The Jigsaw

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An Offer

Casey liked running—his mind turning off, his body working like a machine. He could feel muscles and sinews stretching and contracting, hurting at the beginning and relaxing after a few minutes and hard to control at the end, when overtrained. Lungs were burning and head was pulsating. The cool, fresh morning air felt delightful on his hot, sweaty skin.

This experience of defeating his own weakness and pushing the limits of his body further and further was a source of great satisfaction for him.

"Not bad, Casey, not bad." Trainer Mitch raised his brows in approval. "Five miles in twenty-five minutes, twenty-seven seconds today."

"Yeah, thanks. Last week I did better – my personal record. This is thirteen seconds worse. I’d like to break twenty-five minutes this year." Casey stood with his hands propped on his knees, panting heavily.

"Not impossible. You still have one week to go."

"Right. See you at breakfast, Mitch."

Mitch just nodded, already busy noting down results for the rest of the team that started to appear at the finish, one by one, about one minute after Casey.

Casey stopped by the cabin he shared with two of his friends, took a leisurely shower, and directed his steps towards the Canteen.

The camp’s daily routine included a five-mile run in the morning, one four-hour training session before lunch, and another one, two hours long, after. Before noon they polished their techniques, while in the evening they worked out in the gym. After supper they could swim, if they liked, in the nearby lake. Usually all of them did. The summer was hot and they would swim for hours if they could. A few people had diving equipment; it was fun for everyone to play with oxygen bottles, ballast belts, and displacement vests as well as to explore the underwater world. Besides, there was nothing else to do anyway—no bars, no clubs, no civilization at all. Just two shops, a train station, a little church, and one dusty and musty pub. Sometimes they had a bonfire; Casey and Josh would play guitars and Mitch and his wife, Maggy, told stories about the Far East. Sometimes they just sat on the wooden jetty looking at the sunset and chatting about everything and nothing, or playing various games in the cabins.

"Hi, everyone!" Casey waved his hand in no particular direction, greeting the gathered campers.

"Hi, Cas!" Josh, his roommate, patted the seat next to him in a gesture of invitation. "How was your cross?" he asked when Casey joined their foursome with a tray full of healthy food.

"So-so. Not bad, but I’ve had better. And yours?"

"Well, I’m not exactly a speed demon, ya know." Josh winked and smiled.

"Asking out of politeness, Lightning."

"Pig."

"As you wish. I just thought 'lightning' would be more sophisticated." They laughed as Josh dug his friend in the ribs.

Casey peeked at Monroe, sitting opposite him. Her dark, short, curly hair always looked messy, regardless of whether or not she used a comb. She had a fine-featured face with dark brown eyes. Casey had a little crush on her. Nothing really serious, but he liked her. She wasn’t a beauty, her nose a bit too long and ears slightly protruding. But she was fun, very direct and cheerful, game for anything. She was the biggest female ne’er-do-well he’d ever met and the best buddy for his motorcycle highjinks. They were good friends and he thought she would be a very good partner to live with. It was nothing like crazy passion, head over heels, or butterflies in his stomach, but he believed love was not about that. After four or five years every passion burns out and what is left is understanding and friendship.

He'd learned his common sense after a few turbulent relationships with girls any guy would dream of. Including him. Eventually they turned out to completely not play along with his way of life and his interests. Thus he had a conviction that for a relationship to work, a similar intellectual level and common goals were needed. According to these criteria Monroe was a perfect match—a smart, funny, impressive daredevil. In a way, she was also physically attractive. With her wide smile and neat figure one might be tempted to call her appealing.

Monroe smiled at Casey, blushing almost unnoticeably when their eyes met. Then she all too quickly fixed her gaze on her plate. He couldn’t tell if it was a reaction towards his affection or rather an expression of her own emotion. He didn’t know exactly what her attitude toward him was. Well, she liked him, for sure. They were as close as good friends could be. But was she interested in him in “that” way? Was she aware of what he was thinking? Maybe she did like him and was just ashamed and afraid he would make a move on her. He decided not to rush things. There was too much to lose in case things didn’t work out. He didn’t want to put an awkwardness into their relationship. If she was the one for him, they would be together sooner or later.

"How was your warm-up, guys?" Casey’s question was directed to Monroe and Shawn.

"Well, I made it in 18.48." Monroe smiled roguishly.

"What?" Casey and Josh almost choked. Monroe was good, for a girl. But only for a girl. She couldn’t get that kind of result.

"Sharp as a chisel, fast as lightning."

"She was cheating, men." Shawn rolled his eyes as if it was obvious.

