The Farm

The CIA never confirmed it, but Daria Ahmadi knew her ability to speak fluent Farsi is what led to her recruitment. Six months out of Ohio State, having sent hundreds of unanswered job applications, she had been working at her parents' Subway sandwich shop in Minneapolis when the US government flew her to Washington DC for an interview.

Three weeks later, she was at ‘The Farm’, deep in the Virginia woods, training on how to be an intelligence officer. She learned how to tail targets without being seen, how to collect dead drops, mastered all sorts of firearms. Despite passing every test, the ex-military members of her training class looked at her, with her Middle Eastern features and petite Persian stature, with scorn. But she refused to wilt under their disdain. A year later, when most of those grunts were sitting on dusty hilltops in Afghanistan watching drone strikes, Daria attended embassy receptions. Language skills turned out to be more valuable for a spy than anything the military teaches.

On one afternoon, under the chandeliers of the Malaysian embassy in Cairo, Daria surveyed the odd assortment of guests gathered: bored businessmen, salespeople looking for customers, employees of the other minor embassies in Cairo, who mostly didn’t have anything else to do.

Her target was Colonel Ghasemi, an Iranian air force officer likely in Cairo to oversee their back channel tech imports. The microchips in Iran's drones were all from American factories.

Her backup, Jacob, an Ivy League trust fund type, stood across the room. She looked past Jacob’s shoulder and played with her earring–their agreed upon signal for assistance. He adjusted his tie in response, which meant, you’re on your own. Typical. No one in the room would have connected their gestures, but they might have seen the flash of worry in Daria’s face.

The Ivy League grads in the CIA like Jacob confused her with their strange form of elitism. When something was important, like a job review or a promotion, they pretended as if they didn’t care. When something wasn't significant at all, such as the type of sushi they ate, or the yoga they did, they acted as if it was the most important thing in the world.

While Jacob drank and traded jokes with Arab guests, Daria turned her attention back to Colonel Ghasemi. 

The deal she was offering him was a tough sell. Risk life in prison to give Iranian government secrets to America. She reapplied her lipstick in a mirror. Be fearless. She repeated her mantra to herself, the one she told herself every morning in the mirror.

She approached the Colonel, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor.

“A fellow Persian speaker in Cairo?” she asked, her voice cheerful yet measured. “It’s a pleasure.”

The Colonel turned, his smile warm and genuine. “Salam. Indeed, it is. What brings you to this beautiful city?” 

“Business.” Daria brushed her hair back, making sure the Colonel could see the lack of a wedding ring. “Then back to Tehran next week.”

Persian men paid attention to her. Daria’s mother was from Tehran, and her father from Greece. Her face was familiar, but exotic enough to elicit their curiosity. 

“Tehran! Lucky you. Syria for me….” He winked. “A military man’s life is not always glamorous”

Daria laughed softly, touching his arm. “Speaking of the military, I have a cousin at Hamedan University studying nuclear engineering. Perhaps you know of any research institutes hiring graduates? It would be a big help.” 

The Colonel took her business card, one for a supposed Tehran real estate broker. “For a patriotic Iranian, I would be happy to help,” he said.

“Sepas gozaram,” Daria replied, her voice full of gratitude.

“Khodahafez.” The Colonel nodded, and turned back to his other guests.

Daria backed off, confident she had planted the hooks to receive a response from the Colonel, probably about a few days from now. Men need to believe they are making their own decisions. And he was an ENTJ personality, narcissistic tendencies, susceptible to flattery. She memorized his case file.

Intelligence gathering was farming. Planting seeds, and collecting the fruits of her labor afterward. Male operators often bashed their target’s face in to extract info, and killed the chicken that lays the golden eggs in the process. Her way was better.

Daria mingled with the other guests, deftly mentioning connections to influential people–a billionaire in Dubai, a famous professor at Harvard, a cousin who works for the Prince in Riyadh. Reasons for people to contact her. She would sort through her leads later with the analysts at Langley.

After the Iranian delegation left, she approached Jacob. He was busy putting a strange type of sushi into his mouth, the one covered in orange goo.

“Funny seeing you here!” she said, role playing a distant acquaintance.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Jacob asked discreetly.

“Set the bait. The client might email some leads later.”

“Good.” Jacob's eyes scanned the room, his expression bored. They were alone in the corner, and no one was paying attention to them.

The CIA rewarded teamwork, but Jacob hadn’t done at all today, and his nonchalance irritated her. “Good? That’s all you got?”

Jacob licked the corner of his lip. “We have been playing this game for a while.”

“What do you mean?” She kept her voice low, her smiled fixed in place.

“Iran feeds us addresses. Israel bombs them. Everyone’s happy.” He popped the rest of the sushi roll into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Daria’s heart pounded in her chest. “He knows who I am?”

“Your Farsi is perfect, but you speak as if you stepped out of 1979.” Jacob’s gaze was piercing, his voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think you were going to fool anyone, did you?”

“Farsi is my mother tongue.”

“Exactly.” 

Daria thought about how her mother left Iran during the Iranian Revolution, in 1979. 

“How did you send me in unprotected? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Think about it. It’s a win-win,” Jacob said. “Israel gets to bomb some targets, the politicians get to proclaim victories, and the CIA budget gets renewed. No one gets hurt. What’s not to like?”

Daria's mind raced, the room suddenly too hot, too loud. She wanted to scream. She planned to turn Jacob in as soon as she got back to Langley. But how far up did this go? She would need to report this to someone senior, maybe even the Director.

Jacob was studying her reaction, his eyes calculating. “So I guessed wrong. You don’t like it. How are you going to get a promotion after being a whistleblower? Have you ever seen a whistleblower promoted in the US government?”

“I didn't say that-”

“Do you want to be stuck hunkered down in the desert watching drone strikes, where you won’t do any damage to an intelligence operation?”

Jacob had a point. Daria took a deep breath. “Fine. So how do I handle the Colonel if he wants…more?” She moved her hands along her hips, smoothing her silk dress.

“Don’t worry about that.” Jacob smirked. “The Colonel is gay, Why do you think they chose him to contact you?”

“How did you know he’s gay? That wasn’t in the case file.” 

Jacob winked again. An infuriating gesture. “I have my sources.”

Suddenly she saw it. “I didn’t see that one coming.” Daria took a sip of her mocktail, the sweet liquid washing away the bitter taste in her mouth. She thought about the chilled bottle of chardonnay waiting for her at the luxury hotel, her cover location as a supposed Iranian businesswoman.  

Daria's next placement was in New Delhi and she looked forward to touring the palaces. She would play the long game. One way or another, she would find out who was pulling the strings. Daria was no one’s pawn.