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

  Yeah, that’s not exactly my problem tonight. But I thank her and wait for her to leave.

  “Is he still there?” My voice echoes in the empty bathroom despite my efforts to be quiet.

  Elliott relays the question and we both wait. “SCENIC left two minutes ago. PINION is heading in now.”

  That’s CSIS. I check the time on my phone again — 6:43 — then set a timer to vibrate when we hit the sixty-minute mark. That’s all the time we have tonight to reel him in, pitch him and pass off the secrets, or score an invitation to Shcherbakov. And then I can spend the rest of the evening with Danny and his big plans.

  I return to the waiting area, listening as Elliott calls to move back two of the reservations ahead of us. As soon as he hangs up the second time, I hide in an alcove and swoop in on my phone to push the last remaining reservation after us.

  Trying not to pace, I stay in the alcove and watch the door. I want to see Fyodor first.

  Another couple walks in. Three more minutes pass. How far away is he staying? Why don’t I know? I guess there are a few things CSIS feels we don’t need-to-know, either.

  Finally, the door swings open again — Fyodor. He talks to the host and the host looks my way. Fyodor does the same, his gaze traveling up the length of my legs first. You can tell the second it registers that it’s me. His eyes flicker to life and he looks a good five years younger. He comes to greet me with a traditional Russian gesture, a kiss on the cheek. I got used to it in Russia, but here, it’s still weird. I mean, Danny and I were together for months before we started kissing hello. Or at all.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sticks to English for starters. “I just got your message.”

  “That’s okay; I should’ve double checked with you.”

  “Krasivaya.” You’re beautiful. Yep, total charmer.

  “Thank you. You look very nice, too.” He does, actually, in a dark pinstriped suit with a deep red shirt and tie. And Elliott’s right: I think he did comb his beard.

  I will myself not to think about what Danny might look like in fifty-five minutes. I have to focus or I’ll never get through those minutes.

  I expect Fyodor to offer his arm, but instead he presents me with a small box. A jewelry box. Inside is a delicate silver bracelet.

  My heart starts a heavy, deliberate drumbeat. I need to react. Fyodor could be SVR for all we know — and this might be a trap or a tracker — but with him right here I don’t have a choice.

  “Oh, thank you. It’s lovely.” I let him help me put the chain on my wrist. I wish I knew Russian dating customs. As a missionary, I wasn’t allowed to date when I lived there. I can’t say whether this is unusual, but people do give a lot of gifts. Could be platonic, right?

  Oh my goodness. I’m overthinking this like it’s a real date. Can we end this now?

  Now Fyodor offers his arm and we follow the hostess to our table. Our server comes, and Fyodor orders from the wine list before I ask for water. If I remember right, in Russia it’s rude to drink if your guest is not, but I could be wrong. And I’m pretty used to it anyway, so I let it slide and we turn to our menus.

  The online reviews say the appetizers are better than the entrees, but I’m not going to sit here more than fifty minutes waiting for my food to come when I could be somewhere else.

  I need to focus. Get my head in the game. Dive in. I order the thyme and lemon lamb with veggie-date tajine and a burnt lemon meringue, and Fyodor gets the milk-fed veal strip loin blanquette. I’m not sure what half that means, but now $30 a piece sounds like a deal.

  Once we’ve finished with small talk about the weather and our food arrives (it’s delicious — seriously, this lamb is so tender, I can cut it by looking at it), I start in on my ploy. Slowly. “You work in aerospace, right?”

  “Yes, Shcherbakov Aircraft.”

  “Do you do much international business?” Sometimes direct questions do work best.

  Fyodor stabs a piece of veal. “Some. But our competitors are much larger. Years ago, President Putin combined several aerospace manufacturers to create Obyedinyonnaya Aviastroitel′naya Korporatsiya. As you can imagine, they control most of the market.”

  The merger he mentioned Wednesday. I know better than to make a comment about free enterprise here. Russia isn’t communist anymore, but let’s just say they’re still putting the “command” in command economy. “That’s awful.”

  “It made sense at the time with so many companies in the country, but not being part of OAK hurts us every day.” Fyodor sounds like the competition is actually causing him heartache.

