“I know,” I say.
“And you still want to run this risk?”
I give a single, decisive nod. Will’s right — he could be right — but that baby is coming any day, and then Elliott will get back to normal. I hope. “He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his, and I know he can save mine again.”
Will’s obviously made up his mind, but he pretends to deliberate a minute longer, his chin in his hand. “You got it. But remember: your funeral.”
Again with the not-really hyperbole.
By the time I’m out of the office, I’ll be an hour late to meet Danny, with travel time. He’s ridiculously patient with my job, but still — there’s only so much standing up a guy can take.
I call as soon as I get to my car. “Danny, I am so sorry.”
“I know.” If he’s trying to hide his disappointment, he’s not trying hard.
“I thought work wouldn’t take long, but a case got dumped on us, and Elliott needed me. Couldn’t let him down.”
Danny doesn’t say anything for about five seconds. It feels like five hours. “Right.”
I climb in my car, and then I hear it. Or I don’t: there’s no background noise on his end. He should be in the middle of downtown, on the Rideau Canal. Even with his cell compensating, I should hear traffic, people, wind, water.
I hear nothing.
He’s given up on me. The thought crumples my heart like so much ultra-compactable cipher paper. “Are you at home?”
“No.” But before hope can buoy me up, he adds, “Something happened with security at work. I had to come check on a project.”
I groan for him. “So you’ll be a while?”
“Yeah, just got here. Sorry.” And his tone says he really means it, like he’s the one who stood me up.
“Good luck. Call me if you finish before it gets too late.”
“I will.” His heart isn’t behind his words. It’s probably crushed, too.
“I love you.”
Pause. Half a beat too long. “Love you too.” He sounds a little down. Distracted. Distant.
I hang up and knock my forehead on the steering wheel. Will’s words come echoing back. But I’m not better off alone. I know I’m not. And I will make this up to Danny. Now.
With a quick okay from Will, I borrow a couple bikes from the Agency. We use them to commute to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service headquarters. CSIS is their CIA+FBI, and yes, we work together. Sometimes better than we work with the actual F-entity.
But today, the bikes and I walk past CSIS HQ to the grassy National Research Council Canada campus dotted with stucco-and-glass offices a mile up the road. An awkward trip, but unless I want to tie them to my roof, my options are limited. Luckily, I know which of the hundred buildings is Danny’s. I scour the half-empty lot for his Mazda.
By the third silver sedan that isn’t his, my back has bunched in a hard little knot of worry. (It’s my only hobby, okay?) What kind of security do they have? What does an aerospace engineer do after a breach? What’s so important at NRC Aerospace? Sounds so boring I’d want to break out.
These things are none of my business, but I’m much happier worrying about them than agonizing over Will’s parting words.
Finally, halfway down the fourth aisle, I find Danny’s car. I sit on the bumper, and I wait. And I wait.
I’m good at waiting — a big part of my job, after all — but when it isn’t for national security but to make sure I haven’t carpet bombed my boyfriend’s heart in addition to his plans, it’s a lot easier to get antsy.
Or maybe I can’t stop picking at my fingernails because my brain’s still ringing with Will’s stupid warning.
I certainly don’t feel better off alone.
I try to ignore the riptide of worry, and keep busy by looking up the perfect place for our ride on my phone. A little before noon, competing pizza, steak and burger restaurant scents overtake the baking pavement smell. An hour and a half later, the breeze clears the air and finally dies.
I puff my bangs off my forehead. For the tiniest dose of consolation, I’m dressed to be outside, in a lightweight floral blouse, capris and a ponytail. It’s a feat, since my date wardrobe is pitifully small. Shopping? I’d rather go shooting.
My cell battery dwindles to a third so I have to give up on my one distraction. If I need backup and can’t call because my phone’s dead, I don’t want browsing bike maps as my last regret.
But as soon as I tuck my phone in my pocket, it rings. I pull my cell out, my heart already shrinking. If it’s Danny saying he’ll be stuck at work until late, we’re even for today. And whether I’m better off or not, I’ll be alone.
