The Ghost

The security guard paled when I handed him my ID card. I kept my expression carefully blank, except for a twitch of the eyebrow as he dialed the higher-ups. I didn’t bother trying to listen in on his muttered conversation. I knew what the problem was.

My ID card bore no photo and no name. Only my codename. Ghost. Having either would have been pointless anyways. No one had seen my real face in over a decade and I had buried my true name long ago. Even my fingerprints were false. A new set assigned to me every month, impressed into synthetic skin molded to my hands like silk gloves. Any other record of me had long been erased.

The guard hung up the phone. He swallowed and studied me for a moment. “You really are the Ghost?”

“Yes,” I said, holding out my hand. “Now, may I have my ID back?”

He dropped it into my palm like it might burn his fingers. “You don’t have to like...kill me now, or something. Right?” His tone was joking but his eyes gave away true trepidation.

I laughed. “That’s only in the movies.”

“Of course, ma’am,” He said, laughing in return.

But his eyes flicked away from me as I passed by.

My tan coat billowed behind me through hallways, elevators, doors, scans, and passwords until I finally entered the briefing room. I did not suppress my sigh at the sight of Deputy Director Eric Grayson. Of course, it was he who noticed me first, doing the double-take they all still did whenever they caught sight of me. The instincts of highly trained agents to notice strangers in their midst. And I was always a stranger.

“The Ghost has joined us, I presume,” Grayson announced, loudly. “Or we have an intruder.”

All heads turned in my direction.

“This will be how the enemy infiltrates us one day,” he continued. “We just let anyone in here, assuming it’s the Ghost.”

“We are, in fact, aware of your views, Grayson,” I said, as politely as possible.

“As we’ve said before,” the Director said. “That is the strength of the Ghost. Her identity cannot be compromised if even we do not have records of it.”

“And if she decides to change sides? Sell us out?”

“Why the hell would she do that? Have you seen her track record? Her list of accomplishments?”

And so the argument continued as usual. The briefing, at least, was simple enough. No assassinations for now. Just reconnaissance. A follow-the-money.

At the end, as the other agents and directors were trickling back out into the brightly lit, carpeted hallway, the Director himself handed me the suitcase that held my new identity. This time I would be “Gracie Simmons.”

“I want you to know we highly value all the work you do for us,” the Director said, looking me in the eye.

“Grayson must make a fuss about me everytime,” I said. “I think it’s actually written into his DNA.”

The Director laughed, but there was relief in his laughter.

***

Back at my apartment, all I wanted was a hot meal. But when I opened the fridge, only chill air and white light greeted me. I rubbed a spot on my forehead, feeling the waxy skin move beneath my fingertips. On to one of my least favorite activities then–grocery shopping.

I drifted through the brightly-lit aisles of the store in a bit of mindless haze. Of course, I still kept my eyes on security cameras, exits, and anyone who passed me. No threats at 7pm on a Tuesday, however. Despite one woman dressed in a pair of ill-fitting pajamas.

I always checked out in one of the aisles manned by an actual person. People have worse memories than cameras.

The grocer, a young man with dark, slightly curly hair, checked out my groceries, and attempted to chat as he scanned each item.

“I’m glad you came in here tonight,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that today is actually my last day. I’ve started a new job.”

I was fully alert now. “What do you mean?” I said.

He smiled politely. “I’m moving up in the world, at last. Got a job as a bank teller now. Nothing fancy, but…uh, I will say, pays significantly more. Surprise, surprise, I know.”

“No, no, I mean, what do you mean you’re glad I came in here?”

He glanced both ways before leaning in slightly. “You come in pretty regularly…don’t you? Although usually it’s Thursday mornings.”

I tried not to keep patterns, but even a secret agent has to eat. Thursday mornings were usually the most unfrequented time of day for this particular grocery store. It was a habit that had stuck…apparently.

“You…recognize me?” I said, almost incredulously. “As a regular customer?”

He chewed on his lower lip a little. “I know, you kind of…uh…change it up every week,” he said, waving his hand over his face. “But I, uh, always recognize your eyes. They’re uh…” he coughed a little. “Pretty.”

Unbelievable. This was an enormous breach of security. And I had walked straight into it. No. I had caused it. Dammit.

“Your total is $84.62.” he said, wincing a bit.

I mutely handed him exact cash.

“And you always pay in cash. Which only about four people ever do.”

“Right,” I said.

He drew in a sharp breath. “Well, now that I’m moving jobs, I might as well ask.”

I was taking in all the security cameras, the people around, the number of viable exits. There were too many witnesses. I needed to get him out of the way, somewhere nice and dark, before I could take care of him. It was a pity, too. He seemed like quite a nice guy.

“...Is that a no, then?” he sounded disappointed.

“Sorry, what?”

