“You don’t have to jump every time he says.”
“I know.” I don’t dare look up. For a second, I let the scenario play out in my mind: what if I told Justin? Would he believe me?
Right. Even Elliott called me the princess of paranoia. Once.
My phone rings. Good thing I didn’t give that excuse to Justin. I dig through my bag for my cell. But it isn’t Danny calling back. It’s Brand. I pick my greeting and my tone to carefully skirt the line between my lies. “Found it.”
“Well, then, come on.”
And there goes my time to raid Brand’s office. Frustration knots like a fist in my chest. I need another chance.
Later. I nod for Justin to walk out with me. Have I been jumping every time Brand says? Maybe. It’s only to lull him into that false sense of security. I think.
Justin follows me into the elevator. I have one minute to assess him. He might have misinterpreted Brand’s sexism — maybe not — but could he believe Brand’s a traitor?
“Do you really think Vince is singling me out?” I amp up the sympathy factor, making my eyes round and innocent.
“Probably not intentionally.” He’s already apologizing for the guy. Men. “Some guys do it subconsciously.”
“Oh.” My real disappointment shows in that single note. Fine. I can do this alone. Besides, how many people do I have to jeopardize? Isn’t one shot friend enough?
The elevator reaches the ground floor once again, and once again I’m holding my breath, expecting Brand to appear when those dull silver doors part.
And once again, he doesn’t. The tension in my ribs releases. I dig through my bag. The purse is only a cover — a miracle nobody’s noticed yet — but I have to have something I can use. I track behind Justin, partially on purpose and partially to give myself that tiny window of opportunity.
It’s all I need. I finally find exactly what I’m hunting for: a key impression kit. On the outside, it looks like a mini Altoids tin. I flip open the hinged lid, but the only thing curious about the interior is that it’s filled with our specially formulated, moldable yet not meltable putty, a thin sheet of plastic separating the top and bottom layers. I can’t let Justin see what I’m up to. Drifting to a stop in the middle of the lobby, I grab the key — I hope it’s the right one; impossible to tell without looking — and position it over the divot in the tin’s side.
“You coming?” Justin’s at the front doors, waiting.
“One sec. Can’t find anything in this bag.”
“Why are you even carrying it?”
A chill races over my skin, but my fingers keep working, snapping the tin lid shut tight, forcing the putty around each groove and tooth. The better this impression is, the better the resulting key will work. It’s not the easiest method, but it has definite advantages in a situation where I can’t pick the lock.
Justin’s still watching me from the door. I need to explain why I have the purse. I let the key, inside the molding tin, slide in the bag. Fortunately, here in the open, I can’t go into too much detail. “I have a thing later tonight” is all the reasoning I offer.
Justin accepts that answer. He holds the lobby door open for me. A black sedan idles at the curb, Brand in the driver’s seat. Justin trails me to the sidewalk and opens the door to the sedan for me. “My Lady,” he says with a mock-bow.
“Your ladyship wouldn’t sit next to the chauffeur,” I murmur. Gone is Justin’s show of solidarity, as if, like so many others that we have every day, that conversation never took place.
I sit in the front seat, navigating between the current reality and the memory of the first time I sat in a car with Brand. A simple date. Just a dinner.
And today is just a lunch.
“So,” Brand starts as soon as we’re out of our parking lot. “What do you have on Will?”
“Actually, we need to talk about the Russians.”
“Sure.” He draws out the syllable, sounding less sure, more suspicious.
Now would be a good time for me to come up with something to say about the Russians. “How is your Russian, anyway?”
“Rusty. Mostly spoke Tajik Persian. Related to Dari and Farsi, so I’m better in those. Got any Tajiks for me?”
“Dang, you know, just the other day we used up our last Tajik contact.”
“More’s the pity.” Brand’s enjoying this word play. Glad one of us is.
Lunch is one more thing I have to get through. Before I can make a cast from that impression. Before I can get him out of his office. Before I can get in there myself.