  “I’m sorry. I know how tough it is when you can’t get ahead.” I choose my words to hint at a rivalry with the Americans, starting in on the secrets, but Fyodor speaks before I can.

  “That might change soon.” He concentrates on cutting another bite of his veal and coating it with parsnip, apple and almond purée.

  “Oh?” I ask, a single note not-guilty plea. He said something about this in our KoketniChat IM, I remember. “Did you pick up something good while you were here?”

  His head snaps up and his fork hits the table. “What do you mean?”

  Whoa. If he already has something, our fake secrets aren’t nearly the enticement I thought. Our plans have to take a backseat to figuring this out. I clear my throat, signaling Elliott this is important. “Oh, only that you were visiting companies here to learn things.”

  Fyodor’s eyes draw into skeptical slits. I have to do better. I have to do Russian. “Znayesh′, ty nabral. Znaniy.” You know, you acquired. The knowledge.

  “Ah, da. Znaniya.”

  I switch to English for Elliott’s sake. Robby’s surely somewhere, but the delay will kill operational effectiveness. “So what kind of knowledge did you pick up?”

  “Do you know much about aerospace?”

  “Some.” Naiveté is another classic method of elicitation, and for once, it actually works. Fyodor launches into an explanation that takes me through everything Danny covered Tuesday night and then some. And then some more. And then a little more. If Elliott were here, we’d both be making fun of Timofeyev with our eyes. If Danny were here, he’d be eating this up. Maybe I should’ve tried to get them together. Not.

  But I nod in all the right places — I’m a girl first, and then a spy, so I know how to keep a conversation going even if I’m not into it. Yes, girls do this. We learn how from stupid ’70s sitcom reruns and seventh grade attempts at getting a boy to like us. It’s a skill that comes in handy for the rest of our lives. If pressed, I could reflect back the gist of the conversation: greater efficiency in gas turbines; lighter, faster engines; new lighter composites; cheaper components.

  None of it sounds particularly illegal, though, and definitely not worthy of Russian intelligence, let alone ours. Typical, professional business dealings: SinclAir is to provide the composites, and Malcolm is consulting on engine designs for a hefty fee. That’s pretty similar to some things NRC Aerospace does, but I don’t know if they consult for foreign companies, and I definitely don’t want to come close to talking about Danny.

  Fortunately, my primary objective is not to wring the information out of Fyodor myself, and this might give me the segue I’ve been waiting for. “You know, I think the Americans were trying to work out a similar deal.”

  “They were?” The question sounds like innocent curiosity, but he has the eyes of a vulture.

  “Sorry, I guess nobody likes to hear about the competition.” And nobody likes a tease. (I’m terrible.)

  He sets down his fork. “Actually, I am very interested in our competition.”

  “Oh.” I add a note of disappointment to my voice. “I don’t like to talk about the Americans.”

  “I understand the sentiment. Do you have to deal with them much?”

  I groan. “Anything is too much.” And then I watch his reaction. I can’t imagine he loves us all that much, but seeing how he receives this is crucial to acing my pitch.


  He scowls and shakes his head. “You should be coordinating with Russians.”

  “Believe me, I’d like to.” I push my plate aside and lean over the table. “Maybe there’s something we can do about that.”

  A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Of course I hope so.”

  I’ve got him. I let myself return that grin.

  “Nice.” Elliott’s voice pops into my ear. “Are you sure he’s talking about aerospace?”

  An unsettling feeling steals down my spine. Can I make sure we’re on topic? I could try to reel in Fyodor by bringing up the secrets now — but that’s what an amateur would do. It looks too prepared, too rehearsed. I want it to seem like it’s just occurring to me. Later.

  By the time the countdown on my mental clock reaches fifteen minutes, we’re pretty much done with our meals. We could pass the next quarter hour chatting here — in most European cities and most big cities everywhere, I guess, you do a lot of your entertaining in restaurants, and Ottawa follows the same rules. I do, too, since I live in a bachelor apartment. In open-kitchen restaurants. I don’t do a lot of entertaining, okay?

