My cell phone rings and I take a look at the caller ID – it is a restricted number—so, as usual, I don’t answer it. Ninety-nine percent of the time, those are just telemarketers… A few seconds later, the phone plays the sound I had assigned to my voicemail—indicating that someone had left a message. Curios, I reach for my phone. They don’t usually leave a message… I hit the button for the voicemail and listen to the message start playing… There is a bit of static, then a deep male voice says, “This message is for Gwyneth…” I hit the delete button without listening any further. Danged wrong numbers…or misinformed robodialers, more likely…

I go back to my computer and continue the latest thread on my favorite roll-playing site…

I shut down my computer a few minutes before I know Cindy, my wife, will get home. I start getting things ready for supper. A few minutes later, she comes in and kisses me on the cheek, since I have my hands wrist-deep in a raw hamburger and egg mixture. She says, “Hi Honey, how was your day?” I respond as I continue mixing, “It was fine. Working from home is so awesome—although the commute is a killer!” She groans at the old joke between us and says, “Rob! You really do need to get a new joke!” She looks at my mix and says, “Looks like meatloaf! YUM! Let me get changed and I will be right back to help.”

Cindy comes back and we joke around with each other while we finish preparing supper. We have not been married long, and we are still deeply in love. I look at her as she finishes setting the table and have a small sinking feeling, though. I DO love her—I just wish I could tell her my…issue… Of course, that will never happen. That secret will go to my grave with me.

The next morning, after Cindy leaves for work, I stretch in bed. It is actually my day off and I plan on just enjoying the day. After I finally get up about thirty minutes later, I fix my coffee and eat a small breakfast—then I log on to my computer and onto my favorite website… I enter in my username—GwynethR; and then my password…

I check my threads and don’t have any new posts, then I post the latest chapter in my story, and finally, I log into the chat room. No one else is currently on, so I log off. I check my email and am surprised to find an email sent to my account, but addressed to ‘Gwyneth Rousseau’. I look at it, confused…and worried. I have taken GREAT pains to ensure that there is no connection between me and my online persona…as Gwen…

I stare at the email…and finally click on it… It is an advertisement for Cialis…I groan and send it to the recycle bin… Something is still bothering me, though… First the voicemail…then the email… It is a little too much for coincidence… Something is not right… Afraid of what might come…I close out my accounts on my favorite website and delete everything from computer. I run several different antivirus scans and let out a sigh of relief when nothing pops up…

I restart my computer, just to be on the safe side… While it is rebooting, I go to refill my coffee cup and nearly jump out of my skin when there is a knock on the door. I grimace at the burn on hand from the hot coffee that had spilled out when I nearly dropped the cup. I set the cup down, quickly run my hand under cold water, and go to the door. I look through the spyhole and jump back as a guy in a black suit holds a badge up in front of the viewer.

I open the door, leaving the chain engaged, and ask, “Can I help you?” The man with the badge looks at me and says, “Gwyneth Rousseau?” I look at the guy and nearly faint. I pull myself together and say, “Do I look like a Gwyneth?”

The guy in the suit says, “I think you look like Rob Stephens… a.k.a., Gwyneth Rousseau. Now let me in before I bust that puny little chain that you are hiding behind.” I jump back, but open the chain and the suit comes in. He says, “I am Greg Grover—I am with the NSA. Your government needs your help, Son…or maybe I should say, Hon…”

I look at the guy, Greg, and fall into a chair at the kitchen table. I ask, “What the Hell are you talking about?” He snickers and says, “You know what I am talking about, Gwen. I am from the NSA. I know everything that you have done online…” He gives me a look and says, “Including that you just wiped your accounts on a certain website and that you just ran six different anti-virus checks on your computer.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. I ask him, “Wha…wha…what do you want from me?” He shrugs and says, “We want you to be who you want to be…Gwen…” I look at him like he has suddenly grown a second head. I lick my suddenly dry lips—with my suddenly parched tongue—and ask, “What do you mean? First…I…don’t want to be…well, Gwen… And…even if I did, I am married and that would not be an…option…”

He looks at me; it almost looks like he feels sorry for me. He says, “Well, you work for the government. We own you, whether you realize it or not—on top of that, you have a top secret security clearance; one that you stand to lose if you don’t play ball with me. If you lose that, then you lose your job, and you will be disgraced…never to get a job again… You will be black-balled… The NSA will wipe you away…destroy you… You were saying something about being married…?”

I sit back, stunned, and ask, “Why would you…?” He just shakes his head and says, “Like I said, your government needs you. It is a single job, then you are free and we will forget your little…activities…” I look at him, and roll my eyes as I say, “As Gwen? What the Hell?”

He sits back and says, “Why don’t you offer me a cup of that coffee, Sweetie?” I say, “Go to Hell! What is this all about?” He gets up and pours his own coffee; somehow he knows right where the mugs are. He smiles smugly as he sits back down at the table, mug in hand, and says, “Well, the short version—we will get to the details later—is that there is a clinic/spa/retreat set up by a certain organization that ‘specializes’ in transgender ‘treatment’. People that have the money can sign into this facility, if they meet certain requirements, and undergo the entire process of transitioning in much less than the normally required time. A man can enter and within a year come out a fully credentialed woman…with a completely new—and legal—identity. Now, all of that sounds great, but we have mounting evidence that the real reason for this organization is to illegally change the identity of major criminals that are on the verge of being brought to justice…and worse…not just common criminals, but terrorists… Now, the obvious price they pay, besides huge sums of money, is their sex; I would likely say most are not transgendered. But can you imagine how much that would throw law enforcement or the intelligence community off their track if a criminal suddenly disappears…some sort of deadly ‘accident’ perhaps…and continues to live on in a new identity of the opposite sex?”

