“Welcome to our home,” said the slender, pretty woman who stood at her side. She was wearing a blue satin Asian-style dress embroidered with flowers and a thin gold necklace with diamond-shaped crystals. Soft gold-tinged curls barely touched her shoulders, and her greenish gray eyes were warm and welcoming. “You must be Sydney,” she said, leaning over to kiss Sydney on the cheek. She smelled like lilies.
“Yes,” Sydney stumbled out, suddenly feeling a bit shy.
“I've heard such wonderful things about you,” she said, taking Sydney's hand. “I'm Emily Sloane.” Then she gestured down at the brownies. “Don't tell me you brought my absolute favorite dessert in the world,” she said, her smile growing even wider.
Sydney's face relaxed into a huge smile too. “I—I guess I did,” she said happily.
And in the few seconds they had spent together, Sydney already knew without a doubt that she was going to like this woman immensely.
3
LOS ANGELES TRAFFIC WAS its usual nightmare as Sydney cruised her Mustang along the highway toward the Credit Dauphine building Monday morning. She wore lightweight black pants with a sleeveless white knit shirt and a dab of clear lip gloss and mascara. Her straight brown hair was slicked into a long ponytail.
Francie hadn't even lifted her head from her pillow that morning to say good-bye.
As Sydney parked her car and walked through the underground lot, she could barely keep the spring out of her step. She didn't like lying about her new job, but there was no denying that being an agent-in-training with the CIA was the most exciting thing she'd ever done—not to mention the most important. And after that weekend, she felt completely energized.
The dinner at Sloane's villa couldn't have been any nicer. Of course, that was because of the amazing Emily Sloane, Sydney thought with a smile as she stepped into the elevator that would take her to SD-6's hidden headquarters on bank sublevel six. To Sydney's delight, Sloane's wife had taken her under her wing and introduced her to all the guests.
“Have you met Sydney?” Emily would say, approaching a cluster of people with that welcoming smile of hers, and soon Sydney found herself chatting about art exhibits and nature conservation with total strangers. Even though most of the guests were at least fifteen years older than she was, Emily had managed to find something about each of them that helped start a conversation with Sydney. But talking with Emily herself had turned out to be one of the best parts of the evening.
Sydney had been relieved to see that she was seated next to Emily at dinner. Long tables and cream-colored denim slipcovered chairs were set up under tents, and soft candlelight cast a warm, inviting glow over the outdoor “room.” At first Sydney had concentrated on saying and doing the right thing—Sloane had asked her not to talk about their jobs, and to maintain the cover of Credit Dauphine. But soon the notion of work had completely slipped away. There were much more interesting things to talk to Emily about.
Like the fact that she was an incredible chef! Sydney had been shocked to learn that instead of calling a caterer like everyone else did in L.A., Emily had prepared the entire meal herself, right down to the lobster bisque and the tender beef medallions that melted like butter in her mouth.
“I just like to cook,” Emily had confessed as they ate. “I spent a good deal of time in southern Italy in my twenties, and somehow I never am able to stray far from the scent of olive oil and ripe Roma tomatoes.” She laughed. “Of course, a nice glass of Merlot and Puccini in the CD player as I'm slicing and dicing make it even better.”
Sydney thought it would be nice to chat with her about some of the places she had traveled to, but then decided she'd better not. It would be too easy to slip up—and too hard to explain how a college freshman like herself had traveled to France, Scotland, Hawaii, and New York—all during the school year.
And Sydney had never met anyone with such a vast knowledge of music. Not only did Emily have every single Rolling Stones album ever released in the U.S., but they were all in mint condition. “You'll have to come over one day when Arvin's out and we can really blast it,” Emily said when she found out Sydney was a huge fan of Mick and Keith. Her eyes twinkled. “Arvin is not one for rock.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sydney had agreed, giggling at the thought. The cool thing was, she could tell that it wasn't an empty invitation—Emily really meant it.