"Oh…that makes sense." Josh sighed, shaking his head in simulated disapproval.

"A bit." Monroe said, her face innocent. "I took a shortcut."

"Swindler!" Casey chuckled.

"We make a good pair, Monroe," Josh grinned.

"Don’t flatter yourself, honey. Even with the shortcut you had…thirty-two and a bit?"

"Now you’re doomed!" Shawn patted Josh’s arm.

"Whatever. Not everybody has to be a sprinter, right? I don’t like running, so I just want to bash it out."

"Me too, Josh. But I’m still faster." Monroe looked at Josh with a superior expression.

"Okay, you are. Feel good?"

"Not really. It takes a bit more than that to make me feel good, Mr. Lightning." Boys burst out with laughter. Josh was beaten.

"Hey, did you see that BMW in the parking lot?" Shawn asked suddenly, when the mockery had faded.

"Yeah." Monroe smacked her lips. "It’s an M6. A real classic."
Casey smiled. What other girl would know as much about cars as Monroe? She was exceptional, indeed.

"Wow. And whose is it?" he asked.

"Who knows…?" Shawn shrugged. "Some guests, I guess."

"Guests? And what would guests with a car like that do in a hole like this?" Josh arched his eyebrows.

"Dunno, maybe friends of Mitch?"

"That would be something," Casey laughed. Just as he said it, Mitch appeared in the Canteen, scanning the crowd. When his eyes found Casey, he beckoned to him to come over. Casey stood up, wondering what he wanted, and rushed to the door, followed by his friends’ eyes.

"What’s up, Mitch? " he asked casually.

"We have guests."

"Oh, right. The BMW."

"Exactly."

"So? Should I entertain them, or what?" Casey chuckled over the joke.

"No need so far. But they do want to talk to you."

"Me? How come? I mean—who are they?"

"Mr. Ramson and Mr. Tader. Sound familiar?"

"Not at all." Casey knitted his brows and for a few seconds stared blindly at the ceiling, trying to associate those name with anything but to no avail.

"They’ll explain everything, I’m sure. Follow me."

"Okay." Casey was already very curious about what people with a purple BMW could want with him.

They reached the main office. It wasn’t an office in the strict sense, but they used the room as a place for official matters. It was decorated with two couches and the table—just enough to receive visitors.

Mitch opened the door and let Casey precede him into the room. As soon as Casey saw the guests he froze. He recognized the blond man who had been attacked in the park just before camp had started. He remembered, too, that as a result of the attack he himself had been hit and had lost his backpack. What the hell was the man doing here? Casey frowned, his stare suspicious and almost hostile, but said nothing.

"Mr. Moore? Nice to meet you." The older man, wearing a casual black shirt and blue jeans, stood up and held out his hand. Casey shook it, a question on his face. "My name is George Ramson and this is my colleague, Simon Tader." The man introduced as Simon also rose and exchanged greetings with Casey.

"Please, take a seat." George Ramson pointed to the coach opposite the one they occupied. "Mr. Whiler, could you please leave us alone? We’re going to discuss some private matters, if you don’t mind."

Private? Casey frowned, feeling more and more suspicious about the situation, but he kept silent.

"Of course. If you need me, just call." Mitch quickly withdrew and closed the door.

They stared at each other for a few long moments, the tension perceptible. This time Casey could examine Simon’s appearance thoroughly. The well-set, slender man seemed not much older than him. He wore a white T-shirt and black sport jacket, as well as faded jeans worn through at the knees. Cold blue eyes in the smooth, suntanned face watched Casey attentively. Straight blond hair was cut just above his ears, longer at the back, with long strands hanging over his forehead down to the brow line. Almost like a fashion magazine model, Casey thought.

What especially caught Casey’s eyes were Simon’s hands—veiny and strong looking, not suited to a model.

George also had the hands of a tough guy. They looked work-worn. He had the face of a tired man and looked old for his more or less forty-five years, his temples slightly touched with grey. Grey, faded eyes in a wrinkled face held a melancholy expression. He seemed to carry a heavy burden of concealed cares. When his heavy, piercing gaze came to rest on Casey, he felt timid and very young.

"Well, you must be curious about the aim of our visit." Mr. Ramson broke the awkward silence.

"Certainly," Casey answered tentatively, somehow feeling a bit insecure and nervous. "I remember you," he added, looking at the blond man, his voice a little challenging now.

"I’m sure you do." Simon smiled honestly, presenting an impressive set of white, even teeth.

"It wasn’t a coincidence, that fight, was it?"

"It wasn’t."

"So…what was it?"

"A test."

"A…test? What kind of test?"

