Tomorrow was Tuesday. She’d meet him at the museum. Then she was going back to Canada to finish those four years of university if they killed her. Everything her father had purchased was being returned, and the money added to her tuition fund.
After a quick meal at a nearby café, she crawled into bed and slept for twelve hours straight.
When she awoke the following morning there was a light skiff of snow on the window ledge, but the sun was shining. She showered, then, ignoring the neat pile of new clothing, dug through the scant contents of her battered duffel bag. The nicest things she currently owned were her fleece-lined jacket and skinny jeans. Knee-high leather boots, not necessarily stylish but comfortable and warm, would also have to do. Rijksmuseum visitors came from all over the world and from all walks of life. No one in the café would notice—or care—what she wore.
She walked the short distance to the museum and entered through the bicycle tunnel beneath it. The glass and steel ceiling flooded the central Atrium with bright daylight that shone off the polished white stone floors. A short flight of stairs led to the open café overlooking the Atrium.
Isabelle looked up and spotted her father, sitting a few tables back from the guard railing. He lifted a hand and waved to her. A part of her had worried he might not be here, and the sight of him, alive and well, filled her with an overwhelming relief.
And then anger nipped at its heels. He’d chosen a very public place for an intensely private conversation. For months she’d been so afraid, both for him and herself, and yet here he was, acting as if he’d seen her yesterday, not almost a year ago.
As she mounted the stairs and wended her way through the tables, however, she began to see the changes in him. He’d always been an exceptionally handsome man, but while there was no mistaking the family resemblance, he drew attention whereas she did not. There was noticeable gray in his hair. His shoulders were more stooped than she remembered, and he’d put on weight. When he stood to welcome her, folding her into his arms to kiss her cheeks, she could read the deep lines etched around his eyes and the anxiety lurking in them. He scanned the floor of the Atrium below them as if looking for someone he hoped not to see.
“Ma Belle,” he murmured, speaking in French. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She slid into her chair and waited while her father ordered more coffee, and ham and cheese on bread. Once the waiter left, she immediately chastised him, also in French. “I was so worried. Where have you been?”
His hand, resting on the table, trembled slightly, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. You know I can’t speak of my work.”
Then, changing the subject, he launched into a long, very detailed description of all the things they would do together while they were in Amsterdam.
It took a moment for her to grasp the importance of what he wasn’t saying. A frisson of anger chased away her disappointment in him. He planned to give her no explanation for his disappearance. Neither did he want to know what it was like for her to be stranded in Southeast Asia, then Canada, without any means of survival. He’d always been this way. He simply wasn’t capable of dealing with confrontation, or the complex emotions accompanying it.
She managed to cut him off after the waiter delivered their fresh coffee and food. “I have work and school, Papa. I had to claim a family emergency to get this time off. I can only stay for a few days.”
Her father’s expression went blank for a second, then cleared. “You don’t have to go back to Canada. I have money now.”
“But how long will it last?” she asked gently. “I’m an adult. It’s better for me to build a life of my own. I can’t expect you to keep on providing for me.”
She’d offended him.
“You’re my daughter. I’ve always provided for you. I intend to keep on doing so. My work is more stable. The money is better. The past few years have been difficult, yes, but that’s behind us.”
“So what do I do the next time you disappear for months? How long am I supposed to wait for you, wondering if you’re dead or alive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Isabelle,” he snapped. He set down his heavy porcelain coffee cup with such force that it rattled the saucer. “I’ve never let you starve in all your twenty-four years.”
Blood began to pound in her ears, its roar dulling the noise from the milling crowd in the museum Atrium. He refused to acknowledge the truth—that her grandparents had seen to her care, and her mother’s, for the first years of her life. That she’d taken on work as an au pair once she’d finished school because he was traveling so much and been short on funds. There had been plenty of cash flow problems in between as well. Many moves in the middle of the night. Those desperate weeks in Bangkok, and even with the Mansfords, were especially difficult for her to forget. If not for Garrett, her situation could easily have become very ugly.
She could see the escalating pattern of irresponsibility, not to mention the wear of the past few months on her father’s health. Whatever he was involved in, it was growing more complicated, not less. It had cost her any hope for a relationship with Garrett. That particular pain squeezed at her heart, leaving her momentarily breathless, but she pried it loose and pushed it away. She’d gotten past it before. This wasn’t the time to try and subdue it again. She had to move forward.
“I’m going back to Canada,” she heard herself saying. “For twenty years my grandparents didn’t know what happened to me. I’m not going to walk away from them again. They’ve already lost their daughter.”
“And because of them, I lost my wife. Why should I allow them to take my daughter from me, too?” His expression hardened. “Don’t feel sorry for them, Belle. They never wanted us in their lives. They made that clear.”
They’d made no secret of the fact they had no love for her father, true enough, but he had none for them either, and Isabelle had no intentions of becoming caught in the middle of a decades-old feud. They didn’t have to deal with each other in order to have a relationship with her. She wasn’t a child, anymore.
