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

  “Oui, ma chérie?”

  Sylvie doesn’t speak a word of English, and I’ve only been focusing on French for a few weeks, so communication between us is comical. I’m not in a joking mood. I need to go, but adrenaline isn’t helping my language processing. How do I say I locked myself out? I send my brain through the paces and spit out a question to bide time. “Allez-vous au marché?” Are you going to the market?

  “Mais oui. Veux-tu venir avec moi?” Sylvie invites me along but doesn’t wait for an answer. She bustles off for the bedroom while launching into a lecture, probably about my disregard for my health by wearing nothing warmer than long sleeves in the fall. (It’s cold, but we live in Canada. This is practically Indian summer.)

  The minute she’s gone, I’m ready to race out the door and up the main stairs to get this guy away from Danny. But before I turn, footsteps carry through the ceiling above me. I look up, like I can see through the embossed ceiling tiles. A second elephantine set of footsteps tracks after the first. No way that’s Danny. A third set patters — no, that’s my heartbeat racing in my ears.

  The plodding steps track across the ceiling toward the back stairs. He’s coming. I stare at Sylvie’s door to the stairwell, not daring to move.

  “Y a-t-il un problème?” Sylvie’s voice comes from behind me. Is there a problem?

  I pivot back with a smile. “Bien sûr que non.” Of course not. Little conversational phrases go a long way in a foreign language. I can fall back on them 90% of the time.

  She holds out a black wool coat. Great — a disguise. I accept it without complaint, too distracted by the footsteps to protest anyway. Even Sylvie, who must’ve tuned out noise from her guests upstairs, stares at the ceiling to follow the heavier steps to the door. He’s leaving.

  Where do I go? Back to Danny, to make sure he’s all right? (Not that there’s been a single sound to indicate otherwise — no time to freak out.) Or tail the footsteps out of the building, and make sure this guy isn’t a threat?

  Either way, I need to leave this apartment. “Allez-y,” I say to Sylvie, gesturing for her to go ahead in case my French is failing me.

  Her lips pinch and her gaze tracks to the coat she loaned me. What’s the problem?

  Sylvie tells me: “Ce manteau ne suffit pas.”

  The coat’s not enough? I’m in a hurry, woman. But arguing with her will chew through more time. My French falls into place faster — and we live in Canada, so I know the word for scarf. “Un foulard?”

  She smiles indulgently at my efforts, then pulls a scrap of fabric from a side table. Oh. Right — Danny warned me about that Québecism. At home, foulard means a knit scarf. Here in France, it’s the other kind of scarf, and the black and white polka-dotted one Sylvie hands me is fashionable and lightweight. (And somehow enough for this weather?)

  Whatever. Let’s go. “Merci.” I pocket it and walk her to the front door of her apartment.

  Am I hurrying to check on Danny or chase Mystery Man? I urge Sylvie to go ahead, pointing upstairs to imply I’m checking on Danny. Sylvie heads out, but before I decide which way to go, I hear the back staircase vibrating under someone’s footsteps. Got to be Danny. I crane my neck around the door to verify that.

  Sure enough, his plaid flannel pajama pants appear on the staircase. I glance back at Sylvie down the hall — and the heavyset, middle-aged dude jogging to catch up to her.

  No, no, no. Dragging an innocent civilian into whatever this is?

  “Bonjour,” Mystery Man greets Sylvie. He points at the ceiling. “Vos voisins?”

  The neighbors. He’s asking about us. I don’t dare breathe.

  Sylvie looks at him askance. “Pardon?”

  Yes, his accent is indecipherable, but I can’t have her engage with him. Sylvie has no idea this guy might be a threat or that he might have backup waiting outside. I’ve got to help her.

  “Talia?” Danny calls softly from behind me.

  I make eye contact with him. “I have to go. Start packing.”

  “But—”

  “He’s after Sylvie.” And it’s my fault. Danny is safe. Now I can’t let Sylvie go out defenseless, unawares, alone, to face this guy and his crew. I have to protect her. I grab a pair of big round sunglasses from the table by the door. “If they come back, ditch our stuff.”