Unless a direct question would work better. I focus on my bag, like I’m looking for something, instead of covering for removing his key from the mold. “How’s Samir doing?”
“Farooqi’s all right. Not as in-the-know as I’d like.”
The words sink straight into my stomach. I still try to hold my hand steady to twist the key imperceptibly. Just enough to free it from the putty. I have to do this carefully or I’ll ruin the mold entirely.
But the key lifts easily. I think it even comes off clean. Unlike Brand. Samir has very, very good intel — that’s very, very sensitive — and very, very far from “not in the know.”
I’m not overly inclined to trust the guy, but there’s always the possibility that Brand’s downplaying it for me. I need the proof. I need to make sure there are no reports. And I need something to happen to get him out of that office.
Correction: I need to make something happen.
But before I formulate a plan, Brand’s phone rings. He checks the Caller ID, furrows his brow, answers. “Yeah?” Two beats of the man on the other end talking, and Brand whips around in a U-turn on the road just outside our building. I brace against the door. “On my way.” He ends the call.
I will not let this scare me. Could be anything. “Bad news?”
“Hm?” Brand breaks his stern concentration to glance at me, like he’s forgotten I’m here at all. “Oh, no — good news, actually. Robby just pulled priority. Rain check on lunch?”
“Sure.” As in sure hope not.
Brand parks and heads back into the office while I loiter in the lot like I’m leaving to pick up my meal without him.
This doesn’t happen to me too often, so take note: I’d rather not eat. Nope, now is my chance to begin the attack. From my car. Weird, I know, but it’s a lot less conspicuous than ducking into an extra office and running the risk of setting off the fire alarm.
Even the CIA impression kit, the best available in the world (as far as we know), usually takes one or two tries to make a good key. The kit includes the calibrated candle to go with the specially designed alloy: melts fast, cools at the right speed, won’t liquefy the molding putty. Once the candle burns down to the first mark, hold the little crucible over the flame until the candle hits the second mark, then pour into your mold. Tap out the air bubbles, wait two minutes, and you’ve got a key. Well, sort of. The teeth portion and half the handle. Works in a pinch.
The two minutes are up and I pull out the key, but one of the individual divots is too wide. I check the mold. It’s good. An air bubble must’ve blurred the bitting. Again, lather, rinse, repeat until you get a good impression.
See? Hard. I can’t fill in a missing tooth. I take a scalpel tool to the mold, drawing the tiniest line out from that one messed up divot so the air has another way to escape. Any metal that gets in there will file off. I relight the candle, reclamp the mold and restart the process.
If that sounds tedious, try actually doing it. It’s 2 PM before I have a cast that will work.
Holding that lukewarm key feels like I’m taking control of my destiny. I am. I’m moving forward with Brand in my sights.
There are so many directions I could — should — go now: break into his office, call Langley, file the reports on Samir’s intel myself — if I wanted to give myself away. We can’t collect the evidence we need of Brand’s betrayal if we bring in Wasti first. Plus, to make the arrest, we’ll h
ave to go to our favorite domestic buddies, the FBI. (If you detect sarcasm, DING DING DING!) The coordination effort will make everything twice as slow. Realistically, I need to have told them to bring Wasti in yesterday if we don’t want our hands doused in blood.
The CIA’s classified calculus has a patented formula for weighing out potential lives lost vs. potential sources revealed, extrapolating the lives any betrayed officers might save.
I don’t have that. All I’ve got left is my key. And all I need is the opportunity to use it. I slip the key into my pocket and go to the office. I wish I could wait for a covert entry, but with Brand watching the logs and time running out, I have to get in the office and get Brand back out.
The bullpen is bright. Bustling. Booming. With Brand at the helm. I stand in the door staring for a minute, stunned by the mass of people on a Friday afternoon. The full staff is here, plus a couple people I kinda know from the embassy, everyone busily working and conferring over stacks of paper and schematics and photographs. (Always kind of disorienting to see other women in an office where I’m usually alone.)