  “FOX,” Elliott pipes up once the waiter has bussed our plates. “Bad news.”

  My stomach twists around my dinner. As if Fyodor not talking about aerospace wasn’t bad enough.

  Either I’m in trouble, or I’m about to be.

  I adjust my brooch to signal Elliott I understand and he continues. “PINION is just responding to CASTLETON. They were late getting in because SCENIC switched rooms.”

  Fyodor switched rooms? The tension crawls into my fidgety fingers. No wonder CSIS is taking so long getting back to us. I need to know the new deadline. I wish there were some way I could tell Danny I’m getting pushed back, or maybe Elliott could tell him. But for now I’ll settle for knowing myself.

  The waiter returns. “Would you like to see the dessert menu?”

  Fyodor looks like he’s going to say no, but without knowing how much longer I’ll have to keep him occupied, I need this help. “Yes, please.” I pump extra enthusiasm into my voice.

  “Working on a new timeline,” Elliott reports. Not helpful, but at least I know he hasn’t left me hanging. Again.

  The waiter returns with the dessert menu. Fyodor reaches across the table to stroke my arm while we debate. Russians are generally more touch-y than Americans, but this does not feel like the typical, casual, conversational contact. My goose bumps aren’t from excitement.

  Fyodor chooses the maple and blueberry crème brûlée with an almond tuile cookie. As good as that sounds, if we split one dessert, it’ll be gone so fast it’d be a $10 waste of time. I spring (well, Russian protocol demands Fyodor pay for whatever I might want) for a second dessert, a baked caramelized apple with green apple sorbet and something called apple snow.

  If I’m really, really late for Danny, maybe we can catch dessert together. I have an Everest-high sugar tolerance.

  My borrowed clutch purse vibrates in my lap. My hour is up. And I have no idea when I’ll be out of here. I swallow the inward groan. Oblivious, Fyodor switches from stroking the back of my arm to the inside of my wrist. I swear I can see my pulse pounding in that vein.

  I can’t wait. I need out now. “Would you excuse me? I need to visit the restroom.”

  Fyodor places his hand over mine. I’ll take that as goodbye. I head back to the bathroom. One stall’s occupied. I scrub as if that will erase the ominous tingling where he touched me. The stall door remains closed. I end up checking my reflection for a long time while I wait. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror by the time the other woman finishes and leaves the bathroom.

  Am I keeping Fyodor waiting? Yes. Do I care? No. I shut the main bathroom door and lock the deadbolt. “HAMMER,” I say to the air, “I need a timeline, and I need it to be zero. We’re getting a little too friendly.”

  Elliott’s answer is delayed a couple seconds. “Sorry. All I’ve got is that they’re in the middle of something and they can’t talk right now.”

  “‘Something’ had better be the cleanup.”

  The line goes quiet again. “I don’t think it is. Total radio silence on their end, right up to the top.”

  If the boss at CSIS isn’t talking, you know it’s bad. I want to text Danny, but there are a hundred reasons not to: Danny doesn’t know this number. I have no idea how long I’ll be. Danny might text back while I’m with Fyodor. I’m not letting them get even that close.

  Back at the table, waiting for our desserts, I manage to limit Fyodor’s contact to holding hands across the table.

  I committed to this Wednesday, but now? I can’t. Even this feels wrong. Other than the last moment of our first date, it was so much easier to fake this relationship before. Now my foot is bouncing like an over-caffeinated Chihuahua. I quickly uncross my legs, but my shoe skims his shin.

  I have no idea if there’s a Russian version of footsie. I can. Not. Go sending the wrong message, but before I can apologize, our desserts arrive. I force myself to give Fyodor’s hand a squeeze then let go to accept my plate, grateful for the chance to focus anywhere but Fyodor.

  The apple snow turns out to be cooked apples mixed with what tastes like a liquid meringue. The combination of chewy and crisp, hot and cold, and apples, sugar and cinnamon is pretty amazing. Even with the tart sorbet, this is almost enough to peg me out on sweets. For maybe twenty minutes.

  How much longer will I have to keep Fyodor?