  “Wait—” Danny tries, but I’m already jogging down the hall. Danny will only go so far in his PJs. I slide on the sunglasses and tie the polka dot scarf over my long, dark ponytail. Bobby pins from my pocket tuck my bangs underneath the scarf.

  Sylvie and Mystery Man took the elevator, so I dash down the stairs. They’re already at the front doors when I reach street level.

  I slide into my cover and the saunter I’ve seen on Parisian streets for over a week. By the time I reach the sidewalk, Mystery Man has peeled off, leaving Sylvie alone. She must not have said anything to keep him interested. I release a breath. Maybe she’s fine. Maybe I can go back to Danny. Maybe we can figure out what’s going on. But first, I have to be sure Sylvie’s safe.

  I scan the street, doubly grateful for the sunglasses. Paris isn’t blinding in November, but as long as I’m facing the right direction, you can’t tell where I’m actually spying. I’m free to search the area for anything or anybody out of place.

  Nobody catches my eye, no actions screaming “surveillance,” but you never know. I note the cars on the street, the BMW and the same little European numbers we’ve seen every morning, all stationary. Sylvie’s halfway down the block before I hear the engine rattling behind us.

  I toss my ponytail, turning enough to check my six o’clock. That silver BMW pulls out, coming my way. My heart freezes, but I purposefully don’t look at the driver — or at least don’ look like I’m looking at the driver. I can’t tell much as he cruises past, other than he’s wearing a suit. He heads the same direction as Sylvie, toward the market.

  So much for getting back to Danny.

  Yeah, all that stuff I said about not being a spy? I take it back.

  I rush to Sylvie while the BMW and Mystery Man are out of sight. When I reach her, I take her arm. She whirls on me, then squints and moves her head back and forth, like she’s trying to focus on me. “Stéphanie?”

  Oh, man. Am I triggering a dementia episode? “C’est moi.” I lean in to whisper, “Talia.”

  “Ah, te voilà.” She takes my hand and pats it. “C’est incroyable comme tu ressembles à ma nièce dans ce manteau.”

  I resemble her niece in this coat? Great — a ready-made cover. Today I’m Stéphanie. Sylvie chatters about the food at the market, and we walk on. I don’t look to see if we’re being tailed. Because now I’m not a spy. I’m not a honeymooner. I’m not a newlywed wife who just left her husband. I’m merely a girl shopping with her elderly aunt. I am this part because Sylvie’s safety may depend on it.

  That car circles the block to pass us again before we reach the market. As we get to the stalls, the increasingly familiar engine rattle grows closer. When Sylvie and I come even with the first vendor’s baskets of eggplants, I make sure to stop at the perfect angle to check behind us. Hello, silver BMW.

  Needles stab into my gut. I might look like Stéphanie to Sylvie, but my disguise isn’t fooling somebody — or maybe they’re following Sylvie. Oblivious, she evaluates the vegetables, and I make the appropriate conversational noises in the right places. But behind my big sunglasses, my gaze is glued to my new nemesis.

  They might know who I am, but they have no idea who they’re dealing with.

  Sylvie moves to the next cart, examining the haricots verts. (Even “green beans” sound fancy in French.) I hurry to keep up.

  “Are you bringing anything back for your sweetheart?” Sylvie hasn’t exactly kept it a secret she thinks Danny’s cuter than a cuddly little kitten, and that cuddling’s my wifely calling.

  Which I’d be doing if it weren’t for the dude in pursuit. Speaking of — the silver B
MW’s door finally swings open. I don’t move, and my eyes don’t leave that car. A stocky man in a dark suit gets out.

  I haven’t ticked off any mobsters lately. So who’s this guy, and what does he want?

  Sylvie strolls past the next stall, which is bustling in pre-lunch preparations. A head of warm steam carries aromatic spices — Moroccan food. I push through the steam cloud to use it as a cover. “Donc,” Sylvie says like she thinks she’s being subtle, “is there some trouble between you and Danny?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then why have you left your husband after bringing him breakfast in bed?”

  Pretending to be Stéphanie even helps my French. “He loved the breakfast, but he wanted to sleep longer.”

  I scan the market. The surveillance guy reaches the eggplant stall and surveys the white Chinese imports. Can I herd Sylvie along faster?

