Almost A Spy

"What am I getting myself into here?", I think as I sit waiting for my flight. I'm headed to the East coast, specifically Baltimore. There I'll be undergoing a job interview. Normally I'm not nervous about job interviews. I've certainly had plenty, with my work history. I've done everything from being a bag boy in a grocery store, my first ever job, to working for a family friend as a travel agent planning road-trips in the days before everyone had GPS at their fingertips, to spraying ant and wasp nests as a pest control guy that one summer I wanted to live by the beach in San Diego. Yes, job interviews are a cakewalk at this point, but I have a hunch this one may be a little different. You see, I'm going to an interview to become a spy.

I'm getting ahead of myself here though. My name is Max Springer. I'm a college senior, about to finish my degree in biology. Naturally people keep asking me what I'm doing after school. I know I've been asking myself that same question a lot lately. Also, did I mention it's 2009? The big recession that started last year is doing me and my graduating classmates no favors. I find science fascinating, though I'm not sure I want to be scientist, if that makes sense. I've applied for a couple of lab jobs, but all the layoffs recently mean people with more experience than mine are applying for the same "entry level" jobs. And guess who employers like to hire? Yeah, people with experience. I've also thought about going on to some sort of grad school. Maybe in the medical field, but I'm not sure I have the grades for that. Maybe law school. Do they even take people with a biology degree for law school? I don't know. Anyway, last month I found myself wandering from booth to booth at an on-campus job fair.

When I first passed their booth I downplayed the idea of working for the NSA. Dark suits and sunglasses, right? I'm not sure that's really on brand for me. I mean, I'm a biology major for goodness sakes. Does "Big Brother" even hire people in my field? But as I'm about to move on to the next set of company reps something catches my eye. The top 5 language skills they are currently recruiting includes Russian. Or as the natives would say, "Russki." Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I spent a couple years overseas in the former USSR. I went there for humanitarian/religious purposes and since coming home I've tried to keep up the language skills I'd developed by conversing daily with native speakers. "What the heck?!", I think to myself. I know Russian, and maybe this job would be a bit more exciting than measuring aliquots or running polymerase chain reaction tests all day in a lab.

I approach the NSA folks sitting at the desk. I mention my Russian language skills and ask if they care whether one has a degree or not in the language fields for which they are recruiting. Of course it's ideal, they say, not exactly discouraging me, but I can read between the lines. Mostly out of curiosity, I ask about what the job is like being a spy, as I envision a James Bond-esque escapade to stop a super villain. They assure me that while some agents do end up doing field work, most end up doing desk work. They refer me to their website for more information on how to apply. Just like every other company I've talked to so far. The stack of resumes my career advisor said to bring to the fair sits unmoved in the folder I'm carrying. Do recruiters even use paper resumes anymore? Every single company here has an online application now, in which you regurgitate all the information you so painstakingly fit on 1 page, front and back, no smaller than 11-point font. The application process seems like a lot of wasted effort, but someone somewhere with more experience than me decided this is the most efficient way of doing things.

Later, back at home, I get to digging out all the business cards I had thrown in the bottom of my bookbag. I find the NSA card. "Davai poprobyem," I think to myself. Let's give it a shot. I quickly come to find out that every part of the government's hiring process is very labor intensive. Ten whole years of every address, every job, every school; the government wants to know about everything. And they want friends and family contacts who can vouch for all of it! A couple of days and over 30 pages of paperwork later I finally have what feels like a completed application ready to go. "All that and I probably won't even get an interview", I think, as I reflect on the exchange with the recruiters at the job fair. I hit submit.

For a few days all I have to show for my efforts is the verification email that my application was received. You know the one. Thank you for your application, we look forward to reviewing your qualifications, blah, blah, blah. Half the time you never hear back on those things anyway. And then one day, leaving a genetics lecture, there it is. A voicemail from a private number. As I punch in the pin to listen to my messages I'm thinking, "Either this is an important call, or telemarketers are starting to really step up their game." Thankfully it's the former. It's Agent Jensen, (he used the word "agent"!) wanting to set up an initial interview with me.

