“Come on.” Mack’s voice trails into I’m-breaking-this-to-you-gently territory. “We all know how you watch your food and your back and your . . . life. I’m sorry, Talia. It really is possible to take it too far.”
Yeah, I’m paranoid, I know, but #1, I’m working on it, and #2, the whole reason for my cultivated paranoia was to make sure I — we — never, ever got hurt.
I guess I already learned that was a pipe dream, at least in my personal life. Now it’s coming back to bite me at work, too.
And what do you want to bet I’d get all this resistance and more if I called Langley? With my luck lately, I’d end up on a direct line to whoever Brand’s got there to fix all his problems.
“Mack, please.” I sound too close to begging, but CSIS might be my last hope.
“Look.” Mack’s tone turns more to I’m trying to find a way to help. “Maybe if you brought me some proof, something I could show to the higher-ups?”
“Yeah.” Level. Flat. Zero emotion. I understand where he’s coming from, but I definitely don’t have to like it.
“And it’d be best if you could point out the threat to Canada, too. Wouldn’t want it to come off as you guys’ office politics.”
Uh, ouch?
“Call me the minute you have it, okay? I want to help.”
Suuure. “Okay,” I say, my tone still firmly in neutral. I start the car and end the call before Mack apologizes again. (Canadians sometimes.)
Believe me, nobody’s sorrier than me.
This time, it isn’t terror that keeps me from going back to the office. Nope. I have somewhere else I need to be, and someone else I need to see.
Takes two to tango — and no, I don’t mean Danny. (He doesn’t dance. Don’t ask him.) If Brand is betraying us, I have to go after the person who very well could have recruited him.
I hate to think Samir set me up, too, but I can’t rule out that possibility until I talk to him.
I kill half an hour sitting in a brick-lined alley next to a Chinese restaurant. Not just any chain or chop suey shop in Chinatown. This one’s special. And after thirty-seven minutes, the exact reason it’s special comes waltzing out the side door to the dumpster.
I push off the wall and stroll down the alley toward him. I wish it were darker, lending me at least the element of surprise. I’ll take what little surprise I can get from the setting sun at my back, and I start the conversation before he notices me. “Hello, Samir.”
He jumps. The lid of the dumpster clatters shut, the metallic boom echoing through the narrow street. “Tara?”
I’d almost forgotten the cover name I used with him. “How are you doing?”
“I very much need to get back to work.” He focuses on opening the dumpster again, tossing the garbage bag in, shutting it carefully.
“How are things with Vince?”
“You should ask him.” He heads for the door.
I give a mocking chuckle. “If I could ask him, don’t you think I would?”
Samir pauses, then pivots to me. “What is going on? Is Vince all right?”
“Vince is in more trouble than he knows.” Or he will be. I hope.
I have to move quickly here. Samir will be missed inside. Normally I’d build to this, but I need to hurry to set the bait, infect his mind with a virus of mistrust, create the expectation Vince has already betrayed him. And why not? He betrayed the last people who paid him (us), didn’t he? “Is there any reason he’d tell us something that could hurt you?”
My observation skills jump into overdrive for five agonizing seconds, soaking in the fire hose of Samir’s feedback. His eyes, his hands, his posture, his words: I have to watch everything. Even a polygraph is only as good as the examiner.
For one second, two, three, he makes no deceptive moves. But he isn’t answering my question, either. Finally, before those crucial seconds are up, his Adam’s apple bobs. Swallowing before he answers. “I cannot think of a reason, no.”
That might be a deceptive indicator. I need to dig deeper, get into the meat of the issue.
I amble over to stand between Samir and his target, the restaurant door. “Pity, Vince can recall a lot more of what you’ve said and done. Didn’t take long to come to this, did it?”
“As I said, I cannot think of a reason Vince would do . . . whatever you are talking about.” He shifts his weight, and his voice is even less certain than his balance.
“Do you feel like you know Vince well?”
