“Is that a fancy way to talk about me making custom computers?”
She smiled at me. God I love those dimples.
After about thirty minutes the FAA bureaucrat invited us into his office. He was sweating and uncomfortably shuffling papers on his desk as we sat down.
Los Federales
“Well, this isn’t what I expected when I got to work today.” He laughed at his own ‘joke’ but even he didn’t seem to think it was very funny.
Mr. Leroy Jenkins sat across from us. His thin shoulders slouched under an unseen burden. Despite his best hopes, the mustard-yellow, short-sleeved, button-down shirt did nothing to hide the mustard stains. His striped tie tried to project authority, but only succeeded in proclaiming his slavery to the system. A bad comb-over across his pale head completed the clich
é
.
“Mr. Jenkins,” I hesitated, “has anyone ever said that they expect…”
“Me to be black? Yeah, I get that about three times a week.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Anka just looked at me. I could tell she wanted to sigh but was holding it in for appearances in front of Leroy. After a moment she turned back to look across the desk.
“Mr. Jenkins, thank you for seeing us. I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“Me too. I’ve never had to question anyone after a crash. You know that it’s part of the job, but it’s so rare that you never think it’ll happen to you.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll make this as easy as we possibly can.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. Let’s see,” he shuffled some paper on his desk, “Ah, here it is. Please just answer these questions and we can have you on your way.”
“We’ll do whatever we can to help.”
“Very good. First, what were you doing just before the incident?”
“Well, I was in the restroom texting my boss who sent an attack drone to shoot the plane out of the sky.”
Leroy wrote down the answer on his form, looked at it, re-read it and then looked up. His confusion was apparent, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. Anka just looked at him politely waiting for the next question.
“I see…well…um…question two: what was the nature of your travel?”
“We were prisoners of the Cuban secret police who were trying to smuggle us out of the country.”
Pen scratching was the only sound in the small, fluorescent-lit office. Leroy’s eyes were wide and his hand shaking a bit, but he simply read the next question from his sheet without looking up at us.
“Did you notice anything odd or suspicious prior to the plane taking off?”
“Well, we were escorted through private tunnels in the airport, loaded onto the plane by armed thugs and informed that we would be tortured and killed when we arrived in Cuba.”
I heard Leroy swallow before he started writing. He kept his eyes locked on the paper as if there were some answers waiting there that could make sense of all this. After a long time he looked up.
“Um…I…uh…I think I’m going to need to hold you for a while longer to finish this interview. I apologize for any inconvenience. We’ll do our best to have you on your way as soon as possible. If you’d be so kind as to step into the waiting room.”
“Sure, thank you.” Anka was polite and immediately got up and opened the door. I was a moment behind her as I processed what just happened.
We headed back to the dingy waiting room with seven year-old magazines on the lone table. After sitting for a moment I could hear sounds coming from Leroy’s office. He was on the phone and most of the conversation was too low for me to hear anything, but a few words came through the thin veneer of the door clearly: ‘Cuban,’ ‘explosion,’ ‘attack drone,’ and ‘crazy.’
“Um…” I turned to Anka but she cut me off before I could say anything.
“It’ll be fine. He’s calling this up the chain of command. If I’m right, he’ll be calling it to his boss who will send it on up to the director of the FAA. He’ll send it over to the FBI who’ll send out a pair of agents to interview us and hold us at a safe house until they can figure out what’s going on.”
“Oh.”
After a few moments Leroy came out of his office and stood in front of us as if we were the authority and he was the one in trouble.
“Thank you for your patience. According to our standard operating procedures we’ll need to have you answer a few more questions. Two agents from the FBI are on the way to take you to a more comfortable location and to finish the interview. If you’ll just wait right here, they’ll be along shortly.”
Without waiting for a response he just turned, walked back into his office and firmly closed the door. I looked over at Anka with a raised eyebrow. She just stared straight ahead for a moment before breaking into a grin and looking back at me. Her hair fell down in front of her face before she brushed it back behind her ear.
“Well done super-secret spy Beret.”
She stuck her tongue out at me, crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair to pout. The act lasted for about thirty-seven seconds.
“It did work out pretty well. I thought we’d be here talking to Mr. Jenkins for hours before he passed us on. He’s a quick one.”
“Ha! That’s what she said.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on. You have to know about ‘That’s what she said’ jokes.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m not sure we can be friends anymore.”
It was my turn to cross my arms and fake-pout. My pose, however, did not last as long as hers did since she started digging her fingers into my ribs almost immediately. I squirmed and tried to keep my composure but eventually her superior interrogation techniques broke me down. I laughed and put my hands up in surrender. She quickly kissed me before pulling back and looking toward Leroy’s office.
“Fine, you win. We can be friends.”
“Friends?” Anka looked at me intently with one eyebrow raised. A smile was still on her face, but it was slowly sinking into a scowl.
Crap! Did she think we were dating? Did the kiss on the runway make us an item? How is it possible to know the state of a relationship immediately after an explosion but just before being taken into custody by the FBI? I’d had a few girlfriends before, but most of them gave up on me after just a couple of months. They all told me various versions of the same thing: I was a good friend, but they didn’t think I was ‘boyfriend material.’ Did Anka think I was made of different stuff? Was I? Would she just give up on me in a few months with the same complaint? CRAP! I needed to give her an answer before the smile disappeared completely.
“I mean, we’re…so much more than that. I’ve never, um, I’ve never been shot at or blown up with any of my friends.”
The scowl stopped, but the eyebrow remained raised. Anka leaned back in her chair and stared at the far wall. Now, on top of nearly being exploded, I had to try and figure out what I’d done wrong. I seriously considered going home and going back to bed. It seemed like the only sensible choice at that point. But, I guessed, the FBI doesn’t give that as one of the options.
