I wipe a suddenly clammy palm on my pants. I saw him last night. What could’ve happened? “About what?”
“His latest security clearance?”
Oh. But the closest to relief I feel is my heartbeat shifting from fifth to fourth gear. “Something wrong?”
“No.” Mack’s tone turns his answer into a question, but Twenty Questions is getting old fast. “There should be a form here for your interview for his background check, and I can’t find it. So, how has Mr. Fluker been in the last few months?”
“Fine.” And then I force myself to slide from girlfriend mode to operations officer mode. “From what I gather, he’s financially secure, enjoys his work and is very loyal to the organization.”
“Tell me about his character. Is he honest? Trustworthy? Reliable?”
I hold back my first response (“To a fault” isn’t a good thing to say to a spy) and go with, “Yes. He’s seriously one of the most upstanding people I’ve ever known.”
“And what if he had to choose loyalties between Canada and the States?”
That’s the real question here, lurking under all the other stuff. When you live in the US, it’s easy to forget Canada doesn’t have to agree with us 100% on everything — and they don’t. If they did, what would be the point of us working here? Canada has an agenda of their own, and I’ve seen the two come into conflict firsthand. More than once.
But I know Danny. I relax into my chair. “If he’s signed on with you guys, it’ll be his integrity over nationalism, every time.”
“Good, somebody already okayed him. Don’t know what they were thinking, without talking to me first.”
Since he’s a US citizen, Danny’s clearance is a special case for both sides, but background checks are way below Mack’s pay grade. “Why’s that?”
“Procedure. They’re supposed to interview everyone the candidate has lived with in the last decade, and if ‘Talia Reynolds’ comes up in our system, there’s a flag to talk to me.”
Um, awkward. I glance around and lower my volume. I don’t like explaining this once, let alone six times. “We’re not living together.”
“Oh. Well, sleeping together.”
“Yeah, no. We’re . . . really conservative. Religiously.” My finger starts to tingle. I realize I’ve wrapped the phone cord around it so tight, I’ve cut off circulation.
It takes Mack a minute to respond. “Okay. Guess that answers that question.”
He doesn’t seem to think I’m a complete weirdo, but I have to steer the conversation to safety. “Hey, do you know what Kozyrev drives?”
“One minute.” Silence. “Silver Chevrolet. Why?”
That wasn’t his car pulling into his house today — which would be why César and Robby didn’t warn us. They were probably with Kozyrev the whole time. But Mack doesn’t need-to-know about our breaking and entering hobby. “Just looking for him.” I change the subject. “So what’s Danny’s security level up to now?”
“Top Secret.”
Was that what had him so worried when I brought up aerospace the other night, and why Saturday’s security breach was such a big deal? I’m a little surprised he hasn’t mentioned it — and a little surprised he needs clearance at all — but that’s kind of the point of Top Secret, isn’t it?
Mack ends the call. Back to work for us both.
After three hours of more phone calls, I finally get ahold of somebody who will admit to working on Kozyrev’s boat. Once I convince him I’m Kozyrev’s accountant working on an audit, the contractor fesses up. They upgraded the finishes throughout, added a “sky lounge,” and put in more soundproofing, but he can’t remember whether the floor plans were altered substantially.
Leaving us little choice but to recon ourselves. In the sun’s fading light Thursday evening, Elliott and I are once again on a CSIS speedboat with Alex and Luc, this time on Dow’s Lake. In May, there are hundreds of thousands of tulips along these shores as part of the Canadian Tulip Festival. Yes, that’s something I did with Danny. What can I say? He’s my favorite part of the city.
But more importantly tonight, Dow’s Lake is where Mikhail Kozyrev docks.
The main detail that keeps an eye on Fyodor in the evenings hasn’t reported in yet, so for all we know, Kozyrev and Fyodor might be on board together. Someone’s definitely home: the lights are on below deck.
Once we’ve puttered around enough to look like vacationers on the lake, Alex cuts the engine and lets us drift in the descending dusk. “SoI know we followed him when Timofeyev was aboard but remind me why you care about his guy again?” Already in counter-CIA mode. Great.
