She stared at the frosted glass door and felt an unfamiliar tingling along her spine. The name of the firm, Brown and Company, was etched in a nondescript font with gold edging, very similar to the lettering on the other offices she’d noticed and passed on her way to this interview. This particular office was located in the middle of the hall, in the middle of the building, in mid-town Manhattan. She looked down at the advertisement in her hand and confirmed that she was indeed in the right place. She took a deep breath, placed her hand on her stomach, and slowly let it out. She could do this.

Entering the work force had never been part of her life’s plan, but her husband’s unexpected death had left her struggling in several different ways. Living alone made her realize that she needed something more—a distraction or a goal. One thing was certain, she most definitely needed an income. She couldn’t afford to stay in their tidy Sleepyside home and bake oatmeal cookies the rest of her life. She needed to earn a living as much as she needed to find a purpose.

Pushing the door open, she was surprised to find the room full of people, both men and women, all professionally dressed and all obviously waiting for an interview. Suddenly, she felt grateful that she’d had the presence of mind to call and make an appointment even though the advertisement had indicated appointments were optional. Smoothing her neatly pressed brown gabardine skirt with one hand, she again inhaled deeply and managed to restrain from adjusting her hat. The generic job opening with its minimal qualifications must have attracted many other applicants as well. The prospect of competing with so many people struck her with a flash of uneasiness. Ignoring the roomful of people, she stepped up to the desk where a receptionist was seated, and gave her name. After consulting a clipboard, the clerk immediately checked her name off a long list, and handed her an application.

“Fill this out please,” the clerk told her. “Bring it back to me when you’re done.” Then she recorded the time next to her name.

She’d taken care to arrive a few minutes early, and that simple fact eased her tensions just a bit. Taking a seat, she completed the straightforward application form quickly and easily. So far everything seemed rather ordinary, but she’d never worked outside her home, other than babysitting for friends. Still, she felt confident that she was smart enough to do most any job; she’d been at the top of her class in school, sailing through most of her subjects with minimal outside studying. It helped that she found memorization so easy.

As she turned in her application, the receptionist asked her to wait for a few minutes and someone would be with her. That part was also easy. Observing the many and varied people in the waiting room provided an entertaining distraction, and the next few minutes passed quickly.

“Mrs. Vanderpoel?” The clerk called her name and led her through a door and down a short hall to a small, plain office, where a middle-aged woman sat behind yet another desk. There was nothing to hint at her role in the company, but the woman waved her to a chair and introduced herself in a pleasant and professional manner.

“Let’s see, you’re Mrs. Vanderpoel, Willemina Vanderpoel. Am I pronouncing it correctly?”

“Yes, very well done,” she answered.

“I’m Ms. Green, Vera Green. Let’s get the basics out of the way, shall we?”

Ms. Green then embarked on a series of questions that seemed to be rather ordinary. Education, work experience, references were all asked in a perfunctory manner. It became a bit more interesting when she was handed a list of a dozen unrelated items, the interviewer asked her to study it for one minute. Willemina was surprised to see Ms. Green pull out a stopwatch to time her. When the minute was up, she handed the list back.

The interview continued with more questions. Her biggest strength she answered with common sense, and her biggest weakness was easy, she did have a sweet tooth. No, she couldn’t type, but that hadn’t been a requirement mentioned in the job listing.

“I’m more than happy to take a course in typing if that would help.”

“It’s not necessary, just something we like to know for our skills assessment,” Vera Green replied. “What about shorthand or stenography?”

“No, but again, if a course in this would be of help to the firm—”

She wasn’t allowed to finish before the interviewer waved her off. “Not necessary, skills assessment.”

Willemina frowned. It didn’t appear that she had any skills to assess, but the questions continued for several more minutes. Finally, after a lengthy interrogation, the interviewer looked at her closely.

“Mrs. Vanderpoel, can you tell me the items that were on the list I gave you earlier? Preferably in order.”

Surprised, she recited back the list that included everything from oranges to taxi cabs.

Making a notation, Ms. Green stood and motioned for her to follow.

“Excuse me, but I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about what this job entails?” Willemina asked as they exited the office.

“That will come later,” she was told. “When you interview with the boss.” It was a short trip down the hall to a much smaller room where two other individuals waited.

“Hello,” she greeted the pair as she sat down. “Are you both interviewing for the position advertised in the paper?”