“Not really. I have only seen him a few times.”
I start the vulture’s death-spiral gyre around him, keeping him moving to track with me, off his game, unable to concentrate on the lie he’s surely concocted in case this ever happened. “I’ve known Vince for a long time. Years, in fact.”
“And do you trust him?”
“I’m sorry, do I look brain-dead?”
Samir’s moustache twitches. Uncertain. I may have introduced Brand as somebody I trusted, but if Brand’s not just skimming the cash, Samir could be as guilty as he is. Guiltier.
Still circling, I run through the parts of the short speech before a question like this, and hope I hit them all. “Samir, I have to ask you something, because it’s important we know. We understand nobody’s perfect, and we won’t blow anything out of proportion. The real problem here is obviously on our end, but I have to ask you: why did you offer Vince the money?”
He flinches. “Did he say that?”
I’m supposed to be the one asking questions he’s not prepared for, but that’s not the response I was anticipating. Even I can’t read something deceptive into his genuine surprise. And now it’s my chance to turn liar. “He didn’t have to. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”
“Vince told you I offered him money?” Samir runs the tips of his fingers through his wavy hair, like that will muss it less and still soothe his mind. “Tell me I misunderstand you.”
The pity in my frown is genuine (almost). “Oh, no. I think we both understand what’s happening here.” I move to rapid-fire questioning, giving him little time to construct new lies. “Then you did give money to Vince?”
“I do not under —”
“Is it possible you left something for him in a dead drop?”
It’s hard to deny such a broad prospect. Yet Samir shakes his head — but that’s not denial. It’s confusion. (I was there when we taught him what a dead drop was, so I know it’s not a language barrier.) “There must be some mistake.”
“Yes, I think you did make a mistake. One that has very, very serious consequences.”
“But —”
I cut off Samir’s counterargument. “It comes down to one simple thing.”
“What is that?”
Abruptly, I halt my orbit, and Samir’s rotation grinds to a stop, too. “What did he say when you offered him the money?”
“I did not —”
I break in before he gets out the whole denial. “Then how did it go?”
“You do not understand.” Samir’s posture, position, even his pupils change from persuading to pleading. “Please. That is not how it happened.”
I infuse my tone with the same level of earnestness. “Help me to understand.”
Samir glances down. Fear that I’ve lost him flash-freezes my lungs. Then he looks up, levels my gaze and gives a little must-be-subconscious headshake. “I did not ask him to do what you say.”
“Then . . . ?”
It’s time for the big admission, and this time, Samir doesn’t hesitate or waver. He states it right out. “Vince told me he had all he needed. He said I am finished.”
Then they haven’t been meeting? He isn’t even going through the motions, just taking money and ignoring the best way to stop a deadly terrorist on American soil?
A block of ice sinks in my middle. The betrayal cuts even deeper than I’d imagined. Not because I thought I knew Brand — I was disabused of that notion years ago — but because I never believed one of us could do this, this
sort of double cross.
And if he’s using someone I recruited as the pawn in this Great Game, and he’s setting up Will, and he’s tasking me with keeping tabs on Will — I’ve played directly into his hands.
Me going after Will seems like I’m a rogue officer working for a foreign power. Brand’s power play with Samir could be construed as damage control, separating me from a valuable asset, or he might claim Samir tipped him off about me.
He isn’t framing Will. Brand’s setting up one person to take the fall: me.
Frost cascades down my spine one bone at a time.
I’ve been the perfect patsy.
I look to Samir again. “Did Vince say why this was a good idea?”
“He said my cousin might find out. But Vince has a plan to help us all, he says. Protect people, keep my cousin safe, help us.” He groans. “I knew to believe I must be a fool.”
I know exactly how he feels. I turn away. This time Samir circles around with me to keep in my line of sight. His eyes add the silent please. “He told me it was the only way to help. You must believe me.”
