Fyodor offers his arm and escorts me across the street. We follow the sidewalk back to the brown stone Lord Strathcona fountain.
We’ve reconned as a precaution, but I’ve only been to Strathcona Park once. I think there’s a sculpture garden, but really I’ve only been to the field where we played softball at the south end of the park. Not enough to keep us occupied as long as CSIS needs.
We start down the stairs into the park. I really hope we have a tail.
Fyodor and I take turns leading the stroll and the conversation and we meander through the park paths and our genealogy. I’ve memorized my fabricated family history since the beginning of my CIA training, and now I throw in a Russian/Canadian twist. Elliott had better be recording this, in case family comes up if I visit Fyodor.
We turn around at the south parking lot and follow the trail by the Rideau River. Fyodor frowns at the rocks and brush poking out of the low water. “This is considered a river here?”
“Yeah, you can wade across during the summer, but no one tries with the pollution.”
“Is this why you need your canal?”
“That, and the waterfalls where the Rideau meets the Ottawa.” And so Canadians can wage war on Americans. (I’m not kidding. It was built as a precaution after the War of 1812.)
“The Ottawa, that is a river. This makes me miss the Don.” Fyodor segues into a discussion of And Quiet Flows the Don. I try to avoid the book’s themes, but pretty much the entire thing is about tragic lovers separated by circumstances.
I don’t know if Elliott’s in range right now, but I do know I owe the CSIS crew in Fyodor’s hotel room another fifteen minutes. The sidewalk loops back around toward the stairs we came in on. But instead of following the path back to the concrete steps, Fyodor pauses in the shadows of some overhanging trees. He brushes my bangs across my forehead. The butterflies in my gut are big enough to sport rear gunners.
He leans in to kiss my cheek. Twice. Three times. Ice coats my ribs. His whiskers tickle my skin as he moves toward my lips. When he catches the corner of my mouth, my stomach pitches like we’ve hit a major patch of turbulence. I try to laugh him off and step back.
He slides his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I hold my breath, but try not to let him feel me tense. “I think you missed the best part of Kupala Night.”
My stomach drops with the plane’s plummet. We didn’t pass any bonfires, so unless he’s hiding a flower garland somewhere, he’s got to mean hunting herbs in the woods. Alone.
Or not hunting herbs, as the case might be. Again, I never participated. Though several people reassured me the tradition was totally innocent, I can only imagine at least one person through the years has gotten the wrong idea about midnight gallivanting through the forest with the opposite sex.
I glance skyward. The last orange lights of sunset filter through the evergreen needles overhead. Chills shoot down the back of my neck.
Fyodor starts walking again, doubling back on our path, his hand lingering on my waist. But when we get to the curve in the sidewalk, instead of turning, he continues straight, leading me off the pavement. Into the thick trees.
I hesitate and Fyodor looks back to me, one eyebrow lifted as if to say Oh no?
Fifteen minutes. They need fifteen minutes. I can stall him for fifteen minutes.
I can’t force air into my lungs, but I’m diving in anyway. My heels sink into the soft ground. They’re not made for off-roading. But it’s not the terrain or the sweet dessert drawing nausea into my stomach.
Within ten feet we lose sight of the path. Fifteen minutes or not, this is too far. Panic closes around my ribs and I stop, my heels piercing the undergrowth. My hand on Fyodor’s arm jerks him to a standstill. But instead of staying there, he lets my weight pull him back. And he pivots. Reaches for me. Catches my neck.
Kisses me.
I stumble backward. My high heels stay embedded in the dirt, but my toes slip out of my shoes. The straps are still tied to my ankles, and I manage to pull them free to retreat. The ground’s cold and prickly under my feet, every step setting me more and more on edge. Breathe. Think. Stop — no, don’t.
I put a hand on his chest, trying to hold him off. I slip into Russian before I realize this is something Elliott needs to understand. “Fyodor, this is too fast.”
“I wish we had time to go slow, to do this the right way, but we don’t. I leave tomorrow.” He advances on me again. I retreat, trying to angle for the path, but Fyodor steps to my left and shuts off my escape route. He smiles as if I’m playing the physical version of hard to get.