“Sydney, dear, don't let Emily corrupt you with her musical taste,” Sloane said teasingly from across the table. He pushed back the sleeves of his white linen shirt. “Frankly, I don't know what I'd do without earplugs.” Her new handler had greeted her with a hug, insisting that she call him Arvin, and his laid-back, relaxed manner made Sydney realize just how fortunate she was to be under someone like him at the agency.
She marveled at the way Emily made sure everyone felt welcome. From keeping goblets filled with ice water to telling sidesplitting jokes to producing a new outfit for a guest who had spilled wine on her dress, Emily was the consummate hostess.
And she was a born listener. Emily was so attentive, and seemed so genuinely interested in what Sydney had to say, that by the time dessert was served, Sydney found herself spilling details about Burke and Noah and all the pressures of school, leaving out any SD-6-related specifics. Part of her felt kind of silly—someone of Emily Sloane's stature was light-years away from the kind of love traumas Sydney was having. She's so confident and worldly. She's probably never had a romantic crisis in her life, Sydney had thought admiringly, gazing at her in the candlelight as she laughed at something a guest had said.
But Emily gave such good, sound advice that Sydney felt completely at ease. As she watched Emily's and Sloane's eyes find each other throughout the night, there was no question why Sloane was so obviously in love with his wife.
I wonder why they never had children, she thought now as she entered the retinal scanning area. Emily would have made a terrific mother. Once the system verified her clearance, Sydney stepped through a set of doors into the bustling activity of SD-6.
Smiling at the agents she recognized, she walked past rows of silver-toned desks and flashing computer monitors to the conference room. Sloane had asked her to report here, and she was hoping that meant something good—namely, a new mission.
“Agent Bristow,” Sloane said cordially, coming out from his office as she rounded the corner.
“Hi! Good morning,” Sydney said, following him toward the large conference room called Op-tech. “I had such a great time last night. Your house is lovely, and Emily is—”
Although his expression remained pleasant, a tiny warning shadow flashed in Sloane's eyes. “Let's get to the business at hand, Agent Bristow,” he said, cutting her off. Sydney didn't miss the repetition of “Agent Bristow.” No more “Sydney, dear.” And definitely no more Arvin.
For a moment, she felt hurt at the formal, distant way he had greeted her. Don't be silly, she scolded herself as they walked into the room. Of course that was how it had to be. Just because they had socialized together the night before didn't mean they were suddenly going to start high-fiving each other or exchanging SD-6 office gossip.
Instead of feeling hurt, Sydney should feel privileged that Sloane even included her in his personal life, she decided, straightening her shoulders.
“Agent Bristow.” There at the long sleek table sat Noah Hicks. Instinctively Sydney smoothed back her perfect ponytail. Why did he always pop up when she least expected to see him?
“Agent Hicks,” she replied, her tone businesslike. She'd take her cue from Sloane. Mixing your personal life with your professional one simply wasn't, well, professional. She took a seat at the table in the center of the room and checked the flat-screen monitor in front of her. A sphere-shaped screen saver bounced from corner to corner. She resisted the impulse to tap a key and instead looked expectantly at Sloane.
Her handler stood at the head of the room. He picked up a small black remote and clicked a button. A large retractable screen slid down from
the ceiling.
“I have a project for you, Sydney. Something I hope you'll find helpful in your training.”
Sydney's heart fluttered. “Of course. Great.” She fought the urge to glance at Noah. Were they going to be sent off together again, like that trip to Paris? Maybe they'd be working in Spain. Or one of those picture-perfect Greek islands like—
“Votre francais, c'est bien?” Sloane asked suddenly.
Sydney didn't hesitate. “Oui, bien sûr.”
Sloane smiled. “You're an excellent student of languages, Sydney. In fact, you've excelled in each exercise and every mission you've had in your time with SD-6.”
“Well, thank you,” Sydney said, this time in English.
“But there's always room for more training. And this summer we have a special opportunity. I'm sending you to Ontario, Canada. You'll be joining four other newly trained agents for a weeklong instruction session.”