Several times while we were waiting I tried to start a conversation to apologize for whatever I’d done, but each time Anka just told me to forget about it and that it wasn’t a big deal. Something inside me told me that I shouldn’t forget about it and that it was a big deal, but I couldn’t figure out how to do something about it without calling her a liar. Super-secret spy stuff is hard.
The FBI showed up in about fifteen minutes and Leroy emerged from his office to hand us off. He seemed anxious for us to be gone from his dank office; I was too. The agents who came to collect us were both dressed in the dark, plain suits that television proclaims is the FBI uniform. They were both well over six feet tall and looked like the Facebook pictures of the guys who played football at my high school: square jaws, sloping brows, high-and-tight haircuts. The taller one had light brown hair and a nose that looked like it may have been broken at some point in the past. His gray eyes were small and constantly shifting to take in every detail of the room. By contrast his shorter compatriot appeared to see nothing. He vaguely gazed into space, but I had the sense that he was even more keenly observing the world. His dark brown hair had a touch of gray at the temples and his face carried the red blush of a man who’s enjoyed alcohol and Irish heritage.
“Mr. Tosh, Ms. Fedora, will you please come with us?” Tall shifty-eyes said.
“Mr. Jenkins, thank you for your call.” Said vague-stare.
I started to get up, but Anka hesitated. I turned and grabbed her hand so we could get out of Leroy’s depressing hole and, perhaps, let him get back to playing video games online. She got up, but didn’t let go of my hand. The pressure I felt there was more than her previous anger, more than affection; it almost felt like fear.
“Thank you agent…” Anka prompted.
“Smith. And this is my partner, Agent Jones.”
“Do you mind if I just call you Will and Tom?”
They, apparently, don’t teach cultural references at Quantico. Sandy-head and rosy-cheeks didn’t flinch or crack a smile.
“Right this way,” Agent Jones’ voice was as aimless as his gaze, but still as penetrating.
We followed them back through the bowels of PDX and came out at a different location where only unmarked, black cars were parked. The agents led us to the last Prius in a long row and bade us to get inside. We both climbed in to the back and the agents slid into the front seats. The car silently pulled away on the battery-powered motors.
“So, where to?” I asked cheerily.
“We will continue your debriefing at our facility. Thank you for your cooperation.” Agent Smith uttered the words with finality that, I’m sure, he intended to end all further conversation. Something about them bugged me, so I ignored his silent request.
“Oh, I’m happy to cooperate. Where did you say your facility is, by the way?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I caught that. It’s just, well, the mention of ‘facilities’ reminded me that I haven’t had a chance to use them in a while. I was wondering how long it will be until we get to your place and I can have a little pit stop, if you know what I mean.”
“We should arrive in approximately twenty minutes,” Agent Jones said.
“Oh good. I’m sure I can hold it for twenty minutes. Let’s see, from the airport it’s about that long to get downtown. Are we headed there? Maybe the old Federal building? No? I’m guessing you haven’t set up shop in Gresham, that’d be weird. Your suits would definitely stand out in Gresham. Twenty minutes, eh. That could put us in Clackamas, or maybe West Linn. You know what, you guys look like a Tigard crew. Yeah, you’re Tigard business park people aren’t you?”
I could see Agent Jones’ jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought the desire to say something. At the same time, Anka was squeezing my hand harder and harder in her own attempt to get me to shut up. I squeezed back, attempting to communicate calm reassurance that I knew what I was doing. I’m not sure how well-versed I am in squeeze-speak though.
I’d never had dealings with the FBI before this, but something just struck me as wrong about these two. I slipped my phone silently out of my pocket and carefully tapped out a short message to Anka. I held the phone low so that neither of the agents could see it and angled it for Anka to read. She gave me a quick, worried glance but then covered her emotions and stared straight ahead while I slid the phone back into my pocket.
“I sure hope we can get this all cleared up with my boss,” Anka said to the agents. “He’ll be happy to have us back in the fold. He tried to rescue us from the Cubans, but it didn’t work so we had to get your agency involved. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Not a problem. We’re always happy to help other branches. If we don’t work together we won’t be able to accomplish anything on our own. The NSA and FBI are two sides of the same coin.”
Anka squeezed my hand hard after Agent Smith finished talking. Despite the panic I felt in her grip, her voice was steady.
“You’re so right. It’s nice to have you Quantico boys seeing eye to eye with us for once. My boss told me you weren’t all mindless jocks. I’m glad to see that he was right.”
“It’s kind of Director Stephenson to say so. I have a great deal of respect for him.”
She nearly crushed my hand with the squeezing this time.
“Yes,” Anka said, “Director Stephenson is a smart man.”
She rhythmically squeezed in time with the syllables of the director’s name. Something about the name was a trigger. Something I wasn’t getting. We sat silently while the Prius merged on to I-84 heading west.
“So,” I chimed in, “You decided to
not
take the Banfield to get to Tigard. Interesting choice.”
“You’re mistaken,” said Agent Jones, “We never said we were going to Tigard.”
That’s when it was finally confirmed for me. These guys weren’t from the local Portland branch of the FBI. Anyone from Portland would know that we give random, weird names to our freeways and that ‘The Banfield’ is I-84. Whoever these guys were, they weren’t from Portland, which made me doubt they were from the FBI.
“Oh, you’re right, Tigard was my thought. You do look like Tigard people though, so that’s an easy mistake for me to make, I guess.” As I talked I slipped the phone back out of my pocket and tapped out another message for Anka. “But I guess people can wear suits anywhere, it’s just not all that common, you know. One time I went to the symphony and there was a guy there in a tee-shirt and shorts. He had big, long dreds too. But no one looked at him like he shouldn’t be there. That’s Portland for you, I guess.”