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

  No, he would’ve fallen back into the support position. It’s why we use at least two tails. “Where did you lose him?”

  “He caught a cab at the Château.”

  He’d tailed him for what, two minutes? CSIS must be having the Canadian version of a conniption.

  “I was spotting, and we lost him in traffic. Somewhere along Sens Mile.”

  Then ten minutes to City Hall, and the part of Elgin Street dedicated to Ottawa Senators’ fan celebrations during playoffs. Danny and I were there for the party when they eked their way into the first round this spring. (See? I don’t always run out on him.) It’s also home to a bunch of bistros and boutiques, so there are dozens of places he might have gone, but none of them qualify as Fyodor’s “work.”

  And I’m sure Elliott checked most of them. It’s not losing him that’s the big deal; happens to the best of us, and it happened to me two days ago. It’s all about the reason.

  “Tell me this has nothing to do with Shanna.” I was shooting for a demand, but my voice is more of a plea.

  Elliott doesn’t say anything, but slowly, slowly, the get-off-my-case mask cracks. He doesn’t have to say it.

  It’s Shanna.

  She’s due any day (maybe yesterday?), but when we’re at work, we have to be at work. “Elliott.” The one-word reprimand is enough, and it’s a good thing. I don’t know how to finish. I don’t know how to put into words this — this frustration. Frustration that I’m sacrificing so much for this job and he’s not.

  No, I’m sacrificing Danny, and Elliott’s sacrificing me. Possibly literally.

  I study the carpet, like the random, swirling patterns will help me sort through the tangle to show Elliott what he’s doing to us — to me — and guide me to the perfect words to magically transform Ellie into HAMMER.

  “Do you remember last summer?” That’s all he has to say. I know exactly what he means: the ops that devoured both our lives when I started dating Danny and Elliott and Shanna got engaged. Not only did Elliott cover for me a couple times, but he saved my life.

  “I saved you, too.” That bond between us is written in the air with invisible ink. He knows I’m not reacting this way because I’m angry or mean or harsh.

  It’s because I’m right.

  “I want you to be there for Shanna and the baby.” I place a hand on his arm. “I really do. But you need to finish what you’re doing with us first.”

  “What if that takes too long? What if I miss it?” His voice drops even softer. “Miss her?” Elliott’s desperate eyes search mine like I have the last Agency-issue survival pack in the desert.

  But all I have is the truth. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know if he’ll have a week like I’m having. I don’t know what will happen to us because of his distractions. Most of all, I don’t know if his biggest vulnerability will stop being a problem after the baby’s born. But if he can’t focus, he could miss more than her birth.

  “Elliott, you have to live to see it.”

  Before I can say the rest, the elevator chimes behind us.

  Elliott shields me, pushing me back around the corner, and sandwiching me against the wall. Beneath my racing pulse, I’m half-flattered, half-offended (okay, maybe 30/70). Protectiveness is cute and all, and yes, I’m a girl, but I can defend myself.

  A man steps around the corner and startles at the sight of me and Elliott. My brain registers I know the guy before it clicks who he is — Danny.

  I’d recognize Danny, of course, but seeing him here, so out of context? For a minute, it’s like trying to read a one-time cipher without the key, just a string of nonsensical information.

  I shove Elliott aside before he can start on the third degree, though he already knows who Danny is. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Danny folds his arms, the rolled up sleeves of his white dress shirt catching on his elbows. (I’m totally weak, but what girl doesn’t like that?) He looks casual with his tie loosened, but his expression is anything but relaxed. He looks from Elliott to me and back. “What are you doing here?”

  I point down the hall to the gold lettered Keeler Tate & Associates, Barristers and Solicitors.

  “Catch you later, T.” Elliott claps my shoulder.

  I nod without taking my eyes off Danny. He knows where my building is, but he’s never been to the office, and we’re not listed on the building directory. I pick my tone carefully to mask the depth of my suspicion. “Our sign downstairs is broken. How’d you find us?”

  “I went to the wrong floor and asked.”