“You mean I'm going to summer school?” Sydney blurted out before she could stop herself.
Noah chuckled.
Sloane rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. “Not school, per se, Sydney. It's more of a refinement of the skills you've already mastered. Along with French language immersion classes, you'll spend a day at an intensive rock-climbing course and spend time with our colleagues across the border, trailing them on their customs and border protocol.”
“Oh,” Sydney said, deflating a bit. It sounded okay, but she'd been itching to get another assignment.
“And there's a mission for you as well,” Sloane said, as if reading her mind. He clicked a button on his remote, and a black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged man flashed on the screen. “In the late 1950s there was a wildly brilliant government scientist named Carl Sanderling,” Sloane explained. “Sanderling was fascinated by Niagara Falls—their power, their force, their sheer beauty—and this fascination became his downfall.”
Sydney leaned forward, gazing into the face of the man in the photograph, searching for some indication that he was going to go over the edge, literally. But there was nothing except slightly unkempt hair, a thin nose, and large, expressionless eyes.
“He had traveled to Niagara Falls to attend a symposium on energy,” Sloane continued, “but his real purpose was to further explore his interest by exchanging top-secret information with Russian agents on how to harness the power of the falls. Sanderling was a notorious record keeper, with pages of notes and photographs of models he had constructed in his possession. But Sanderling plunged to his death into the falls while at the symposium. His body washed ashore a few days later.”
“Those barrels aren't what they're cracked up to be,” Noah whispered to Sydney. She frowned at him. Why is Noah here, anyway? she wondered, her stomach flip-flopping with anxiety. Is he going to Canada with me? It wasn't like he needed any training. . . . He had proven his capabilities as an ace agent time and again.
Sloane continued. “SD-6 has recently come into possession of Carl Sanderling's diary. We believe that his death was no accident—our intel suggests that he had learned that the Russian agents were not interested in the mere exchange of information but had a nefarious purpose to their quest. SD-6 believes that Sanderling hid his notes and photographs in a crevice in one of the tunnels behind the falls before plunging to his death.” Sloane looked directly at Sydney. “SD-6 wants those notes.”
“I'll get them,” Sydney said confidently, feeling the now-familiar surge of pride that came with being given a new assignment to complete.
Sloane slid a black leather portfolio across the conference table. “Everything you'll need to know about Sanderling as well as a complete dossier on Niagara Falls topography is here. You'll leave L.A. on Wednesday.”
Sydney nodded. “What will my alias be?”
“No alias.” Small lines around Sloane's eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Everyone at the training seminar will know who you are.”
“What about Agent Hicks?” Sydney asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean, is he, um, coming too?” She casually glanced over at Noah. He winked back.
Infuriating!
“Agent Hicks is on his way to Hong Kong in one hour,” Sloane said, giving no explanation of why Noah was in the room to begin with. “You are on your own, Agent Bristow.”
“Think you can handle it?” Noah asked after Sloane gave a few more instructions, then walked out of the room. His eyes widened innocently as Sydney scowled at him.
“Gee, I think so,” she retorted, tucking the portfolio carefully under her arm. Noah followed her into the hallway. She cleared her throat. “Don't you have a plane to catch or something?”
“French class,” Noah mused, scratching his stubbled chin. “Well, all I can say is, bon courage et bonne chance.”
Of course Noah knew French. How could she forget the way he had surprised her when they were in Paris? She'd listened to him mutilate the language and had chalked him up as a hopeless tourist—only to gape in awe as he later rattled off the Romance language fluently. The horrible accent had merely been part of his cover. And her own lack of command over the language had been what prompted her to dive into her French studies this past semester as if her life depended on it.
Which perhaps it would someday.
“Oh, I'm sure you'll be learning all sorts of useful things,” Noah went on, his eyes dancing. “J'ai un grand désire de manger des escargots. Or perhaps, Elle ne dort qu'avec des tranquillisants. Or, no, I've got it, Tu penses à un ancien amour: auquel penses-tu?” he suggested with another aggravating wink.