My expression must be grim enough to make Samir think I don’t. I do. He’s not exhibiting any deceptive behavior clusters, just a normal level of nerves. But I’ve already assumed too much, given the benefit of too many doubts. I can’t afford to take Brand’s word — or Samir’s yet. I can’t afford to be taken in again. I still have to be careful. “What kind of punishment would be appropriate for someone who’s done what I think you’ve done?”
His shoulders stiffen. It’s a big leap, and “punishment” is the last thing anybody wants to hear from a CIA officer. The images that jump to mind aren’t pretty.
But it’s an important question, too. You’d be amazed the revealing things people say when they’re asked to mete out their own hypothetical judgment.
“I . . . I cannot imagine,” Samir barely manages. “I have only tried to help, but if this is as serious as you say . . .” His face grows as pale as possible with his dark complexion. “You would be lucky to go to jail.”
All right, not a bad answer, although a harsh punishment doesn’t tell me whether he’s being deceptive.
I move on. “What does Vince do with the money?”
“I do not know.”
“What have you done with the money he gave you?” Another CIA questioning tactic, presuming guilt to get them to admit it.
“Food. I can give it back — I will be paid again next week.” He gestures to the restaurant.
I shift into observational overdrive again, watching for hand-to-face activity, feet movement, grooming gestures.
Nothing. All I read on this page is honesty. And not the like I told you before, I swear on a dozen Qurans, I’m not that type of guy, it doesn’t make sense for me to do that “honesty.” The real kind, the kind where he doesn’t have anything to hide. I run through my mental catalog of the conversation, but his body language confirms it: he’s telling the truth.
Which makes things a lot more complicated. I scan the alley once again. “Is there anything — anything — else you can think of that might explain this? Anything else you need to tell me?”
Samir pauses long enough to reflect. “I have told you all. Please, I only wanted to help.”
“I believe you. I’m just trying to figure out what to do next.” It’s not quite true until after the words are out of my mouth. Because that’s when it hits me.
I don’t have nearly enough resources to figure this out on my own. Brand is definitely far gone off the Farm, but how can I be sure this ends with him? Is someone else pulling his strings? Someone on our side?
Brand has already cast suspicion on Will, but I doubt Will could be involved — too big a risk for Brand to turn the investigation on his accomplice. Never know whether the conspirator you’re framing might roll on you, and poor strategy is one sin I can’t accuse Brand of.
The side door of the restaurant swings open next to me. I jump to my left, narrowly escaping the door’s metallic slap against the bricks. The owner, a surprisingly tall Chinese man, doesn’t notice. He’s too busy immediately launching into a tirade aimed at Samir, who’s appropriately cowed. I edge behind the still-reverberating door and count my quick heartbeats.
We do not need to be seen together, not here, not like this, not in a clearly covert meeting.
The owner pulls the door to a 90° angle and stomps inside, waiting for Samir to follow. He casts me the quickest glance. I hold one finger to my lips and nod to say sit tight, say nothing to Brand. Samir’s done all he can. I’ll take care of this. I’ll figure it out. I’ll handle it.
I’d better.
The door closes after him, and I sag against the bricks behind me. I thought things were deep when I was fighting the Ottawa River for my life. Now I’m really in over my head.
My usual level of caution seems like a joke as I watch for surveillance at a ridiculous number of stops on the way home. Anybody who knows me wouldn’t be fooled by my side trip to Fabricland (Fabricland!), but there’s nobody tailing me (and Abby’s not working tonight). I’m trying to shake the feeling, the feeling I’m not only being watched, but set up. Chased. Hunted.
I’m falling into something far more sinister than I expected, the consequences a lot worse than one rogue officer in Ottawa.
By dusk, I’m done. I trudge up to my apartment, that dread weighing on my feet way more than the doubled errands of my route. I’ll check my tiny studio apartment twice, as if the packing boxes I now room with could hide an extra bad guy.
I round the corner to my hall. A figure in a black jacket and wool cap loiters by my door.
My ribs freeze before I can even gasp.
Set up.