“Friend of Fyodor’s. They might hang out on the boat tomorrow.”
Alex is silent, like I’ve stunned him with an actual reason to be here. Elliott starts the short profile we’ve assembled. “Single — ”
“Despite a herd of RussCa ‘heifers,’” I add.
Elliott tosses off a touché expression. “Works in security, though we haven’t been able to define it better than that. Divorced four years ago and moved to Nepean from Rostov-on-Don.”
I finish him off. “He bought the boat used two years ago for about $110,000, so despite his claims, he didn’t ‘trade in his wife.’”
We glance back at the mooring where Kozyrev’s been all night. I check my binoculars. Now that it’s nearly dark, the pavilion lights show his silhouette better. “He’s on the ‘upstairs’ deck of his yacht.”
“Sky lounge.” Alex’s tone isn’t quite as curt as it could be. “And it’s a cabin cruiser, if you want to be specific.”
“Always. He’s got a Jacuzzi on the sky lounge.” Seriously.
“What’s he doing?”
“Drinking himself into a stupor, looks like.” From here, I can’t tell whether this is a fit of depressive alcoholism or the guy’s typical routine. I’m guessing A, though, from the way he’s slumping over the side of the Jacuzzi and the death grip on the vodka bottle.
Not what I’d expect from someone whose home is suspiciously sterilized.
“Water approach?” Elliott calls from his deck chair.
There aren’t many boats left out on the lake after dark, but I signal him to keep his voice down anyway. “You feel like swimming?”
“Not what I came here for, but the water does seem fine.”
“Not allowed. No idea why.” I make a point not to look at Alex, though I’m sure he’ll correct me if he can. But the restrictions might be to our advantage. With Kozyrev overhead, it’ll be easier to get a peek inside the boat from the mooring than the water — though a lot riskier.
There’s got to be a better way.
I turn to our Canadian friends. “Alex, Luc? Thoughts?”
“We can do anything you want,” Luc says.
“Flash your badges and board him?” Elliott smirks.
Alex swivels in his seat, back to that expression of I don’t know why we work with you Americans. “I know you don’t have to worry about legality and warrants and all that, but here on our home turf, we do.”
“What if he gives you permission to look around?”
“On what grounds?”
“Hm.” I walk from the side of the boat to my chair. “Tell him there’s been a series of boat robberies here and you’d like him to check his valuables. Offer to go with him.”
“Sounds like a scam.” Elliott folds his arms.
“It is,” I say. “But we’re not actually going to rob him.”
“And there’s that whole warrant thing again.” Alex has his objection ready, too.
I look back to Alex, and refrain from mentioning my law degree. “You’re allowed to lie to suspects, right?”
“Well—”
“And it’s not like you’re going in there to collect evidence of espionage.”
He exchanges a glance with Luc. A you’ve-got-to-hand-it-to-them glance. “I hate lawyers.”
I smile. Elliott points at the pavilion. “The slip opposite him is open. Pull
up.”
We cruise in, Alex pulling us past our slip to turn and back up to the pavilion. Right in sight of Kozyrev. Good thing we’re not going for that surprise attack.
Elliott and I lay low onboard the CSIS boat and Alex and Luc head over to Kozyrev’s. Across the still water, we can hear Alex call out, “Sir? RCMP. Can we talk to you for a minute?”
Kozyrev’s silhouette stands. “Mounties? Problem?” His accent is thicker than Fyodor’s.
“No, sir, there’s been a series of robberies on the lake and we wanted to make sure all your valuables are safe.”
I raise my binocs to watch Kozyrev. He sets his bottle on the sky lounge deck and steps out of the Jacuzzi, grabbing a towel. The stairs down from the sky lounge are on our side of the boat, and Elliott and I freeze.
Kozyrev plods down one step, two. He doesn’t even glance our direction. He continues past the helm and down more stairs to the rear deck. “I am in security,” he assures Alex and Luc. “My valuables are fine.”
“We’d like to think they are.” Alex is good at playing conciliatory when he wants to. “But it never hurts to check.”