“Uh…I just asked, if uh, maybe you wanted to have dinner together sometime? Or…if that’s too, uh, forward…maybe just coffee first?”

I stared at him, the credit card reader between us. Had he just…asked me on a date?

Well, I supposed this was just as good a time as any to take care of this…unexpected problem.

“Do you get off work soon? How about tonight?”

He grimaced a little. “Not until 10. They want to keep me here as long as possible for my last day I guess. Tomorrow morning, maybe? 10 am?”

“Sure. Meet outside the store?”

“What about just meeting at the coffee shop on the corner? So I…don’t have to return to my place of former employment.”

I chewed on the edge of my thumbnail for a moment. Not ideal. But I’d at least have tonight to plan.

“Fine,” I said at last. “Sounds good. See you at 10 am.”

***

As soon as I returned home, I threw the groceries in the fridge and pulled up all possible information on the man. I combed through everything, gnawing on a peanut-butter covered celery stick.

Daniel Hoffmeier. Everything pointed toward him being an ordinary hardworking citizen. I wasn’t sure what alarmed me more–the idea that he was an agent, well off my radar, or the idea that he was a completely ordinary person. Either way, I had slipped up. Badly. I had been recognized. Me. The Ghost. Renowned, and valued, for the sole reason that my identity, my appearance, was malleable, unrecognizable.

Even more alarming–he was in my new case files. My target. My in. His new bank job? Unknowingly arranged for him. There would be no quiet disappearance for Daniel Hoffmeier. I had to salvage this situation.

10 am. Coffee shop on the corner. Daniel was already waiting for me. The “date” went… surprisingly well. I tell him my name is Gracie Simmons.

“And you’re not off put by this?” I said, waving my hand to indicate my new face, heavily done up, bold eyeliner and lip and all.

“I must say I am extremely curious,” he said. “This isn’t a usual look for you.”

“Have to try something new every time. I’m a make-up artist. Well. Not an ordinary one. For film.”

“Ah,” Daniel said. I wasn’t sure that he believed me.

We went on a second date. A picnic by the river, other couples walking hand-in-hand by the water. I started fishing for information about the new bank job. I saw why Daniel was chosen as a target for this mission. He is relentlessly ordinary. Undergraduate degree in Cultural Anthropology, but unable to land a job in academia. Working wherever will take him until a better opportunity arises.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” he told me, leaning backwards to look up at the sky. “Have you seen the pictures of waterfalls in Iceland? Or the black sand beaches? That’s the dream, to see places like that one day.”

“I travel a lot for my job,” I replied. “Sometimes I dream of the opposite–to stay in one place for a long time. That seems like a crazy dream most days.”

I don’t know where this admission comes from. I try to pass it off as a trait of this character I’m playing. Gracie the make-up artist. But the warning bells ring in my head. Daniel already has drawn out too much information about me.

Daniel asked if he could take me to dinner for our third date. I declined. Instead we met up for lunch in a park before walking through a local art museum.

“Why do you avoid restaurants?” Daniel asked.

“Food allergies,” I answered. “I always make my own food. I’m always afraid that I’ll get sick if other people prepare it. There’s so much cross-contamination in restaurant kitchens, even accidental.”

Daniel tells me about the cultural context of the various art pieces in the museum. In return, I ask him about money laundering and if he knows that the art market is one of the methods by which money gets passed from hand to hand.

Months passed in this way. Despite myself, despite all my training, I find myself drawn to Daniel. He doesn’t complain about his life, he dreams of a better one. I find it hard to extract information from him because he hates gossiping about his coworkers, instead choosing to be grateful for a better job. He never pries into my life, but he has a way of drawing truth from me all the same.

Everything changed the day I got a note from HQ. A raid on the bank had been planned. On a day Daniel was working. It’s like a splash of cold water in my face. A wake up call.

“I’ve never been on a rooftop date before,” Daniel said. “From up here, the city actually looks beautiful.”

I hugged my arms against my chest, as if I could feel the chill of the wind. “Daniel.”

He turned toward me, the smile dropping from his lips. “Have I…done something? Moved too fast?”

“No, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.”

He laughed. Short and humorless. “Please,” he said. “Don’t say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.”

I swallowed. “It’s not like that. I…” I drew in a breath. I had gone on countless missions. I had stared down the barrels of guns, and held the fate of the world in my hand, balanced on a knife’s edge. So why did my heart beat the fastest, my breaths come the shallowest, in this space between him and I, in this span of time?

“I’ve lied to you,” I said. “This whole time.”

He blinked a couple of times, rapidly and rolled his lips together. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “Are you, like, already married or something? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t just blurt out whatever comes to my mind. Please, go on.”

He shook his head, as if he were frustrated with himself.