Chased.
Hunted.
I don’t dare pivot or run. As silently as possible, I slide back around the corner. A mirror. I’d use that compact to see past the angle, but I don’t know if I can take even that small a risk.
And, crap, it’s in the car.
With a deep breath locked in my chest, I edge back to peer around the corner. The person — a woman, or a guy with a slight build and really long brown hair — bends over in front of my apartment, drops something, tucks it under the door as if to keep it in place.
Oh no, you don’t. I duck back behind the corner before my “mystery date” can see me. But I’ll definitely be seeing more of her.
The hallway carpet muffles her retreating footsteps enough that I can’t be sure whether that’s my pulse in my ears. I force myself to wait, to breathe, to think this through. I’m so hyper-cautious I wouldn’t live somewhere without multiple escape routes, but there aren’t that many places to go in a hallway: toward me and away. Nobody rounds my corner by the time I’ve finished my meaningless, self-imposed countdown.
I risk a glimpse of the hall — no one in sight. Not for long. I dig deep, down past CIA training and hit that year of ballet I took at twelve, and the one skill I retained: dance running. (It’s quiet, okay? Noisy ballerinas get ridiculed and kicked out of class. Even if they were freaking hilarious, Madame Willikers.)
As I pass my door, I swoop down to collect the brown paper packet. The contents feel soft and the paper crinkles under my fingers. I can’t risk a deeper investigation now. I run down the hall to the corner. Hasn’t been long enough for her to completely disappear, has it?
Who is this girl and how did Brand recruit her? I check the package again. Anthrax is overkill, even for Brand, right?
I still my panting and try to listen, but my pulse is still too fast, too loud, too harsh. I’ll have to take another look. I crane my neck — somebody there — snap back behind the corner.
Subtle. Nice.
Definitely no time to open the package. A door down the hall slams, and my adrenaline level spikes. Did this girl bring backup? Do I have any I could call in?
The door’s exact resonance finally registers: metal. Fire door. The stairs. On her way out.
Then so am I. Takin
g a gamble that this soft packet isn’t a bomb (not a safe bet), I tuck it in my waistband and dash to the stairs. I’m quieter than my quarry with the door, holding onto the crash bar so the latch doesn’t clang shut, echoing through the concrete stairwell. But that takes extra seconds I don’t have, and before I let go of the bar, a second clatter rises from below. Ground level door.
I hustle down the stairs. Not quite in enough of a hurry to slide down the railings, and with my luck lately, I can hardly take one more neck-breaking chance. I reach the ground floor and ease the door open.
And run right into someone. A woman, staring back at me in shock. A freezing bolt takes hold of my system and I can’t move.
“Talia?” the woman asks.
She knows me. Panic beats that into my brain until the rest of the pieces fall into place. She’s wearing a red cardigan. No hat. And, hello? She lives on the third floor. Florence Parsons.
Cover, cover — “Did a woman come from the stairs? My friend left her cell at my place.”
Thank you, subconscious fears of leaving my phone somewhere stupid.
Ms. Parsons wrinkles her nose, thinking. “I don’t believe so.”
“Thanks anyway.” I maneuver around her. The back way out is less accessible, and if you don’t live here (and study the building plans like a borderline psychotic), you wouldn’t guess it exists at all. The front doors have got to be her route.
I think she’s far enough ahead that I’m safe running through the front doors, but I won’t risk it. I can’t. But I also can’t go skulking around without getting more attention than I want. The best way to slide under the radar? Use that purposeful walk again. Stay focused on the goal.
And I’m definitely focusing on mine. If I can find her. Out on the street, the sun is setting way faster than I’d like and my mystery date is missing, invisible, or very, very lucky.
She can’t have gotten that far that fast, right? I scan the sidewalks again, the seconds ticking by in my brain like a steady drum, like her footsteps, like my heartbeat.
There. Black jacket, black wool cap. Way too warm for that. Across the street and halfway down the block.
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 44