  “Do you not want to spend more time with him?”

  Who, Surveillance Man? Why would I?

  Oh, she means Danny, duh. “While he’s asleep?”

  Sylvie sighs as if this is evidence my romantic prospects are going down like the Titanic.

  “I just don’t want to waste our last day here sleeping,” I explain.

  We reach another produce cart. Sylvie clucks at some sad, overpriced zucchini, and we mosey onward. “Chérie, you should be together.”

  “Bien sûr.” Of course. My attention stays with Surveillance Man. He skips the green beans. I skip my next two heartbeats, but smile at the next vendor Sylvie chats with, a baker. Sylvie pays for bread, and I pick up a nice market tote. I’m not what you’d call fashion forward, but this could come in handy. I check the lining — fully reversible.

  Yep, definitely coming in handy.

  I pay the vendor, but all of my senses fixate on Surveillance Man ten feet behind us. Feels more like he’s breathing down my neck. He greets the Moroccan couple prepping lunch — with a loud, nasal voice. Decent French. Not the guy knocking at our door.

  How extensive is this crew?

  I could confront him — or I could see if I can draw him off Sylvie. I’m the one they want, right? With one more day in the country (and Danny hopefully packing our things now), we could escape long-term if I give him the slip on the way out of the market. But I don’t take chances. I take precautions.

  “Thank you for bringing me shopping,” I tell Sylvie. “I’m going to sightsee for a bit.”

  She peers at me like she’s super concerned about the perilous state of my twelve-day-old marriage. “I was married for forty-two years before my Georges died.”

  Did I understand that right, or am I too distracted by the guy on our tail? “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Your marriage is new; you must work together to build it. You’re used to looking after your own interests, to living separately, but now you must work together.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Sylvie pats my shoulder. “Danny’s used to taking care of himself, and you have been on your own too long, too.”

  Apparently her apartment isn’t the only place it’s 1964. I need to make my escape, but I can’t just walk away. “Sylvie, everything’s fine with Danny.”

  “I’m sure it is. Remember, you’ve been responsible for your own life, and Danny has managed his, but now you must work together to build a new thing, this team, this marriage.”

  “We will. In fact—” I risk a glance at Surveillance Man. He’s still behind us, still masquerading as a casual shopper, absorbed in the baker’s pastry pitch.

  Time to make my move. I turn to Sylvie. “Could you tell Danny to meet me where we had lunch yesterday? At eleven?”

  Sylvie stops to consult her watch, and I have to take the opportunity. A small gaggle of über fashionable girls in their midtwenties stroll by. I take off my polka-dotted scarf and sunglasses and toss them in my tote before I join the chic group. Seems like they’re not so much here to peruse the produce as to parade through. Bonus for me.

  We tromp through the market a minute before I check on the people in my wake. Sylvie finishes looking for me and bustles off to her next stop. Surveillance Man’s on the move, too. His gaze isn’t locked on me — is he trained? — but he’s headed my direction.

  Perfect. Sylvie’s safe.

  A girl in my new group of “friends,” a blonde, pivots to glare at me. (The sunglasses really undercut the effect of your death stare, sweetie.) I cock an eyebrow at her and maneuver past them, putting the girls between me and Surveillance Man. Once that shield’s in place, I dare to look again.

  Still after me. Sylvie might be safe, but I’m not.

  Fortunately, I know what to do. I empty my new bag and flip it inside out to hold my accessories and Sylvie’s black coat. I spot a stand selling knit berets and thrust what I hope is enough euros at the vendor before I pick up a yellow number.

  Sometimes it pays to stand out. If Surveillance Man figures out the woman in the black coat changed into the woman in the yellow hat, all I have to do is get rid of my bright yellow beret beacon to slip under his radar again.

  In theory.

  I don’t know this area well — okay, I don’t know any part of Paris well after only a week — so I navigate on instinct. Years of routinely evading surveillance have built up a sense for “yes, go there,” or “no, dead end,” that translates even to a centuries-old European city. I avoid the first alley leading off the market, and duck down another street. The wide, tree-lined avenue has so little foot traffic it’s eerie. My spy sense squeezes my lungs tighter. Any main road this empty feels like trouble.

