And I still want him to know as little about me as possible. He’s my boss. That’s it. Not a friend, not a confidant, not as close as Will—someone I could trust. Brand? Yeah, no.
I’m wrapping up for the day when my luck runs out. Will’s — no, Brand’s door swings open. He leans out to scan the room. I duck my head and hold my breath. Not me. Not me. Not me.
“Talia? Can I talk to you?”
A sucker punch of revulsion lands in my gut, and the fingers of one hand tie themselves in worry knots. I trudge into his office and narrowly avoid plopping into the seat.
He sits in his nice, cushy leather throne, several inches higher than my cheap office chair opposite his desk, like he wasn’t already tall enough. The power imbalance rockets home. To have an ex hold this much power over you chafes like a cheap wig. (Believe me, I’d know.) I mean, if he wanted to, he could kill my career.
I really hope he doesn’t want to.
“So, how goes the Great Game?” He grins.
I’ve always hated that nickname for the spy business, and even more coming from him. “Fine.”
“Anything big to report?”
I tuck my hand under my leg. “You’ve read what I’ve sent to Langley.”
“Yep. And I have something for you.”
Against my will, I angle forward an inch. Curiosity probably never killed a cat, but the perennial plague of the spy has definitely done in one or two operatives. “What?”
“Direction.” His eyes are practically dancing with self-delight.
So that’s how it’s going to be. “I’m fully capable of directing myself, thanks.”
“Not what I’m trying to say.” Brand laughs softly. Even his reassurances are condescending. “I’m just saying you’ve been working on a high-value asset.”
Right. I know who he means without glancing at my mental docket.
If I had any doubt, Brand launches into a case description. “Samir Farooqi is Pakistani, so obviously we’re left with you to target him.”
“Glad to be such a vital part of the team.” Not only am I our only Urdu speaker, but I placed the bug — very close call; thanks again, Elliott — and dug into the intel to find Samir, and I’ve spent the last month steadily developing our friendship. Clearly that means a whole freaking lot to Brand.
“Farooqi’s got a famous relative. Hassam-ud-Din Wasti? Terrorist behind the almost-attack on Flight 999, guy who got explosives into Granny’s wheelchair and Junior’s shoes?”
I cut him off. “They’re cousins, I know. Spare me the case file. Pretty up-to-date.”
“Then you know Wasti’s planning something big.” Brand interlaces his fingers, places his forearms on his desk and leans over them, wearing a smile I grew to despise. “Pitch Farooqi.”
This time, I don’t bother with restraint: I roll my eyes. “He isn’t ready.” We both know if I try to recruit him as an agent before I’ve developed our relationship well enough, the guy could easily bolt. Probably straight to his radical cousin.
“He’ll go for it. Wasti’s the black sheep. Everyone knows.”
“‘Everyone knows’? What, you have a Pakistani family gossip hotline?” I certainly don’t. “Wasti holds his family sacred, according to the traces.” Langley’s profiles are exhaustive.
“Doesn’t matter if it was in his traces.” Annoyance flashes through his voice. Brand resettles in his chair. The casual gesture doesn’t mask the irritation still lurking in his gaze. “It’s updated intel. None of our other sources are any good. This is the only way we can get this guy.”
“By banking on his alleged hatred of his family.” It’s not a moral judgment — we’ve all used worse to get in with targets — but I’m not about to pretend to be happy with this idiotic plan.
“Bank however you like,” Brand says, like he’s being incredibly magnanimous. Yeah, the guy thought every little morsel of attention he gave me was charity: charity I’d have to repay.
I shove aside my own irritation and lean forward, tilting my head at a let’s-be-frank angle. I’m not the trainee he knew four years ago. “Are you trying to spook him?”
“Yeah, I am.”
I glance heavenward at the terrible pun. (“Spook” is also slang for spy, though obviously I meant “scare.”) “Worst case scenario, we’d put more people in danger.”
