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

  As far as I know, we had no clue Ali Muhammad was anywhere near the US, let alone fifteen minutes from Langley. Not that a dead brother will do Hassam-ud-Din much good — but the unwritten message here is clear. The “execution-style murder” is actually an execution.

  We might have figured out where Hassam-ud-Din has been hiding.

  I’m the first to admit I don’t use Intellipedia like I’m supposed to (though it’s mostly geared toward analysts anyway), but you’d better believe that’s the first place I’m checking. It was established a few years after 9/11 to make sure the various agencies in the US intelligence community would never again fail to connect the dots. With any luck, the FBI’s playing nice and we’ll be able to start making those connections.

  As a developing story, Ali Muhammad Wasti’s article is changing by the second. My first skim confirms my theory: we didn’t know he was in the country, but official reports (partially leaked to the press?) cite the apparent execution by beheading, and speculate at the tensions between the brothers. And that’s all we’ve got, speculation and more speculation: differences over an op. Maybe Ali Muhammad was more of a pacifist.

  I reload the page. Another theory. According to one report, Hassam-ud-Din allegedly stole one of his brother’s wives. No real foundation to back up that accusation.

  And this is the problem of an agency of analysts. When there’s no concrete, actionable information out there, analysis can only go so far before it starts to go crazy.

  We’re going to need some help. We’re going to need more intelligence. We’re going to need another dot.

  And I know exactly where to find him.

  I need to get to Samir, but I think someone (named Brand) will notice if I disappear without any explanation or excuse two days in a row. So I go through the routines of a day at the office: filing reports, coordinating with coworkers, catching up on reading, biding my time. By mid-afternoon, I’m running out of things to do when I hear the footsteps over the office carpet. I freeze, pretending not to hear, pretending to read the Intellipedia article on an old case with a Turkmen scientist, pretending not to know exactly who’s slinking up behind me.

  The security swipe in the reception area is a physical defense against a brute force attack. But now I feel less safe here than I do in the hall or on the street. A lot less safe.

  I sense Brand so close behind me that the flashbacks I’ve worked so hard to hold back resurface with a vengeance. The heat of embarrassment rises in my cheeks and my chest, though my skin prickles with cold.

  I make myself not move, not give in that much, not show that kind of weakness. Not to Brand.

  “What are you reading?” he asks.

  I fight the urge to whirl around. “Checking up on old cases. Looking for new developments.”

  I hope Brand doesn’t want to page through my tabs. I have half a dozen Intellipedia articles open, including one on the execution of Ali Muhammad Wasti. Not a huge deal for me to keep up on Samir’s case, but I can’t raise Brand’s suspicions.

  Brand leans over my shoulder, places his hand over mine on the mouse. My heart constricts like he’s gripping that instead.

  He hasn’t done anything — not a single thing — beyond words here. Nothing in front of the guys. Nothing in his office. Nothing in years. So why am I breaking out in a cold sweat because he’s close?

  He guides my hand an inch to the right and clicks the mouse button. “Work much with the Lebanese?”

  “He was Elliott’s contact. Colleague of my contact.”

  “Elliott?”

  I can’t move. What have I done? I’ve given away —

  No. No. He doesn’t know who Elliott is. “Old officer here.”

  Brand releases my mouse to squeeze my shoulder. Exactly the thing you’d do to an employee who’s doing a decent job, exactly what Will would’ve done, exactly what I don’t want. “Any new insight on the case?” he asks.

  “Both our contacts went home a year ago, and nobody’s been able to get up with them.”

  “You recruited them while they were here?”

  Brand’s as trustworthy as a faulty grenade, and I am not about to pull that pin. I can’t think of a reason Turkmenistan’s or Lebanon’s energy technology has anything to do with Wasti and his ilk. Despite the logic, my paranoid gut says this is a piece of truth I should be stingy with.

  One piece? When it comes to Brand, I should be a freaking truth-Scrooge.

