The world I grew up in was slightly different from the world you grew up in. My father was a senior United States intelligence official, or, if you prefer the lurid: a spymaster. I grew up all over the earth, and from when I was very young I had spies for uncles. By the time I was eleven, I'd learned to sit on the stairs in the dark and listen to my father and his men downstairs drinking into the night and saying things they thought no one else would hear. I grew up knowing secrets. I grew up knowing my family's telephones were monitored, our mail was intercepted. I grew up understanding everyone has the capacity to betray.
And I grew up loving my father, but certain I didn't want a life like his. By my twenty-third birthday, I'd been recruited by the CIA, said no thanks, and set out to lead an entirely different sort of life. Yet I write this in a safe house. A safe house on a beach in Florida, where, at the moment, a gentle rain is falling.
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