Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  But I already know exactly what it’s like to date a flirty coworker like Elliott. It’s not a mistake I’ll make twice.

  We hit the ground floor and leave the elevator behind. I try to outpace him at the lounge’s columns decorated with stacked stone, but I fail. He leans in to add, “For the record, I won.”

  “What, Seven Minutes in Heaven? Yeah, I definitely lost.”

  “One of us nearly got stabbed in that closet, and it wasn’t you.”

  Glad one thing I did tonight made an impression.

  Elliott’s still easily matching my speed step for step when he moves even closer to whisper, “I got to him first.”

  The loathing and the doubts gather in my middle. Could he . . . actually be better than me?

  Am I not good enough?

  Before I recover enough to retort, Elliott stops abruptly, leaving me still half-jogging over the marble tile to get away.

  But the things I’m really trying to escape do pursue me. Because they’re not out there. They’re all in my memories.

  By the time I reach the office the next day, both the temporary reprieve from freezing temperatures and the welt on Elliott’s cheek have faded. Still recovering from my full morning class load, I spend an hour alternating between eating lunch, writing a paper and studying Langley’s traces on Duncan Bridger. The profile is as amorphous as the man himself: went to UC–Davis, B average, majored in Business. Worked here and there, middle management. Nothing impressive. Nothing distinctive. Nothing unusual.

  And, most likely, nothing real.

  Even in the shadow world of counterintelligence, this does not feel right.

  After hearing his accent again last night, I’m about 75% sure he’s American, but that’s it. Hunting the guy down on social media yielded no leads, no photos, no friends. I don’t have a Facebook account and I’ve got more of a presence on the Internet.

  Finally, Will comes by my desk. I’m not sure what to expect — is he going to chew me out for slapping Elliott? — but all he does is gesture for me to follow him to his office, avoiding my gaze.

  My gut sneaks away to hide. Yeeeah, that’s a pending reprimand. Okay, maybe I deserve it. But Elliott deserves one, too. He could have at least given me a heads up what he was doing.

  Or maybe the heads up alone would have been enough for me to slap him.

  Will stops by Elliott’s desk, across the aisle from mine, and makes the same little beckoning motion. But I doubt Elliott’s in trouble, though he had to have reported what happened. Is this some sort of Agency-approved mediation? Does Will feel like trying his hand at psychobabble?

  Either way, great. I finally force myself to make eye contact with Elliott for the first time today, and he winks — he winks at me, like this is all some stupid little game.

  Or like he knows I’m about to get my comeuppance. Did he spend the morning tattling on me?

  Will holds the door open and Elliott lets me go first. We take seats opposite the desk, and Elliott acts like everything is totally normal. Maybe that little incident last night set him straight after all.

  Before I can tell one way or the other, Will cuts to the chase. “Three desk officers at Langley, Elliott, and I spent the whole morning calling around to UC–Davis alumni looking for someone who knew Duncan Bridger.”

  “And?” I ask.

  “We drummed up four hundred and fifty dollars for the alumni association,” Elliott cracks.

  I don’t acknowledge him, but he continues. “We finally tracked down a couple people who did know him — and they were all adamant he had red hair.”

  “So he dyes it his current not-a-color? Or he dyed it in college?”

  “And, oh yeah.” Elliott pauses for the punch line. “He died three years ago.”

  Now I snap to look at him. “So our guy is . . . ?”

  “Not very careful,” Elliott fills in the blank.

  Will rounds his desk. “I verified it in the death index. Don’t know who the guy at the Residence Inn is, but he isn’t Duncan Bridger.”

  The truth hangs in the air, unspoken: obviously Duncan Bridger is a cover, one that didn’t hold up. But that cover had to have come from somewhere.

  Like our Iranian friends at MOIS. Again, it’s a fact that goes without saying.

  Because an even scarier truth looms over us all. If “Bridger” is MOIS, and if “Bridger” is tasked with trailing SARD — if “Bridger” is collecting cigarette cartons — who else suspects SARD is a double agent?

