He rubbed a finger along his upper lip as he continued piecing the details together, thinking out loud. “So your company is building the drones but the customer is arming them.”
“I don’t know who’s arming them. I handle the weapons systems designs—their placement—nothing more. The contractor builds the drones, which are then delivered to the customer. My designs are a separate delivery. For all I know, the customer could be a distributor. A middleman for someone else.”
He sprawled in the chair, the sheer size of him making it creak, and settled the bag of peas against his face again. “You can correct me if you like, but I’m going to make a few assumptions based on what you are—and aren’t—telling me. One of them is that these are nuclear weapons we’re talking about, and the final customer could well be a foreign country Canada doesn’t do business with because they haven’t signed the Nuclear Non-proliferation Treaty.” He paused. When she said nothing to contradict him, he continued. “Explain to me why you believe you have security issues?”
“This morning, I started getting pop-ups on my computer at work. They were photos of me.” She cleared her throat. “Private photos.”
He dragged a slow glance from her bare feet to the top of her head. She felt herself blush. So she wasn’t porn-star material. Thanks for noticing.
“Not that kind of private. Just…private.” She waved her hand to encompass the kitchen. “Taken of me here. In my home. Through the windows.”
His expression cleared. “That explains why you’ve drawn all the curtains.”
“The photos aren’t the real issue.” Though they were bad enough to unsettle her. Nobody liked having their personal space invaded. “The problem is with the pop-ups themselves.”
“Pop-ups… Aren’t they the annoying little ad things that get in the way when you’re trying to read articles on the Internet?”
“Yes. They’re also a type of spyware that gathers information on the site’s users. Some of it’s for marketing purposes, like how many click-throughs a user makes on a site. Some pop-ups are more invasive than others.”
“I was told you have a PhD in computer science. Can’t you clear them off your computer yourself?”
“I did already, but the computer’s not mine, it belongs to the company. I work within specific parameters and resolving intranet security issues isn’t part of my job. I’m supposed to go to tech support for issues like that. In turn, they’re to investigate and report any security breaches to the company. But if I go to tech support, I run the risk of making the problem public and therefore more difficult to resolve. The contractor has a secure intranet system. How did these pop-ups get there? Who else knows about them? And why are they aimed specifically at me? Is anyone else getting them, too?” She hated all the unanswered and inexplicable questions. She liked for things to make sense and this made none at all.
He frowned as he parsed her dilemma. “So if pop-ups are a form of spyware, these could be gathering information on your designs from your computer.”
“In theory, yes. But in this particular case, no. Not the designs themselves. All classified work is done on an isolated computer in a locked room. Everything’s password-protected. Not even tech support can get into it. There’s no intranet or Internet on that computer. That one’s secure. External hard drives used for backups are stored in a separate locked storage room that can only be accessed by two people. Everything has to be signed in and out.”
“Then if the designs are protected, I’m afraid I really don’t see how this is a matter for CSIS.”
Her chest tightened. She shouldn’t have to connect the dots for him. “Not to toot my own horn, Mr. Martin, but I’m something of a world authority on weapons systems placement design and my brain’s not locked in any classified storage area. Since someone is targeting me specifically, I’d think that would be a serious concern.”
Thor gave her a slow, heated smile that brought a blush to her toes. “You’re also an attractive woman. Maybe you have an admirer.” The smile slid from his lips. “A creepy one, granted. Call Detective Buchanan back and tell him about the photos. He can do more for you than I can in terms of personal protection.”
Her fingers bit at the edge of the smooth, granite counter. If she were a man he’d never make such a ridiculous assumption. The people she worked with all had high-level security clearances. While that didn’t preclude them from stalking, it did mean they weren’t stupid enough to jeopardize those clearances for a little titillation. And the average stalker, even with better-than-average computer skills, wouldn’t be able to break into an intranet system of this caliber.
She was back to square one. And she no longer felt safe.
Chapter Two
Dr. Glasov was cute when she was mad—all pokered-up lips and imperious green eyes.
The pink cheeks and that light dusting of freckles on her perky little nose made it impossible for Kale to picture her as a weapons systems design expert. The denim short-shorts and super-revealing tank top didn’t help, either. She looked more like an indignant pixie.
Dang, she was pretty.
But there was no doubt she was also scared, and his size and the black eye were currently working against him. She wasn’t giving him enough information to work with. Someone at CSIS might have more intel on the situation she’d described.
To him, however, it sounded more like a case for CSEC—Communications Security Establishment Canada. They dealt with cybersecurity. His personal knowledge of computers wouldn’t get him a passing grade in a first year programming course. His area of expertise was languages. He was fluent in six and spoke seven Arabic dialects. The best he could do for her was to make a call to his team leader and pass on what little information he had.
At the same time, he couldn’t walk out the door and leave her like this. As far as protection went, that knife on the cutting block beside her was a joke. She’d never be able to use it. It didn’t take a PhD in anything to see she’d probably pass out if she tried. How she’d gotten into designing nuclear weapons systems placement, of all things, was a complete mystery.
