At 24, amaryllisfox was fast-tracked to undergo advanced operations training within the CIA. That meant disappearing for six months on a top-secret base and bidding farewell to anything resembling a normal life. Read an excerpt from her new memoir here:
August 9, 2019 1:00 PM, 1926. Oil on Canvas. Hirshhorn Museum & Sculpture Garden, Washington D.C. De Agostini Picture Library Bridgeman Images. © 2019 Heirs of Josephine Hopper / Licensed by Artists Rights Society , NYON A CLEAR, cold winter’s day, my boyfriend Andrew* drives me to a gas station on Route 123 a little before dawn.
They break character only to share these gems with us a few hours each night in the sanctity of our SCIF, small room–size safes where five of us work on our cables and intelligence reports, under the watchful eye of our advisers.
Students who lose an asset also likely lose their place at the Farm. For the rest of us, the recruitment cycle continues. Next comes running—the long sweeping arc of a source’s working relationship with the Agency. All our meetings at this post-recruitment stage are clandestine. Arranged via predetermined signals, which are themselves documented for headquarters, to be sure a new field officer could take over an asset in case we disappear or worse.
“When I retire,” my friend jokes, “I’m coming back down here to open a restaurant that just happens to have perfect cover and flow. Guaranteed business from every class of students.” The pace of our training ops ramps up as the weeks pass by. We add land navigation, trekking for days to meet our assets, armed with nothing more than a ziplock-covered map, a compass, and a rainproof notebook. We learn defensive driving, our instructors teaching us how to flip cars by tapping a spot above their rear wheel and respond when swarmed by armed militia fighters or trapped at an ambush.
We stand there for a minute, in the deadened aftermath of the fake town square, like survivors of an apocalyptic event, unsure what to do now our world has evaporated. And then a two-day period of limbo kicks in. It’s been weeks since we’ve had time to ourselves. We split off, alone. Uncertain whether we’ve made the cut, uncertain whether it was all for nothing. And if we did make it, even then, what was it for? It’s unnerving, how suddenly the game of pretend can end.
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