  “Oh.” I force a light note into my voice. “Well, you found us.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He glances at the doors closing behind Elliott.

  “So, why are you here?

  Danny turns back to me. “You said you wanted to talk face to face. About our date.”

  Right. “You really need me this Friday?” I pray he doesn’t notice the little lift of hope in my voice, hope he’ll back out, reschedule for next week, release me from my promise.

  Anything.

  But he says nothing.

  I try again. “I mean, would Saturday work? Or next week?” I’d suggest tomorrow, but Danny has to work late Thursdays, and if he gets the night off, I just know Fyodor will pick tomorrow.

  “My parents get in Saturday morning. If we’re going to celebrate our anniversary sometime this month — without them — it’s got to be this week.”

  Oh, man. I knew his parents were coming, too, and after the last time we met . . . yeah, I vote for without them.

  “Talia.” He steps closer. “If you have plans Friday, say so.”

  Thing is, I don’t. Yet. So I tell him that.

  Danny reads the neon lights blinking between the lines. “But you might.”

  The disappointment hangs there already. This would be the fourth — no, fifth time in a week I’ve either left early or stood him up or somehow ruined our plans. It’s usually not this bad, but I can’t blame the guy for hating the pattern.

  I try again. “I’ll do my best.”

  He looks away, and this time I interpret the silence. My best hasn’t been all that good lately, and unless I make a serious effort, that might not ever change. “Better than my best.” I take his hand. “I’ll level up in the ‘best’ department.”

  He’s still not convinced, and I can just tell, from the set of his jaw or the look around his eyes, that this is stake-your-life-savings important. The walls seem to slide closer and my voice slips to barely above a whisper. “One more chance?”

  Danny is quiet for almost a full minute, staring at our hands. I dig really deep into my non-CIA bag of tricks, but the most persuasive expression I’ve got is Elliott’s please-please-please puppy dog eyes.

  “Okay,” Danny says slowly. He squeezes my hand and meets my gaze again. “Pick you up at six thirty?”

  His voice sounds a little hopeless and hollow, but I’m going to work with what I’ve got here. “Sounds good.”

  I give Danny a quick kiss and thank him again for the flowers. And then I hold my breath. Is he going to ask to come in and meet my coworkers?

  “I wish I could see your office—”

  I cut him off before he gets too attached to that idea. “I know, but with so much confidential stuff, it’s hard to handle visitors, especially on short notice.”

  And explaining the security card swipe to get past the reception desk? Always awkward.

  His lips twist into a knot of concern. “I was going to say I need to get back to work, actually. A corporate bigwig is visiting and I’m supposed to meet him in like twenty minutes.”

  Which explains the dress shirt. “Better hurry, then.” I tighten his tie and run my fingers through his hair (which doesn’t really need straightening). I like the rolled up sleeves way too much to “fix” those, though. “Love you,” I murmur.

  “You too.” Danny leans in for another kiss. Odds are at least 50/50 that someone’s watching us on the camer
as, so I’m trying to keep this approved for all audiences including my boss. I make sure it stays totally un-embarrassing and send him back to work before I head in my office. Fyodor had better be free tomorrow night.

  Elliott doesn’t mention Danny or Shanna or the baby when I get in. He just pushes out the extra chair at his desk. One glance at mine tells me why: the massive vase has taken reign of the Kingdom of Talia, and although I appreciate the flowers, I’m kind of the live-free-or-die type. I grab my laptop and join him while I write up the morning’s post-action report.

  When I finish, we’re back to Facebook, it seems. I read through Fyodor’s recent mail. We’ve been apart an hour and he’s already mentioned me to his friend Mikhail Kozyrev. Any other day, I’d be excited for the lead, but now I’m too busy worrying about Danny.

  “Fyodor had a good time,” I report to Elliott.

  “You can tell from the beard. Extra fluffy. Don’t you want to touch it?”

  “I know you do.” I rub the back of my hand against his smooth cheek, less flirting, more taunting. Elliott smirks and turns back to the computer. The message makes some oblique references to the rest of the week’s plans. I cross my fingers Fyodor and Kozyrev are going out for a last hurrah Friday night, and our date will be tomorrow.

