Page 17

CALVIN BIGALOW

Langley, Virginia

C alvin pushed the mail cart through the sterile hallways of the CIA with a smile.

Rajid had swapped their trolleys and given him the one with the bum wheel—oh, he was going to get an earful when Calvin got back to the mailroom.

Not really; Rajid was the best, inviting him for a beer after work and sharing his mom’s homemade sweets.

Calvin liked him. With a chuckle, he kicked the wheel to realign it and proceeded to the analyst bullpen.

Sometimes, Calvin wanted to pinch himself.

He was working at the CIA. Sure, at the bottom rung of the ladder, but still, he was serving his country and working at the heart of national security.

He X-rayed and inspected mail and packages, ensuring everything was safe and that employees received their correspondence in a timely fashion. It was a weighty responsibility.

Calvin maneuvered the cart past the cubicles, placing items on desks and greeting his coworkers.

He paused at the empty space once occupied by his friend, Sofria Kirk.

What a happy accident to run into her on the street.

Now, she was moving across the world. Calvin was thrilled for Sofria—an embassy assignment was the cherry on the sundae.

He imagined Sofria in a Ludlum novel, sneaking through dark alleys and defusing bombs.

Deep down, he knew the job was nothing like that, but it was fun to imagine.

One day, Calvin would be an operative, catching bad guys and keeping the country safe. That was the dream.

“We’re going to miss her, aren’t we?”

Sofria’s cubicle neighbor, Sasha, stood across from him. She had bright red hair and big glasses that slid on her nose.

“She’s got exciting things ahead,” Calvin replied.

“Oh, Calvin, before I forget, I’ve got some reports that need to go upstairs.”

Calvin grinned. He loved delivering to the bigwigs.

He got to use his security pass to access the main door; it always made him feel like a legitimate spy.

While Sasha gathered the items, Calvin glanced into Sofria Kirk’s empty cubicle and furrowed his brow.

Sitting at the back of her desk was a small framed picture of Sofria and two older people Calvin assumed were her parents. That was a strange thing to forget.

“Here you go. Thanks, Calvin.”

“Sure thing, Sasha. See you at Zander’s birthday party?”

She gave him a thumbs up. “I hear it’s ice cream cake. I’ll be in the breakroom fifteen minutes early.”

“Nice.”

Calvin continued on his path, eager to deliver the vital information he carried. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t top-secret communications, but his work mattered, and Calvin would do it to the best of his ability.

A t ten p.m., the mailroom was still buzzing with activity. Calvin liked his new shift hours. He told himself he could flirt with danger, perhaps stumble upon a late-night assignation. If it kept him away from home while his mother was awake, that was an added bonus.

He sat on a stool and peered at the screen as external packages moved along the conveyor.

The Pentagon was the largest office building in the world, and the mailroom reflected that.

Calvin gnawed on a jagged fingernail. He was still bothered by the picture Sofria had forgotten.

Sofria was the first person at work to be kind to him.

Once, she bought him a Coke in the breakroom.

He was telling her about his favorite Tom Clancy novel: how the terrorists had planted a bomb in a vending machine.

Sofria had purchased the soda to prove their vending machine was functioning normally.

Sofria was older than Calvin, definitely smarter, and way more successful. Yet, she always stopped to say hello and thanked him when he delivered her mail. She was a good friend—his first friend. His eyes lit with an idea.

“Hey, Pete? Can you take over for a few? I need to run upstairs for a second.”

Pete was grumpy but took Calvin’s spot at the X-ray.

Calvin took the elevator to the analyst floor.

He knew where Sofria was stationed—her embassy assignment was in Amman, Jordan.

He would send her the photo with a note.

She was probably lonely. Maybe that was the real reason she had flown home for a few days.

Calvin knew well how that felt. A package from a friend would be a welcome pick-me-up.

After swiping his badge and entering the analyst bay, Calvin realized the excitement of his little photo retrieval “op” had gone straight to his bladder.

He made a quick detour. After using the toilet and washing his hands, Calvin emerged from the bathroom to a peculiar sight.

The beam of a flashlight was bouncing off the walls.

Ducking into the nearest cubicle, Calvin sank into the desk chair and tried to control his racing heart.

Gathering his courage, he peeked over the partial wall.

A man was moving down the next aisle. Calvin dropped back down and tried to remember the tips from the book on spying he read at the library.

He looked again, this time measuring the man’s height and trying to discern any notable features—scars or tattoos.

He noticed the man was walking like he had every right to be there.

Easing back into the desk chair with his back to the open cubicle, Calvin regrouped.

His imagination was probably running away with him again.

He should just make his presence known and flee to the mailroom.

He could collect Sofria’s photo tomorrow.

Calvin heard the click of a desk lamp and checked again.

The man was in Sofria’s cubicle. Calvin covered his mouth to stifle a gasp.

The light filtered through the green glass lampshade, casting the intruder’s face in an eerie glow.

It was Shadow Man, the same guy Calvin had seen in Baltimore—the one who had set his coffee on the car’s hood, lurked in the shadows, and snuck into Sofria’s hotel.

Plots of Calvin’s favorite spy novels swirled in his head as he watched the intruder open every drawer and feel around the leg opening of the desk.

He picked up the photo and ripped apart the frame, then left the pieces on the desk.

The man ran the flashlight beam along the carpet and examined the chair.

He turned on the computer, sat down, and set a small device above the hard drive.

On the monitor, loading bars appeared in rapid succession as files were downloaded.

The man placed a call and put the phone to his ear.

“I’m here. I have her hard drive, but there’s nothing physical. I told you there wouldn’t be.”

Calvin listened intently to the half of the conversation he could hear.

“I’m headed there next. My team will turn the apartment inside out. Where is she now?”

A pause, then the man replied, “Understood.” With the phone to his ear, he pocketed the device he had placed on Sofria’s computer. Then he spun the chair as he spoke and faced the cubicle where Calvin hid.

Calvin hit the ground like gunfire had erupted. The thief’s voice was louder, like he had stood. Calvin belly crawled back and then forward, unsure in his panic.

The footsteps were getting closer as the man moved through the space. Calvin tucked his feet under the desk and squeezed his eyes shut.

From his hiding place in the adjacent cubicle, he ventured a glance and saw a pair of black military boots walk by.

The footsteps stopped at the next desk where Calvin had spied on the man.

In the silence, Calvin imagined the man scanning the perimeter, assessing where his enemy hid.

Then a miracle happened. In the break room behind them, the cooling mechanism of the soda machine kicked on with a clank and a steady hum.

Seemingly satisfied that the noise he had heard had come from the adjacent room, the man’s footsteps retreated. Calvin heard the door open and close. Still, he sat in the dark and waited. Calvin remained balled up under the desk for nearly an hour, terrified, his mind racing.

At the end of the day, Calvin was sure of two things.

One, Sofria Kirk was a good person. Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t, or perhaps she had a bigger job than she let on, but either way, he knew that Sofria Kirk had a pure heart.

Two, whoever that guy was, he was going to hurt Sofria.

He was going to destroy her apartment and maybe even kill her.

There was nobody who could stop him. Calvin emerged from under the desk and rose to his full five-foot-six-inch height.

Until now.