"To check your reactions during a real fight."

"My reactions? But why? What for?"

"That’s a whole long story." Simon smiled faintly and sighed, as if getting ready to talk about weighty matters.

George Ramson reached into his pocket for his wallet and opened it, and Casey saw a badge. The CIA badge. His eyes widened as he stared at it in confusion for a few seconds.

"Excuse me, sir, but there must be some kind of mistake," he started to explain. "I didn’t do anything. I’m the wrong guy. You must be looking for someone else."

"Calm down, please. You didn’t do anything wrong. We just want to talk."

"But with me?"

"You are Casey Moore, son of Lise and Harry, living at Marine Street, Green Rock. Right?"

"Well, yes...."

"Then there’s no mistake."

"Has something happened?" Casey was really nervous now. "Is every—"

"Listen!" Ramson interrupted. "Everything is fine."

Casey heaved a sigh of relief and, cooling down, asked, "So…why is it that we have to talk in private?"

"We have an offer for you."

That didn’t explain anything, so Casey waited for further details. He could tell the men were waiting for his questions and he was eager to hear whatever they had to say, but he decided to restrain himself. They were going to tell him everything anyway—that was what they had found him for.
Ramson, seeing that Casey was not going to talk, continued, "You’re working on a governmental team. Last week you were told you would be assigned to some new tasks, right?"

"Yes."

"We are the tasks. On the basis of the agreement we have with other governmental services, we’re in a position to demand resources. This is one way of recruiting people in our organization. We don’t spread information about enrollment, we don’t organize mass courses, and so on. We look for appropriate people, check them, and then—make a proposal. Considering your skills and potential, we decided to hire you in our...let's call it ‘department’."

It sounded so incredible. In fact, Casey felt a bit excited now to be someone the CIA itself was interested in. Wow, just like in the movies! They had aroused his curiosity and managed to fire his imagination, although he couldn’t yet believe this was happening. He had an impression of being outside the situation, as if it was happening to someone else.

However, his common sense was whispering that it was not a trivial matter to deal with the CIA. Catching the attention of such an organization could have some far-reaching consequences. Suddenly, touched by this thought, he felt an urge to withdraw from this conversation before too much was said. But he stayed in his seat, not having any sensible reason to leave. He felt like questioning Ramson but said nothing, determined to make them try hard if they wanted something from him.

"I thought you’d ask some questions." Ramson scanned Casey’s concentrating face. Casey remained silent. "Okay, then, I’ll try to explain everything. But first I have to ask you to sign this." Ramson passed two pieces of paper to him.

Casey took one with both hands and read, “I, the undersigned, commit myself not to reveal, to anyone, under any circumstances, the subject of the talks and treat the information gained during the meeting as classified...” and so on.

"There’s no trick, Casey. We just want to make sure that what we talk about here will stay between us."

Casey analyzed the request for a moment, reading the clause carefully once again, and finally he said hesitantly, "I don’t think I want to know any classified information. I’d rather give it up."

"Please, it’s nothing very special or dangerous. Nothing that could threaten you or anyone else. We just don’t want gossip to spread." Ramson was very convincing, his tone carefree.

Finally Casey nodded, although his forebodings hadn’t faded completely. He took the pen Simon handed him and put his signature on two copies of the declaration. Then he leaned against the coach, hands on his thighs, and waited.

Ramson cleared his throat and started, "We are a special, non-official division of the CIA. I’m sure you’re more or less aware of the existence of such ghost groups in national forces. Our head is the Office of Military Affairs. Generally speaking, it provides intelligence and operational support to the armed forces.”

"Ghost groups?" Casey cut in. "You mean, like Delta?"

"Well, not like Delta. You know about Delta, right? But you don't know about us. We’re not that big. And not that famous."

"What do you do?"

"Oh, we’re an intelligence agency, right? So we do what intelligence agencies do."

"So why is it a ghost or special group?"

"We act unofficially—quicker and more effectively than official units."

"Above the law?"

"You could say so." Ramson smiled slightly. "We just have a green light where the others have yellow. But we don't exaggerate," he lied. "So...we did a thorough investigation to find potentially interesting candidates. You happened to be among them. We’re completely aware that you’re not connected with the army, police, or any uniformed service in any way. That’s why we would like to train you and then maintain you as a computer assistant. We don’t have such a person on our team, and these times of technology revolution force us to change that.

“You would go through two months of intensive military training and then, if you’re good enough, you would cooperate with the field agents when they need your help. You would live just like you have until now, working, training, and doing who knows what else. The only change for the time being would be a lot more training. Of course, you would be well paid. Depending on your level, from $60,000 per year."