  I reread the note, trying to focus on the Russian. I skipped a line in my first pass: the plans are sailing again. With me? He doesn’t say, but we will be prepared.

  I tell Elliott, and he’s on the phone to CSIS in half a second. “You guys have the report from this morning?”

  Mack’s huff carries like static over the line. “All we found were oddly thorough organizational maps of Malcolm and SinclAir. You guys have anything?”

  Yes, our relationship is very formal. Elliott hesitates half a second, pulling up his email. “Our preliminary report found a program on his laptop designed to crack high-level encryption.”

  Suspicion crawls up my back and I don’t hear the rest of the conversation. That’s the first I’ve seen of the laptop results, but now we know for sure: he’s after something. Something he’s not supposed to have. Something he’s going to steal. Something secret.

  We need to come at him from every angle. I tap Elliott’s arm. “Mikhail Kozyrev.”

  Elliott relays the request and within the hour, CSIS sends a big intel dump. They only put this kind of resources — imaging of his yacht, floor plans, credit card bills, receipts from his last four grocery trips — behind someone they think is a threat.

  The intel doesn’t look suspicious on its face, although the grocery bill adds up to way too much food for a single guy. Was he having a “vecherinka” Monday night, or is that a cover?

  Before we can dig into the meal planning, I find some financial records for a boat renovation. The floor plans probably wouldn’t change, but if these are out of date, they do us no good.

  I spend the rest of the day trying to track down the reno company, but no one’s talking. By 5:30, I’m hitting more and more answering machines. The dead end is coming up fast when I check my email and find a RussCa notification. There’s a message in my KoketniChat inbox.

  I click through. It’s RotorFyodor.

  I sit up straight. “Got him.”

  Elliott pivots his chair to look at my laptop and Robby jogs over from his desk.

  Tasha, it was a pleasure to meet you today. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night? 7? Fyodor

  “‘It was a pleasure’?” Elliott repeats after I finish my translation.

  Seriously. I mean, it’s good and we’re making progress, but it took me half an hour to get ready (that’s a long time for me), I fawned all over the guy, and that’s all the impression I made?

  “Should’ve complimented The Beard.”

  I ignore Elliott and reread Fyodor’s message. If he’s using head games here, it’s working. But you don’t play hard to get with the CIA. We play for keeps.

  Elliott’s phone rings again. And again, it’s CSIS. We all lean in. Will steps out of his office and in time to see us hunched over the phone. He joins us, and Elliott puts it on speaker.

  “Elliott, it’s Alex. We got word from Malcolm Aerospace that Fyodor extended his tour there through Friday.”

  “All day?”

  “Yep.” Alex doesn’t know what that means. Even Elliott and Robby don’t. But I do.

  I try to fight the sinking feeling. Maybe it’s salvageable. Elliott finishes on the phone and we all turn to Will. He’s looking at me. “Have you heard back from Fyodor?”

  I pull my laptop over to show him the KoketniChat message. Robby summarizes it. I cling onto hope with every muscle in my body: hope that we’ll keep this date on Thursday and figure out something else Friday, hope that I won’t be on the phone to Danny in ten minutes, already rescheduling, hope that I can make this all work.

  “Move it to Friday.” Will’s ever oblivious, though I feel those fragile hopes pop and shatter in my chest like a flashbang grenade.

  “But . . . can’t we do something else Friday?”

  “If he’s at Malcolm all day, we have to check after his visit. You’re the best way to keep him occupied while we do it. And we’re angling for that invite to Shcherbakov, right?”

  “I’ll try.” That’s all I can manage. Will, Robby and Elliott all stand there staring at me, so I turn back to my computer. Robby is helpful enough to fetch my Russian keyboard from my desk.

  Fyodor, I have committee meetings until late Thursday, but I’d really like to see you again. Would Friday work for you? Tasha

  I hate that stupid beard.