The concept of “unwanted advances” doesn’t exist in Russia. Even if you bring a suit there, judges have ruled that without sexual harassment, there’d be no children, so it’s okay.
I will not go there. I have to get away. When I turn to back up the hill, I trip over my heels. Fyodor grabs my arm as if to catch me, I think. He falls with me instead.
Not with me. On top of me.
My head hits the ground, shooting pain through my skull. On the bounce back, my lips slam into his. I taste blood. Mine.
His body lands on me, knocking the air from my lungs. I can’t draw another breath. My heart throws itself against my ribs like a wild bird trapped in an airless cage.
I can’t move. I can’t think. His mouth is hot on mine, his beard digs into my face, his hands are — everywhere. Threads pop. I try to scream, but I still can’t get a breath. Our eyes meet, and I know mine are shouting “NO.”
But his hold such raw hunger that he’ll never understand my fear.
I struggle to get air, a foothold, leverage, but my heels only dig furrows in the soft dirt.
Think. Think. Think. I can get out of this. I have to wait, let him get overconfident, capitalize on his arrogance.
Panic surges right overtop of all my rational thoughts. All I can feel is his weight, his whiskers, the heat of his breath, his hands.
And all I can think is I’m about to shed blood.
Through the blinding terror, I feel Fyodor’s fingers graze my knee. Mine close on a fistful of dirt.
“Hey!” shouts a familiar voice over my pulse pounding in my ears. Fyodor jerks back. I turn my head and hurl the soil into his face.
He coughs and sputters and yells, but doesn’t move. My lungs are still frozen, crushed. Then, all at once, his weight is off me. My rescuer tosses Fyodor aside by the collar. For a split second, I expect Danny.
It’s not him. (What would I do if it was?) It’s Elliott.
But this is no time to break cover. Elliott helps me to my feet. “Are you all right, miss?”
Good. He’s playing it like this, too. “I — I — yes,” I manage. I think I am, anyway. The damage is insignificant. Superficial. Psychological.
“This guy’s a bother, eh?” Elliott’s exaggerated Prairie Canadian accent is a little ridiculous, but I’m not in a frame of mind to joke.
Fyodor has regained his feet, scrubbing the dirt from his beard. Before he can square off against Elliott, I step up. “No harm done. I just want to go home.”
No, I just want Danny. Though I can’t explain any of this to him and probably wouldn’t try if I could, I want Danny to hold me and tell me it’s okay and make me feel safe again. I take a slow, shaky breath and try to get my heart rate down. I’m not done here.
“Why don’t you take off?” Elliott’s words are innocuous; his tone isn’t. He narrows his eyes to stare Fyodor down. Fyodor takes half a step forward, and every pretense of the friendly Canadian evaporates from Elliott’s face. Even his posture is a silent threat.
“Tasha.” Fyodor turns to entreat me, segueing quickly into Russian. “I’m sorry. I thought — Kupala, And Quiet Flows the Don. . . .” He stoops to collect my clutch, but Elliott snatches it away.
I scramble to get his bracelet off and hold it out. He accepts it without looking me in the eye and turns. As soon as he’s a couple feet away, Elliott slips into his best Rick Moranis impression. �
�Ya hoser.”
But I’m still not in a joking mood, and we’re still not in the clear. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Elliott watches Fyodor, now standing at the edge of the path, watching us right back.
I sit on the ground, partially not trusting my knees and partially to get my shoes back on. “I’ll be all right.”
“You should see yourself, miss. Let me make sure you get home okay.”
I don’t have to answer, and I’m grateful, because that’s when the tears hit.
I wouldn’t fault anyone else for crying after being assaulted like that, but I’m not anyone else. I’m Talia Reynolds, CIA operative. One of the boys. I’m not supposed to cry.
Sometimes I really hate being a girl.
Elliott carefully helps me to my feet again and starts picking the pine needles and soil bits from my hair. “Sorry it took me so long,” he whispers.
“Just glad you got here.” I wipe the tears and will them to stop. Will myself to be strong. Will away the feeling of his wandering hands and whiskers and weight.
Elliott brushes off the back of my dress, but after several attempts, he hands me a handkerchief. “Your — um . . .” He points at my butt.