He tried to soften the blow. “Irina… Can I call you Irina? Because saying ‘Dr. Glasov’ makes me feel like you’re about to examine my prostate or something.” She smiled a little as she said yes, just a faint twitch of her lips, and he continued on a more serious note. “I agree that these pop-ups are disturbing, and I do think you should be concerned for your safety. But CSIS gathers information for national security. We aren’t law enforcement. You really need to call Detective Buchanan back.”
A hint of fear flickered in those pretty green eyes. Guilt punched him in the gut. He’d made matters worse, not better, by confirming what she already knew—she should be afraid and he couldn’t help her.
“I’ll do that,” she said.
She wasn’t going to though. Underneath the fear was a layer of stubbornness. He could see it in the lift of her chin and the tightening of her jaw, and the way her whole body went rigid at his recommendation.
Fair enough. It was her decision to make. Besides, he’d had a hard day too. His head ached and his face hurt. It was time to leave. He pushed out of the chair and took a few steps across the kitchen, the bag of frozen peas in his hand.
Her eyes flew wide at the sudden movement. She backed a step closer to the cutting block behind her.
He stopped. He might have been wrong about her ability to use that knife.
But he didn’t think so.
He brandished the bag of peas. “I’ll put these away before they thaw out. Then I’ll be on my way.”
She slumped against the counter. Embarrassment flooded her face. Pressing her palm against her chest, she took a few rapid breaths. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little jumpy today.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
He got it. He really did. She was a woman living alone and he looked like he’d just come from some sort of crazy-assed couriers’ rumble. But it bugged him that she thoug
ht he might hurt her. He’d been raised to treat women right.
The peas safely back in the freezer, he retreated to the door leading from the kitchen to the carport. He fished a business card out of his pocket. All it had on it was his name and a phone number. He dropped the card into a ceramic dish on a tall pine stand by the door that held a set of car keys and an airport security pass.
“There’s a good chance someone’s having fun with you,” he said. “Mean fun, granted. Maybe it’s professional jealousy. Even smart people can do stupid things, particularly if their emotions or pride are involved. But if you think of anything else I can do to help, or if anything new happens, feel free to give me a call.”
“Thank you.” Her tone said when hell freezes over.
He let himself out. Behind him, he heard the chain slide into place and the deadbolt shoot home. Dr. Irina Glasov, supposedly a well-respected expert on nuclear weapons systems placement design and well aware of her worth, was far too scared for him to dismiss this as someone’s idea of a joke. There was simply very little he could do for her other than file a report.
He walked from the shade of the carport to his van in the driveway. The blazing heat of the late afternoon sun beat through the cotton shirt of his uniform. He looked around him with more interest than he had when he arrived.
The neighborhood where she lived was semi-rural, the subdivision made up of properties segmented by acreage and not postage-stamp-sized lots like the ones on the outskirts of the city. Her nearest neighbor’s house was well back off the road and hidden by trees. If anyone was watching her, or tried to break into her home, it was doubtful they’d be noticed.
As he backed the van out of her driveway, he decided not to sit on her problem. He’d report it asap and let someone else worry about it.
The city was twenty-five minutes away.
When he got to his apartment he changed into gray board shorts and a black T-shirt, stuck a frozen pizza in the oven, and cracked open a beer. He’d call in sick at the courier office in the morning, then tomorrow afternoon, he’d hand them his resignation. After that he was basically logging time until his next CSIS assignment. He planned to do some kite surfing out at Lawrencetown Beach while he waited.
First though, he had a report to phone in. He sank into the padded leather sofa that faced a 55 inch, HD Smart TV and flicked on his cell, punching in a series of numbers with his thumb. “Dan. Hey.”
“Kale. What’s up?”
He filled his team leader in on his day, glossing over the part about getting punched in the face. He had his pride. When he got to the part about Irina Glasov, however, Dan had plenty of rapid-fire questions. What defense contractor was she working for? How many people had she told about this? Did her story ring true?
“It does.” Kale tried not to think of the fear in her eyes she hadn’t been able to hide. If he did, he’d lose sleep. “But from what little she told me, this is more a cybersecurity issue than something for CSIS. CSEC should probably be brought in.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Kale lifted his feet off the coffee table and sat up straight at the change of tone in his team leader’s voice. “It’s like this. We’ve got a bit of a situation here in Ottawa that I can’t really get into right now.”
Politics were a few levels above Kale’s position and normally, he liked it that way. He focused on deciphering the real message his team leader was trying to deliver. Something about CSIS not sharing information with other organizations or government departments until further notice…
He gripped the phone tighter. “Wait. What was that?”
“It turns out a target another officer has been tracking with regard to missing weapons systems parts has friends in very high places. Therefore, all reports having to do with Canadian defense contractors and weapons systems are to go through the director for vetting until further notice,” Dan said. “Nothing gets passed on without his seal of approval.”