They young woman gave a nervous giggle and nodded her head vigorously without introducing herself. The older man frowned and mumbled his name. “Looks like they’re weeding us out pretty quickly,” he commented. “I saw them send home at least a dozen people already.”

Willemina deduced she was either going to be sent home—or she’d cleared the first hurdle in the interview process. Both the job candidates that were waiting with her were escorted away before she was shown into another room. This time an older man conducted the interview.

“Mrs. Vanderpoel? I’m Mr. Black. Argus Black. I’m going to have some questions for you today.”

Mr. Black’s questions were more probing. In fact, she thought them almost too personal in nature. She frowned but gave her pastor’s name when quizzed about who could vouch for her character and honesty. She demurred when her finances were questioned, and finally bristled when asked about her personal life as a widow.

“Sir, that’s none of your business. In fact, it’s not anyone’s business!” she snapped at him. “If these questions are indicative of the kind of company you run, and what I’m to expect while working for you, then you can forget about me right now.”

She stood as if to leave and he waved her to sit down again. “Believe it or not, Mrs. Vanderpoel, that is exactly the correct answer. You’d be surprised how few candidates refuse. We needed to make sure that you were … discreet. If you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll see if the next person is ready for you.”

Soon she was back in the same waiting room, this time alone. A young, bookish man finally appeared and asked her to follow him into another office. She observed that he carried some typed documents in his hand. He seated her at a small table and handed her a blank piece of paper before introducing himself. “Mrs. Vanderpoel, I’m Walter White. During your time with me today, I’m going to administer a sort of quiz we like to give to measure your thinking processes. It’s verbal only, so just relax and please give me your answer as quickly as possible.”

“If it’s verbal, then what is this paper for?”

“In case you need to make any calculations.”

The first question asked of her was simple enough: “Some months have 30 days, some have 31 days, but how many months have 28 days?”

“All months have 28 days,” she answered and gave him a distrustful look. “Either that is a very poorly worded question, or you are trying to trick me. February has only 28 days most of the time.”

“Correct,” he replied. He gave no indication if it were a trick question, but simply asked another question.

“If a doctor gives you three pills and tells you to take a pill every half hour how long before all the pills are taken?”

“One hour,” she replied, hoping he didn’t notice her fingers moving as she counted.

Walter picked up the pace, but his expression remained unchanged. “Divide 30 by one half and add 10?”

“70.”

“A farmer had seventeen sheep. All but nine died. How many live sheep does he have left?”

“Nine.” She frowned, deciding he was indeed trying to trick her into giving the wrong answer. It made her all the more resolute not to be fooled.

The questions were primarily brain teasers or puzzles, as best she could tell. Walter gave her a similar exercise as Ms. Green by providing her a list of five things to memorize; but he only gave her fifteen seconds to review the list. At the end of all the questions, he asked her to tell him the five things and she recited in order: country, goldfish, thunderstorm, toast and package.

He leaned back. “You are the first applicant today that has not missed a single question.”

This surprised her. The questions hadn’t been that difficult. Tricky, yes, and you had to think, but they were not hard. “Do you always ask your applicants trick questions?” She leaned forward, clasping her handbag.

“We prefer to think of them as logic questions. They’re designed to measure analytical thinking skills. Those are very important to us.”

“I see,” she said. “Are you the boss? The one who can tell me about what this position entails?”

He gave a small chuckle and adjusted his glasses. “No, that’s Mr. Brown. You’ll be speaking with him next. I’m just waiting on him to give me the signal that he’s ready.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You work for his company, then?”

At his affirmative nod, she leaned back. “How many people work here?”

“It varies,” he said. “Some of us are seasonal. For example, a few of our employees made the trip here just to help us with the interviews. Mr. Brown normally meets with numerous candidates for his openings; it’s important for him to find someone who is just the right fit for the company.”

“What sort of qualities does the ideal candidate possess?” she inquired. “I was a bit surprised to be asked about my office skills.”

“This is not an office position,” he replied quickly. “The ideal candidate is a person of great discretion, who is analytical and smart. He or she must have strong observation skills and a good memory for details. There are other requirements, but Mr. Brown will cover those.” He stood up. “He’s ready. If you’ll follow me.”