  “No,” I say, finally rotating my chair to see him. “We just started on them. They didn’t seem to catch the drift quickly enough.”

  “Ah.” Brand heads away. It’s like he’s stepped off my chest.

  And then he turns back. “So did you hear about the latest in the Wasti case?”

  I watch his face, and not just to monitor for deception signs. I won’t look back to my computer. I won’t look away like I’m remembering something. I. Won’t. Give. Him. Anything. “What happened?”

  “Apparently his brother came into the country — America — and got himself killed.”

  “We’re still in America.”

  Brand smirks. “You know what I mean.”

  Oh, I think I do. Like he’s trying to drive that point home, he circles back around my desk to stand over me. I have more disadvantages than the sitting vs. standing question. When we need to examine someone for deception, we stick him in a swivel chair like mine. No table. No anchor. Let him twist in the wind — almost literally — and watch the subconscious lie indicators add up. The best-trained operative can’t control every muscle of his body every second. Even Brand couldn’t hide every little gesture of deception.

  And neither can I.

  I try to slow my racing adrenaline and lean back in my chair, the perfect picture of composure. “The FBI figured it out yet?”

  Brand regards me in silence. Oh crap. I tipped my hand, or at least one card. The FBI wouldn’t get involved in just any old murder. Even the brother of an international terrorist hiding in the US isn’t enough to get their attention sometimes. (Usually not much help tracking the living terrorists. You know, the whole “dead men tell no tales” thing.)

  They’d at least want to get on the scene, right? “Or don’t their crime scene techs want to talk to the spooks?” I finally add.

  I can only imagine the subconscious twitches Brand must be seeing now. But he laughs. “You know the F-entity.”

  That’s his cue to leave, check up on someone else, go do whatever he does behind closed doors in his office all day. He doesn’t. He settles against my desk and folds his arms, his expression somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

  Please don’t let him question me.

  “Tell me what you know about the Ali Muhammad Wasti case,” he says.

  Great. I pivot to my computer like following up on year-old cold contacts is way more pressing than this line of questioning. “First I’ve heard of it.” I bite back the natural “I just told you that.” That type of referral statement is another deception indicator.

  “Ah.” The single syllable doesn’t betray whether he believes me or not. “Not hunting for a connection between your Lebanese guy and Wasti?”

  I check my computer. “Should I be?”

  “Just an idea. We’ve got to get a line of sight on this.”

  Not exactly. We don’t need an angle; we need the facts — but when it comes to me and Brand, there is no “we.” Especially not since he elbowed me out of the only case we were sharing, however briefly. I should be relieved not to work with him shoulder to shoulder, but my spy-dey sense is tingling.

  I don’t want to say anything, though if I don’t, it’s an even bigger giveaway. “Don’t you mean you need to talk to Samir?”

  That should be his first thought, not bugging me. He has the best access to the best asset.

  “Yeah, but last time we talked he had no clue something like this was coming.”

  Right. “He knew Ali Muhammad was here, right?” I lay out the pieces of the t
rap.

  Brand’s eyes narrow a split second. “Uh, yeah, he did.”

  “So how has Samir been taking all this drama?”

  Brand clears his throat, switches feet. Not a good sign for whatever he says next. “Hard on him. Family ‘trauma,’ you know. Always sucks.”

  A dysfunctional family isn’t a résumé requirement for the Agency, but a lack of deep family ties isn’t exactly a drawback when your work keeps you away and impossible to contact for years at a time. Brand and I are both among those “lucky” people unencumbered by a happy family, so his discomfort with “family stuff” alone doesn’t make it a lie.

  It’s all the rest of his behavior that makes it obvious he’s lying.

  And I’ll make this as bad for him as I possibly can. “Did he have any intel on Ali Muhammad?”

  “I didn’t know Ali Muhammad was in the country, and I’m guessing Samir wouldn’t keep that from me.”

  I resist the urge to rock back in my chair. “Seeing a lot of him?”