“Jamais.” Sydney sniffed. “Whatever it is we study, I'm not concerned. French is one of my better classes. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some packing to do.” She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway, ignoring the sound of Noah's chuckle.
Except she couldn't ignore him completely. His last words, Tu penses à un ancien amour: auquel penses-tu?, played over and over in her head.
Noah Hicks wasn't as smart as he thought he was.
Because how could I think of an old love when he is very much my present one?
4
“BRISTOW? SYDNEY BRISTOW?” ASKED the gray-haired man, holding up a small white card. Sydney's last name was printed neatly in capital letters below the car service's logo. The man was waiting in the Buffalo International Airport's baggage claim area.
“That's me,” Sydney said, smiling. It felt strange to hear her real name being used on a mission; she'd been so many people since joining SD-6, from Kate Jones to Carrie Wainwright to Adriana Nichita, it was hard to keep her aliases straight. She was sure she'd get used to it. Someday.
“My name is Ben and the car's out front,” he said, gesturing to the sliding glass doors. “Want to grab your bags?”
She pulled out the handle on her tote and slung her black leather purse over her shoulder. “I didn't check any luggage, so I'm ready to go.”
Moments later she was settled comfortably into the back leather seat of a black Lincoln town car. She stared out the window as they pulled out of the parking lot at the airport and merged into the late-afternoon traffic. She'd left L.A. at seven a.m., but with changing planes in Chicago and the three-hour time difference, it was already after four in the afternoon.
Sydney remembered seeing Buffalo on TV in her childhood, wild scenes of sky-high piles of snow and excited kids getting to stay home from school. The idea of having a snow day, an unexpected day home from school, had always seemed like so much fun. But it wasn't like I would have had anyone to spend it with, Sydney thought. Today, there wasn't a snowflake in sight. In fact, Sydney noted as they merged onto another highway and Ben cut someone off, things didn't look much different than they did in any of the cities she'd visited.
Well, maybe except for Paris, she thought wistfully.
That trip had been the highlight of her time in SD-6, she had decided. Besides the amazing beauty of the city, with all its garrets and spires and the Seine wending its way past cozy cafes and p
ricey boutiques (not that she'd had any time to spend in either), and the romance she'd kindled with Noah (or at least, she thought she had kindled one), what had been so nice was that for once she'd felt as if she had a confidante. Noah Hicks was someone who knew her real identity. He knew that she worked for SD-6 and it was okay that he knew. Being able to be out in the open about that part of her life had been such a relief.
This training opportunity was a chance to make friends too, in a way. Sydney hadn't met any other trainees during her time at SD-6; instead, all she saw were highly efficient agents who had lots more experience than she did. Sydney supposed that was a good thing—after all, the fact that she was included in this group meant that her superiors had a great deal of faith in her.
“Enjoy yourself, Sydney,” Sloane had told her when she had called to check in earlier that day. “This is a rare opportunity for you to meet some people who are in a similar situation to yours.”
If such a person really exists, I'd love to meet her! she thought, closing her eyes. Yes, any girl geniuses raised in a one-parent household by a father who barely spent a moment with her and who were recruited by the CIA during their freshman year of college, step up to the plate!
She must have drifted off, because it only seemed like a few minutes later that she was woken up. “Ms. Bristow? We'll be crossing the Peace Bridge in a moment,” Ben spoke up from the front. He was guiding the town car into one of several lanes feeding into the bridge traffic.
Sydney blinked. They were already at the Canadian border. She opened her purse and pulled out her real passport. Flipping through it, she realized that she didn't have any stamps. No blurred foreign words with exotic place names, no evidence that she'd ever even been out of the country. All she had were her memories.
The car pulled up to a window and tilted slightly to the right so that the customs officer could get a clear look inside. Ben slid his window down and Sydney did the same.
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