  “We’ve IDed the other tails.” Will reaches back across his desk to open the files on his computer and angle the monitor toward us. Mug-shot quality photos of SARD’s two tails glower back at us. Will points to the bearded one, Red Polo. “Farrokh Esfandiari.” Next, Pink Floyd Fan. “Varshasp Shamshiri. He’s been in and out of the country two or three times in the last year, but this is Esfandiari’s first trip to Canada.”

  “Newbie?” I guess. “Or do we have any other travel records?”

  Will shakes his head. “Checked the airport database. This is his first trip anywhere outside of Iran in at least two years.”

  Doesn’t rule him out as an intelligence officer yet. “So he’s been behind a desk in Tehran,” Elliott says, settling back in his chair. “Rotating out into the field again.”

  Will agrees, and we sit in pondering silence for a minute. “Is there any possibility these guys don’t know SARD’s turned?” I ask.

  “Always a chance.” But Will’s tone says there’s virtually no chance. I try to focus on the case and not the fact that Will’s agreed with everything Elliott’s said and nothing I have. Will frowns at his monitor. “Bridger might be an outside contractor.”

  “If they’re hiring out their counterintel, what are the odds MOIS knows they have a mole?”

  We don’t have to voice the answer to Elliott’s question: way too good.

  Will perches on his desk and focuses on Elliott. “Options,” he demands. Of Elliott. Not me.

  We need to protect SARD. His intel is high priority, but that’s not the only reason. If he gets caught — and, most likely, executed — he’ll be a huge, flashing warning to any other Iranians who might think about coming to us. Don’t talk to the CIA, the not-so-subtle subtext says. They can’t protect you.

  We take care of our own. Always. We will save SARD, no matter the cost.

  And I will get Will, Elliott and everyone else in this office to take me seriously in the process.

  Within hours, Will and I are set up in the back of our favorite surveillance van. His laptop is perched on our equipment console, and we lean in to focus on the streams from cameras on Elliott, George and Parker. Our nondescript van is strategically located between them — and the Iranian intelligence officers they’re tailing.

  Pink Floyd Fan — Varshasp Shamshiri — for sure knows Parker’s there. After six or seven touristy stops, it’s quickly becoming clear that Shamshiri is stringing him along. Still, as long as this keeps him away from SARD, we’re good, even if the guy is picking the most expensive museums and sights to see along the way.

  Only twenty feet away from us, Elliott’s staked out the Marriott’s restaurant, “Spin,” sitting at the long table in the middle of the restaurant with the thin crowd of the late afternoon. He’s typing away at his blog or whatever he’s faking on his computer, one eye on Red Polo. Or Farrokh Esfandiari, since obviously he isn’t wearing the same thing as yesterday.

  No sign of Bridger where George waits, pretending to be a passing room service waiter outside his door at the Residence Inn.

  Farrokh Esfandiari is the biggest threat right now. He’s positioned himself at a corner booth by the window in “Spin,” perfect to monitor SARD’s every move — if SARD leaves his room at the Marriott.

  SARD has no need to go anywhere, though. An hour ago, he very convincingly faked food poisoning (with a little help from the CIA’s ipecac), and his tails fell back to their current positions to monitor him from a safe distance. Just in t
ime for a “bellhop” to arrive at his room: an officer from the CIA’s embassy staff. They’ve swept for bugs, and now they’re discussing strategy — whether he needs to be exfiltrated, whether he can do more good where he is, the risk, the chance of getting caught.

  Farrokh Esfandiari gets up from his table by the window. “You got him, GEM?” Will asks.

  (A lot of layers to Elliott’s code name. He’s already Will’s precious little pet. And Jem is Scout’s big brother in To Kill a Mockingbird, where he’s the one who’s there to save her hide. Coincidence?)

  Elliott coughs his acknowledgment, then slaps his laptop shut. He approaches the bar for a refill on his coffee, letting Esfandiari collect his cup and newspaper. Esfandiari brushes past. He’s getting away.

  Will hops channels to signal SARD’s officer, JASPER. “Potential incoming. We’re trying to get on his tail.”

  Elliott grabs his coffee and follows Esfandiari — but he’s nowhere in the restaurant. We’ve lost him.

  “Check the lobby,” Will orders Elliott. Likeliest route and biggest threat. If we can rule that out, it might not matter where he’s going.