“Talia.” His tone is a neat little balancing act between condescension and level-with-me. “I can see you’re not exactly jumping to pursue this. Is it because of where this is coming from?”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Is it coming from Langley, or you?”
“You know what I mean. Is this because the orders are coming through me?”
I pull back. “That has nothing to do with anything.”
“Doesn’t it?” He paints on a sad little smile, like I’m the most pitiful thing since a one-legged puppy. “Look, I’m not picking on you because we went out a couple times.”
Hey, he was the one who called me his girlfriend after two dates. I just went with it. I just went with everything, and he was great with it, until I stopped going along and he pitched a fit.
And I’d tell him all that, but I’m the bigger person. Right?
Brand plays on my generosity again. “Sometimes, you just have to take a risk.”
I’m on my feet, though I stop short of throttling him. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last few years, but where I work, we don’t take unnecessary risks. Is there a reason we need Samir now? It can’t wait a few weeks?”
“More of a hunch. You can imagine how well the F-entity keeps us informed on Wasti.”
Fifty bucks says the FBI isn’t the only agency at the party, and we’ve got our own carefully covert eyes on a radical Pakistani.
His shoulders move in a minuscule shrug. “Yeah, it’s a little gamble. That’s part of playing the Game.”
This time, I can’t let it slide. “What we do is way more than a game, and if I didn’t believe that, I’d have quit a long time ago.”
“Maybe you should have.” Brand stands slowly, his jaw set. “This long in Canada would make anyone go soft.”
Heat steals up my neck in the silent seconds. “Soft?”
He holds up his hands and backs off a step, like my one borrowed word is an attack. “I’m just saying. Easy to get used to playing it safe, and forget how things run elsewhere, how much officers risk.”
“How . . . much . . . ?” I choke back the argument ready to spring out. He has no idea what I risked, how much I nearly lost, less than six weeks ago. For half a second, the Ottawa River is closing over me and I’m drowning.
“Wasti is worth the danger.” Brand’s voice drags me above the surface. I’d almost rather succumb to a watery grave. “Did that kind of thing all the time in Tajikistan.”
I’m done. “You can rag on Canada all you want — but you’re posted here, too. Remember I’ve been around this office a lot longer, and I might know a thing or two about how things are done.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re being done right.”
If this is how he operates with coworkers, I can only imagine how he treated his Tajik agents. No wonder he’s being shunted off to Canada (no reflection on me, I hope). “I’ll think about it.” I turn for the door, as if my tone isn’t final enough to close the argument.
“No reason to be upset.” Brand lays on extra charm. “We’re just talking. Part of my job to help you keep your priorities straight. Strategize your next move.”
“You might want to get the lay of the land before you try to reset the whole ‘Game.’” I march out to the empty bullpen. Everyone else has already left.
Brand follows. “Then help me get a handle on the baseline.”
“Fine.” As long as it doesn’t involve staying in this empty office together any longer. I rush to finish my cleanup and set out for the stairs. I don’t bother to hope I’ll lose Brand. “First of all,” I begin. My echo bounces off the walls, and I cringe. Very clandestine
. But the stairwell’s empty. “You have to remember Canada’s a friendly. We play by their rules and work with them. I’m sure Will took you around?” I don’t mention the name of our Canadian counterpart, CSIS.
Brand speeds up to match me, on the same stair. “Yes. Mack, etc., etc.”
“They have policies on what we can do. They consult with us. They pull us in.” I reach the floor below ours and exit the stairwell to switch to the elevator, my usual routine. Our conversation stays on pause until the elevator doors close behind us, and we’re the only ones inside. “That cooperation is our top priority here, because we need them as much as they need us. We stay within the bounds they’ve set for us.”
“Officially.”
Not a secret I want to let my boss in on, so I remain silent past another floor. “Our biggest danger isn’t from the natives.”
“The biggest danger always comes from the place you least expect.”
I don’t want to admit how right he is. “Didn’t know you cared. You’re pushing me on this case because you’re looking out for me?”