It’s Danny. I answer and then bite my lips together like I can bite back what’s coming. I can’t look at the building holding him hostage.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I was so down about earlier.”
“It’s okay.” And not just because he was justifiably disappointed. Like I’m about to be. I brace myself for the blow.
“I think we’ve got everything under control,” he continues, “and I’m on my way out.” The extra gravity weighing down my heart disappears and I wheel around. He’s on the sidewalk, headed my way. “Still up for a ride?”
I tell the truth. Sort of. “If I don’t get moving soon, I’m going to go crazy.”
“Be there in fifteen.”
I don’t answer, waiting to see when he’ll spot me. He’s close enough I can make out his favorite shirt, a well-worn blue Winnipeg Jets tee. The “favorite” part has more to do with the F-18 in the logo than anything else. It’s the Canadian version of the American F/A-18. I do listen when he talks about this stuff.
I can tell the exact instant he sees me: he stops short. I’m waiting for his trademark grin, but it doesn’t come. He tucks his phone in his jeans pocket and strolls up to me. His eyes are less surprised, more skeptical.
Is he still upset about this morning?
I take a second to take him in. He’s handsome in a slightly geeky way I find absolutely adorable. (Have I used that word once or twice?) His dark hair, just long enough to flip out at his ears and the nape of his neck, his warm brown eyes, the way he looks at me — normally. But now, I can’t read his expression. “How long have you been here?” His tone is no help.
“A little longer than fifteen minutes.”
He doesn’t laugh, just looks back at his building. My questions about the breach resurface, but a lawyer wouldn’t ask. The cleanup’s got to be a little less extensive than destroying all papers and hard drives in a level-three burnout. “Everything locked down?”
“Hope so.” He leans on his trunk and slides an arm around me, but the comfortable gesture doesn’t affect the belt tightening on my ribs. Something’s wrong. At work or with me?
“Being in charge must suck.”
Danny scoffs through his teeth. “No kidding.”
I may not understand how he fills ten hours a day here, but I know he’s brilliant. NRC isn’t shy about their preference for Canadians, so for an American to get hired into management, he’s got to be good. Also, I saw his U-Mich transcripts — more A’s than a Scandinavian family reunion — after Elliott did a background check for dating-me–level clearance.
Yes, Elliott’s worse than my brothers, but I made my peace with one more overprotective guy in my life. One more overprotective guy like Will. Who thinks I’m better off alone. I get the feeling those words will haunt me.
“You’ve been here all day, huh?” Danny cuts in on my thoughts, finally looking at me. “Hungry?”
“At this point, I might even try poutine.”
“Dang. Knew I shouldn’t have eaten my emergency stash Thursday.” Danny claims the iconic/cliché Québécois snack is practically a delicacy, but considering it’s French fries, gravy and squeaky cheese, three foods I hate, I refuse to eat it even if I watch the kitchen.
He pulls a backpack from his trunk and tosses me a granola bar, a bag of dried fruit,
and the Swiss Army knife he always carries. Once an Eagle Scout, always an Eagle Scout. Does this mean we’re okay?
If we were okay, he’d make eye contact now. He doesn’t. I finish the granola bar before he finishes repacking the snacks. “So,” he says, “Rockcliffe?”
“Gee, I don’t know.” I inject a note of false innocence into my voice. “Isn’t there a museum out there or something?”
Danny matches my tone. “Is there?”
The Canadian Aviation Museum has been my strategy all along. Danny loves to tell me about the Avro Arrow with an ill-fated prototype’s severed nose as a backdrop. I’m less of a fan of the implication the CIA engineered political opposition to the fighter jet. I could look into it, but I’d rather not know.
I can’t wait until we get into the museum to make sure we’re okay. I hand over his knife. “You’re onto my devious plans, Fluker.”
“Devious plans to make my day? Go ahead.”
We make eye contact and add the cherry to the unintentional Dirty Harry paraphrase in unison: “Punk.”