  Elliott complies, pursuing our favorite Iranian into the white marble and walnut paneling of the Marriott’s lobby. A few feet inside, he stops and slowly rotates, giving us a good view of the first bank of seating in the lounge area. Tomato-colored ottomans splay on a gold carpet depicting trees in full fall color. Beyond a wood-clad dividing wall, yellow leather chairs face a flat screen. Then a long granite table with a couple computers. Finally a revolving door and the paneled reception desk.

  No Esfandiari, unless he decided to trade in “Spin” for the Starbucks past the registration desk. Elliott turns the other way, giving us a view of the other side of the lobby. Stairs lead up to a bank of elevators and another lounge area. No Esfandiari there either, but a low wall blocks a full view of the lounge. Elliott starts up the steps.

  “Did he leave, or could he already be in his room?” I wonder aloud.

  Will signals JASPER again. “Wrap it up. Now.”

  “We need more time” comes the reply.

  Elliott passes the elevators to scope out the upper lounge. One traveler chats on his phone in the yellow stuffed chairs on the red carpet with fall colors. Still no Iranian. Elliott wanders back to the final seating area, still turning slowly to give us a good view of the scarlet armchairs and mustard ottomans.

  “Excuse me.” A guy on Elliott’s feed. Thick accent.

  He whirls around to face the voice. Esfandiari. He holds out a newspaper. “You dropped this.”

  “Oh.” Elliott takes the paper. “Thanks.”

  I lean back in my chair. He’s made. He’s burned. Esfandiari might not know Elliott’s CIA, but if Elliott continues to tail the guy now, our Iranian friend will know for sure something’s up. We can’t afford that kind of giveaway — especially not when we need to keep SARD above suspicion.

  What next?

  “I’m going in,” Will says abruptly. He hands over the comms headset and shifts the computer my direction.

  “Wait a second.”

  But Will’s already got an earpiece and a lapel pin camera.

  I should be the one out there. Not because Will can’t, or Will’s out of practice (well, maybe a little) — but because Will was supervising, and I can do this.

  Unless Will thinks I can’t, because if GEM fails, SCOUT doesn’t have a prayer. He snags a laptop bag and a jacket and steps out.

  Thanks a lot, Elliott.

  “GEM, this is SCOUT. DAVENPORT is on approach. Do not make contact, and get out.”

  Elliott coughs, and pivots to watch Esfandiari stroll through the lounge for a long minute. He wanders over to the exit.

  I relay his location to Will, just before he rolls in on Elliott’s feed, already living the part of a harried business traveler. A little early in the day to be done with business, but pretty convincing. He heads through the revolving doors toward the elevators, where Esfandiari is still waiting.

  And Elliott’s standing there, staring. Subtle, dude. “Any day now, GEM,” I tell him.

  He coughs one more time and finally obeys. Elliott’s feed leaves the hotel and rounds the corner, approaching our van. Elliott’s not in a suit or anything — heavy jacket over another of his plaid flannel shirts — but still, it’d be kinda weird for him to climb in the back of a handyman van on the street, eh?

  “Driver’s seat,” I direct him, retrieving the keys from our equipment control panel. He gets in, dropping his laptop bag on the passenger seat, and I pass the keys up to him. “Don’t go far.”

  “Yep.” He gives his comms equipment back to me and I brace myself to pull into traffic. (Is it my imagination, or is he jerking me around a little, payback for yesterday’s shuttle ride?)

  I hook into Will’s feed while Elliott takes us a couple blocks away to park again. Once we’re situated, he climbs in the back to join me. “How are we doing?”

  I ignore the fact that he’s leaning way closer than necessary and indicate the feed on Pink Floyd Fan at Laurier House. “Long and expensive surveillance detection run.”

  “Made his tail, huh?”

  “So it seems.” I gesture at Will’s feed, on the elevator with Farrokh Esfandiari.

  “Any word from SARD and company?”

  I hurry to switch comms channels. “You clear yet?” I ask SARD’s officer.

  “Who is this?”

  “SCOUT. DAVENPORT got called away. Bogey on the elevator now.”