Robby and Justin are mapping something on the whiteboard, and Brand’s circulating, checking up on each group’s progress. If I wanted to avoid him, I’m out of luck. He’s the first to spot me.
“Oh good,” he says. I think he might mean it. “You got my text.”
Obviously I didn’t. I walk in the room. Brand points for me to join Robby and Justin.
I start that way, sliding my phone out of my pocket to check my text messages. Sure enough, I missed one while I was casting that key. Mtg w big client tomorrow. Strategizing today. I’m not sure I’d understand they wanted my help. Frankly, he probably doesn’t.
I scan the whiteboard. “What’ve we got?”
“Robby’s made headway with one of the Russians.”
I glance at the photographs propped up on the marker tray. One of my Russians, he means. I didn’t even know Brand had doubled up our assignments. Haven’t put in a ton of time on the case, so I try not to be too upset. (Something else occupied my schedule; I forget what.)
The team brings me up to speed: Robby made friends with Morozov at hiss’ gun club. Since then, they’ve done lunch a couple times. Robby even found the guy a better job.
Good setup, honestly. Robby would be fine meeting without us tomorrow, like I did with Samir, if it weren’t for a couple statements the guy’s made that raised a red flag or two, and, of course, he’s got access to a gun.
I contribute what I’ve learned about these guys and their habits and schedules, but I’m watching Brand. When can I get in his office? He’s being way too attentive and involved. Like a good manager. Like Will.
Will, who’s in custody because of Brand. And Elliott would be here helping with setup and surveillance if it weren’t for Brand. And, oh yeah, in two days hundreds of people could die.
Unless Brand’s reported that threat. I need to get in that office. And that won’t happen with him lurking around here, watching.
What now?
Ninety minutes later, I’m still waiting and plotting, but I’m trying to look like I’m working on the same scheme as the rest of the team.
Robby comes over to confer on the map. “So where’s Elliott?” he asks, way louder than he needs to if he’s talking to just me. “Figured he’d jump at the chance to get in on this case with Kozyrev’s intel.”
Elliott isn’t the only embassy CIA employee missing — thank goodness — but I know he’d be here if he hadn’t been shot. (Nothing like tracking down foreign operatives from the intel of a spy you helped catch.)
“Yeah,” Justin chimes in. “Or is he too good for us?”
“Who’s too good for us?” Brand catches wind of our conversation and saunters over to join in. “You holding out on us, Talia?”
I open a folder and fix my eyes on the photos of the meeting site, gold onion-domed Protection of the Holy Virgin Memorial Church. Brand isn’t baiting me, using “holding out” as a double entendre. Though he totally is.
I have to act like nothing’s wrong. If Brand had an inkling of where Elliott is — who Elliott is — how long would it take to trace the entire meet-me-under-the-bridge op back to me?
“Elliott Monteith,” Justin supplies. “Used to work here. Placed at the Embassy temporarily to help with the transition.”
“Hey.” Robby smacks Justin’s arm with the back of his hand. “Remember when Elliott talked his way onto that helicopter with that Kyrgyz general?”
“Are you kidding?” Justin laughs. “Only the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Brand doesn’t try to cover up a condescending little chortle. (I know, what kind of jerk chortles?) “What, a helicopter ride? Things are slower here than I feared.”
“No, no.” Now Justin’s the patronizing one. “All about the dismount.”
I snap the folder shut to fan myself. Did it get hot in here all of a sudden? And do we have to keep talking Elliott up?
Before Brand can ask the question written in his eyebrows, I slap the folder into his chest. “Followed the general,” I provide, my tone flat, like it’s this totally boring office legend and the next schematic, the plumbing under the church, is far more interesting. Elliott’s escapade was all Justin says and more, but does Brand need to know that?
“Out of the helicopter,” Robby adds.
“Without a parachute,” Justin finishes.
“The general had one.” I sit on the nearest desk, still going for the casual, why-do-you-guys-still-tell-this-dumb-story? attitude. I don’t know how else to downplay Elliott without looking really weird to the other guys.