She was surprised. She had not detected any sort of signal and wondered if it were just timing. Although the young man, who she doubted was really named Walter White, had not glanced at his watch. Willemina frowned. All of the interviewers today had a color for their last name, including of course, the alleged boss, Mr. Brown. Of course Brown and Company was the name of the firm. She had an apprehensive feeling about the job and things did not seem quite right. However, she chose not to say anything and followed Walter out of the office.

She was shown into another nondescript office. An ordinary looking, middle-aged man sat behind a plain metal desk with a phone, blotter and pen. He stood up and introduced himself as Mr. Brown, shaking her hand and then motioning for her to sit in the visitor chair.

“Thank you, George,” he said to the young man.

She turned and gave him a quizzical look at the same time he replied. “I’m Walter, sir. George is at lunch.”

“Right, right,” Mr. Brown replied.

“Let me guess,” she inserted herself into the conversation. “George must be Mr. Gray.”

The man laughed. “Actually, George is Mrs. Gray. George is short for Georgina. Forgive us, Mrs. Vanderpoel, but most of this staff is on loan today from headquarters and we do not disclose their real names to applicants because we don’t want them bothered down the road when they return home.”

He gave a nod at Walter White who left quietly, closing the door behind him. Mr. Brown again indicated that she should take a seat, and once she was settled he began to speak. “Mrs. Vanderpoel, first I’d like to thank you for responding to our ad. We appreciate your patience with our rather lengthy and … unusual interview process.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr. Brown. This is my first job interview. You see, I never expected to work. But with my husband …” her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat. “It has proven most interesting.” Her voice was suddenly brisk and she straightened in her chair. Let him ask anything about her and Olav, she had nothing to hide!

“Mrs. Vanderpoel, our position is very unusual. We rarely have openings of this type, but when we do, we must take great care in filling the position. It’s critical to our success to have exactly the right person in each job. In fact, you might argue that it’s critical to the welfare of our country.”

“Oh? Are you one of those defense contractors that builds planes and ships and things?” she asked. “Or do you support the energy plant?”

“No, nothing like that,” he replied. “We don’t actually build anything. You might think of us as more of a think tank -- creative ideas, policy, strategy, and the like.”

“I see. Well what exactly would my duties be?” Her nervousness was finally bubbling over. She didn’t wait for him to answer and kept asking questions. “Where would I work? Here in your office?” All her previous questions had been deferred to this man, and she was curious about his answers.

“First things, first, Mrs. Vanderpoel, first things first. You indicated on your application that your husband is deceased.”

“Yes, that’s correct. That’s why I’m looking for a position.”

“And you have no children?”

“None.”

“What about other family?”

“Oh, well yes, plenty of family scattered here and there around Westchester County and nearby. A brother and his wife. My parents took a trip to Holland a few years ago and decided to stay in Rotterdam. There are a lot of Dutch families around Sleepyside so we manage to stay in touch.” She paused. “I don’t suppose there’s any travel involved in this position?” She blushed as she realized her voice had revealed a long-concealed wish for some kind of adventure.

“No, not really.” He hesitated. “In fact, the reality of the job is you’ll need to stay fairly close to home, Sleepyside and Westchester County.”

“I won’t report here each day?”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Vanderpoel, we need a few days to conclude our interviews and check your references. Is it possible for you to return a week from today?” He scribbled a time on a blank piece of paper and handed it to her.

She accepted the paper and nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Brown.”

It wasn’t until she was back home in her kitchen that she realized she still didn’t know where or what the specific job duties would be.

 

 

One week later …

“You want to hire me to be a spy?” She leaned forward in disbelief. She could not possibly have understood him.

“That’s correct.”

“But I don’t understand! Why would you need a spy in Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson? Nothing ever happens there! It’s a small village with little industry. There can’t be anything or anyone there to spy on.”

He gave her a ghost of a smile. “Do you really believe that Mrs. Vanderpoel? Think about it for a moment.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared, reflecting on the town and its history. The people in her community were good people, but there were always those who seemed to have a bent for the bad. Hawthorne Street, with its frequently transient population, was considered sketchy at best, and the Thompsons and Olyfants left a lot to be desired in terms of being model citizens. Of course, everyone in town knew how the Stratton men always cheated on their wives, and that crazy Mr. Crimper had a penchant for picking up trinkets at various shops without paying for them, including his own department store. Then there was all the riffraff associated with the river traffic -- every type from barge rats to drunken sailors. She supposed Mr. Brown knew some of this, but things were beginning to fall into place. “Okay, I’ll grant you that Sleepyside has its fair share of mischief makers, but spies! I’m struggling a bit to believe what you’re telling me.”

