I watch long enough to see this is not something I should be watching before I guide the door shut. Then it hits me — the guy’s the same one who talked to me offstage. If I walk out now, he could recognize me and notice my hair’s a different color. Do I turn the light back on and switch to my other wig (which is pretty messy now)? Not a good option.
At least I brought help. I finally reply to Elliott’s text. Problem.
Backup?
Maybe. Greenroom.
After a wait that makes my performance time seem like a blink, Elliott responds. Greenroom still?
Is he in the greenroom looking for me? Maybe he scared off the lovebirds, and I’ve been pacing in this tiny cell for nothing. Greenroom bathroom.
He asks for clarification. Guess he hasn’t cleared the room after all.
Burqa and American in greenroom. That should be enough details to bring in reinforcements.
Doing what? he asks.
Seriously? Ten guesses.
Of course Elliott doesn’t know how dangerous this might be — I haven’t told him the worst part. American chatted me up offstage. Been in here so long that it’ll get weird real quick if I walk out now. IF he doesn’t recognize me.
Radio silence.
I’ll kill Elliott. If I get out of here.
I inch the door open again. Don’t think they’ll be leaving anytime soon. The longer I wait to leave, the more awkward — and memorable — it’s going to get. Time go to. I send Elliott a heads-up before I move out.
Picture, he texts back.
Um, what? Pervert, I respond. (Not that there’s anything that perverted going on.) (Yet?)
I roll my feet over the carpet, shielding my phone’s glow so I can snap the photo Elliott requested. They’re too busy to notice me, and I make it past them. The last obstacle: the short hall to the door, with the only light in the room. Where I’ll be most vulnerable.
My heart beats in my throat, but I don’t have time to be afraid. I move into the light and reach for the door handle. Before I can grab it, the door swings open.
Oh crap. My pulse fills my ears.
I slide back a bit, staying behind the door as long as I can. The intruder leans into the room — Elliott.
Idiot. I tug on the handle to open the door enough for us to both escape while we can. But he lets the handle slip out of his grip, and in the silence it clatters.
I shoot Elliott a death glare. His gaze moves to a spot behind me. The couple? We’re so burned.
Elliott shifts back to me, and something in his eyes shifts. He closes the last step between us, slides one arm around my waist and leans in.
The panic in my system hits the ceiling and keeps climbing, but the couple behind me suddenly isn’t the only threat. I have to stop him, I have to stop him —
In an instant, I’m thrown back five years, backed into a different corner, a different coworker leaning in. Only now I have the hindsight of how badly that blew up, doubling the horror of that day.
The fear of letting Elliott do this and the fear of getting caught collide with that echo of terror from years ago. I don’t have time to stop Elliott before he kisses me. All that fear freezes me until the man behind me speaks up. “Who’s there?”
“Oh.” Elliott looks up, over my shoulder again, slapping on a Canadian accent. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this room was . . . taken.”
“It is.” His tone barely leaves room for an apology — and his accent’s American. I can’t turn around to check his ID, though. Can’t risk it.
“We’ll be going, then,” Elliott finishes. His arm still around my waist, he pulls me out of the room, and I don’t dare look back.
As soon as we’re clear, I jerk away from Elliott. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I. Will. Kill. Him.
“Got what we need?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
By unspoken agreement, we head to the garage, for our car. In electric silence.
I have nothing to say. What can I say to take back what was never supposed to happen between us? To make him understand that he yanked away the one thing that made me feel safe with him?
He thinks he knows me. But if he thought I’d be okay with this, he’s dead wrong.
I know what I saw when he made this decision. I’m not safe with him.
It wasn’t a cover.
I’ll kill him.
Friday is the quarterly “Lunch & Learn” at work, where all the R&D teams troop to the Canada Aviation and Space Museum theatre and share the latest breakthroughs in our projects. Fortunately, this time I delegated the presentation, so I get to sit back and listen. The presentations are mostly interesting — I make a mental note to talk to Bombardier’s engine pod testing team — and afterwards, we file out to the picnic area for the catered lunch.
I end up in line next to Ariane, a Québécoise on the Bombardier testing team. Gotta take advantage of the opportunity. “T’es Ariane, non?” I ask. You’re Ariane, right?
“Oui — Danny?”
I confirm that’s me and steer the conversation to the testing design, since we’ll probably have to use something similar if we ever get the perfect angle of sweep to taper AeroTechCanada’s wing redesign.
We haven’t made it far in the conversation when my phone rings. I check who’s calling. Colorado area code.
It can’t be her. It can’t.
Then the rest of the caller ID finally kicks in — stupid phone. It’s Steve Williams, an old coworker, and the guy I emailed this morning trying to figure out a solution to the underlying problem. I apologize to Ariane and step out of line. “Hey, Steve.”
“Danny, hey. How are you?”
“Not bad, not bad.” I glance at the crowd and their growing roar, and pick another route: into the museum. Right away, that choice is obviously good: quiet. I flash my NRC ID at the admission desk, since we were in here five minutes ago, and the girl there waves me past. “How about you?”
“Better than I deserve. So, why are you trying to steal our IP?” he jokes.