He doesn’t respond to the derision in my voice. “Look out for yourself. Always.”
We hit the ground floor and it takes a superhuman effort to not run from his veiled threat. Still, my strides are longer than normal, and I’m getting tunnel vision focusing on those front doors and the free air beyond.
Of course Brand catches up. Isn’t hard for someone that tall to keep my pace. “All right,” he says. “I’ve heard you out. Now will you at least consider what I said?”
“Fine.” I stop at the doors and hope he’ll go on. “I’ll consider it.”
This time, the final tone does work, and Brand swishes through the doors. Once he’s out of range, my shoulders lower. My fidgeting hand unknots. My heartbeat slows. I don’t have to be on the defensive.
Someone touches my waist. I leap right back on my guard and away from this guy, then spin around to find my attacker.
Tall, dark hair just long enough to flip out behind his ears, warm brown eyes: Danny, watching me with a bemused expression. “Um, surprise?”
“Apparently.” I hope that lingering note of annoyance is all in my imagination. Just in case, I force a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I take it you forgot?”
Great. “Forgot what?”
“Remember? ‘I’ll wait for you in the lobby’; ‘I’ll be the one with the hair and clothes’?”
My brain finally shifts out of get-away-from-Brand mode and back into the real world. Where I was supposed to meet Danny in my building’s lobby after work.
“Oh, right,” I say. What I mean is oh, crap. How much of that did he see? “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Danny peers through the doors after Brand. “Looked all . . . Top Secret-y.”
“Top Secret-y?” I repeat with a hint of a chuckle.
He folds his arms, though I can see the grin in his eyes. “Yes, Top Secret-y. It’s a technical term.”
I should keep joking. All I manage is a sigh. “Sorry. Stressful day.”
“Apparently.”
Any lurking hope that he missed what was going on suffers a silent, ignoble death. “What all did you see?”
“Enough to not like it. Do I need to go deck that guy?”
I love Danny, but I know he wouldn’t resort to violence because my boss and I disagree. He’s an engineer. He thinks. Of course, he can throw a punch when necessary — and he has. Pretty sure the circumstances are different now. “That’s my new boss.”
He offers a low whistle and open arms. “You win the who-had-the-worse-day award.”
“Ooh, such a coveted prize.” I hug him back. He knows better than to ask anything else, simply letting me breathe in strength from his presence: the one solid, constant, real thing in my life. He is who he is all the time — and right now, he’s exactly what I need.
“I didn’t even tell you what comes with the prize,” Danny says. “You choose dinner.”
I don’t miss a beat. “BeaverTails.”
“The restaurant or the food?”
“Both?”
Danny pulls back to mock-scowl at me. “That’s not dinner.”
I could get extra sympathy points — and double my intake of fried dough slathered in maple butter — if I mention my new boss is Brand. Because Danny knows exactly who he is and what he did and what that means. That one little word could buy me an infinite supply of slack.
But telling Danny’s the last thing I want to do. Aside from the fact that he seriously might deck Brand, I want to pretend the annoying guy asking me to do something stupid is someone I don’t know — for the office, for Danny.
For me.
Danny gives me a final squeeze before I pull away. “What should we really eat?” he asks.
I go for my secondary tactic: fake pouting. I thrust out my bottom lip and put on the puppy dog face. He meets my gaze with one that’s perfectly, completely, I-cannot-be-swayed-by-your-tears level, and holds. I try not to count down the seconds until my façade slips.
At the last minute, Danny turns away in disgust. “Fine.”
His deadpan’s pretty good, though I catch the twinkle in his eyes, his tell. This time I don’t hold back the laugh, and neither does he. But the release of relief in my rib cage is a little too . . . little. I seriously doubt either of us would be laughing if I’d told him the other reason Brand bugs me (the non-classified one).
For now, I get to enjoy my favorite view in the whole city: Danny’s totally unrestrained, eye-crinkling, Talia-melting smile. Until he kisses me.
