Written for OLWG #51
Wendy Johnson was born in Nebraska. She was just a girl, an ordinary girl in every way except one. She wore her sandy coloured hair shoulder length (with hair bands that brought out the blue of her eyes); she wore loose flowered dresses in the spring. Mary Janes.
Wendy maintained a ‘B’ average in her studies from grade one through high school. She did not participate in organized sports or cheerleading. She went to the community pool in the summertime, vacationed with her parents, rode a red ‘girl’s’ bicycle to school. She got summer jobs and saved her money. At sixteen she bought a modest used car, something that didn’t stand out. She hated being Wendy Johnson. She wanted to be someone else.
She did situps and pushups in her room before breakfast and again before going to bed. She really didn’t cultivate friendships; not lasting ones anyway. She took up running and wasn’t interested in boys. She was strong. She was fit. She was tall and lean.
After high school she joined the Army. She wanted to go ‘Special Forces’ she wanted to go ‘Green Beret’. The Army made her a typist so; she did her time and took her honorable discharge. She applied for a job at the CIA – Secretarial Pool. She got in and received her assignment in ‘Special Activities Division’. That’s where her potential was finally recognized.
It started off small. One day in early autumn. Her supervisor, Miles Rampart, pushed his head out of his office door.
“Miss Johnson!” he barked and pulled back into his office like a turtle retreating back into his shell.
She stopped what she was doing, stood and made her way to the office door. M. Rampart read the name painted on the rain glass pane set in the upper half of the door. She knocked, reached down, turned the knob and pushed. Remaining beyond the threshold she spoke up, “Yes sir.”
He glared up at her, “I don’t know what the reason is but the Director, himself, wants to see you upstairs.”
“Of course now, Miss Johnson. Don’t keep him waiting!”
He needed her to take an envelope from Virginia to DC. It was easy. The envelope was delivered to a lawyer’s office. The lawyer’s girl, in turn, gave Wendy a package to take back to the Director. A week went by and then it was to Chicago. The trips kept getting longer. She was given plane tickets, train tickets, cash to get around, but the first time she was handed a pistol she knew the game was changing.
The day when was no longer Wendy Johnson was the day that the Director had a package waiting for her, about the size of a hatbox. Next to it was a small black carry-on bag, like a flight crew would use. On top of the hat box was a blued steel handgun and two clips.
“Do you know how to use this?” the Director asked as he picked it up and offered it to her.
“Yes sir.” she said smiling. She took the proffered piece “Beretta PX4 Storm Type F; it’s NATO Certified.” She dropped the magazine and racked the slide admiring the engineering before setting it back down on the hat box.
The Director reached into his pocket and removed an envelope. “Here are travel documents and tickets. This box needs to go an interested party in Montenegro. I’m giving you the Beretta as the box must be protected, at all costs. TSA has been alerted and you will not be troubled leaving the country. I’m afraid you’re on your own when you get to Tivat though. Miss Greene will fill you in on the specifics, but I believe your flight leaves tonight at 2100 from Regan. Is that correct Miss Greene?”
“It is indeed, sir.”Miss Greene spoke up from slightly behind and to the left, startling Wendy.
“Good luck, Miss Johnson,” the director offered as a means of signaling that the meeting was over.
Wendy picked up the Beretta and the hat box. Miss Greene grabbed the carry-on bag and herded her charge to the outer office. “Upon your arrival in Tivat you need to make your way to Kotor, on the coast. It’s not far. You have reservations at Hotel Vardar. The envelope that the Director gave you contains everything you should need.” She stuck out her hand and the two women shook, rather stiffly and formally.
“Good luck, Miss Finch.” Green said.
“Finch?” Johnson echoed back.
“It’s your name. On the papers. Make sure you review them before your departure.
Amanda Finch found herself in the hallway outside the Director’s office. She gathered up her new belongings and made her way to the elevator.
This week, the prompts were:
- You are not what I expected
- some myths are prophecy
- Tell them what?
Don’t think! Write!
You have 25 minutes but if it takes longer – just don’t tell anyone.