“No. I’m not already married,” I said, with a half-laugh. “My name isn’t Gracie Simmons. I’m not a make-up artist. Nothing you know about me is…real.”

He studied me, his face shadowed by the night. I had brought him here because I hadn’t wanted to see his face when I told him it was all a lie. Instead, I had no clue what he was thinking at all. I was flying blind.

“So…” he said, excruciatingly slow. “You…don’t actually like pickles at all?”

For a moment, I tried to translate his words back to English, just to realize he hadn’t switched languages.

“What?”

“Pickles,” he said. “You actually hate them?”

“What? No, I do love pickles.”

“And you’ll just let anyone cook you dinner?”

I scoffed. “Not a chance.”

“And you invite everyone to come right up into your personal space. You just love bear hugs.”

“Hilarious.”

“And you don’t actually miss being able to see the stars. You never have nightmares. You actually love the clubbing scene, and you’ve never felt alone in your life.”

I swallowed. “Don’t,” I said, barely a whisper.

“You never slightly limp when you’re exhausted. You’re always completely lost, oblivious to your surroundings. You actually despise violin music and the smell of coffee.”

“Daniel.”

He stepped close to me then, so the lights from the city sparked in his eyes. “All of that is a lie? Everything I know about you?”

A tear ran down my face.

“I’ve made a mistake,” I said. “This was a terrible mistake.”

He flinched, a little, at that. “I was a mistake.”

“Not you. I mean, yes, but…You’re too close!”

We were just inches apart now, close enough I could almost feel the warmth of his skin. If my real skin weren’t buried beneath synthetic layers.

He stepped back, just one step.

“I’ve let you get too close,” I said. “You shouldn’t know anything about me. You can’t.” Even I heard the desperation in my voice. What would they do to him if they knew about him? I had as good as killed him. “Forget about me. Turn around and run away from me. Don’t look back. Erase me from your memories completely. Please.”

“I can’t do that. Even if I wanted to. I can’t.”

“Daniel,” I said, pleading now. “You must! You don’t understand. I’m dangerous.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t understand. Why? Why are you dangerous? I’m not afraid of you!”

I closed my eyes, as if doing so could erase this moment from time as it erased everything from my sight. I could feel the truth bubbling up inside me. I bit my tongue and tasted blood.

“Please,” he said, softly. Pleading. “I can’t understand unless you talk to me. Unless you help me understand.”

My eyes flew open. He was still standing there, a handbreadth away, his face fully lit by some billboard light or maybe the moon. His expression broke my heart.

“Don’t you see? The reason my name is false. My profession. The reason why my appearance was always changing. My refusal to eat or drink anything prepared by someone other than me. My extreme situational awareness. I’m a spy, Daniel. A ghost. The Ghost. No one is supposed to ever recognize me. Let alone know me. No one has even seen my real face in years. Even I barely remember my real name. And if you know? What do you think will happen?”

Daniel covered his mouth with his hand and turned away.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll make sure no one finds out. You’ll be safe. Just…forget everything.”

He turned back to me, suddenly, and grabbed one of my hands in both of his. I recognized this movement. Would he drop to his knees next? Beg me to save his life?

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “That they made you live this way.”

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What?”

He looked straight into my eyes, searching them. “That they made you abandon your face. Your name. Your identity.” He swallowed. “You deserve to be known, just as much as anyone else. Who you are–who you really are–is just as important as any job. What you do is not all who you are.”

I turned my face away, sharply, blinking rapidly. The wind was stinging my eyes.

That was a lie.

“I don’t care,” Daniel said. “I’m not going to just leave and forget you. Knowing you is worth the danger.”

“Don’t say that,” I said. “You haven’t seen real danger.”

“No. You’re right. I haven’t. But that doesn’t make knowing you worth any less.”

“Daniel. There’s more. Your bank. I mean…”

“What about it?”

“I’m supposed to raid it tomorrow. Your life may really be in danger.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t go in. Call in sick.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “That will alert them. Won’t it. If I don’t go in, it will blow your cover.”

My silence was answer enough.

“I trust you,” he said. “I’ll put my life into your hands.”

I grabbed his hand and brought it to my face. “Then I will trust you with my everything,” I said. And with the edge of my fingernail I tore the synthetic skin along my cheekbone and pressed his fingers into the gap. Then, with his hand clasped in mine, we ripped the disguise from my cheek, pulled it over the bridge of my nose, and drew it across the other side of my face. The rough pads of his fingertips were the first thing my true skin had felt in years. Then the chill night air. I felt, rather than heard, Daniel gasp. He tried to pull his hand free, but I gripped it tighter. With my other hand, I stripped off the rest of the synthetic skin from my face, and peeled the wig from my short hair.

“Whatever happens next,” I said. “I want it to be with you knowing the truth.”

And with the moonlight falling over us, I whispered my real name into his ear.