What had happened while I was with the archivist? Back in my apartment I went over the events in my mind and looked once again for any clue.

It occurred to me that all this was meant as a test, and could even be part of the process, part of PW. But where to start? Dossier – maybe it holds the clues I need.

I went through the first papers, along with the passport that held my photo – a recent likeness. Where was that taken? I looked happy, but of course on the passport the moment appeared solemn. But I was cheerful, my eyes open and alive, my hair looked great and something seemed to be positive and promising.

For some reason, I held that passport open and showed it to my mirror. The reflected image seemed to catch another detail. A small moire pattern had been overlaid onto the background, and I could see there was more behind me than was first visible. And my face in reverse didn’t look exactly like me, it was unrealistic, a fabrication. That’s why I didn’t recall the photo – it wasn’t even me, just a computer simulation. A passport like this was just a prop, no customs officials would accept it, and I’d be likely to be arrested trying to use it.

I knew how HQ thought and operated. Either I was to use it, then be stopped at customs, so I could be identified by other agents, or I was to see it as a message: you can’t escape. I’d soon find out which it was. Still intrigued by the background, I took a shot of it with my phone and expanded the view.

Vague misty mountain outlines receding to the horizon? Smudged crowds? Was that a small face blurry in the background? I zoomed again and tightened the image. Yes, it could be a face, but who can say? More like the face you see on the moon. It was futile. I remembered an old mentor who often said that the question to ask wasn’t “Am I doing things correctly?” but rather “Am I doing the correct thing.” I went back to the original package to take another look.

The insignia was authentic, the stamps were as I had remembered them and the format was to code. The official envelopes carrying each of the components of the package were all perfect, with the usual small imprint in the lower left corner. The cover letter had been actually signed, but as I looked more closely at the signature it was one of those blue printed jobs. And I saw there was an ever-so slight misalignment in the spacing – looking as if my name had been inserted. More and more it appeared like a personalized direct mail piece rather than a specific message only for me.

And yet the access codes had all worked, I’d been able to go to the archives, the HQ warehouse, the other areas set out for PW. I’d even discussed issues with the warehouse staff. All was above board. All I had gleaned from examining the dossier was the idea that there were possibly others who’d also been brought out of deep cover to work on PW.

I knew I was a bit of a patsy, a bit of a nerd, a kind of hanger-on to what had been in the glory days of our working together before the dissolution. At the slightest invitation I was right back there, ready for more, ready to do as told, to follow those instructions, and to entrain my being into the work as the HQ dictated it to be. This latest (and I do mean very late indeed) was a surprise, but I was more than up to the challenge and ready to serve.

Who are the others? This question was one that really kept me thinking during those sleepless nights. Well, not exactly sleepless but intermittent sleep punctuated with waking reveries about the others, the past, who were they, where were they, did anyone else take up the challenge, all such thoughts danced like sugarplums all night long.

The only person I felt I could trust was the retired archivist, and I could barely trust her. Each night my tossing and turning, my midnight journalling, my restless waking dreams, were resolved with the image of her face, or her doorbell, or her kitchen table, or her couch, her living room, the stacks of books and papers, one yellowed paper’s corner in the bottom of an unruly pile. I tried again, went to her door.

She opened it before I rang, rushed me into her place, looking left and right down the street as she did so.

“Thank god you came back,” she said warmly, breathlessly. “I didn’t mean you to leave in that state, and certainly we hadn’t answered your questions. Come in, come in.”

She ushered me into the living room, where a delightfully decorated cake and tea were waiting. I laughed. All this time I’d been so very serious, and yet here was something that was a sheer playful joy. Her eyes sparkled.

“Yes I’ve been learning cake decorating now I’m officially retired. I’m at level 3. What do you think?” She asked proudly, turning the cake 360 as if it were on a display turntable.

A profusion of fresh flowers gaily clustered all around the base, framing the pink and yellow stars and flowers, that covered the entire cake. Japan-pop pink gel letters said, “Welcome Home” where a small flat marzipan lozenge gold-stamped with the familiar insignia of the organization was placed in a corner.

I looked at her, wondering, is she serious? And when I knew that she actually was, I smiled, and she smiled back as she poured.

“I know this isn’t a social visit,” she went on, “But it was important to make you feel at ease, especially after last time.”

I nodded, and we both knew she owed me an explanation.

“I’d been instructed, you see, and it was the only way to verify our vetting of your file. Face to face. And using the Melechivich technique. I’m terribly sorry if it was too disruptive to you. I had no idea you would go so deep in it.”

“So I was right in thinking you had done something hypnotic. I knew it wasn’t poison or hallucinogens.”

“Right, I just used the basic method, you remember your training, don’t you?”

I dimly recalled something in our texts, but the class in persuasion techniques was only optional so I’d chosen something different. The image of the man standing while the woman was seated in the a trance as he moved his hands around her like a human MRI machine. The codex of hand gestures in black and white photos, each with a meaning and a direction of action. The list of combinations of these gestures to produce various responses. I saw it all again, along with the early photograph of Melechivich himself, looking straight at the camera, slightly crazed eyes, little smile beneath his white moustache. How interesting, I thought, I am recalling all this so vividly and it was so many years ago.

She handed me a plate. Its easy, I thought, piece of cake!

Then she reached down along one of the paper piles, and selected the yellowed corner that I’d been seeing in my night reveries. Somehow managing to pull it out without dumping the entire pile on the floor, she smoothed the page before handing it to me.

Non-plussed. Gobsmacked. Stunned. Confused.

It was a photo of me years ago, after I’d entered deep cover. Below it the text read very clearly, To be observed until ready for PW. Then my address and phone at the time, along with the cover pseudonym I’d adopted. There was other writing there, but it was in an elaborate language, and I couldn’t read it. The back of the page had what I surmised to be 5 versions of the same text, all in languages I didn’t understand. Some pictographic, some like japanese, some with lovely Balinese-style script. It looked intriguing but I couldn’t make sense of it.

For a moment I slipped into Mode 4, and saw sparkling chandeliers, glittering pathways, the familiar underground city, and hearing the laughter of children in the tall bushes around the square.

She sat with me, and I knew she completely understood. It had been conveyed and it was now up to me to make sense of it.