The only reason this is a good story is because Elliott did catch up with him and did live. (And, in the end, did recruit him to spy for us. Triple win.) If that stupid ploy hadn’t panned out so well, now he’d be a star on the wall at Langley and a cautionary tale.
He came close to that fate again this week. But Brand doesn’t know that. I hope.
Brand checks the room, ending with me. “Then yeah, where is he?” He comes to stand by me, leaning against the desk I’m sitting on, casually brushing his hip on my leg.
That’s a big NO. Still staring at the schematic, I hop off the desk. “Elliott’s good in a pinch because he has to be,” I toss over my shoulder on my way to the whiteboard. “Because he’s bad at planning ahead.” I squint at the marker strokes like I’m trying to match something I’m seeing with their plans.
Robby takes the subject-changing bait and comes up to join me. “What have you got?”
“Nothing.” I toss the schematic on the desk. “Won’t work.”
“So have you heard from him?” Robby asks.
I indicate a photo on the marker tray. “Who, Morozov?”
“No, Elliott. He should be here.”
Great. On the spot. I need a story. And what’s better than the truth? “Heard he was having trouble at home,” I murmur.
Justin instantly shifts, rubbing a knuckle with his thumb. Robby finds his file absorbing.
“Well.” Brand taps on a stack of files. “Better go check on those traces.” And he retreats into his office. Exactly where I need to be.
Now to get him back out of there. Especially if he’s about to ring up the embassy to ask for Elliott.
I wish I had a sacrifice play today: a Russian I could call in to bring Brand running, or better yet a Tajik or Persian or . . . anybody. But I can’t exactly call Spy-busters.
I pull out my phone, like I can page through my contacts and find somebody to take Brand down. No assassins on my list. I return the phone to my pocket.
Wait. I don’t have anybody to help on that phone, but I have something else. I take out my cell again and pop open the cover, and then the case. A quick raid on my desk drawer produces the phone I used to text Brand. With one eye on the rest of the office, I remove the battery pack to switch out the SIM cards. Battery back in place, and I’m ready to attack.
Brand must th
ink he’s solved his one little problem. I’ve been avoiding news stories about “Josh Lee,” so I don’t know if he realizes the guy isn’t dead and is still a threat. Either way, Brand’s about to get bad news.
Last time, I was compelled to drive as far away as I could. Today, there’s no time. I need Brand out of his office now.
I type that text as fast as possible. It’ll take more than that to stop me. Honestly, I was expecting you to at least offer me a bribe.
I wait, but no reply comes. I’m not stupid. If Brand responds, I can’t leave the ringer on so he can put two + spy together. My phone on vibrate, I slide it back in my pocket. The same one with my key to Brand’s office.
Brand’s door swings open. My gasp of surprise — triumph — slips out. He’s taking the bait.
But . . . taking it where?
Straight to — Justin. Within seconds, they pick up their buddy-buddying, their obnoxious laughter loud enough to drown out the rest of the office. And don’t think I don’t notice the way Justin keeps casting glances of Seriously? Her? my way. (Yeah, thanks, dude.) Did Brand not get the text? Do I dare check the number?
No. I consult my computer and the latest info dumps from our Russian friends’ contact mic. Right off, I can see there’s some useful stuff here — especially Morozov mentioning his meeting with Robby — but my gaze jumps to where Brand’s working, or pretending to work.
He’s looking at me. Not mocking, not threatening, not even lusting. Just looking. I turn back to my actually-important-for-once files. If we can be useful to the Russians, solve one more problem for them, that will get us in that much faster —
My gaze wanders back to Brand. He’s checking his phone. A harness cinches around my middle tighter than a parachute’s. My message? Can he triangulate my phone from here? Does he have the app for that?
I try not to chew my lip. Show no weakness. Show no weakness. Show —
My phone. I didn’t put the case back on, and Brand could be here any second. It’ll be faster to put on the cover, and at least it’ll look complete. I snap the cover in place and slip my phone back in my pocket.
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 49