  The embassy officer swears. In the background, I hear him set up the signal with SARD: a Canadian flag sticker on a light pole by the hotel entrance. He gives him a packet of stickers — SARD’s to signal if he’ll be clear tonight. The embassy officer will acknowledge by drawing a happy face on the maple leaf in the center.

  Cute, guys.

  Elliott settles in his seat, balancing an arm across my chair’s back. “So this is the life in Canada.”

  I pointedly focus on the video feeds on the laptop. “I guess.”

  “At least the scenery’s nice.”

  I dare to turn back to him, slowly. Is he seriously trying that tired line on me?

  Oh yeah. Not only is he serious, but he tops it off with this little you-can’t-keep-your-hands-off-me wink.

  I’d say the guy can’t take a hint, but a pen to the sternum, barking at him to back off and a good, hard slap is a lot more than a hint. He’s got all the delicacy of a flash-bang grenade.

  I scoff and turn to Will’s feed, and comms channel. “SARD’s meeting is wrapping up. Three minutes to get clear.”

  Will noisily shifts his jacket from one hand to the other, his signal that he got the message. Esfandiari gets off the elevator, and suddenly three minutes seems like an hour. He’ll be at the door in ninety seconds, tops. My bloodstream goes colder than the subfreezing air temperature.

  “Stall him,” I tell Will. Like he needs the direction.

  “Hey,” Will calls after him, getting off the elevator too. “Have you stayed here before?”

  Esfandiari turns around, suspicious surprise written in his squint. “No.”

  “Oh, okay.” Will swivels right and then left, giving us views of the empty hallways’ subtly striped wallpaper. “You wouldn’t happen to know where an ice machine is, would you?”

  “No, sorry.” He starts to turn away.

  “Vending machine?” Will tries again, drawing his attention back. “Sometimes they’re close.”

  Esfandiari considers that a minute.

  Before he can answer, Elliott leans forward, chin in his palm. His shoulder contacts mine again and he doesn’t pull away.

  If he’s not backing down, then neither am I. I hunker down to watch Will’s feed.

  Esfandiari answers at last. “Around the corner, I believe. Past the elevators.”

  “Ah. Thanks!” Will walks that way.

  SARD’s officer finally comes through. “I’m clear.”

  I pas
s the message along to Will, already on his way to the vending machines. “Get out when you get a chance.”

  Will switches his jacket to the other hand.

  I should be able to relax now, but with Elliott’s arm still pressed against mine, tension radiates through my back.

  Elliott turns his head to face me, keeping us shoulder to shoulder. Heat ignites in my cheeks and my chest. I. Will. Not. Give.

  “So,” he starts. “When are we going to get this over with?”

  This time, I do jerk back. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t see it.” He shoots me a cocky smirk, like no woman has ever been able to resist the wonder that is Elliott.

  I scowl at him. Somebody’s even more full of himself than he appears. “Who’s pretending? What’s there to see?”

  Elliott laughs through his nose and kicks back in his chair. “Fine, then. Prolong the inevitable. I’ll be here when you come around.”

  Seriously? I can’t stop my jaw’s slow, incredulous drop. “Wow,” I mutter to an imaginary audience. (But can you believe this guy?)

  I call off George and Parker and pack up our equipment. Suddenly I wish I was better buddies with one of the other guys, if only to use him as a shield between me and Elliott.

  Okay, realistically, Elliott’s only been cocky and pushy and annoying so far. But last time, it didn’t take long for my “flirty coworker” to escalate to a place I never want to go again. A shield would’ve come in handy back then, too, but that guy made sure I had no one to help me.

  An image of Elliott swapping stories with Travis, Parker and George flashes through my brain. Is he already working on my coworkers?

  “So, Talia,” Elliott begins, like we’re going to have ourselves a little chat. “What’s your story? You married? Seeing anybody?”

  Yep, subtle as a flash-bang. “Yeah.” I turn around to simper at him. “I’m married to my work. We make each other very happy, and if you want to mess that up —”

  Elliott holds up defensive hands. “Whoa, whoa. I’m no home wrecker.” He grins like he knows exactly how clever he is (and he’s overestimating by about 350%).