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)

by Jordan McCollum

  And I’ll bet this isn’t something CSIS needs to know.

  “We need a way to get at him. Talia, call Erica. Traces, profile, the works.” As a targeteer — Specialized Skills Officer — Erica does the analytical legwork to find the right targets and capitalize on their motivations and values. If we’re helping Timofeyev into CSIS’s necktie, or one of our own, Erica will know his size.

  I launch into my assignment, and it’s afternoon before I remember to check my phone. A text from Danny: Free tonight?

  That depends on several things: how soon CSIS can get a bug in, whether Timofeyev will be in his room tonight, and Robby. But I won’t let Danny down again. I can’t.

  I lean across the laptop in front of us and lower my voice. “Robby, you busy tonight?”

  “Uh, I’m flattered, Talia,” he says, drawing out each syllable in confusion, “but I really don’t date — ”

  Whoa, no. “I have a boyfriend.”

  Robby’s brow puckers. I like the guy, but he’s not the brightest bulb in the CIA chandelier. If I had to choose between him and Elliott, Robby would be the first to go. And if Danny’s on the line? Robby’d better get out of my way.

  “We have plans tonight.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.

  “Oh. Okay.” The rising note in his voice says he’s still not seeing the connection.

  “If we have to come translate something, can you cover?”

  Robby agrees. I manage to wait until he’s turned back to the Timofeyev file before I bite my thumbnail. I don’t know how much time Robby has spent in-country, but right now, I’m worried about not just his Russian but his general processing abilities. What if there’s something time-critical and he doesn’t catch it?

  I might not be the best CIA operative in the world — okay, obviously not if I’m stuck here in Ottawa — but it worries me when I feel like the team’s Most Competent Spy.

  I text Danny back with a yes, and hope for the best, for tonight and for this mission.

  I catch myself mid-pace Monday night. I’ll push my carpet over the edge from “cozy and broken in” to “scuzzy and broken down” if I’m not careful. But I can’t help the worry.

  I’m hoping Danny won’t ask about the healing cut on my calf, wearing my cutest non-business skirt and very, very early, a habit from adding SDRs to every outing. Typically, CIA officers only run these rounds to and from ops; the rest of the time we vary our routes. But I won’t even go to church without checking for surveillance.

  No SDR for me tonight. Danny’s driving. He wouldn’t give me any more details than to be dressed up and ready at seven. In the mirror, I fuss over my never-going-to-be-perfect-anyway-so-why-am-I-trying? hair. What if work calls? I hate when he drives.

  Skipping one run will be okay, right? What’s the worst that could happen?

  And I’m pacing again. Ugh. Me and my hobbies. I stop, take a deep breath. It’ll be okay.

  My phone rings. If it isn’t Danny or my mom — no, make that just Danny — it’s trouble.

  It’s trouble. And worse still, it’s Elliott. My stomach flops onto that “cozy, broken in” Berber. “Unless you have a baby,” I answer, “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “No baby. But listen, T—”

  “Direct all your translation questions to Robby tonight.” I should know better than to hope. Most of us do not pretend to have a normal life on assignment. I’ve never been one to follow the “most of us” crowd, but every once in a while, there’s a reason for the consensus.

  Disappointment sinks through my whole body, telling me this is one of those times.

  “I tried Robby. He’s tied up with today’s phone dumps. He’ll be doing that for hours.”

  What am I supposed to do? Shunt him off to someone we don’t know in CSIS? “Tell me what you’ve got before I decide.”

  “I hacked his Facebook account.”

  Elliott hacks? I check my watch. 6:50. “How long can it wait?”

  “I’m looking at his messages and I’m seeing the number seven and today’s date.”

  It could be 7 AM. It could be 7 anything. “After the seven, is there a y-capital T-p-a, or a funky letter-capital H-backward capital R?” Utra and dnya, Russian for AM and PM.

  “Neither.”

  I shake the anxiety out of my legs. Whatever it is, it’s not a time. Elliott continues, “I see seven funky y-a-c-o-b then funky letter-capital H-backward capital R. What does that mean?”