Friends in very high places took on a more ominous tone. CSIS reported directly to the federal ministers of Public Safety, Justice and Defence. If information wasn’t being passed on to other government departments, it meant either the director didn’t want the ministers to know about something so that they wouldn’t be culpable for it, or he was worried about some sort of leak.
Shit had just gotten real.
It also meant the cute weapons systems placement designer wasn’t going to get any help from CSEC unless the director of CSIS approved sharing the information with them, and her problem was currently overridden by national security concerns.
Kale hung up the phone with a tight knot in his stomach. He tried not to think about Irina, with her green eyes and freckles, messy hair, and the pretty pink tank top she obviously hadn’t realized showed off her nipples in such specific detail. She didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who flaunted her wares, as his grandma used to say. She didn’t seem like the type to overreact either.
And yet, she’d been scared.
He ate his pizza, then prowled around the apartment, restless and in need of a distraction. There was nothing on TV that he wanted to watch. Heading to a bar for the evening was out of the question. There was always some drunken jackass wanting to fight, and a black eye screamed, “Pick me. Pick me.”
But he was bored. Concerned. And fresh out of distractions.
He could always drive back to Irina’s and sit in his car for the night. No one would recognize it. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. There’d be no harm in it.
As he was gathering his car keys, however, his cell rang.
“Here’s the deal,” Dan said, getting right down to business. “It turns out Dr. Glasov really is working on a project that’s of interest to CSIS. The problem is that the director doesn’t want anyone to know there’s a problem. If you catch my meaning.”
He did. “What do you want me to do?”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to keep an eye on Dr. Glasov. Unofficially, for now. We’re going to put this on your vacation time and transfer the hours later. That gives you five weeks. There are bigger stakes in this for Canada than the designs she’s working on. Mind you,” Dan admitted, “those are important too. She’s got quite a reputation. Really impressive.”
The fine hairs on Kale’s arms prickled. “Just so we’re clear. You want me to spy on her?”
That so wasn’t cool. While there were always exceptions, the CSIS Act clearly stated that it only spied on Canadians if a threat of terrorism was somehow involved. Of course, anything involving weapons and weapons systems could be considered a threat. It all depended on how the director planned to spin any reports. Or if he even planned to make them.
“She’s not under investigation. We’re trying to find out what’s going on and how she’s connected to it. Why don’t we call it ‘establishing friendly and mutually beneficial relations’ instead?” Dan suggested. “How you approach her is up to you.”
Whatever they wanted to call it, it meant Kale could phone Irina first before he camped out in her yard. He felt better about that. She’d feel better knowing CSIS was taking action too. He’d keep the unofficial part of it to himself.
As for what was happening in Ottawa, he’d leave that up to his superiors. He had no interest in politics.
* * *
The call from Kale Martin surprised her. Irina hung up the phone, uncertain what to think. What emotion to feel. On one hand she was glad to have a CSIS officer watching her house.
On the other, his presence confirmed she had a real reason to be concerned.
Now that CSIS was involved, however, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. This was no longer solely her problem. Someone else was in charge. So, as far as her choice of emotion, she went with relief. Plus, he’d sounded so reassuring on the phone.
“I don’t want you to be alarmed if you notice a strange car in the neighborhood tonight,” he’d said. “I drive a blue, four-door Toyota Camry. And I’
m going to be following you for a few days, just to find out if anyone else is too.” There’d been a brief pause. “I don’t suppose you’d make me a pot of coffee?”
The unexpectedness of the request, as well as the little-boy hopefulness in his tone, had broken the last bit of the tension inside her. She wasn’t certain if he’d been entirely serious about the coffee or making a joke. All the same, this was her chance to make up for her ridiculous jumpiness around him earlier.
The jumpiness, if she were honest, was only partly thanks to those photos. The rest had to do with him. Although the jury was still out on the link between human pheromones and sexual attraction, the amount of testosterone Kale Martin exuded left her feeling awkward around him. She didn’t like the sensation.
She’d already showered and donned her pajamas, and been working on an upcoming presentation for a conference in France when he’d called. She considered getting dressed, then decided it wasn’t necessary. He was only coming to the door for a minute, and her bathrobe and slippers were conservative. Nothing said sexy like wet hair and flannel.
She turned on the coffeemaker and rummaged through the cupboard for a thermos. He’d said he was a half hour away. That gave her time to make sandwiches too.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, she watched headlights approach through the trees on the dirt lane leading into the subdivision. The lights slowed at the end of her driveway, continued on past, then a few minutes later, returned. As the car passed beneath a street light, she saw it was a blue, four-door sedan. Whether or not it was a Camry, she couldn’t be sure.
The car stopped and pulled over to the shoulder as if parking for the night, well out of range of the patchy street lighting. Based on the angle of the photos she’d seen, he’d chosen a spot farther along the lane from where they would have been taken. She had no idea what happened next, or what to do with the coffee and sandwiches. She’d assumed he would come to the door. Should she take them down to his car instead?
Her Spy to Hold (Spy Games Book 2) Page 2