A loud bang in the Atrium caused them, and everyone seated around them, to jump, then turn and look. Isabelle heard the heavy tread of running footsteps, then loud apologies spoken in American English. It sounded as if something glass had shattered on the stone floor.
She shifted her gaze back to her father and saw he’d gone very pale. The trembling in his hands had worsened so that he’d spilled his coffee across the table. Isabelle grabbed their napkins and began to sop it up, her thoughts racing to an inevitable conclusion that she’d known, but in many ways was too much his daughter to admit.
He was afraid for his life. That was why he’d arranged for such a public place to meet her in, not because he hadn’t wanted to deal with her disapproval. She’d looked the other way too many times over the years. She’d been too indulgent of his laissez-faire ways. She’d facilitated them. Now she had no idea how to help him. Arguing with him would solve nothing. Neither would any attempt to use reason. He was well beyond all that.
Garrett would know what to do.
The thought crept, unbidden, into her head. But he’d already tried to warn her, and when she hadn’t listened, he’d washed his hands of her. She’d have to deal with this alone.
“Why don’t we go back to the hotel, where it’s quiet?” she suggested. “Have you registered yet?”
His hands had steadied, although his color concerned her. “I’m staying at a different hotel this visit.” He offered no explanation as to why, or which one it was. Before she could ask, he changed the subject. “Since we’re here, we may as well see the exhibits.”
They spent the rest of the day wandering through the galleries. Late in the afternoon, he glanced at his watch and suggested they go out to dinner.
“You can meet me at the restaurant,” he said. “First, go change into one of those pretty dresses I bought you. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket and wi
thdrew a small packet of papers. “I need this delivered. I’d do it myself, but I have a meeting I’m going to be late for. I was so happy to see you, I lost track of time. It’s not far out of your way—just a few streets over from Hooftstraat.”
The desperate, haunted look in his eyes betrayed him. As Isabelle accepted the packet, she wondered how many times he’d lied to her over the years. Even though she felt certain this was the first he’d tried to include her in his activities, ultimately, it didn’t matter. She thought of the things Garrett claimed her father had done, of the lives already lost because of them, as well as the ones to come. She couldn’t live with that on her conscience.
She couldn’t imagine how her father lived with it, either. Or the fear. Espionage was a dirty game.
“I’ll see you at seven,” she managed to say, surprised by how light her voice sounded when inside, her heart was breaking.
She had to call Peter and Cheryl and ask them to help her contact Garrett. She was going to turn her father in.
* * *
Garrett waited in the cold outside the small, very exclusive, extremely discreet hotel. The winter days were short, and despite the early hour, dusk had already descended on the narrow streets. After the warmth of India, the damp chill in the air settled deep in his bones. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and hunched his shoulders.
Isabelle wasn’t inside. He’d asked the reticent concierge to leave her a message for him, and if she’d been in her room, she would have responded to it immediately. He’d been explicit about the urgency.
He wondered if she’d be happy to see him. They’d parted on friendly enough terms.
No. Not friendly enough. And definitely not the terms he’d wanted. He’d made a mistake in walking away from her. He planned to rectify that. Either they became much more than friends or they’d be nothing at all. While he couldn’t offer her reassurances over the fate of her father, he’d already distanced himself from that part of the investigation. He hoped that would suffice. It was the best he could do.
He straightened as he caught sight of her in the glow of the street lamps, crossing the bridge over the canal running behind him and then turning onto the street where he waited. His heart beat a little faster. He’d recognize her anywhere, simply by the way she moved. Her head was uncovered, and pinpoints of snow settled onto her dark hair, melting almost instantaneously.
He was nervous, but it was too late to worry. He stepped forward, blocking her path as she approached.
She looked up. Her expression blanked as if she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing.
Then, with an exclamation in French of such intense relief he couldn’t begin to interpret it, she threw herself into his arms. She hugged him, pressing her face against his throat. “Garrett! Thank God you’re here.”
Although he’d hoped she’d be happy to see him, this was a far more exuberant reception than he’d expected from her. He held her close, almost hating to ask why, but common sense and past experience had already weighed in with an opinion. Something was very wrong.
He looked around, unsure what to expect. A busy street wasn’t the best place to talk. They were drawing far too much attention. “Can we go inside?” he asked. “I’ve been out here for hours and I’m frozen.”
She gripped his hand as they entered the hotel, edging her slender fingers between his so that they interlocked, as if she were afraid he’d vanish if she didn’t hold onto him.
As soon as the door to her room closed behind them he pinned her against it, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. Her cheeks were so cold. So was the tip of her nose. He wanted nothing more than to peel every layer of clothing off her body and make love to her, slowly, for the rest of the night, warming them both.
She couldn’t seem to stop touching him. Her hands dipped into the warmth of his coat, smoothing the front of his shirt as if reassuring herself he was real. He lifted his head and searched her eyes. He saw happiness in them, but also something else. Darker.
