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Authors: Erica Spindler
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accounts of the Agencyâs attempts to end the lives of political adversaries, including the many, infamous plots against Castro.
The documented cases werenât what interested Luke. No, what interested him was speculation. The things people talked and wrote about that were unacknowledged, undocumented and unadmitted by the Agency. Things even the president had no knowledge ofâfor his own good, of course. Mentions of The Farm. Of elite killing machines who served a specific, deadly purpose, who kept their country safe and on top through the process of eliminating ones enemies.
Luke was enough of a cynic to believe the speculation.
Finally, Morris had admitted the past existence of government assassins and the now defunct Farm. Heâd insisted both had been the product of a now dead political climateâof the cold war and conservative, defense-minded administrations.
Luke thought that was bullshit, but he didnât argue. That was the great thing about fiction, he didnât have to prove something was true, only have the ability to make people believe it was.
Morris had agreed to set Luke up with a former Agency mechanic, code name Condor, though he had made no promises that the man would show. These guys were a special breedâloners, secretiveâmen who lived by their own code and on the fringes.
Condor. Luke brought his beer to his mouth once more. A bird of prey. Fearsome, majestic. A hunter.
A creature on the verge of extinction.
This man could provide Luke with a wealth of informationâinto the psyche of a paid assassin, a man who not only killed for a living, but for his country. A man who was a refugee of the CIA Farm, the elite training ground for government assassins.
In real life this man had been in the same spiritual place as Lukeâs fictional character. He had committed the same acts, had perhaps thought and felt the same things.
Perhaps. Thatâs what Luke hoped to learn.
Luke checked his watch. Condor was late. Luke acknowledged a moment of anxiety. This meeting was a lucky break. Guys like Condor were near-impossible to findâthere were damn few roaming the streets and even fewer willing to talk to a writer. He wanted this meeting to happen in a big way.
âKate! Over here!â
In an instinctive reaction, Luke swung in the direction of the voice, his thoughts filled with her. His Kate. The woman he had once loved, the woman he had convinced himself loved him. Loved him enough to take a chance on a guy with nothing but his dreams and his belief in himself and his future.
Thoughts of Kate brought ones of Richard as well. Of the friendship which had degenerated into an ugly rivalry for Kateâs affections. Of their last encounters, ones that had had nothing of the easiness and laughter theyâd once shared, but were heavy with secrets, suspicion and resentments over things like social class and affluence. Things that shouldnât have mattered, that hadnât mattered to them once upon a time.
The better man had won, apparently. The one who could give Kate all her heart desired. The one who could make all her dreams come true. Or so Richard had said to him, that last morning, as Luke had stood in the cold sunshine in front of the student center, waiting to meet Kate. He had planned to tell her once and for all what she meant to him and to ask her to take a chance on him. To believe in him.
Richard had laughed at that.
The better man. Luke turned back to his beer, rolling the glass between his palms. The one with the money, the family connections and pedigree. The one with all the things Kate had never had. Not the would-be novelist intent on chasing an impossible and childish dream.
Not so impossible, after all. His lips lifted into a grim smile. Not so childish. He wondered what she thought of his success. And of her choice. Did she ever wonder if she had made a mistake?
Obviously not. Four weeks ago he had received an invitation to Kate
The documented cases werenât what interested Luke. No, what interested him was speculation. The things people talked and wrote about that were unacknowledged, undocumented and unadmitted by the Agency. Things even the president had no knowledge ofâfor his own good, of course. Mentions of The Farm. Of elite killing machines who served a specific, deadly purpose, who kept their country safe and on top through the process of eliminating ones enemies.
Luke was enough of a cynic to believe the speculation.
Finally, Morris had admitted the past existence of government assassins and the now defunct Farm. Heâd insisted both had been the product of a now dead political climateâof the cold war and conservative, defense-minded administrations.
Luke thought that was bullshit, but he didnât argue. That was the great thing about fiction, he didnât have to prove something was true, only have the ability to make people believe it was.
Morris had agreed to set Luke up with a former Agency mechanic, code name Condor, though he had made no promises that the man would show. These guys were a special breedâloners, secretiveâmen who lived by their own code and on the fringes.
Condor. Luke brought his beer to his mouth once more. A bird of prey. Fearsome, majestic. A hunter.
A creature on the verge of extinction.
This man could provide Luke with a wealth of informationâinto the psyche of a paid assassin, a man who not only killed for a living, but for his country. A man who was a refugee of the CIA Farm, the elite training ground for government assassins.
In real life this man had been in the same spiritual place as Lukeâs fictional character. He had committed the same acts, had perhaps thought and felt the same things.
Perhaps. Thatâs what Luke hoped to learn.
Luke checked his watch. Condor was late. Luke acknowledged a moment of anxiety. This meeting was a lucky break. Guys like Condor were near-impossible to findâthere were damn few roaming the streets and even fewer willing to talk to a writer. He wanted this meeting to happen in a big way.
âKate! Over here!â
In an instinctive reaction, Luke swung in the direction of the voice, his thoughts filled with her. His Kate. The woman he had once loved, the woman he had convinced himself loved him. Loved him enough to take a chance on a guy with nothing but his dreams and his belief in himself and his future.
Thoughts of Kate brought ones of Richard as well. Of the friendship which had degenerated into an ugly rivalry for Kateâs affections. Of their last encounters, ones that had had nothing of the easiness and laughter theyâd once shared, but were heavy with secrets, suspicion and resentments over things like social class and affluence. Things that shouldnât have mattered, that hadnât mattered to them once upon a time.
The better man had won, apparently. The one who could give Kate all her heart desired. The one who could make all her dreams come true. Or so Richard had said to him, that last morning, as Luke had stood in the cold sunshine in front of the student center, waiting to meet Kate. He had planned to tell her once and for all what she meant to him and to ask her to take a chance on him. To believe in him.
Richard had laughed at that.
The better man. Luke turned back to his beer, rolling the glass between his palms. The one with the money, the family connections and pedigree. The one with all the things Kate had never had. Not the would-be novelist intent on chasing an impossible and childish dream.
Not so impossible, after all. His lips lifted into a grim smile. Not so childish. He wondered what she thought of his success. And of her choice. Did she ever wonder if she had made a mistake?
Obviously not. Four weeks ago he had received an invitation to Kate
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