Danny turns back to loading the bag. It’s taking him a long time, and the way he’s angled himself strikes me as . . . odd. Too familiar. Covert. Is he hiding something? Am I better off—?
Oh, man. The job’s going to my head.
He slams the trunk shut and beams at me. The belt around my rib cage breaks loose. That’s what I’ve been waiting for, that eye-crinkling, Talia-melting smile. He leans down to tell me I’m beautiful. That’s not quite true — I think part of the reason I got my job is because I’m unremarkable. Plain might not be an overstatement. But when Danny says it, I believe him. Almost.
He kisses me, his lips warm and undemanding and gentle. Let’s just say his smile isn’t the only thing about him that’s Talia-melting.
Danny straps on his backpack and rolls up his jeans on the chain side, and we head out. But somehow, even though I’ve made everything up to him, I don’t feel the relief I anticipated. Instead, the granola bar settles in my stomach like granite.
And that has nothing to do with Danny being distracted by work disasters. I’m not going to feel better until Elliott and I get through the next week and whatever it might bring. Suddenly, I’m not as confident as I told Will.
Am I better off alone?
After spending the rest of the weekend together, all’s well in Danny-and-Talia-land, but I’m still worried. (It’s not a great hobby, no.) I try to squelch the thought Monday morning, on a company bike once again, heading to the CSIS building.
The six of us riding together would be pretty conspicuous, so we break up, vary our routes and stagger our departures. By no coincidence, I’m sure, I’m paired with Elliott. I can only take a minute of quiet. “No baby over the weekend?”
“Nope.” The lack of a clever comeback and the solemn stitch between his eyebrows aren’t the only reasons for my little twinge of disappointment. I’m excited for the baby, but I’d be lying if I said part of me doesn’t hope Shanna would hurry up and have the baby so Elliott could get his head on straight.
Not today. We trek the bike path to the cement and blue glass building, the thick silence spreading between us. Our usual CSIS team is waiting in a conference room. Elliott and I are the last to walk in.
Everybody else is already settled at the table. Mack, the head of our CSIS contacts, is already standing at the front. A picture of a man is already projected on the whiteboard next to him. Mack steps in front of the image. “Now that we’re all here.” The tune of his voice plays a little guilt trip. Elliott and I take the last seats.
Mack jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the picture on the board. Neat beard and short, dark hair, slightly receding. He looks to be early forties. “Fyodor Timofeyev.”
Instantly, my pulse perks up. I’m not the only Russian speaker working with CSIS, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who lived there for fifteen months before joining the intelligence community. I just know this case will fall to me.
“Upper management at Shcherbakov Aircraft.” Mack gives a quick company profile. Headquartered in Rostov-on-Don — i.e. right where I lived — Shcherbakov is struggling against OAK, a conglomerate of a dozen aerospace companies a.k.a. the United Aircraft Building Corporation. Mack concludes the summary and turns to Will. “I understand you have some intel on him?”
Will nods. “Timofeyev has been traveling a lot lately, and we believe he’s hunting for aerospace trade secrets, or worse, defense info. The FBI didn’t have enough to pick him up, but it looks like he’s stolen at least one key plan from a US company.”
Luc, a French Canadian with CSIS, pipes up. “What are the odds he is Russian intelligence?”
“SVR.” Mack’s lips thin, like he’s already seen way too much of Russian spies. “Let me put it this way: we’re not pursuing him for grins and giggles. We cannot rule anything out. After consulting with Citizenship and Immigration, we’ve decided to allow Timofeyev enough rope to make himself a nice new necktie.”
I half-cover my smile with two fingertips. That could be fun.
Mack taps the board. “He’s spent the last two weeks in Montréal and Toronto, and he gets here today, ostensibly pursuing manufacturing contracts. We’ve tried to place CSIS agents with him at each company he’s visited so far, but they haven’t found anything.”
“How long before he goes back to Russia?” Elliott asks.
“Saturday morning.”
Elliott leans toward me as if to comment privately on our target’s travel schedule. Instead, he says, “Check out that beard. Pretty sweet.”