Where I hit the dirt. Elliott pours bottled water from his backpack on the handkerchief and I try to gently scrub the dirt streaks off. He riffles through my clutch and pulls out a compact mirror and a travel sewing kit. Oh, that’s bad. I clutch my dress’s neckline to my chest.
Elliott pulls off his sweatshirt and wraps it around my shoulders. It’s way too warm for sweatshirts, but I’m really glad I didn’t call him on it earlier. In the streetlight, I think I can see Fyodor striding down the path.
The soft ground shifts under my shoes. But when my ankle wobbles with the first step onto the pavement, I can’t use that excuse anymore, and I’m pretty used to heels. The only other explanation is the nerves/numbness pattern attacking my legs.
I lean a little heavier on Elliott, using the compact to check my reflection. Other than some dirt smudges, my makeup is intact. I use a clean corner of the bandana to wipe away the stray lipstick and eye shadow. I shake the rest of the dirt from my curls, only semi-crushed.
I turn to my dress. The wrap-around band of fabric is torn nearly off the dress at the shoulder, but at least one end is still secured in the other underarm seam. The travel sewing kit has red thread. I silently bless Linda.
At the edge of the park, Elliott hails a cab for me. One pulls up immediately and I nearly collapse in the backseat. Is it over? I crane my neck to use the rearview. Where’s Fyodor now?
Elliott gets in, too. “One minute,” he tells the driver. He studies my eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I will be.” I stop checking the cab’s mirrors. He’s gone. He has to be. Gone.
Elliott frowns, scrutinizing me a minute longer before he gives me the second real hug we’ve shared today. It feels good, solid, to be held by someone I trust right now. But I still wish he were Danny.
Danny. I pull away and check the clock in the front of the car. 8:55. Elliott calls in to warn CSIS they don’t have the next ten minutes they were depending on. He listens to their report, his expression still grim. But instead of being disappointed with myself, my heart lifts in hope. I’m half an hour past my outside late time. Nearly an hour later than the actual time I wanted to be there, but I’m being optimistic for once. Half an hour. That’s not too bad, right? I turn to ask Elliott, but his mask of concern is gone. “Shanna called.”
“Is it time?”
“Looks like it.” Elliott flashes the biggest grin I’ve seen from him.
Elliott and I are best friends and coworkers and we’ve saved one another’s lives. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen him smile like that — and it hits me: he reminds me of Danny.
No matter how well we know one another, Elliott always does the guy thing, trying to play off everything as if he’s too cool, too clever, too cavalier to care. His smiles always have a hint of swagger or superiority or smirking.
Until now. This is pure happiness, excitement, joy. And it’s the way Danny has always smiled at me.
Because he doesn’t bother with that front. He is who he is all the time, and especially with me. I love it. I envy it. And I want to see that smile right now and every minute for the rest of my life. But first, we both have to get there.
I clamp down on the emotions boiling in my gut. “Well?” I say to Elliott. “Go to her.”
He turns to the driver and orders us to an address, one of his designated SDR stops, I’m sure. After the Queensway and into Old Ottawa East, we stop at a convenience store/fast food restaurant. I maintain my white-knuckle grasp on my composure and we both head in. Once we’ve looked over their twenty-seven kinds of tortilla chips, we exchange a silent signal to leave.
Next I hold it together at a New Age-y place. We pick up a brochure and wait long enough that any surveillance would have to come make sure we didn’t go out the back.
Once we get back to the cab after the last stop (dry cleaners to inquire after their rates), we’re both sure we’re not being followed. Elliott orders us to the next stop. “Ottawa Hospital.”
We’re clear and we know it. We can relax. But as I sink against the ratty upholstery, my grip on my cool slips, too. Fyodor almost — he could have —
No. I straighten in my seat. I give Elliott his sweatshirt and turn my attention to sewing up my torn dress and pushing down the flashing memories. But I can’t hold back the heat that keeps rising to my face. Most of all, I’m embarrassed. I can’t say why, but I am. Like it’s somehow something I did?
I know it’s not; it’s not anything I did. I know it — but suddenly my casual relationship with the truth comes back to bite me, and even I don’t know whether to believe myself.
