The Hungarian Highwire

“Basszus… damn tagló,” Simone muttered as the firing pin fell to the tile floor with a clatter. She let the main body of the Browning she was trying to assemble drop onto the table, frowning and shaking her head.

Suddenly she realized the clatter had carried and looked up. Seven clean-cut young American men—they could have been made with a mold—had turned toward her, and she smiled, raising her hands, hunching her shoulders while mouthing, “Sorry,” and tilting her head ever so slightly, as Anna had taught her years ago: boys are easy, smile, tilt, look helpless. Then she ducked under the table, searching for the infernal part.

By the time she found it, Sergeant Petterson was looming over her, his neck vein popping.

“Hunky!” The man’s basso voice made the window behind her rattle.

She looked up at him with the same gaze she’d given Sister Margit when she was nine—attentive and tuned out. Three meals a day. Three meals, her childhood mantra played in her head as the tirade continued. She put the pin back on the table and waited. It had been a long time since she thought about Anna; she sighed internally. I hope you’re still looking out for me from up there.

“—this will save your life someday!” The storm ended as quickly as it had started.

“Yes, Sergeant… Clumsy woman. I do better,” she smiled as she turned to the waiting gun once again.

Can’t put the water back into a broken jug, the old adage came to mind. She took a deep breath and continued with the task, the slight tremble in her hands only noticeable to her.

Still, four parts dropped and one finger bleeding later, the slide clicked, and she pushed the stop lever in. She exhaled and looked up to find that the whole classroom was waiting for her.

“Hunky, failed!”

“You have band-aid, Sergeant?” she asked, raising the bloody finger.

“I can’t stress this enough, gentlemen. Take care of your weapon, and she’ll take care of you,” Petterson said as he walked to the front.

“As my great-great-grandfather used to say, ‘Nothing six well-placed bullets won’t fix.’

“It saved my bacon more than once during the war, and don’t think for a moment that where you’re going isn’t war.

“Am I understood!”

The classroom chorused, “Yes, Sergeant.” Simone muttered with them as she sucked her finger.

“Tomorrow we’ll meet at the firing range! Dismissed.”

Simone headed toward the mess hall, her stomach grumbling. Three meals, she thought.

Simone slouched over the tray of food, then, feeling the ghost of Sister Margit’s two-meter ruler on her back, she straightened her posture. At least the food is better here, she thought as she pondered her situation.

She sat alone in a corner of the large cafeteria.

What do these Americans want? They gave her special training, yet every test wasn’t about her training. Then, she failed, and the instructor yelled.

She chewed the meat, savoring every morsel.

Why recruit me at all? Not that she was complaining. Let them play their games as long as it kept her out of Budapest.

Even Iron Volkova hadn’t been as unreasonable or demanding. Although she could certainly yell louder. She laughed at the memory of the trainer in one of her famous motivational speeches.

Things hadn’t changed that much—she was still getting yelled at and fed.

First Sister Margit, then Volkova néni, and now this Stapleton.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the man walked into the hall, looked around until he found her, and started to walk towards her. She sighed. The cornbread was so good.

“Miss Vance, may I?” Stapleton asked, pointing to an empty chair opposite her. Simone shrugged and continued eating the cornbread. Might as well enjoy my last meal, she thought.

She looked up while chewing.

“I’ll wait till you finish.”

Simone frowned as the last piece disappeared. She looked toward the food counter, but stayed in her seat and waited.

“Go ahead and get more, if you want.”

She got another piece of cornbread and sat down to eat. He waited while reading the report. Finally, Simone looked up.

“Miss Vance, you seem to be eager to see your home country again!” he said while pointing to the report. “You’re more than a third through your training and have failed every single one of your courses.”

“What I don’t understand is all this if you want to send me home?” Simone said as she waved her arms encompassing the facility.

“Highwire can’t put you in the field unless you pass this assessment. That means passing the courses,” he said while gesturing to the report he had set on the table.

Simone looked up from the plate and answered, “Even Iron Volkova wouldn’t have me practice balance and then test me on vault.”

She grinned as a memory of Anna flashed in her mind. Then, she wet her fingers with her tongue and pressed them to the plate to get the last of the succulent crumbs as Stapleton read his report and frowned.

“I want to see you every afternoon starting tomorrow,” he said without taking his eyes off the report.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Simone grinned.

“I’ll meet you here for lunch tomorrow,” Stapleton said as he got up and left, still reading the report, a frown still on his face.

Three more, she thought.

Looking out his office window at the drab Virginia wilderness, Ralph Stranton, this round’s training chief, half heard the progress report. He smiled; Farsight had been approved. Finally, his own project and the future of the Agency—no more human error, no more defectors—just cold, reliable intelligence.

“—Stapleton arrived this morning and met with the subject,” the senior instructor continued his report.

Stranton turned and asked, “What’s he doing here?” That old crafty relic would cause trouble. Why couldn’t he just stay in Washington and wait quietly for the inevitable?

“We’re not sure, sir, but he informed us he would be here for at least a week,” the officer answered, fidgeting slightly in his chair.

“The special training is going as planned?”

“Yes, sir. The curriculum is as planned, and the results meet expectations.”

“He’s not to be involved in the training or the exams. Is that understood? If there’s a problem, he can see me directly.”

Why Corman had authorized a recruit for that failure he would never understand. That program was a disgrace; it had compromised years of work and put lives at risk. Wasting budget on a guy who had a foot out the door. They could use it on more productive things. He shook himself out of the spiral.

He’d make sure it never went anywhere.

He got up from his chair facing the reporting officers.

“I think I should go welcome our visitor. It’s not often we get such a senior officer at the Farm,” he said, beckoning his staff to follow.