This initial interview is conducted over the phone. Nothing too out of the ordinary, really. In fact, considering the position is in the field of government espionage, the questions are downright benign. What are you greatest strengths? Tell me about a time you dealt with a disagreement with a co-worker. Where do you see yourself in five years? I'm not sure where I see myself in 5 weeks with graduation just around the corner! Either way, it all goes off without a hitch. Like I said, I've been through a million of these generic interviews for previously held jobs.

The NSA must have like my answers enough. Several days after the first, I'm contacted about an additional phone interview, only this one is in Russian. I've never had a job interview in a foreign language before, so beforehand I'm a little apprehensive. The day of the interview I scan over the grammar cards I had used when I first set out to learn Russian. "Remember to use the formal 'you'", I remind myself. If you don't remember an ending, just slur it a bit like the natives. It'll make you sound more legitimate anyway.

I'm not sure what I was so nervous about. I have a lovely conversation with a lady named, Liudmilla. Two minutes in to our chat I feel like I'm back on the street in my old stomping ground, Vilnius, Lithuania. We talk about various subjects from favorite hobbies, to the local weather, to my views on politics. All in Russian, all without skipping a beat. As soon as I hang up, a breathe a sigh of relief. I'm confident that all went well. So confident, in fact, that I start envisioning what it will be like to live out on the East Coast.

I snap back to the present as I hear the gate agent making an announcement. It's a full flight, so if anyone is willing to check a bag at the gate, they'll do it for free. I'm really not sure what to expect out of this trip. On the one hand, I'm interviewing to spy on the Russians, quite literally. On the other, most agents work at a desk, not operating in a faraway land under an assumed alias. I remind myself that kind of spy work is done mostly in the movies, I'm sure this interview will be nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I hear the gate agent pipe up again. "Max Springer, Mr. Max Springer, please come see the agent at gate A12." I gather my bags and approach. The agent sees the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm sorry Mr. Springer. Someone named, Agent Jensen, just called for you."

I raise an eyebrow, "and...he called...you? at the gate?"

"Yes, he said he is sorry about the mix-up, your interviewers aren't available this week, and will have to reschedule. He hopes you understand and has taken the liberty of calling you a cab," explains the gate agent.

I still question why I have no missed calls on my cell phone since Agent Jensen has my number, but who else would know I was headed out East for an interview on that particular flight?

"Okay," I reply, "thanks for the heads up."

I make my way to the curb, still a little confused about what just happened. When I get there, sure enough, there is a man on the curb waiting for me. "Mr. Springer, if you'll step this way, Agent Springer sent me to take you back home." How does the cab driver know my name too? At this point my mind starts to race just a bit, what is all this about? A schedule mix-up. An NSA agent with the time to call the gate for my flight. A random cab driver to take me home. Is this all normal procedure?

As we pull away from the curb, the cabbie speaks up, "Okay, Mr. Springer, now that we are out of earshot of anyone, will you kindly open the glovebox and have a look inside." This seems like an odd request from a cab driver. This day is getting weirder by the minute. I look inside the glove compartment and see a solitary item. A small, black notebook. As I open the cover he continues. "I know this might all be a bit confusing and I'm sorry I can't explain everything right this moment. But I assure you, there is good reason for it. Please, have a look inside that notebook."

At this point, confusing is an understatement. I start to read the words in the notebook to myself. "Hello Max, I am sorry I could not meet you in Baltimore as planned. I have reason to believe we are being watched. TRUST NO ONE! The first task of your final interview is this, convince your family, friends, and associates that you did NOT get the job, then meet me as directed." I read the next line. "Gediminas Tower, 2PM, Friday, 24/4/09." I think for a minute, I know that name...It's in Vilnius! I look at the last set of numbers, puzzled again for a moment. But then I remember, Europeans write the day/month/year when they write calendar date. April 24th, that's this Friday!

I flip to the next page in the small, black book. "If you cannot accept these terms, do nothing, set this book back in the glove compartment, and my driver will take you home. If you still want the job, slide this notebook into your front pocket." My mind races as I try to grasp the events of the last hour. I attempt to rapidly weigh out the options in my mind.

As I slip the black book into the chest pocket of my suitcoat, the driver hands me an envelope. Twenty thousand dollars cash, a boarding pass, and a passport. We head back towards the terminal.