  “Seven o’clock PM.” The inward groan comes right out in my voice. “Read the date?”

  “Ten slash eight.”

  No help there. Elliott’s not dumb enough to misread a date written the European style, date then month. “Email me the message.”

  “Give me a minute.” He ends the call. What choice do I have?

  I sink onto my bed and text Danny, hoping to reach him before he leaves. Something’s come up at work. Not sure if I’m going to make it.

  As good as the noise canceling is on Danny’s phone, when he calls me back I can tell right away he’s in the car. “What’s up?”

  His voice is so upbeat, I almost change my mind — until my phone chimes to announce incoming mail. My shoulders settle into my resignation. Duty emails, and it comes first, every time.

  “They need me” is all I can manage.

  “Emergency lawsuit?” There’s a dangerous note of disbelief in his tone.

  “Client got arrested.” I repeat the lie in my mind seven times, as if that will not only commit it to memory but also make it true.

  “You do criminal law?”

  Crap. On my feet to pace again, I flip through my mental file of work cover stories, but I don’t think I’ve ever pinned my job down that definitively. I studied Canadian criminal and civil codes, so I’m safe saying, “We do everything. And the Mounties are waiting.”

  Danny doesn’t respond for a minute. I flip to speakerphone and pull up my email on my computer. “Federal crime,” he finally says. “That sucks. What if I pushed the reservation back?”

  “I don’t know how long this is going to take.” And that’s the truth. My computer finishes decrypting Elliott’s message, but I won’t be able to concentrate with Danny on the line.

  “Can’t someone else handle it? What about . . . what’s his name? Elliott?”

  “He’s already on his way, but they’re holding our clients separately. He needs me.”

  Danny makes this low noise, his groan of I can’t believe this. “Okay.” He does not sound okay. “Call me if you finish soon.”

  “I’ll call you either way.”

  It’s his turn. The conversation is over, and he’s supposed to say, “I love you.” But he doesn’t. My heartbeats measure out the silence.

  “I love you,” I try at last.

  “You too.” His tone is almost curt, and the call is over.

  I don’t normally flake on him twice in a week, but I do have to change our plans at least monthly. What’s up with him these last couple days?

  I’m pacing again, but this time I can’t stop myself. I do my best to make these things up to him, and he’s usually understanding to a fault. Especially considering he thinks I’m a lawyer, and I can’t tell him otherwise. (CIA rules: not unless you’re engaged. For me, basically never.)

  So what’s up with him?

  But right now, I can’t say no to duty. I have to pretend turning away from Danny and back to Elliott’s email is as easy as flipping a switch.

  And yes, this is about 99.99% as secure as if I were sitting in the office with Elliott.

  The message — messages are from Timofeyev and Mikhail Kozyrev, apparently old friends. Kozyrev seems to be local now. He’s offering Timofeyev a ride on his boat at seven tonight.

  Elliott’s right. That’s time sensitive. I request a workup on Kozyrev and call Elliott back. There’s a lot more than case file reading and traces to be done tonight.

  And there goes my night off. I turn to my closet to dig out a pai
r of pants.

  I should’ve known it was too much to hope. I’m definitely going to get this guy.

  One of the best little perks of being a spy is the equipment. Yeah, I have the latest cell phone with more security features than 24 Sussex Drive (that’s the Canadian Prime Minister’s house), options you wouldn’t believe in my car, and a computer that can do things most people only dreamed of last week.

  But tonight, the perk is a speedboat from CSIS, complete with seven secure and waterproof workstations in the cabin, faster Internet and satellite connections than everyone but the military, bulletproof sides, and deck chairs for me and Elliott. Oh, and Alex and Luc to drive.

  And none of it does any good if we can’t find Kozyrev and his boat before Timofeyev slips away and catches CSIS in his room.

  But if we can find them? I can protect my country, use my Russian, and feel the wind in my hair, speeding over the Ottawa River. Only one thing could make the night better — but I’m trying not to think about him.