  Once Will has approved the message for Fyodor, which suddenly sounds like a PSA for a political candidate, I hit send and we stay huddled around my computer to wait.

  Which is dumb, I know, but like I said, this Internet dating thing makes an office full of guys feel like my boy-crazy college roommates.

  I refresh the KoketniChat inbox for the fourth time, as if the instant updates aren’t fast enough. “What’s the earliest we can do this?”

  “Well, if he’s at Malcolm till five, we have to give him time to get back from Kanata and get ready,” Will says.

  I challenge his statement with one eyebrow. “What, change his socks?”

  “Comb The Beard,” Elliott tosses in.

  I ignore him. “Then, six?” Why couldn’t he have done SinclAir second? Nepean is so much closer. Okay, it’s like ten minutes’ difference, but still. Twenty versus thirty?

  Before Will okays my new timeline, a bird-like chirp announces a new KoketniChat message from Fyodor.

  Tasha, I’m sorry your work keeps you so busy. Friday is fine. I will meet you at seven o’clock. You know Signatures? A friend recommended it today. Fyodor

  Oh, yeah, of course. Of course, out of all the places in the National Capitol Region, he picks the one my boyfriend picked for me the last time I stood him up for Fyodor. Of course.

  Again with Will’s okay, I send my reply back: I’ve heard of it. I’ll see you then! Tasha

  I know what the next two days will hold: reconning Signatures, translating phone calls and Facebook messages, and a work-over on Kozyrev in record time.

  But most of all, I know they’ll hold at least one disappointment for Danny.

  After a few minutes without a reply from Fyodor, Will, Elliott and Robby drift off to their jobs, or home, and I’m left refreshing the KoketniChat inbox, hoping Fyodor will change his mind, that there’s no way he can possibly go out Friday.

  Why couldn’t one of them be Thursday? But Danny’s weekly workgroup thing always runs late. I usually beat him home Thursdays if I’m not running an op or meeting an agent.

  I know, “workgroup thing” makes it sound like I don’t care or I’m being evasive. I do and I’m not. Do I know a lot more details of Fyodor’s schedule this week than I do Danny’s? Yes. Is that an accident? No, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  I’m a spy. I spend my entire work life collecting information about people to
manipulate them. It would be so easy to play Danny the same way. I could use our mind games to make him think it was his idea to change our date, or to let me out of my promise.

  But I made myself a promise after he took me to the Aviation Museum for the first time, after an amazing (and pricey) dinner at Beckta — after the very first time he kissed me. I promised myself I would never use our Jedi mind tricks on him. I would never misappropriate CIA resources to keep tabs on him. And no matter what happened between us, I would never, ever spy on Danny Fluker. Either what we had between us would be real, or it would be nothing.

  I’ve never looked at the files the CIA and CSIS keep on him since then. I’ve never tapped his phone or used its GPS to figure out where he is. I’ve never even eavesdropped.

  I have never broken that promise.

  But Danny doesn’t know that. All he knows is I’ve promised him dinner on Friday. Him and Fyodor.

  Danny and Fyodor. I can see that now, bouncing back and forth between my boyfriend and The Beard at the same restaurant. I forget what I ordered at one table, what we’re talking about at the other. I use the wrong name. They see one another across the crowded room.

  Yeah. That’s waaay too risky in real life. I am not about to gamble with my cover, my life or my relationship with Danny.

  And putting him in danger? Totally out of the question.

  But . . . what if there was a way I could do both? If I can finish my date with Fyodor as fast as possible, then maybe I can spend the rest of the evening with Danny.

  I hop up and head for Will’s office. After a knock, I pop in. “Will, I have something big going on Friday.”

  “If it’s not your date with Timofeyev—”

  “No, no, but I don’t think it’ll interfere. What’s our timeline on the room raid?”

  Will looks over something on his computer. “Sixty minutes once he leaves the hotel. Total shakedown and cleanup.”

  “With the size of their crew, that’d be long enough to do DNA analysis of anyone who’s stayed in the room in the last ten years. By hand. In Braille. Can we move it to six thirty?”