Seriously? I eye his cheek. Have I ever seen Elliott anything but clean-shaven? “Beard envy?”
“I know how you feel, T, but I don’t think you’d look good with facial hair.”
Before I can retort, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I scramble to hit the button to silence it. They usually make an unofficial exception for us, but we’re not technically supposed to bring our phones in. No one seems to have heard. For Elliott’s benefit, I fix my gaze on Mack.
“He has one or two more companies left on his itinerary. We should confirm his schedule at Malcolm Aerospace today.”
The name’s familiar, though I’ve never worked in this sector before.
“He’ll be there Thursday, and SinclAir today and tomorrow.”
SinclAir sounds familiar, too. Then a bright burst of realization hits me. Danny’s worked with them both. He’d offered to show me their projects at the NRC facilities. Man, I wish I’d made time for at least a look around the offices now. It always helps to be an insider.
Mack turns to Will. “I understand you have some men who speak Russian.”
Will hesitates. “Yep.” It’s me and Robby, so not exactly “men,” but that’s probably what Mack means.
“We’ll have them keep an ear out. The FBI’s evidence and a couple things he said in Toronto were enough for a warrant, so we’ll be bugging his hotel room, and searching it once he’s visited his last two companies.”
Elliott tilts his head toward me again. “Thursday at Malcolm leaves all of Friday for a hit on his hotel room.”
“As long as he’s not sitting in there.” My heart rate picks up again at the thought of another black bag op. I’m so not doing the ventilation shaft again.
“We’re bugging his room today,” Mack continues. “We’d like to use your Russian speakers.”
Will nods with his eyebrows. Robby and I use our heads.
“We’ll shoot for a search Wednesday, post-SinclAir, and have a rolling plan in place for a follow-up once he visits the hotel after his Malcolm visit.”
I try to rein in my tapping toes while Mack hands out all the bugging and search assignments to his guys. I want to do something. I want on this team. I want on this op.
But Mack reaches his last agent, and stops. “Now.” He turns to us. “On to our friends.”
My pulse resigns itself to its normal pace. Of course we’re not in on the big op. We collab
orate, but we try to be very careful about keeping to our own jobs.
CSIS is an ally — and as close as the CIA gets to a friend — so we try to play nice. We stick heavily to need-to-know and follow their protocol as much as we can. After all, if an op goes bad, it’s their heads, not ours. (We were never here.)
Mack looks at each of us in turn. “Who are your Russian speakers?”
Robby and I raise our hands. Mack doles out jobs to the rest of our group. I hold my breath until he gets to Elliott’s job. Please, let it be something safe.
Mack points at Elliott. “We’d like you to track down some more background info on Timofeyev. Everything you can find.”
The relief rushes into my lungs, almost strong enough to overpower my annoyance at CSIS. Other than mine and Robby’s, these are nothing jobs. Like they’re including us on the case because the FBI couldn’t catch the guy. A pity op. And Elliott’s “job” is something any desk jockey could do. But if I get to use my Russian — and keep Elliott in the office — I guess I’ll take a pity op.
Robby and I pick up the in-depth analysis on Timofeyev, memorizing his bio, associates, education, family, hobbies, pets, interests. Until we get information from CSIS’s bugs, it might look like we’re doing nothing, but the better Robby and I know Timofeyev, the better we’ll be able to scan his conversations for any seemingly casual “references” — the groundwork for any real, face-to-face encounters we might have.
When we get back to our office, Will stops us as soon as we reach the secured bullpen past the reception area, his head bowed toward the group. “The CIA has been watching Timofeyev, too. We want him as a target.”
I join the others in a quiet, collective intake of breath, and we form a huddle by silent accord. We all know what that means, but when Will adds, “We’re looking at an offensive op,” there’s no mistaking the room’s uptick of adrenaline.
We’re technically in counterintelligence, though we take whatever assignments we can get around here — but the chance to fully exploit this guy to our advantage, to stand eye-to-oko against a potential enemy? Yes. Even if it means the most grueling week we’ve endured in months.
Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 3