  Finally, Elliott’s back to tell me. “Okay, FOXHUNT, got another report from PINION.”

  I slow down on the sorbet and wait for the news. Elliott continues. “Not good. They found SCENIC’s room and started, but someone else came into his room.”

  Someone else? I push the next bite of caramelized apple around on my plate. First at Kozyrev’s house, then Fyodor’s room? Elliott’s right. This isn’t good at all.

  “Waiting on details, but they need at least twenty more minutes. Thirty’d be better.”

  I grit my teeth and fidget with the maple leaf again to acknowledge and confirm. A little part of me hopes I’m rubbing the microphone loud enough to take out my frustrations on Elliott’s ears. It’s like four minutes to eight right now. I told Danny eight. Half past at the very latest. And travel time with my post-op SDR?

  I’m so dead.

  I tap into my sugar savoring and stockpiling skills and attack the rest of the dessert. I have to take my time. I have to give CSIS the chance to get what we need. If I don’t, the whole night, including making Danny reschedule and wait, could be a waste, and I’ve already let CSIS down twice this week.

  Once Fyodor finishes his crème brûlée — I’m so getting that at Wilfrid’s — I turn the conversation toward reminisces of my ten magical, made up days in Rostov-on-Don over Ivan Kupala Day. (It’s John the Baptist’s saint day, a midsummer’s festival in Russia.) But as soon as I bring it up, I remember the pagan history of Kupala Night, originally a fertility ritual, gives the celebrations overtones of romance.

  “You were there for Kupala?” Fyodor asks. “Did you have a young man to hold your hand while jumping over the fire?”

  I focus on my fork. “No.” I watched, though. If you let go midair, you’ll end up separated.

  “Oh? No one to follow you into the woods?”

  “No. My visit was too short for that.” Traditionally, the single women go into the forest to hunt for herbs and the mythic fern flower, followed by the young men. Obviously, I didn’t participate, but I had to wonder how many herbs were gathered. “I did float a wreath down the river.”

  “And what did the river forecast?”

  Floating the wreaths and interpreting the flow patterns is another prediction method for your love life. And I did participate in that one, at the insistence of some Russian friends. They regretted making me join in pretty quickly. “My future held a lot of disappointment.”

  Fyodor takes my hand, stroking the back with his thumb. “I hope that’s about to change.�
�

  In the corner of my mind, I warn myself to tread very, very carefully. I force a smile and hope it doesn’t show my unease.

  I take back every single second of committing to this.

  “You’re falling prey to The Beard.” The unsettling tune of Elliott’s voice plays up and down my spine like it’s a xylophone.

  Fyodor, however, doesn’t seem to read much more into it. The check arrives and he pays. Then he moves on to share his memories of all kinds of celebrations in October Park, and we complain about the miserable, entitled ducks that charge on people for food. (They really are awful.)

  I have a lot more memories to draw from, but at some point it’s going to stop sounding like a ten-day trip. Fortunately, the recollections of Rostov thread is winding down when Elliott chimes in again. “Correction, the last message was sent while the person was still in SCENIC’s room. He just got out. Add forty more minutes to the timeline. And that’s until SCENIC leaves you, not counting his travel time.”

  Of course. Of course. Of course. It’s fifteen after. I won’t get there before 9:15, and that’s taking a cab, without SDR stops.

  I try to come up with a way I can send Danny a text — head to the bathroom again and dictate it to Will via Elliott? — when Fyodor redirects the conversation. “Would you like to take a walk in the park?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” I’m mostly grateful I don’t have to think of a way to prolong this on my own. Contrary to his plan, we don’t cross the street toward Strathcona. Instead, he takes me down the sidewalk on our side of the street first, heading past two large brick houses until the road turns ninety degrees to our left, cutting off our route. Fyodor points at the building now in front of us. It looks like an office building with square columns along the façade. Even in the growing shadows of sunset, I recognize it, duh, but I don’t say anything.

  “The Russian embassy,” he says. “You should get to know it well.”

  “Oh, cool.” Yeah, over both of our dead bodies, buddy. I’d better not be showing my vibe of get me away from this building.