“I will check.” Kozyrev turns toward the door into the cabin.
“Would you mind if we came with you?” Luc calls before Kozyrev can trundle inside. “I am in the market for a thirty-six-footer.”
I glance at Elliott, who holds up a dunno palm. If that’s true, it’s never come up before.
“She is not for sale.” His tone brooks no bargaining.
“Oh, non, non.” Luc holds up a hand. “I am only looking at options. My wife, she is not sure she wants a cruiser.” He’s playing up the Québécois accent, but maybe it’ll be enough to garner Kozyrev’s sympathy. “I can see this is all very custom.”
Kozyrev’s standing in the doorway, still looking back at Alex and Luc. We wait in tense silence, too far away to read him well. At last, he flips on the deck lights. “Watch out. It is wet.”
Alex and Luc board, but Kozyrev stays in the door to the cabin. “Badges, please.” He examines each one closely. I bite my lip. I don’t know if the Canadian feds have jurisdiction here, and the badges are fake — they’re not really Mounties — but if CSIS operates like the CIA, those badges were made by the RCMP. Will they be good enough for Kozyrev?
He doesn’t give a verdict, just returns them and heads in. I try to signal to Alex and Luc to take photos, but I don’t think they see me.
I turn my binoculars to the elongated almond-shaped windows, but the curtains remain drawn.
Great. No eyes, no ears, no communication. I turn away and settle on the deck.
“They’ll get pictures.” Elliott nods like his statement cinches it. I hope he’s right. ../images are the best we can hope for right now. We’d feed the pictures into one of our CAD modeling programs and put them in some sort of order, and it’d build a 3-D computer model of the space. It’s almost better than taking a walk-through ourselves.
As long as Alex and Luc get pictures.
Elliott and I pass the time huddled on the deck, watching from below the cover of the railing and walking through the logistics for tomorrow night. Not a lot to go over from here, but every verbal rehearsal is that much more preparation. Elliott’ll be my main tail, but he won’t be in the restaurant with me. Observation range, yes. Visual contact, no. Will and Robby will run support. I’ll have an earpiece, a microphone and a camera disguised in jewelry.
But when it comes to the plans for my appearance, Elliott grins in I’m-obnoxious mode. I don’t care what the plans are or what exactly I wear. I just need to look unbelievable.
No, better than believable.
And as soon as we get through our hour, and an SDR, I’m all Danny’s. When I mention our plans, Elliott’s grin turns to extra obnoxious.
Finally, we can hear Alex and Luc. They’re laughing. With Kozyrev. Elliott and I sink down below the side of the CSIS boat. “You’ve been an inspiration,” Luc says.
“I hope I have inspired you to save your money!” Kozyrev slaps him on the back.
Alex and Luc bid him goodbye. Elliott and I dare to peer over the side of the boat. They’re on their way back.
It felt like forever, but could it have been long enough to get what we need? We slip out of sight again.
Luc hops aboard first. “Well?” I call softly from the deck.
“Well what?” Alex looks at me like he’s clueless.
“Did you get pictures?”
“Of what?” Alex maintains the same idiotic expression. Luc backhands him in the chest with a c’mon-dude look. Alex tosses me a camera. I scroll through all the pictures — and man. This guy’s boat is nicer than my dad’s newest house. Leather couches, leather benches in the dining area, granite countertops, and in the galley, rosewood cabinetry throughout.
Luc sits at the helm. He turns the ignition, but the boat doesn’t start. “Do you have the emergency key?”
Alex pulls a yellow lanyard from his pocket and tosses it to Luc. Apparently it takes two to start the boat? Or were they worried we’d sail off without them?
Once we’re on the open water, Elliott and I can get up, and Alex joins us on the deck chairs. We pull into the canal, heading for the river. Good thing the locks are open late this week.
Alex points at the camera. “The head.”
I page through the pictures until I get to the bathroom — head. Whatever. The massive shower, enclosed by a curved glass outer wall, has to got to be bigger than my bachelor. (My apartment, not Danny. Well, him too.) “What?” I turn to Alex. “You jealous?”
