CHAPTER 1
He measured five foot eleven from the tip of his toes to the top of his head — and six foot even from the tip of his toes to the roof of his hump. Yes, Al was a hunchback who daily prayed for the soul of his recently departed mother and thanked her for not terminating him, her less-than-perfect son, and thereby giving him the life he so richly deserved. When she found out the male child she was carrying was deformed — and most certainly would never be physically normal — she'd steadfastly refused to give in to her husband's demands; she carried the child full term and delivered a healthy baby boy — a baby boy with a hump. His mother routinely fretted about her son, believing that he would be tormented, picked on, ridiculed, and maybe even physically abused as he aged, but contrary to her bleak expectations, none of these worst-case scenarios ever materialized. In fact, to a large extent, Al's hump was more of an asset than a liability. People bent over backward to give him a break, and they always gave him the benefit of the doubt when really important decisions were in the offing. Al was certainly no intellectual giant, but he basically skated through college, receiving his bachelor's and then master's degree in business administration in record time and with pretty good grades. He'd always believed a number of his professors had cut him some slack because of his deformity; they felt bad for him and thought he deserved a break. In retrospect, he appreciated their kindness, but it was unnecessary — the material wasn't all that difficult. After graduating near the top of his class, he looked around for a career with a bit of excitement and maybe some travel; he wanted to meet interesting people — and exciting women. Al was anything but a loner, and his hump never slowed him down; the world was his oyster, at least according to the class valedictorian. Contrary to what one might think, women weren't turned off by his hump. In fact, some thought it quite exotic, but most just ignored it as they might disregard a disproportionately large nose or a bucolic, down-home southern accent. In many respects, Al was quite good-looking: he had an athletic, muscular body with not an ounce of fat. He had a kind, appealing face, bushy eyebrows that picturesquely frame the bluest of blue eyes, and a quizzical smile that seemed to say, "I see you — stop peeking at my hump." By any measurable standard, Al was a decent sort of chap, and if he were forced to identify one character flaw, it would be that he loved things; he loved acquiring things. And to buy things, he needed money. Yes, Al loved money and what it could do for those he cared about, but more importantly he loved money for what it could do for Al.
Al spent most of the summer casting here and then there, looking for that dream job. And while he had several offers, none appealed to him. He could afford to be picky, since his mother had left him a large nest egg; she'd never gotten over her fear that his handicap might somehow impede his success or derail his journey through life. After he'd spent a few months looking, a friend told him that Central Intelligence was recruiting. If he was interested, he should bring three copies of his résumé to the Tyson's Corner Holiday Inn around nine the following day. When asked, his friend replied no, he wasn't interested in being a super-snoop — he was enlisting in the army and hoped to be accepted into Officer's Candidate School and be commissioned a second lieutenant in a year or two. Al had never considered the military, knowing he'd automatically be medically disqualified. "No humps allowed ... talk about discrimination. Atten-hump! No, not my bag, anyway. Too much discipline — just shut up and do what you're told. No, definitely not for me," he said as he smiled to himself a rather grim, self-deprecating smile.
At the Holiday Inn the following day, Al dropped off his rather lean résumé, had a few cordial words with an Agency rep, and then departed disappointed that the interview wasn't more extensive. He said to himself, This will be a complete waste of time, a dead loss. A few days later, however, he received a letter in the mail advising him to show up in five days' time for a preliminary interview at CIA HQ, just outside McLean in northern Virginia. He'd have to sign in at the security checkpoint and get a temporary visitor's badge, but everything would be organized up front, and there would be no problems entering the Agency compound. It was all there in black and white. Al ticked off a few boxes to accept the invite and returned it in the stamped, self-addressed envelope. He was excited; working for the country's premier clandestine service seemed very interesting, and what would his friends think? Most of his friends already had jobs — mostly entry-level jobs in business administration — but he, Al, might walk in the footsteps of, yes, James Bond, the most famous spy ever. How very radical, thought Al. The fact that James was British and worked for MI-5 — or was it MI-6? — was just a minor technicality that Al chose to ignore; his imagination ran rampant.
Al was up at the crack of dawn, multitasking. How to dress? What to wear? What not to wear? All these questions and others raced through his mind as he brushed his teeth and ran the shower until it got too hot. Al knew Agency employees were notoriously tasteless dressers. How he knew that, he couldn't say, but he knew, so he picked out a plain, solid-gray shirt and gray slacks. Navy sports coat and brown shoes — no tie or T-shirt. It was November, so this ensemble would do nicely; an overcoat would not be necessary. All of Al's shirts were tailored to fit snugly over his hump, and as humps went, his was not too large. But it was large enough to cause a curvature of the spine, so when walking, Al looked as though he were searching for loose change. As Al's spine allowed little vertical movement, he used his powerful neck muscles to look ahead or to the left or right. While looking up was not impossible, it was very difficult and could only be done in short bursts. If Al could stand up straight, which he couldn't, he'd be well over six feet tall — quite imposing.
Al passed through CIA security without a hitch; he got a temporary visitor's badge that neatly clipped onto his lapel, well above the waist as required. He was permitted to wander the original headquarters buildings with no escort — and got lost a couple of times. He eventually found his interviewer in a small cubicle crammed with a largish computer workstation, a printer, several shelves of books, and two chairs — one for visitors, presumably. From the placement of the visitor's chair, it looked as if it had been recently dragged in from another cubicle. The room size didn't impress Al; he'd figured he'd be interviewed in a plush office with the interviewer seated behind a large mahogany desk with the walls lined with photos of previous directors, maybe an American flag at attention in one corner, and the pervasive odor of freshly brewed coffee. Al also figured he'd be seated in a plush, burgundy leather chair and sipping coffee from fine English china, but that was not to be. The interviewer welcomed Al with a less-than-convincing handshake and then, with the wave of a hand, invited him to sit. Al had to keep his long legs tucked under his chair or risk knocking his feet against the interviewer's feet, which protruded well beyond...