My day just got a whole lot better — especially since I don’t have to think about Brand or anything else remotely related to work till tomorrow.
The next morning, however, I have no choice but to think about Brand. He might not be here, since his office door has been closed all day, but I’m doing my best to avoid the line of fire. I’m not a gambling woman.
At ten thirty, my phone rings. Danny. I swivel away from Brand’s door. “What’s up?” I answer.
“Nothing, just wondering if you got the same call I did.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, and I can’t commit to an answer based on that little statement. I wait in silence.
“About the wedding?”
My stomach inches toward my shoes. I still don’t say anything.
“And the embassy?”
Why would the embassy — oh. Oh. They called him for the polygraph. And they’re lying.
This is the CIA, I guess.
I was supposed to tell him about the polygraph, but after my last encounter with Brand, I tried to put everything work related out of my mind. “Yeah,” I say, “about that —”
“Did you want to drive together?”
Since we got engaged, we’ve jumped to a whole ’nother level on the “together time” scale. We don’t work that far apart, and we’re finally taking advantage of that to see each other almost as much as we’d like. But this might be —
Wait, the chance to go with him when he gets boxed? Um, that’s a duh. “Sounds great.”
He promises to pick me up in fifteen minutes, and I hurry to finish my report. Once I’m in Danny’s passenger seat, I gather the courage to try the truth again. “So, Danny —”
“Hey, you never told me how your dress appointment went yesterday.”
The one I rescheduled for today at lunch? Darn. “Oh, man, I gotta make some calls.”
Danny doesn’t comment while I call the shop and text Beth, Beth, Beth and Abby with regrets once again. The drive to the embassy is long enough to give him too much time to ask about it. And he does. “I thought that was yesterday.”
“Yeah, something came up at work.”
A frown flashes across his features. “Don’t have a lot of time left.”
“Believe me, I know.”
His eyes stay pointed ahead, focused on the distance.
I don’t like where he’s
going, and I don’t mean the embassy. He’s silent until we’re cruising the neighborhood for an available spot. (The parking situation is ridiculous.) “Sorry,” he finally says. “I think I interrupted you earlier.”
Yeah, let’s add insult to injury now. Not only is your fiancée pathologically incapable of making a decision about your wedding, but to get that far you’ll have to be polygraphed?
I’d better start small. “There’s one more form I’m supposed to fill out if I travel abroad.”
“Even back to the States?” He nabs a space across from the National Gallery and gets out.
I wait until he opens my door. “I mean for our honeymoon.”
Danny scoffs and helps me out. “That’s a ploy to get me to tell you where we’re going.”
“No. Unless the real reason you won’t tell me where is because you don’t know yet.”
He sweeps a hand in front of him, like he’s imparting a vision of the future to me. “Scenic Aylmer. You’ll love it.”
The suburb where he already lives. “Uh, yeah. Featuring sightseeing tours of the nearest Tim Hortons and three other donut shops.”
“Told you you’d love it.” He grins with too much teasing to count as a real smile.
“You’re just lucky I love you,” I mutter, faking aggravation. We stop at a crosswalk. “Donuts, huh? So . . . Germany?”
“Nein.”
The light signals for us to cross and we obey. “Would you tell me if I guessed?”
“Nope. Is that all?”
We’ve got half a block to the embassy. I study Danny’s smile again. I’ve finally reassured him that I’m not subconsciously sabotaging our wedding. Do I really want to tell him about the polygraph? The last hoop so the CIA can approve him? So we can get married? I try to squelch the taste of terror running through my system. It’s okay. It’s okay. I love Danny, and I want to be with him. Getting married isn’t the end of the world.
Or the beginning of a divorce.
I curse my parental-induced PTSD and take Danny’s hand. I’m not giving him up just because everyone else in my family is incapable of staying married. I will see this wedding through. I have to. “I’ve got a really good feeling about this dress shop.”
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 29