  “Of course.” Brand slaps on that trademark smirk. I know it’s only a cover, but it still creeps me out, and not just a little bit. He shoves off my desk and starts away.

  Oh, no. I’m not letting him off that easy. Until I figure out exactly how to get him, I want him to suffer as much as possible. So I swivel in my chair, tracking with him. “What does Samir say Wasti’s next move is? Regroup? Change locations again?”

  “Kind of obvious. What other choice does he have?”

  I squeeze my lips together like I’m thinking, not suspicious (or sarcastic). “How long before he contacts Samir next?”

  “Not like they have a set meeting schedule. Wasti calls when he wants something.”

  “And what does he want from Samir?” I shoot for a tone of innocent, speculative questioning, not laying a trap.

  Brand’s eyes slide away, his brow furrowing. I can’t tell if that’s concentration or fabrication. “All we’ve come up with so far is he’s hoping Samir will support him. Validation. At the outside, he might want Samir to come help him directly. Maybe head up a Canadian op.”

  “Right.” My worst possible move: that one little sarcastic syllable slips out, the challenge and the disbelief plain.

  Brand’s gaze locks on mine. I can’t read his face, but my built-in alarm system sounds a warning. Those blue eyes go beyond don’t you want me? right into don’t you look tasty?

  Can he turn this back on me? Of course he can. It’s Brand.

  Each second that ticks by ratchets my ribs another notch tighter, and he just stares at me. I won’t be stared down, no matter how the goose bumps creep up my back.

  Then Brand stalks around my desk. Stops at my feet. Leans closer, closer, closer, until his eyes are level with mine, his face inches away, his hands on my armrests — trapping me. “Talia, listen to me. I know we’ve got . . . a history.” His gaze takes a round-trip circuit of my body. Checking my body language, I tell myself. Not checking me out. I clamp down on the shudder that threatens despite my logic.

  He doesn’t move from there, but I can feel his hands moving over me, fear closing my throat, hopeless, helpless —

  No. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. He’s not doing anything.

  It’s everything.

  Maybe this is the real reason I didn’t tell Danny the truth about Brand sooner, because if I let myself think about the past, the things I’ve managed to hold back would break the surface.

  If that’s the case, I was right.

  Brand’s eyes snap back to mine. “But if we can’t work together, if we can’t trust one another, we’ve got bigger problems than Wasti.”

  He closes another inch on me. “I need you with me.”

  I swallow, or try to. I hate the way that sounds, but I make my reply convincing. “Of course.” Like all of this goes without saying. Like he’s the one weirding out right now.

  And believe me, he is.

  Brand gets another centimeter closer. “Good.” His voice is a hair above a whisper, and I can feel his breath on my lips.

  In the split second before he pulls away, I relive the stupid slip that brought us together. The flirting never would’ve gone anywhere — not if it’d been up to me — until the minute we were alone in his cubicle, and he took it to this level, to this contact.

  Then he closed the last three inches. Or maybe I did. I’ve never been sure, though it was easier to blame him. To pretend like this was never my idea. Definitely not my intention. But suddenly that day back at Langley, we were kissing.

  I knew better than to go there then. Now awful experience has proved me right. I’ve kept that locked deep in my memory, alongside the fear that flooded my veins that day, the same frigid sludge pumping through them now. My palms sweat; my stomach pitches. I swallow against the nausea.

  I have to get out. “I got it.” I don’t bother hiding the tension in my tone, digging deep into my resolve reservoir to shoot him an unmistakable back-off-now signal.

  Brand releases me, off to his office like nothing happened. It’s a lot more than nothing. My hands are shaking, and somebody’s going to notice this hyperventilating if I don’t get it under control. I glance around. We always have an audience here, but César’s coming back from the bathroom, Robby’s absorbed in his computer, and Justin conspicuously avoids my eyes.

  I’m on my own. I challenged Brand; nobody said a word as he escalated like shock and awe was the best defense. And I cowered like it was working. Just like I always have with him.