“Mrs. Vanderpoel, it’s really quite simple. New York State has always been of significant strategic importance to the United States, going back to our fight for independence from the British. Controlling the Hudson River was vital to the war effort.”

“Yes, this was all part of our history classes in elementary school, but that was a long time ago as well. What is your point of its importance today?”

“Ah, yes, the point.” He leaned back in his seat and tapped two fingers together as if she had gotten to the crux of the matter. “The point is, controlling the Hudson River remains vital to the security of our homeland. You must be aware of the amount of boats and barges on the Hudson River in any given week.”

Mrs. Vanderpoel frowned and she shifted slightly in her seat. “Yes, it’s a busy river.”

“Like many river egress points from the ocean, it sees drug smugglers, criminals, pirates or mercenaries, and of course, spies.”

“What kind of spies? The war isn’t being fought here. It’s being fought overseas, half way around the world from New York.”

“That war, yes. But not the Cold War.”

“Sir, with all due respect, are you trying to tell me that my community,” she paused and placed her hand on her chest as if to convey she owned the community in which she lived. “My community is harboring Russian spies?”

“Not just Russian spies,” he informed her. “Cuban spies, North Korea, basically any country that is not an ally to the United States.” He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Mrs. Vanderpoel, as difficult as you may find this to believe, that area has always been a sort of breeding ground for spies. Many people focus on the capital in Washington D.C. as the heart and soul of our nation, but when it comes to our national defense, the key strategic areas are much more diverse.”

“Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson is a key strategic area to the defense of the United States of America?” she asked. “That’s what you want me to believe, what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s been proven in history, going back to the Revolutionary War, that winning the war in New York State was critical to the colonist victories. Later, it was key to our protection in the War of 1812 and I can assure you that over the course of the big wars, and others, we have never left this area exposed or unprotected. We don’t intend to start now.”

“You stole my garbage,” she said quietly. “And broke into my house. I knew that something was off last Tuesday. You were checking on me.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Because we have to be certain that you are a loyal American who can’t be turned by a foreign government or an enemy of the state, foreign or domestic. You have no secrets, or at least none that you could be blackmailed over.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job to know.”

“I have plenty of secrets,” she bristled. “More than you’ll ever be able to find out.”

“Mrs. Vanderpoel, Willemina, kissing your husband behind the school house is not the kind of secret we’re talking about.”

“We did more than kiss,” she muttered.

He wisely ignored this and continued. “I’m talking about serious problems – alcohol, gambling, and addictions. You don’t have those types of secrets.”

“Of course not! Although…” She paused. “I do have a bit of a weakness for oatmeal cookies.”

He leaned back in his chair and evaluated her. “This is where we’re coming from. You don’t spend more money than you have. You don’t have any debts other than your monthly accounts, which you pay on time and in full every month. You don’t live an extravagant lifestyle, you’re well read, keep up with your neighbors and what goes on in the community, and you attend church services every Sunday, as well as being active in the garden club and other community activities.” He paused. “If someone tried to blackmail you, what would you do?”

“Tell them to contact the Sleepyside Sun to tell their story,” she answered with a glare. She was still indignant over his comment about secrets. “Because I’d never pay a blackmailer. And if I did something that they thought was embarrassing, it wouldn’t matter because my family and friends would stand behind me.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “In addition to your lifestyle choices, you have the skills we’re looking for.”

“But I didn’t have any skills,” she protested. “No typing, no stenography, no foreign languages.” She tapped her fingers as she recited off the skills she’d been questioned about.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Being a spy requires three basic traits – guts, intelligence and creativity. You have all three of these in spades. Those other things, they can be useful in terms of leaving messages or signals for your contacts. But you don’t need to know how to type to be a spy.”

“How will I leave messages or signals?”

“Don’t you worry. All that will be handled in your training.”

“My training?” she asked weakly.

“Mrs. Vanderpoel, you don’t really think I’d have disclosed all this information to you if I doubted for one moment that you were going to accept the position?” He opened the folder on his desk that until now had remained closed. “First things first. You need to plan a vacation.”

“A vacation? But I’m just now starting to work,” she protested.

“No, that’s the beauty of this. You need to tell your friends and family that you didn’t get the position you interviewed for. You’re going to take a vacation to figure out what you want to do next.”