“Oh, Will sent this.” Elliott hands over my regular cell phone. “He says you can write your post-action report tomorrow.”
“How generous.” Did Will really remember I had something important to do tonight? I check my battery. He didn’t charge it for me. Great.
“I’ll text you with the good news.” The excitement rings in Elliott’s voice, pulling me out of my frustrations.
“Of course. Three AM, whenever. Babies love the middle of the night.”
The Danny-like grin morphs into something a little sillier now. I love Elliott like a brother, but I’m not going to the hospital, especially not with Danny waiting. I convince Elliott and the driver to let me out at Lees and Main, leaving Elliott’s sweatshirt in the cab.
When the taxi pulls away, though, I regret that choice. We’ve done our diligence in detecting surveillance. We’re black, and my dress is mostly put back together, but I’ve never felt more vulnerable, watched, exposed.
I know better than to look around, giving myself away. I hail another cab and duck in.
But the warm night can’t take away the chill in my spine. Headed to the Château, I finish off my dress repair and double check my hair and makeup. I’d text Danny, but my battery is so low I don’t dare.
Major oversight on my part. At least I’m in the clear now. It feels very weird to be without my phone, almost as though my antennae have been clipped. But now I won’t need it to make or receive a call for help. I rub away the goose bumps on the back of my neck.
I’m in the clear now. I have to say it again to remind myself Fyodor hasn’t taken anything from me. I’m okay. I’m okay. I. Am. Fine.
But I don’t know if I’ll believe it until I hear the words from Danny’s lips. Preferably with his arms around me. And Fyodor out of the country or in custody.
Still exposed. Watched. Vulnerable.
He seemed sorry, but what if he isn’t? He could be mad. Mad enough to follow me? I clutch my stomach like that’ll stop its drop. Right now might be the most dangerous point in the mission. I lean over the driver’s shoulder. “Would you mind taking a detour? I ran into my crazy ex and I don’t want h
im to follow us.”
“Gotta hate that.”
I know, it puts a serious crimp in my timeline, but even if I have to disappoint him more, keeping Danny safe is a higher priority. The driver follows my winding route down one-way streets in Centretown and Downtown, crisscrossing the Rideau Canal and stopping by the U of O campus and Ottawa City Hall.
I’m black again, but I feel just as unprotected, just as vulnerable. Twenty minutes is short for an SDR, but apparently prolonging it won’t help me feel better, and I’ve already done a full SDR. I tip the driver well once he pulls under the stone awning proclaiming the Fairmont Château Laurier, the cash another of Linda’s brilliant foresights.
I’m here. I made it. And I’m about to see Danny. All the banked energy from the night dumps into my system at once. I pass through those gilded revolving doors again. This time, I’m not overwhelmed by the oppressive opulence — no, tonight I belong in this place.
I show it by taking off across the marble floors at a run. Yes, I’m running in heels. What do you think CIA training is good for?
Now I can finally wash my hands of Fyodor and — I check my hands. Filthy. Okay, that won’t fly. I redirect to the restrooms. When I look up mid-scrub, I get a shock, and not because I don’t recognize myself.
The compact mirror in the streetlights was a lot kinder with the damage than the harsh fluorescents are. My eyes are recovering from tears, bleary and bloodshot. My lips and chin are scratched from his whiskers, prickled with pink. My hair might be able to pass as fashionably tousled, if you overlook the frizz factor.
Danny won’t care how frizzy my hair is. If he’s here, that is. Hoping we’re still on, I address the mirror. You know, my mic. “Hey, Elliott?”
“No news yet,” Elliott comes back. “Just getting to the hospital.”
I told you these things had an impressive range. “Great. Can you have Will ping Danny’s phone?”
Breaking my promise? Fudging. For his sake, really.
And tracking him is that easy, and the CIA isn’t watching him because I’m dating him. We don’t collect evidence on US citizens unless we think they’re spying or “making common purpose with the enemy,” but we keep tabs on more or less every American ex-pat, in case they ever do. (We’re counterintel, okay?) Not a major function, but enough to keep an embassy “secretary” busy.
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 14