He shucked his coat and dropped it on a chair by the window, then settled his palms on her hips. The hot water radiator gurgled as the heat kicked in.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said. A trace of humor slipped into his tone. “Now. Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”
She evaded his question. “Why are you here?” Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I have my ways. And I’ve come for you.”
“For me?”
The surprise and suspicion on her face hurt him. He should have told her how he felt about her long before this. But he remembered her words outside, on the street when she first saw him, and that was enough to warn him that now wasn’t the right moment to tell her he loved her. Thank God you’re here could mean a number of things, but it didn’t speak to him of a desire for intimacy.
“If you’re worried that I’m really here because of your father, the answer is, I’m not. My work’s taken me in a different direction these days.” He couldn’t tell her everything, but he refused to give her false hope. “That doesn’t mean he’s been forgotten.”
She unzipped her jacket and withdrew a packet of papers. She held it for a long moment, staring at it, then straightening her shoulders, she handed it to him. “Here. I was asked to deliver these for him. I’d planned to look at them first, but I’d rather you do it for me. I don’t want to know what they contain.”
Garrett took the packet. Inside, sandwiched between sheaves of paper, was a lump the size of a thumb drive. He hoped she understood what she was doing. “You realize,” he said slowly, “that if these contain anything of interest to Canada, or Interpol, or the Netherlands, I’ll have to report it?”
She nodded. “I’d planned to call you right after I’d looked at them. I didn’t know what else to do.” Her chin quivered. “He was so afraid when I saw him today, Garrett.”
He unwound the string holding the packet folded in half and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope. He scanned the contents with a sinking heart. These were rough designs from a Canadian defense contractor that specialized in state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, catering to law enforcement agencies all over the world. He guessed the thumb drive would contain the design specifics. His next step would be to call his agency in Ottawa, who’d contact Interpol, who in turn would alert the Dutch National Constabulary, since the exchange was taking place in their jurisdiction.
“Where were you supposed to deliver these?” he asked.
Isabelle gave him the address. “Is it bad?”
“Bad enough.” He rifled through the papers. These weren’t plans for weapons of mass destruction, or weapons systems either, which came as a relief, but he couldn’t say for certain what was on that thumb drive. And Isabelle said her father seemed afraid. That was bad, too. He tucked the papers back in the envelope and tied it shut. “At the very least, it’s going to mean jail time for him. Are you prepared for that?”
“Of course not.” She shivered, although she still wore her jacket and the room wasn’t cold. “But I’d rather he be in jail and alive.”
She said that now. She might feel differently in a few weeks or months. It was also very likely she might never be able to look at Garrett again without experiencing some level of remorse, remembering how he’d encouraged her to help put her father behind bars.
His hopes for a happy resolution to their relationship—or lack of one—evaporated.
“I have a few phone calls to make,” he said.
* * *
He said he’d come for her.
He hadn’t explained, or said anything more, and Isabelle hadn’t dared ask what he meant. If she’d somehow misunderstood, she couldn’t bear it. If she’d understood correctly, they were both destined for disappointment. Any connection to her would prove disastrous for his career. She’d never do that to him.
Right now, it was enough for her that he was here.
The restaurant where
she was to meet her father had been converted from an old warehouse dating back to medieval times. The building was tall and narrow, deeper than it was wide. The topmost floor had once been living quarters. She believed the owner had turned it into a private penthouse. The three lower levels were dining rooms of varying degrees of exclusivity. She’d been here before, on numerous occasions. The chef was an acquaintance of her father’s, and kept a personal table reserved for friends. She paused at the door of the topmost restaurant, sick to her stomach and hating what she was about to do.
She caught sight of her reflection in a mirrored wall, startled by it. On the outside, she looked so calm. She’d fastened her hair in a careless knot on the top of her head. A few tendrils wisped around her ears and the nape of her neck. Pearl drop earrings that had once belonged to her mother were a gift from her grandmother. She’d chosen a simple, thigh-length dove-gray tunic over black leggings, paired with high-heeled, black leather, over-the-knee boots, because they were all items she could wear again. Everything else her father had bought for her would go back to the store. She’d donate the money. She couldn’t bear the thought of profiting from it.
Her unsettled stomach disagreed with the mirror’s assessment of serenity. Garrett’s presence outside on the street, and the two Dutch politieagenten she knew were somewhere inside, were all that kept her from bolting. She’d been given one opportunity to convince her father to turn himself in before the arrest. To keep this nightmare from happening. It was now or never.
The plan was simple. Partway through dinner, Garrett would enter so he could offer his support without interfering. She had no idea how he’d managed to arrange that. Tables were notoriously hard to reserve. She was to return the papers to her father and tell him she hadn’t been able to deliver them. The politie wanted them on him when he was arrested. While CSIS dealt in information, law enforcement agencies preferred to have hard evidence that would stand up in court. After dinner, she was to find an excuse to leave the restaurant without him. Hopefully, he’d never learn of her involvement. The politieagenten would then make the arrest outside, when he was alone, as quietly as possible. If her father’s life was truly in danger, they wanted no one to witness it, although Garrett had warned her it was unlikely to go without notice.
Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) Page 16