Technically, he’s right, I shouldn’t have access to any of my old employer’s intellectual property — but that’s not what I need. Also not completely realistic. “Well, you know, since they erased all my memories from the year I worked there.”
Steve laughs. “But seriously, you know I’m not supposed to say much.”
“I’m not after IP.”
A couple other NRC engineers wander in after me, and I forge ahead into the museum to escape their chatter. “I just remembered a story you told me, from back when you were with Martin Marietta.” Yeah, he’s old — Martin Marietta merged with Lockheed when I was in grade school.
“Which one was that?”
I explain how “our client” is trying to maximize fuel economy but cutting every corner and wing possible, until Steve gets what I’m going for. “Ah,” he says, “the KL-127. Yeah, I don’t think this’ll help. We had to redesign the entire wingtip from scratch. Took us months, plus FAA approval — or whatever you’ve got there in Canada.”
“Transport Canada.” Yep. The minor changes we’ve been trying to make, shaving off bits of the wing, aren’t nearly enough. I’ve been toying with a total redesign in my spare time, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that, not if I have to get my boss Carol’s approval. I’m about out of museum: I’ve wandered into the farthest corner, and I’m at the last display.
“I trust you’re looking into material weight and strength and all that.” Steve’s tone indicates he’s not offering advice on those things, which is fine. We can handle that.
“Yep. Well, thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing. So, how’s the new job?”
“Great. You miss me?” I round the last display and start back for the entrance.
“Still cry myself to sleep every night. And how’s Kendra?”
A jolt strikes my system. My feet stop, and so does my heart for a long second. So long that Steve starts to backtrack. “Um . . .”
“I
wouldn’t know.” I finally answer his question.
“Oh. You’re not . . . ?”
“No.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Steve says.
He’s sincere and everything, but I don’t want to talk about the who, what, where and especially not the why. “Anyway, I’m at a work thing. Better go.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Take care.” I gawk at my phone for a minute, slowly exhaling. I hadn’t thought about Kendra today until that moment. Now my brain’s scrambling as fast as I can, trying to outrun the memories, and already, my chest physically hurts.
So much for having a good day.
I look up to get myself out of my thoughts and out of this museum. Staring back at me is a CF-18 Hornet — doing my best to switch to Canadian designations — and a . . . I eye the black nose cone above my head again. I don’t know this plane.
Much better distraction than trying to socialize outside.
The plane’s body is a high gloss white, yellowing with age. Just after the cockpit, empty oblong engine nacelles bear the letters: RL — and that’s it. The rest of the plane is missing. I pace around to the other nacelle to find the other half of the designation: 206.
Forsaking the marked carpeted path, I edge past the shiny silver F-104 Starfighter on the other side to circle around and get a better view of the back.
Not a prototype or training model. Below the nacelles, the wiring’s ripped out and roughly chopped off. Red grease pencil instructions, “Cut here,” along with a guideline showed where to slice up this thing, and torch marks and burns scar the jagged edges across the entire back. I can’t help it; a scoff of indignation escapes. Who would do this? Why?
“Sir?”
A man’s voice draws my attention away from the carnage. Guy with a name badge — museum worker.
“Can I have you step back on the path, please?”
“Sorry.” I try not to act too much like a puppy with its tail between its legs as I return to the designated carpet walkway.
“You like the arrow?” he asks.
I point to the severed plane above me. “The Arrow?”
“Yes,” he says slowly, like I’m not getting it. “The Avro Arrow?”
It has a name. “Sorry,” I say again. “I’m not Canadian. Should I know . . . ?”
“Oh, it’s not a chapter in our history books or anything — but it was the most advanced aircraft in the world at one time.”
Even more interesting. “What happened?”
“Program was scrubbed. Politics — military-industrial complex. Or . . .” Half his mouth flips up in a grin. “Could’ve been the CIA pulling strings.”
I look up at the nose cone again. Is he ragging on me because I’m obviously American? The “sorry” is a dead giveaway — how I could tell Talia wasn’t Canadian, too.
“If you’re interested.” The museum guide gestures at the display and the tablet in front of the steel scaffolding supporting the plane part — none of which I’ve noticed until now.
“Thanks.”
The guide leaves me to my reading and watching. This distraction’s panning out way better than I anticipated. Don’t know what it is about this plane — the indignity of chopping it up, the intrigue of why, the idea that the greatest plane in the world would end up scrapped — but I’m hooked.
I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I haven’t fallen for something this fast since —
Does one bright, shining moment count?
I give the Arrow one last glance. No matter how the past conspires to blowtorch my future, I’m not ready to give up. As I stride out of the museum, I add two things to my to-do list:
#1. Research the Avro CF-105 Arrow.
#2. Get to know Talia Reynolds.
No idea how, but I manage to not murder Elliott the next day. Instead, I sit in a booth at Hong Den Good Food and poke holes in my sweet and sour chicken balls and Elliott’s plans to ID the American with the Emirati girlfriend from the greenroom last night. We’re the only patrons in the restaurant, but despite the privacy, it seems like Elliott won’t mention the stupid kiss. And neither will I.
We may not have found a solid plan, but we’re done sitting around a Chinese place to plan our off-the-books op. When I get up to leave, Elliott grabs my tray.