  “How’s it coming?” Elliott asks from the deck chair next to mine.

  I check with Luc. He takes a break from scanning the river to shake his head. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, but with our specially designed, readable-even-in-direct-sunlight laptops (okay, half the secret’s the sunglasses), we’ve dug through a massive amount of Facebook wall posts, messages and all the pages Timofeyev “likes” searching for clues. If he’s foreign intel, with a profile this extensive he’s either deep under or an idiot.

  But turning raw data into actionable intelligence is a lot harder than reading it. “I can tell you how he liked Montréal or how he feels about his ex-wife.” Which is downright generous compared to how my mom and dad felt after their divorce, I’ll grant him that. “That help?”

  Elliott’s lips twist. I’ll take that as a no.

  “Any luck with Kozyrev’s profile?”

  We haven’t tried hacking his account yet, since most of his information is public and in English anyway. Elliott straightens in his chair. “Here we go.” He hands me his computer. “What does this mean?”

  The screen shows a stout stump of a man in sunglasses on the deck of a small yacht. The Russian caption translates, basically, as “Traded in my wife.”

  “Ouch,” Elliott says under his breath. “He and Timofeyev have a lot in common.”

  More importantly, though, we can see the piece we need: the ship’s register number in the photo. Canada doesn’t exactly put RFID trackers or GPS locators in every boat, but without saying too much, that information is pretty much all we need to get them.

  “All right, he moors at . . . Dow’s Lake. Should have satellite on him any second.”

  Luc radios to the patrol boats west of Chaudière Falls and on the river on the east side of the city with the registration number. Robby’s at Keeler Tate, translating half a dozen calls Timofeyev made on the train this morning. The CSIS team is infiltrating his room, wherever that is. Even the Ottawa Police Service and the RCMP — the Mounties — are providing support with the canal and lockstations. I can almost touch the threads that connect the pieces of our plan.

  I breathe in the feeling, collect it into a buzzing ball in my chest, embrace it. I can’t describe what it’s like to be involved in an op. You’re a master puppeteer, but you’re not pulling the strings. You’re synchronized swimming, moving in perfect harmony. You’re playing a symphony. Only instead of applause, you’re working for life or death.

  The invisible connection with your team flows through your veins. You’re pushing yourself to the fullest of your capacity, and everyone else on your team is, too. Even when you’re left running on adrenaline and fumes, the conviction you’re doing the right thing for the right reason sings in every breath you take, and for that second, you own the world.

  Tonight I’m greater than the sum of my part and our coordinated efforts throughout the city to protect the information and companies and livelihoods, and yes, perhaps even the lives of millions of people, here and thousands of miles away.

  Yeah, we go through a lot — a lot — of crap on a pretty regular basis, but at times like this, I can’t fathom why officers turn to drugs or drinks with this kind of high.

  Like I said, though, there would be one more thing that could make tonight perfect.

  My elation and my heart deflate a notch. Maybe I can fathom it a little.

  “Got him.” Elliott raises a victorious fist, and warm triumph flourishes in my chest, too, building that buzzing ball. He turns to Luc and Alex. “He’s at the locks.”

  The CSIS guys exchange an uh-oh glance. “It’s almost seven thirty,” says Luc, his light accent a little more noticeable with the stress in his voice.

  “So?”

  “The lockstation closes at seven thirty. You have to be there three hours before that.”

  Elliott matches my expression of confusion. “Then what’s he doing down there?”

  “Maybe he ‘knows’ the station master?” Luc rubs his fingers against his thumb, the universal sign for bribery.

  “It’d take a pretty big payoff to keep me three hours after work,” mutters Alex.

  Silence falls after the particularly inept claim from someone who’s already put in a ten-hour day. Without another word, Alex brings the boat about and hits the throttle. I shift my balance with the momentum, wipe the spray off my waterproof monitor and plow through what must be a painful memory from Timofeyev’s past: a message to his ex-wife Olga with a rambling apology, and a little take-me-back begging.