  Once I’m down the block, I casually turn my head. Surveillance Man behind me.

  Big trouble. If I take a side street, I might find a shop or crowd or anything to get lost in. Or I might end up more isolated, giving Surveillance Man the opportunity to corner me.

  I scan for a store. The cutesy sidewalk café isn’t quite right. The ritzy chocolatier would normally be my first stop, but I don’t think it’s big enough for what I need.

  Finally, I spot it: a clothing boutique, large enough to reach the back alley. Traffic’s thin, so I jaywalk and head in. No point looking behind me: Surveillance Man will definitely follow.

  I step into the boutique, nerves taking my stomach for a dip. I doubt I can afford haute couture — let alone carry it off — but this is what I’m here for. I pick up a hot pink shirt with faux-fur trimmed cuffs. (Please tell me this isn’t “in” now.) The bored clerk rings me up like he resents my entire existence. “Can I ask a quick favor?” I try in French, adding a timid smile.

  The clerk snarks back something in French that I don’t have a prayer of understanding. Before I recover, Monsieur Snootypants sneers and switches to English. “What do you want?”

  Might as well shout his subtext: don’t bother speaking French; my English is better than your offensive communication attempts.

  So much for the charm route. Plan B: I slide a hundred euro note across the counter and slip into my best Aussie accent (more likely to get help than an American). “Let me out the back and you can keep the change.”

  He scrutinizes me, and I try to remember to breathe as the seconds tick by. Surveillance Man could be here any minute, but I hold onto my cover and my composure. Finally, the clerk jerks his chin for me to come on. He leads me through a suede curtain into a dank storage room, then unlocks three padlocks on the back door. “I never did this,” he says in English.

  “You never saw me.”

  The door screeches shut and the locks clack closed. Crud. Naturally, it occurs to me twenty seconds too late: I should’ve bought shoes too. My flats are good for roaming the city, but if Surveillance Man is as well-trained as I think he is, he’ll surely recognize the shoes.

  Hopefully I’ve already lost him. I check both directions of the alley. Both ends lead out to the street, one almost too close. Staying in this alley could be a dead giveaway, but Surveillance Man
could guess my little game and round that closer corner. I hurry down the alley toward the far end.

  Over my pulse, pounding for plenty of reasons, I hear a metal door slam behind me. Same sound as the one to the boutique. I don’t dare turn back. I pick up my pace until I reach the corner.

  When the building blocks my pursuer’s view, I yank the black coat and scarf out of my bag and flip it right-side out, not slowing a step. I tuck my stuff inside the bag. Once it’s loaded, I pull on my (sigh) lovely new shirt and tug out my ponytail elastic. With a conscious effort to add a more casual spring to my normal gait, I ease on down this new road. The heavier crowd here is perfect to lose him.

  I snag a table at the first café I find, positioning myself to monitor that alley. A waiter who sniffs like I’m infringing on his air comes over to sigh at my table.

  Funny, the only rude Parisians I’ve met seem to be people providing customer service.

  I try to tamp down the nerves buzzing in my belly. I will meet Danny for lunch, he will handle this situation okay, we will be fine. But for now I can’t eat, so I order something I have no intention of drinking: “Café au lait.” (Yeah, Danny and I have gotten more than a few stares for avoiding coffee, tea and alcohol in Paris. What can we say? We’re Mormons. We’re okay with being weird.)

  The waiter leaves. Man, I hate to be still now. I need to be going. I need to be running. I need to be dodging. Instead, I’m sitting. I’m waiting. I’m pretending to peruse an abandoned issue of Le Monde. My eyes dart to that alley between each unintelligible paragraph. But nobody comes out before my coffee arrives.

  If he’s hiding back there to lure me in, I’m not that dumb. I toss a few euros on the table and head out again. Nothing like real surveillance on your tail to make you keep moving.

  I make my way down the street store by store, browsing new purses and baked goods and another restaurant’s menu. Waiting for a stocky guy in a suit to show up in my virtual rearview. Peering over my shoulder. Ignoring the nagging tug that I’ve been in this attractive shirt for too long, and it’s time to change disguises.