your name Um al Ali?”
“Yes.”
She maintained a friendly expression, just as Ahmed had instructed her. “Establish rapport with him,” he had said.
“Is today Monday?” Another control question, John had told her, to establish her reaction during a truthful response.
“Yes.” She tensed the muscles of her legs as she spoke, just as she had for the first question. Would Ahmed’s instructions work? John lifted his eyes from the screen to her face.
“Let’s try that again,” he said. “Is today Monday?”
“Yes.” This time she tensed only one leg.
“Were you born in a Shiite family?”
“Yes.” She tensed her muscles a bit less this time.
“Did you move to Beirut at the age of twelve?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come to California to join your brother Malik?”
“Yes.” She tensed with the other leg this time. Perhaps she should have followed him to Montréal as well, she thought, and she would not be going through this insane test.
“Do you have any contacts with government officials from any country’s intelligence service?”
“No.”
She stayed relaxed. Ahmed was not with a government. He hated all governments.
John studied her again and repeated the question.
“No.” She moved her foot slightly under the desk.
“Did you apply for this translator position of your own free will?”
This was crucial. She found the part of her mind that revealed a wide expanse of beach with the Riviera Hotel on the left as she gazed to the west.
“Yes.”
She remained still. No one had actually forced her. When she had met her brother’s friend Ahmed in Montréal, he suggested it one day. Being a substitute teacher of Arabic at San Francisco’s Transworld School didn’t pay enough, and he had suggested she look at openings in the government, specifically in the CIA. He had even found the agency’s Web site for her and walked her through the online application. He had been so helpful.
“Again,” John repeated the question, his eyes steady on her face.
“No.” The waves ... the sky ... Had Ahmed actually suggested the CIA? She couldn’t remember exactly.
“Do you intend to use this position to harm the United States Government in any way?”
“No.” She didn’t move. She and John had discussed this question prior to the actual test, and she had explained in the most earnest way she could that she was now a U.S. citizen, that she took her oath very seriously, that this would be her life career, and that she would be very proud to work for her new country.
“Is there anything in your background that could potentially expose you to blackmail?”
“No.” She twitched slightly. John had already told her that whatever she had smoked as a student in Beirut was not a problem, unless she was still smoking it.
“Besides your mother in Beirut and your brother in Canada, do you have any blood relatives outside of the United States?”
“No.” No need to mention Ahmed, since he was not a relative. She thought about her mother and became anxious. She hoped the money she sent her each month was sufficient. She knew Malik was not sending any.
“Have you been completely truthful in this interview?”
“Yes.” She looked at John, seeking eye contact. But he didn’t look up from his computer screen. She could almost smell the surf now.
John stood up and disconnected the sensors. “I’m going to leave you here for a few minutes, while I review the charts. He picked up his laptop and added, “If you want to visit the ladies’ room, I’ll have someone take you.”
In John’s absence, Um did not dare move, although she tried as subtly as possible to scan the room for the camera she had been told would be recording her every move.
John returned without his computer and sat down. He offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted. “Are you taking any medications?” he asked. “There are some anomalies in your chart, and I’m trying to explain them.”
“No. I’m in good health. No pills. I hate pills, in fact.”
“How about ibuprofen or anything like that? Advil? Tylenol?”
“Oh yes, I did take two Tylenols this morning. I had a headache. I didn’t think of Tylenol as real medication.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to do this again. Can you come back tomorrow at nine? We have several issues here unrelated to Tylenol.” He paused, fixing his gaze on her eyes and added, “Unless you want to tell me anything now.”
She shook her head, and John walked her back to the security guard at the front door.
Back in the Mustang, Um sat and took a deep breath. Did she really want to start all over the next day? Why not tell Ahmed she had given it her best shot and move on? Were they asking her to come back in order to arrest her? She sat still for another few minutes and called Ahmed, who reassured her. “This work is important,” he said.” He emphasized that high-level people were depending on her. “By the way,” he added, “Your mother is fine. She is in good health. I wanted you to know.”
The next day, when the guard opened the door to the windowless polygraph room, Um found herself face to face with Bob, who had interviewed her in California. “Salam alaikum. I came by to say hello since I knew you would be here today.” He smiled.
Um was glad that, at Ahmed’s direction, she had worn her skirt, which accented her curves, as she stepped forward to shake Bob’s hand. He was a balding 40-year-old with wide shoulders, a nose that looked broken, and a boyish smile. She was mildly surprised to see him but assumed he was following normal procedures by providing a human dimension to the recruitment process. She tried to watch his eyes, as he guided her to a small, dark-wood roundtable she had not seen the day before, but he was looking elsewhere.
“Let’s get the administrative stuff out of the way.” He opened a file on the small desk and slid a form toward her. “The good news is the CIA is as far removed from the government bureaucracy as possible. The bad news is we still have to account for taxpayer dollars. So when you get home, just fill this in, send it in to the address at the top, and the guys in the green eyeshades will reimburse you for the trip.”
He poured two glasses of water from a silver carafe that had not been there the day before and placed one of the glasses in front of her. “How did your session go yesterday?” He took a sip.
“Alright I guess.” She tried to recall if she had powdered her nose in the car. “Except I had a headache and I took some Tylenol.