Ramson stopped, expecting some reaction from Casey. But Casey was focused on what he was hearing. It was hard for him to believe what he was hearing. The CIA agent smirked and continued. He presented the whole course of training and explained the organization’s goals and structure, skipping information that was classified or inconvenient, lying when he found it necessary.

"Field tasks, you say. What’s the risk?"

"The risk of what?"

"Danger. Death. Something like that."

"There’s always risk. But a reasonable level, in your case. You would be protected and kept far from the heart of the action. You might get killed by a car in a street. The risk is about the same," Ramson added, seeing the mistrust on the young man's face.

"I’m sorry, I'm not interested." Casey was interested, but what was the harm in saying he wasn't?

"We’ll note that. But it makes no difference."

"Excuse me?" Casey felt the sudden cramp in his gut again.

"This is not an offer you can reject."

"How—?"

"Well, last week you got anew assignment at work, right? You took it. That's all. I don't think you can withdraw...well, unless you want to quit. Although as far as I know, quitting such a position is hedged with several conditions."

"Are you threatening to blackmail me?"

"Not even a sign of it, Mr. Moore."

"Wait a minute. You know, this whole situation is…freaky, to put it mildly. First of all I can’t believe such a serious agency would go out of its way to recruit an average guy like me. You have to admit it sounds a bit ridiculous."

"A bit. But only a bit. You’re an engineer. This is a solid skill. Our agents have only gone through a military education. Well, most of them. And let’s be frank: with your achievements in martial arts and other sports, you’re not an average guy at all. You just need to learn how to use your skills in field conditions."

"Okay. But you come here to the training camp all of a sudden and tell me you’re from the CIA and you want me to work for you. It’s just so…unprofessional, forgive me if I’m being rude."

George and Simon smiled widely and Ramson answered, "Well, we were just passing by." He winked. " You think we should make a big announcement in the paper that here and here at such and such a time we’re going to recruit people to the special forces? It’s UNOFFICIAL, okay? No documents so far, no proof—nothing. Is that clear?"

"I guess so. But still, how can I believe you? Sure, you have a badge and everything, but that’s not proof of anything."

"If you’re interested, then just come to our training center. Maybe what you see there will be convincing enough. You’ll also meet our superior there. He does work for the official department, so you should be satisfied with all the bureaucracy and formal ways they cultivate. There’s nothing to lose, right? Just come and see."

"I’m curious...what would you do if I said 'no' anyway and spread the news? Your names—provided they’re real, which I doubt—your profession, your offer. Signing this paper doesn’t mean the information is safe. "

"And what do you think we might do?"

Casey gave it some thought. "Apart from firing? Um...bribe? Threat?"

"Which one do you prefer?"

"Neither."

"And if this isn't an option?"

"Then bribe sounds less harmful."

Ramson narrowed his eyes and smirked. Simon tilted his head and watched Casey thoughtfully. "So what would it take for you keep silent?"

"I’m not for sale."

"I didn’t say you were. You know, there’s a big difference between buying someone and making a transaction."

"Which is…?"

"When I buy you, I pay at my own discretion. When I pay for a favor, I pay as much as the market can bear. That’s quite a difference, isn’t it?"

"The enormousness of the difference somehow escaped my notice."

"Being cocky, huh?"

"No, sir. Just curious. ’Cause if I'm not someone you can buy, a threat is inevitable. Sounds scary, coming from the CIA."

"That's how it is." The older agent smiled.

"You’re dangerous guys, huh?"

"You could say that."

"Wow." That was the only word Casey could bring himself to say.

Complete silence reigned over the room as the agents waited. Casey didn’t know what to say. He sat still, his head in his hands. The unexpected course of events was confusing him and he couldn’t gather his thoughts. Honestly, the prospects for such challenging work weren't bad. He even felt a bit of a thrill. But the fact that he would lose his job if he said no was irritating, at the least. This was not the way a serious organization should treat employees. Where was the respect? Where was the freedom? Bullshit.

Ramson observed Casey, thinking about the real blackmail he could use. It was very, very convenient that he hadn't needed to do that. It was always clever to have something up one’s sleeve, just in case.

Finally Casey looked up. "What should I do now? Will I still work where I’ve been working?"

"Formally, yes. You'll be delegated to your new assignment in the CIA office. Your supervisors don't know about us and it will stay that way."

