see you then."
One of the men Rick remembers from his mysterious ride enters the room and points to the hood sitting on the table. Sighing, Rick puts it on and allows himself to be led back to the elevator and deposited in the alley behind the building housing his newly purchased loft apartment. "How will I know when I'll be going back?" he inquires of the operative who drops him off.
"Agent Turner will take care of it," the man brusquely informs him and drives off.
Rick lets himself in the back door of his building and slowly takes the stairs from the basement level to his solitary writer's retreat. After entering his kitchen, he opens the refrigerator, but stands unmoving in front of it, letting the cold air flow over his face. If it wasn't five o'clock in the afternoon, he'd think he was still in the muzzy hinterlands of awakening from an interrupted night's sleep. But what happened that day was very real. Still, it will take him a while to digest it all. Realizing that he hasn't had anything to digest in the conventional sense since breakfast, he reaches for a container of leftover moo goo gai pan. Somehow, it seems incongruous to eat the food of an often adversarial power after a day at the CIA, but he doesn't want to wait for a pizza order, and he's too tired to cook. The leftovers will do for now, and he may just order a pizza for a midnight snack.
"So, how did he do?" Hunt asks Turner as she brews a fresh pot of Columbian coffee in the CIA's breakroom.
"Better than anyone I've ever seen," Turner confesses. "I heard that they have some genius over in the behavioral unit at the FBI who is even faster than he is, but that could just be interagency bragging. If he manages to make it through the rest of his training, it will be a shame to waste him on just improving The Company's public image. According to his file, his books have already been translated into 20 languages including Russian. It's not that unusual for authors to go on international tours to promote their books. He could be a useful set of eyes and ears."
Hunt's stomach twists. "That would be a lot more dangerous than giving The Company a PR boost."
"He'd be all right," Turner insists. "As his handler, I'd keep him on a short leash. And if anything threatening comes up, I can handle it."
"He was supposed to be read into missions, not go on them," Hunt protests.
Turner stares up questioningly. "This from the man who can hose down a room without a second thought. You aren't going soft on us, are you, Hunt? Or does Rick Castle mean something special to you?"
"No one means anything special to me, Turner," Hunt declares. "That's the way it has to be. You know that."
"I do," Turner confirms, "just double-checking that you remember it. I'll be calling Rick in for a second session in a couple of days. Then I'll see where we go from there."
Hunt leaves the building and is back in his vehicle before he allows any signs of concern to crease his face. Maybe he should have stayed out of it and let the CIA brush Richard off. The last thing he wants is for his son to follow in his footsteps. But then, he and his son have completely different sets of talents. The Company isn't about to let Richard's go down the drain. Turner is one hell of an agent. If it comes to it. she should be able to keep Richard safe. Still, Hunt will keep watch as best he can.