I listen, fascinated in spite of myself, and nod. I shake my head to bring myself back to reality and ask, “So, what does that have to do with me?” He takes a long slug of the coffee, grimaces—it is starting to get a bit cold…and strong since it is a couple of hours old. He shakes his head, gets up, pours out the old coffee, and puts on a fresh pot—again, exactly knowing where everything is. He pours out his mug into the sink and sets it down next to the pot.

He sits back down to wait for the fresh brew and says, “We want you to go in undercover and dig up some evidence of this criminal activity. Get some shots of known criminals or terrorists… The place is walled up like Fort Knox…and you can only get in if you work there—or are a client. It is also completely off the grid. We have been unsuccessful at getting someone in as an employee…so we need a client, someone that is believable; but that also has sufficient…motivation…that we can control…”

He gets up and pours a cup of the fresh coffee still dripping into the coffee pot. He sighs and says, “Ahh…the good stuff…the first of the pot…before it is finished dripping…” He comes and sits down with the steaming mug and looks at me. He takes a careful sip of the coffee and says through the steam, blowing little wisps of steam towards me as he speaks, “Come on, admit it, Gwen, you want to transition… This is your opportunity to test some things out at government expense…and help your country at the same time… If you cooperate, it will make things, so much easier…” He takes another sip and sets the mug down.

I sit there deep in thought. What do I do? He obviously is not bluffing that they have my online activities somehow on file. I have not done anything illegal, but it could cause a lot of…issues…if it comes out. Should I call his bluff? But, then there is the threat of destroying me… I have no doubt that they can plant things online, change some things…a tweak here and a tweak there…and suddenly I am on the FBI’s most wanted list…

“What about Cindy,” I ask. He looks at me and asks, “What about her?” I say, “I don’t want to lose her… But she does not deserve this…she has nothing to do with any of this…” He simply smiles and says, “Leave her to us. I think you will find that we can be quite convincing that this is in her interest, too.”

I blanche and say, “Don’t you dare threaten her or blackmail her, you bastard!” He just smiles smugly and sits there. After another couple of sips, he asks, “So, are you going to come along peacefully? It is the only way to prevent a catastrophe for you and your wife…”

At that moment, I hear a key in the lock…and Cindy walks in…

She has a look of surprise on her face, but quickly recovers. She says, “Oh, I am sorry, Rob. I didn’t know you would have a business associate here? I will get out of your way…something happened to our computers at work…they all went down and won’t be back up until at least tomorrow…they just sent us all home while they try and figure out what happened.”

I look at the suit and he just winks. I cringe, but look back at Cindy. “It is alright, Honey,” I say as calmly as I can, “I think Mr. Grover was just about to leave.” He smiles and says, “Hello, Mrs. Stephens. May I call you Cindy? We just made a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t you join us while I finish mine—a short break won’t hurt us, will it, Rob?” I feel beads of sweat forming on my brow… I say, “If you think it is OK…, Greg…”

Cindy smiles and says, “OK, sure. Thank you, a cup of coffee would be lovely! And yes, Cindy is fine, Mr. Grover.” Grover gets up, gets one of Cindy’s favorite cups out of the cabinet, like he had done it a thousand times, and pours it full of coffee. He looks at me with a gesture and I shake my head no—I need a clear head—no more caffeine, at the moment. Grover hands Cindy her cup, as well as the creamer from the refrigerator. It is a clear signal that he knows her, too.

Grover says, “Please, call me Greg. I think we are going to become wonderful friends. I am about to tell you something that is Top Secret. We don’t usually read the spouses in on these things, but we have vetted you and know that you are OK. I am from the FBI and we need your husband to go on a mission for us. Actually, we would prefer if we could count on both of you.” I gasp, but a harsh look from Grover and a slight tap on the creamer shuts me up. He gives her the basic outline of the clinic’s operation and the suspicion that it is a front to cover up terrorism—something that Cindy despises, since one of her family was killed in the New York Trade Center bombing. He doesn’t give her the full reasoning behind why they want me, though.

He tells her, “Rob here has…a special skill set…that we think will guarantee him entry into their program. The only thing that would make that even more of a guarantee is if we try and get you into the couples program.” I gasp. He continues, “That is not what it sounds like… It is a program where one spouse wants to transition, but the other is very conflicted about it. There is a lot of therapy, counseling, and support to help the non-transitioning partner understand. From what I hear, they have a high success rate. About eighty percent of couples remain happily together after the transition is complete.”

Cindy has a mixture of surprise, disgust…, and fascination reflected on her face. She asks, “So you are saying that if Rob signs up as a transgendered male…one that is supposedly truly a female…and I sign up for therapy to support his…her…transition, we can stop a bunch of terrorists?” Grover nods. She is thoughtful for a moment, then asks, “But, wouldn’t that mean that Rob would transition?” Grover says, “Well, yes…and no… We think that it won’t take long to gather the evidence that we need—a couple of months maybe, or maybe longer. So anything that happens would likely be reversible. But, yes, we would expect you to stick out the program as long as it takes to gather the evidence needed… There is a slim chance that irreversible changes could happen… But isn’t it worth that risk?”

Cindy looks at me in deep thought for a couple of minutes. I sit there pale—hoping that she will tell him in no uncertain terms where to stick his ‘offer’. At the same time, I am praying that she will say ‘yes’…

I nearly faint when she asks, “Where do we sign up?”