CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

00

Over the last few years, I've grown so accustomed to digging for information that I've forgotten what it is like to be the subject of study. I keep my spine upright and stiff, keep myself from fidgeting with the clothes I took half an hour to pick out yesterday and keep the soles of my shoes pressed against the floor. It's raining today, so the soles of my shoes are squeakier than usual. The rain was freezing, and if I wanted to hide my nerves, I could probably pass off my twitching as a side effect of the frigid air. I'm sure the profiler reading my folder in front of me would not fall for the lie.

"It won't distract me if you jitter," he says.

So, he's noticed I'm trying not to fidget.

All of this feels like psychological warfare. I'm sure he's read over the contents of my file at least twice before I found my way here. It's been read by dozens of people at this point. Really, I've handed it out so frequently that it shouldn't bother me. Yet, I've never actually seen someone scan the pages.

I don't respond to his offer. Instead, my eyes flicker to the three others on the interview panel. One of them is taking notes on a computer, writing furiously even though I haven't said anything. Another person on the panel is the man's boss, a blonde woman who doesn't smile. Then, there is the man that I am hoping to replace. He seems more interested in trying to clean his thick glasses than paying attention to the interview.

The file is worse than the clicking of the keyboard. At least, the scribe only seems to be recording the person I am now. The file is every past version of me, presented with the cooperation of the FBI, CIA, and four different states. The ink bleeds black. It isn't me, even if it pretends to be.

"We just want to be sure you have no conflicting loyalties," the only other woman in the room says.

I do not believe her. During my application process to join the bureau, a committee interviewed my family, colleagues, employers and past professors. If there was a question about my loyalty, I wouldn't have made it this far. When one of my old colleagues suggested that I apply to this division of the bureau, I did it while wine drunk to humour her. Obviously, I didn't think I would ever get the clearance to do training, let alone get clearance to apply for this position.

"I've only lived abroad for a sum of seven years," I point out, looking at the file.

The man shuts the file, "you're nearly twenty-seven. Seven years is the majority of your adult life, is it not?"

"It's also eight years," the man's boss corrects.

"I spent nine months abroad when I was fifteen," I roll my eyes. "Not a full year. And I hardly count that time anyway."

"You were a dual citizen, correct?" the man asks.

"Was, yes," I agree. I renounced my dual citizenship two years ago. I would have done it sooner if it weren't more convenient to have multiple passports. People abroad, often fairly, aren't as kind to Americans as they are to other travellers.

"And you studied abroad as well," he notes. "Your research was funded through government grants?"

"Naturally," I tell him.

It seems redundant to ask me these questions while holding every answer in his hands. They must know that spending a year in France for a master's is not an actual cause for concern. I am not spying on behalf of a foreign government. Profilers do not ask questions without purpose, I shouldn't think. This profiler is clever.

They're trying to see how I react to direct probing into my past. Either that or they are trying to goad me into showing a display of anger that will surely disqualify me from the position. I can't entirely be sure since I'm not a profiler. At the very least, this is only the beginning. I've been told there are several rounds of interviewing, and this is just the first.

"And you do not feel any conflicting interests due to the funding?" he pushes once more.

"I am currently receiving funding to research at Georgetown. Are you also concerned about my loyalties to the American Ivy Leagues?" I ask.

The man smiles, even though his boss does not. The person that I am slotted to replace has his eyes closed. Surely, they've noticed that he is about to fall asleep. Yet, they say nothing to him.

"I suppose we should get into the details then," the man says. The woman nods beside him. "Let us begin with your first stint abroad."

~~~~~

Welcome to this story! Just a little taste of course, but I think pretty important. Let me know what you think!