“But how will I explain my finances? Those closest to me know that I need a job, a steady income.”

“You’ll have an income. If you’ll bear with me we will cover everything, but just to ease your mind, you’ll be receiving a monthly check from the government as part of your husband Olav’s war benefits. Now let’s review the rest of your story, shall we?”

 

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, young man! Just give me the butter so I can be done!”

Willemina Vanderpoel was rarely testy and it surprised the other customers in the store. Since losing her husband late in the previous year, the older woman had only recently started getting out around town regularly again. She’d taken a long vacation that seemed to help her adjust to the changes in her life. Everyone in the community had been happy for her upon learning that her deceased husband had been in the service long enough that she qualified to receive his death benefits. The financial security thus gained had gone a long way to ease her burden.

The young, bespectacled store clerk just nodded. “I’m sorry, Will … uh, Mrs. Vanderpoel. That should do it.” He slid the requested butter into her sack and nodded. “Your account will be billed.”

She stared at the young man for a moment. It was Frank Lytell! How long had he been working at his family’s general store? She sighed. “I’m sorry, Frank. I’m in a hurry today. I have a new but old recipe I’d like to try before the holiday to make sure I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure it will be successful,” he assured her. “What is it?”

“Windmill cookies,” she replied, her face expressionless. “An old family recipe from the homeland that I recently discovered.”

He nodded. “Sounds delicious,” he replied solicitously. He smiled at her and turned to help the next customer as she gathered her purchases and left the store.

The walk home helped her to clear her mind. So much was going on, it just didn’t seem like life was turning out the way she’d expected at all. When she’d married Olav in their garden after he returned from the war, it had seemed as if her entire life would be filled with happiness. Of course they both thought they’d have years together, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Her parents had given her the family homestead as a wedding gift, but the job from Mr. Brown was the key to her future financial security. After her training, she’d returned to Sleepyside more discerning and aware of the world around her.

Unpacking the groceries she’d purchased, she left out the ingredients for the windmill cookies. Her specialty was oatmeal and she knew they were the best cookies in three counties. But her instructions had been clear. If she saw any suspicious activity on the river, she was to make windmill cookies. She was to buy the ingredients at Lytell’s General Store, nowhere else. It was easy to comply.

She picked up the rolling pin. It looked antique and sat in a basket in her warm lean-to kitchen along with several other rolling pins she owned. No one but her, and perhaps Mr. Brown, would know that this rolling pin was hollow and by twisting the end just right, you could insert secret messages. It was where emergency instructions would be left for her if needed. She had been ordered to check it every time she left the house and returned. Opening it now, she was relieved to see nothing but the recipe.

There were forgeries, and then there were forgeries. Counterfeiters liked to forge money. Stories of sophisticated art forgeries appeared from time to time in the newspapers. Signatures, passports, even books and music were forged but she’d never before seen, or even heard of, a forged recipe. The spidery writing looked exactly like her great-grandmother’s writing. The crinkled and smudged brown rag paper had a genuine late 1800s vintage, and the recipe for speculas was dead-on accurate, using abbreviations and words that were authentic to the time. As instructed, she rewrote the recipe on a modern recipe card in her own handwriting and made a note at the end that she had copied it from one handed down in her family. But the forged original included a unique order in the ingredients and instructions that would serve as a decryption code for any messages left.

The Knutson family—her own family—had always made speculas. She’d made them herself, but there was never a written recipe. Just like her mother and her grandmother, she kept the recipe in her head. This time, instead of using the family standby, a recipe she’d never felt like she mastered, she would use this one. These Windmill cookies were now one of her signals. She had no idea who was getting the signal, but Mr. Brown had been adamant that she did not need to know. She only needed to do her part—check for messages, and make windmill cookies. If necessary, she knew how to pass information along at the Sleepyside Library as well, but for now, she needed to make the cookies.

She smiled as she rolled out the dough. The government financial compensation had gone a long way to ease her concerns about her future. She’d already received her first check, and no one had questioned her story about Olav’s war benefits. She thought of Olav and smiled again, thinking what a kick he’d get out of her job. He’d laugh at how the government used her cooking for their benefit and eat as many of the cookies as he could. It was a shame cookies were her weakness as well, and she had to admit, the windmill cookies were even better than her oatmeal cookies! At this rate, she thought to herself as she placed the first cookie sheet in the oven, I’ll be as big as Grandmother Knutson before Christmas!