  I wince, then hope my dark hair streaming across my face covers my reaction. Generally I try not to let my targets’ problems bug me — seldom helps my objectives — but every once in a while, I stumble across something so personal and raw that I can’t help genuine sympathy.

  The message is old, and maybe the wound has healed for Timofeyev by now, but his ex-wife’s curt answer brings to mind another one. My stomach gets a little turn from the guilt-knife.

  I pull my hair into a ponytail and push all thoughts of Danny back under the surface. Business. All business.

  The sun heads toward the horizon, but I focus on the city lights of Ottawa and Gatineau flickering to life. There are people out there depending on me for a lot more than a dinner date, and I’m responsible to them first.

  No matter what I want.

  We approach the steel trusses of the Alexandra Bridge and the stone spires of the Gothic-style Parliament buildings beyond. Luc picks up the radio for a quick check in. “The station master talked to the RCMP,” he announces. “They’ve already let Timofeyev into the locks.”

  Alex scrubs one eyebrow with his thumb. “I’m telling you, this won’t work.”

  “Maybe they’re mooring overnight in the locks?” Elliott guesses as we pass under the bridge’s shadow.

  Alex shakes his head. “Not allowed.”

  Luc taps Alex’s arm before he can elaborate on the proper procedure for lock passage. Luc points out across the water and we all follow his hand.

  A banner arches high over the wooden gates to the locks. (Which are, of course, already closed.) Rideau Canal Festival Flotilla, it proclaims. Alex kills the engines and we drift closer on our momentum, bringing the smaller print into view. Free locking & docking, open late, fireworks Friday!, and the dates: this week. The sidewalks and lawn to the right are packed with people.

  Great.

  I navigate back to Kozyrev’s invitation in my email. Vecherinka, he said. Party. Why couldn’t he have said festival′?

  Alex rubs the other eyebrow. “Must’ve expanded. Isn’t it usually a weekend thing?”

  “Popular demand.” Luc turns to Elliott. “How far up is he?”

  “Checking.” Elliott taps away at his keyboard. Before he answers, the white-shirted lock workers appear at the cranks and set to work. The old wooden doors glide open into the lock, and one lone boat cruises out. I think everyone but Elliott cranes their neck to watch the boat, though chances that it�
��s Kozyrev’s are pretty much nil.

  “We moving in?” Luc asks.

  “Right now,” Elliott says. I lean over to watch him zoom in on the satellite image, but at the last second I catch the look that passes between Luc and Alex. An are-they-serious? look. A do-they-know-what-they’re-doing? look.

  We sail into the lock anyway. Luc flashes a badge, probably for his cover ID, at the workers and they nod, directing us to a mooring along the tall cement-block wall. We’re the first in line a few feet from the next pair of wooden doors, with five more ships behind us.

  After we’re all in the lock, engines off, moorings on, the workers turn the chain winches atop the walls by the doors, and the gates swing shut behind us. As they close the last couple feet, one of the workers runs across the walkway along the top, hopping over the gap. The chains secured, the lock begins to fill, a square opening in the cement wall by the front gate churning out the water.

  Once our water level matches that of the chamber in front of us, they’ll open the gates and we’ll move forward to start the process again.

  “How long did you say it takes to go through the locks?” I call over the rushing water.

  Alex crosses the deck so he won’t have to shout back. “Once you’re in, about an hour and a half.” At least it isn’t three hours.

  “Got it.” We gather around Elliott’s computer. He points at a boat, then zooms out enough to tell which lock he’s in.

  “Five. And we’re in one.” Alex’s voice is filled with defeat.

  “Can we catch up to him?” Elliott tears his gaze from the computer.

  If we can’t, this whole exercise could be pointless.

  Elliott’s question is enough to push easygoing-Canadian-colleague Alex into I-only-like-you-people-when-things-are-going-well Alex. “Do you know how locks work?”

  “Apparently not,” Elliott mutters.

  “The canal is twenty-five meters higher than the river>—”

  “What’s that in feet?”

  Alex glares at Elliott. “Don’t know.”

  I doubt that, but I do the conversion. “Eighty.”