  Am I not enough to take him on?

  I don’t care how it looks. I’m getting out of here. I pack up before anybody can say a word about Brand’s behavior and head out on a surveillance detection route.

  Intimidating me might be his game again, but it’s a lot more than my irritation level on the line. Though I try my hardest to fight back the memories, I can’t help but relive every second of the nightmare.

  Four years gone, and the memories still make me feel every bit as trapped as I was in my chair this afternoon with Brand in my face, holding my armrests, pinning me down.

  The images and feelings I’d banished from my memory rush in between my boring, routine stops. My perennial professional paranoia and communicating with cashiers and clerks aren’t enough to pull me all the way out of the past.

  I’ve already endured that idiotic mistake that started the whole thing. Now I feel his hands on my hands, my arm, my waist. I feel him dragging me a lot closer than I ever intended. I feel him pressuring me, the little innuendo that I stupidly chose to ignore, the caresses that weren’t accidental, the romantic setup that blew up when he found out I was really, really serious about the whole no-sex-outside-of-marriage thing.

  And then having to work with him. Dreading every day of my “dream job” until I was almost physically ill. Holding out until the Farm, hoping and praying and begging that things would be different there. Working alone. Eating alone. Suffering alone.

  Shame, embarrassment, anger all vie for top billing in my emotional train wreck. I hate that I didn’t do anything about it. I hate that I didn’t tell anyone, regardless of whether they’d believe me. I hate that I let him make me into a victim.

  I. Hate. Brandon Copley. I hate him for every minute he made my existence miserable. I hate him for ever coming back. I hate him for what he’s doing now.

  But hate isn’t enough. Like I said, wanting something too much can come back to hurt you, make you reckless, make you weak.

  I can’t let this be personal. I have to be deliberate. Cool. Calculating.

  Like Brand.

  Finally finished with my last SDR stop, I drive a block past my destination, a lamppost by a blind alley, and park around the corner. I pull a stick from the box of chalk under my seat.

  Back at the Farm, aside from being reminded that not every man in the CIA is a villain out to ruin my life, I learned the art of signaling, another of the cloak-and-dagger, we’re-teaching-you-this-to-make-you-feel-c
ool elements of the course. Though we have less of an occasion to use it in Canada than in hostile territory, sometimes we get to do our trainers proud.

  Tonight is one of those times. I hold the chalk hidden in my fist and walk down the street like a woman with a purpose: to blend in among the rest of the pedestrians, slip through their short-term memories, disappear.

  Not a lot of foot traffic to weave through, but I make sure to barely outpace the general speed and maneuver to the sidewalk’s edge, toward one particular light pole. I check the plate glass window as I come even with my target. Nobody behind me. At least nobody suspicious.

  I twist my hand with the hidden chalk outward and let it brush the light pole, pocketing the chalk before I’m five feet away.

  To be honest, this isn’t completely safe — it’s one of the signals Brand and I taught Samir together — but unless I want to track him down at work again (can we say “fired”?), this sign is the best I can do to let Samir know it’s time for a meeting.

  It’s well past time for a meeting.

  I have hours to kill before Samir is supposed to follow through on that little chalk signal. I don’t dare go home or to Danny’s — not that he wants to see me anyway. I drift through another SDR until I roll to a stop in a cute little suburb filled with happy little people living happy little lives, happily oblivious.

  Meanwhile, the equilibrium of my whole life is shifting like the mix of ice and water and mud that takes over the Ottawa River during the spring break-up season, changing so quickly I hardly have time to think about thinking ahead. Every path seems equally dangerous.

  I need help. I need that one place I can always go when things are uncertain. For the second night in a row, I’m drowning in my memories and my paranoia. I need my anchor. I need Danny. How was your day? I text.

  Long.

  I do not need to overanalyze that (though I will anyway).

  Danny texts again before I can keep up the pretense of small talk. I can’t sit around here worrying about you every day.

  You could go to work. Lame attempt at a joke, I know.