"Don't know? But you said—"

"I know what I said. The whole agreement is set at a very high level. Your managers will be informed about their duties and all you need to do is follow instructions. The first thing is—keep this secret. As you’ve pointed out, there’s no point in our bribing you, so do it for free. In your own interest. Second—on the first of August you are to report to Maoro military center in Exeter, near Los Angeles. Training will take two months, as I said. Maoro is the army campus we use for courses and so on. Equipment will be just like you have here."

Casey didn’t do anything to confirm the order. He just stared at the two men.

"Then that's it, I guess," Ramson sighed. The guests stood up and held out their hands to shake good-bye. Casey didn’t move, his head down, fingers intertwined tightly on his knees. They noticed the whitened skin of his knuckles, the only outward sign of Casey’s emotions.

They dropped their hands, as Casey was apparently not willing to exchange handshakes, and the men moved to the door, where they stopped for a moment.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Ramson said in a strangely sad voice to Casey’s hunched back.

"Wait!" Casey said without facing them. "What should I tell people about you?"

"Whatever. Figure it out." The agent’s tone was the equivalent of an indifferent shrug.

"See you soon, Casey," Simon added, his tone serious, and Casey heard the sound of the door closing. Not until then did he let the air out of his lungs with a soft moan. He leaned his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his palms. The adrenaline shot was still working, making him a bit dizzy and excited over the whole CIA-special-forces matter.

Shit, I need to sleep. It was the only reasonable thing that came to his mind, his only chance to sort out his emotions—to fall asleep, stop thinking, cool down, and give his mind some time to deal with the situation.

He stood up heavily and unconsciously, a bit obsessively combing his hair with his fingers as he left the office and started to his cabin. He didn’t want to face his friends or Mitch now. He would have to make up an explanation and he definitely didn’t feel up to it. Later. After some sleep.

It was late afternoon when Casey opened his eyes. Consciousness was slowly returning, although he really didn’t want it. For a moment he lay still, his mind blank and eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. He felt tired, with no will to move, no motivation to face reality. He would just lie there. Eventually he turned to his side and curled into a ball, nestling his face in the sheets.

Was it even real? Wasn’t it a dream? No. He still had the signed declaration in his pocket. What now? There was no sense in being passive. He had to think up a good story to tell people. It was a little first step to start with.

Get a grip. Casey forced himself to drag out of bed. The bathroom seemed to be a good milestone to begin with. What he saw in the mirror didn’t exactly reflect the "nothing serious" story he was going to try to sell. He snorted a short, bitter laugh and shook his head over his unbelievable situation. I could tell the truth and no one would believe it anyway. A faint, ironic smile lifted his lips. Whatever....

He turned on the tap and splashed water over his face. Then, leaning on the sink, he looked his reflection in the eyes. After a thorough scan of his face he decided a shower would be a better solution.

Training in the gym had started at 15:00. Casey joined the team as they were skipping rope, trying hard to appear at ease.

"Hello, Mr. VIP. Your buddies leave?" Monroe panted between jumps.

"Not my buddies." Definitely not.

"So?"

"Managers."

"What? What managers?"

"Sport."

"Hey…could you…please…spit out more…than one word? Or is it…that you don’t want…to tell us?" Monroe stopped skipping. She bent and leaned her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

"Well, actually…they had a training offer…but they asked for discretion…nothing particularly astounding." Casey didn’t look at Monroe, still doing his exercise.

"A little disappointing, then. Which offer is it so far this year?"

"Third, I guess."

"Right." The girl sighed. "I was expecting something more spectacular. Like, you know, special agents,” she laughed. Casey laughed too, inwardly.

"Hey, lady, you should write books with that imagination of yours," he chuckled, looking at her cheerful face. "Why didn’t you wake me up for lunch?" He changed the topic and broke off from exercising when he suddenly felt a rumble in his stomach.

"Dunno, Josh said he tried to wake you, but you were sleeping so hard he eventually gave up."

"Yeah, I had a headache."

"A headache?" Monroe grimaced and glanced at him doubtfully. "Since when do you have such sudden headaches?"

"I don’t have headaches," he said, accenting the plural. "But I’m not a cyborg. Once in a while I can get a headache. Simple enough for you?"

"Okay, okay…you simply got a headache." Monroe smirked teasingly. "Let it be. Whatever." She moved to the punchbags with a shrug.

"Hey, man." Josh had just finished a series of pull-ups. "You were sleeping like the dead, you know?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. A headache. Did Mitch ask about me?"

"He did. But I explained you were resting."

"Thanks. I’m okay now. Just a tiring morning."

"And those guys?"

"Nothing special, a training offer."

"Well, you’re used to that, I suppose."

No, I’m not. Not in the least. "You could say that." Casey poked Josh lightly in the chest with his fist and returned to skipping rope.