“Um, yeah, but that’s not what I mean.”
“In yachts, the head is very small. Like airplanes.” Luc holds up his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
Despite the exaggeration, I can see his point: the toilet and sink definitely have more in common with a cramped plane bathroom than my apartment’s. I have a hard time imagining the significance. I guess some people want to bathe in style. I finally ask Alex and Luc as the resident sailing experts, but they aren’t sure either.
No matter the reason for a rainwater, jetted, massage, whatever shower on a yacht, I think we have enough to be running virtual walk-throughs on the yacht by tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night, I’ll be touring his boat in my dreams.
And no matter how things go with Fyodor, I know where I’m looking next.
Meanwhile, Fyodor spends Thursday night drinking with Malcolm execs under CSIS’s watchful eye. He doesn’t respond to my message asking to move up the timeline. It’s rude to reschedule again, I know, but I will be there for Danny. I have no other option.
But first I have to get through today. And the minute I arrive at work, I can tell it’ll be a long one.
The role of a CIA operative might not be what you expect. If you think cocktails with the enemy’s ambassador while we try to blackmail him to spy for us, go fish with the officers at the embassy. I run in a really different circuit.
It seems like about 50% of my work is deep in the field, and about 50% of that is, well, weird. To get close to potential agents, I’ve sold street food, broken into circuses, driven a city bus, landed a role as an extra in a soap opera, even scaled buildings (small ones). But I just know of all the days I’ve been with the company, today will be the most unusual when I walk into the reception area Friday. Linda and Marie-Christine, support staff from CSIS though I’m not sure what her title is, are poring over French and English fashion magazines.
Marie-Christine looks up. “Good, she is here. Now we can start.”
Oh yeah. I’m in for it. “I’ve already been out with him once. I think I can manage.”
Linda’s laugh tinkles like condescending little cymbals. “You both had to dress for business Wednesday. It will not do for evening.”
No, no, no. But the tug in my stomach tells me all I need to know: she’s right.
If my life were a movie, here the script would say, “Cut to a montage.” And I wish I could do that in rea
lity, hit the button and my life would fast-forward overdubbed with some catchy pop song, and then I would be gorgeous.
But no, my life would have to be more like the poor sap stuck editing all the raw footage of the makeover, frame by excruciating, repetitive frame.
I sit by Linda. They’ve ripped out half a dozen pictures of ideas. Pretty much all of them will have to go. “We have to impress Fyodor.” I gather up the clippings. “Not lead him on.”
Linda and Marie-Christine exchange a mystified expression, but I can’t explain much more. Linda isn’t supposed to know what we really do and who we really are. (Yes, it’s tricky. The staff scrubbing the CIA seal in the floor of Langley supposedly doesn’t know either.)
I try a different tack. “I can’t look French. I can’t pull it off, and it’s not Russian.”
“What is the difference?” Marie-Christine asks.
“The difference?” I hold out the top photo from my stack, a candid picture of a casually gorgeous woman walking down the street. “French women know they’re beautiful, regardless of what you might think.”
I flip through the magazine and stop at the first makeup ad. “Russian women don’t want you to be able to think about anything else.”
Marie-Christine arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure the male/female ratio in Russia is so bad for women they feel like they have to look that good to get a man. And I’m sure if we want to keep Fyodor’s attention on his last night in the country — ” without resorting to anything else — “I have to look at least that good.”
Linda and Marie-Christine inspect me. The trepidation in their eyes tells me they don’t know if I’m up to the challenge.
Frankly, neither do I. And I haven’t even told them about my wardrobe restrictions. Sleeves, not too low in back or in front, to the knee? They’re going to love that part.
Marie-Christine takes my magazine pages. “Chérie, I could make you look like you were from Peru, Pakistan or Pluto. We will make you look good enough to be Russian.”
I have to smile at that one.
Now, it’s not like I never, ever shop, though after about an hour of making sure all my body image issues are alive and well, I’m usually done. And I guess there isn’t anything that unusual about three coworkers hitting the shops together. But clothes shopping isn’t a normal lunch break when you’re a spy.
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 11