I shove down the memory of someone else always insisting on taking my tray, like I was incapable. I reach for it. “I can handle my own trash.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.” I don’t back down, waiting for him to hand it over (and acknowledge my independence, thank you).
“Listen, about last night.”
I fight the urge to clench my fists. Nothing he can say now to fix it. He doesn’t know — he doesn’t know me. And if he did, he’d never have tried such a stupid stunt.
I lose the battle for self-control and yank my tray away from Elliott. “We don’t have to say anything else.”
“No, I do.”
“Don’t.” My tense whisper cuts off the conversation, and we both freeze there for a minute. Finally, I push past him, dump my garbage and stalk out the doors.
Elliott doesn’t let me escape, but honestly, he’s not what I’m trying to get away from.
And his mistake isn’t the one tying my stomach in knots.
The mistake was mine. A year ago, when I met Elliott and thought we could work together. That he’d be different. That he’d understand.
Elliott catches my arm at my car door, and I wheel on him, ready to attack.
His clear blue eyes full of surprise and hurt and confusion stop me. If you can say one thing for Elliott, it’s that he’s never serious. But now he’s close: he doesn’t understand why I’m upset.
How could he? I suck in a breath and look anywhere but at him. He deserves at least half an explanation, and I can give him that much as long as I don’t have to look at him. As long as I don’t have to remember. “Um, when I EODed —” Agency slang for started working for the CIA — “I worked with this guy. And one day in his office, I got myself into a stupid situation, where the only thing that made sense was for us to kiss.”
I push down the memories, fear echoing through my heart from last night and that day at Langley, being cornered in that office, carrying the flirting too far.
The memories fight back, surging against the firewall. I go for the shortest route. “It didn’t end well, and . . . it got so bad I almost had to quit.”
Elliott’s quiet a minute. “I’m sorry.”
Not as sorry as me. I conclude with the executive summary of the top 100 reasons Elliott’s wrong for me. “I don’t date people at work.”
“That’s not all of it.”
Pfft. Not even half. I don’t need to wonder how Elliott would react to the parts of the real me my persistent paranoia is supposed to protect. Not just my home, but myself — my family, my secrets. Someone whose favorite response to everything is flirting? I know he’s capable of deeper thought and emotion, but when I need him to be serious, he refuses.
I trust him with my life, but only with protecting it. Not with its details.
“Get us in with the ambassador,” I say, focusing on the case objective. That’s all we need. All Elliott can handle.
He thinks he knows me. He’s so wrong.
Maybe no one really knows me anymore.
After working with Elliott on his case through lunchtime Saturday, I have to run by Terfort & Sutter to catch up on work (law internship, not CIA). I’m almost done being the human equivalent of Quicklaw (the search engine totally let me down on finding precedents for this privacy tort) when my phone rings. Arjay calling.
We’re friends and everything, but my schedule doesn’t allow a whole lot of time for hanging out. Or chatting on the phone. Not something we’ve made a habit of. So instantly, my instincts are waving yellow CAUTION flags. “Hello?” I answer.
Arjay launches a high-speed freight train of Urdu.
“Wait, wait —�
� I blink to clear my mind and push away from my desk, trying to switch into my fourth language. “Kia?”
He repeats himself more slowly, and the words fall into place in my brain. Arjay’s at a church activity — and Danny asked him about me. My heart speeds up to a swift samba rhythm.
But I can keep my head. “So you walked away and made a phone call? Obvious much?”
“I said my mother was calling.” Arjay sticks to Urdu better than I do, which works perfectly for his on-the-fly cover for this phone call, since he actually does speak Urdu with his parents. “How fast can you get here? Strathcona Park?”
I don’t know, so I consult the Internet. I worked through lunch, but which do I want more — food or the chance to talk to Danny? I can’t lose my mind over a cute (funny, nice, gorgeous) guy.
But if I go and he looks at me with those warm brown eyes, I can pretend for a few minutes that I’m not completely alone.
Yep, Danny beats food. (Saying a lot.) “Das minat.” It’s not really ten minutes away, but I give myself extra time to make sure I haven’t picked up any surveillance on the way there.
Arjay’s the first person to meet me at the park, grinning like he’s the cat and I’m the canary. I’m regretting responding to his teasing at church Sunday. “Over there. So he isn’t into Sassy Beth?”
“Guess not.” She isn’t hovering around him like usual. Good. Everyone else loves her, so it’s been a foregone conclusion that Miss Most Sought After would become Mrs. Fluker in short order. But I’ve spent enough time around her to set off my possibly oversensitive narcissist-o-meter. Arjay leads me to the knot of familiar faces eating in the shade near a picnic table. The closer we get, the higher my defenses rise. Even with Arjay, I have to be careful. More than careful. No talking about work. No talking about cases. And absolutely no talking about my life.
I fold my arms for that one last barrier and come to stand a few feet behind Danny, who’s talking to a guy named Campbell (well, he’s named Jonathan, but we all call him by his last name). Reason #56 Danny’s our most eligible bachelor: he’s so cool, the other guys forget to be jealous of the attention he gets.
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) Page 18