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

  I know what I’m doing, and I will wait him out.

  After an hour, I’m realizing that these cute flats have been okay for sightseeing, but they’re no match for determined walking. Oh, and I’m beginning to accept that Surveillance Man is good and gone. I lost him.

  Now to find out what’s going on, who’s following me, and how they tracked me down. I change course for the crêperie where we ate yesterday, hanging onto the hope that Sylvie conveyed the message, and that Danny remembers where this place is (and I do, too).

  And the hope that this is about to become a distant memory.

  If Sylvie ran a restaurant, it would be this crêperie. The similarities run deeper than the lace-draped tables. Something about the air in here is simply . . . serene.

  Yesterday, the peace was perfect. Today, it’s aggravating. How long until Danny gets here, and we can figure out what’s up? Mystery Man, Surveillance Man, searching for me —

  Wait a minute. Surveillance Man’s accent? American. Same with the guy at our door.

  No reason springs to mind for my own people to want me that badly — or go about finding me that badly. I definitely don’t have any “friends” in Paris. So the people going to all this trouble to track me down are . . . who?

  Uneasiness prickles down my spine. This. Is. Bad.

  “There you are.” Danny echoes his greeting from this morning as he settles into the seat across the tiny table. I can finally release the worry I’ve been harboring since I left him at Sylvie’s, the same sentiment reflecting in his warm brown eyes. He’s safe, he’s here, and he’s my husband. I ruffle his dark half-curls where they flip out behind his ears, then pull him close. He kisses me, and the reality seeps in. We’re both safe.

  For now.

  “Good to see you, too.” I force myself to smile. We have one day left of our honeymoon, and I can’t waste it worrying. Of course, I’m also trying to figure out where we should stay tonight, since Sylvie’s is obviously not secure. All three of us will be safer if we’re elsewhere.

  Danny furrows his brow. “Could’ve avoided this if you’d listened to me.”

  I sidestep an argument (neither of us really wants to argue), going for a diplomatic tone. “Why do you say that?”

  “We have an appointment at the US embassy at one.” Danny passes me a business card.

  “Really.” My voice is the definition of disbelief. I read the card. Noah Crystal, a phone number, and “1 PM” in Danny’s writing in the corner. “Did he mention what this is about?”

  “Wouldn’t say, just insisted he had to talk to you.”

  “And he came in?”

  He nods. “For some reason, he didn’t believe you weren’t home.”

  “Weird.” Could be a setup. I’ve seen this movie. I get out my phone — well, the cheap non-CIA phone I bought when we got to Europe. I’ve programmed the number for the embassy, but I didn’t expect to need it.

  “Embassy of the United States in Paris,” the machine answers. I press whatever keys it takes to get to a real operator. Meanwhile, the grandmotherly woman who owns the crêperie comes to talk to Danny. She’s so happy to see him that she must remember him from yesterday. Danny has a tendency to stand out. I mean, I already appreciate how handsome he is, but what really draws people to him is how completely, genuinely . . . genuine he is. He’s the one part of my life that’s real, through and through. Plus, apparently older women find his Québec accent endearing. (Or unintelligible. I was nearly laughed out of a classy place when I used the Québec pronunciation of beurre, butter.)

  I’m still navigating phone menus when the owner promises us the house specialty. By the time a human gets on the phone, I’m tapping my foot (for the operator and the crêpes).

  “Hello, this is Tammi,” says the operator. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to speak to Noah Crystal. I’m told he works in the embassy.”

  “What department?”

  I study the card, like that information would magically appear. “I only know he came by where I’m staying and tried to convince me he works there.”

  A beat of silence passes. No way could any one operator possibly know everyone in an embassy the size of Paris’s, but I sense the concern carrying on the line. Smells like a scam. “Let me check,” she finally says. “Can I put you on hold?”

  “Sure.”

  Danny asks a wordless question with a lifted eyebrow, and I change the angle of the phone to answer. “Looking him up.”

  “Something’s weird.”

  Yep. And Danny doesn’t know about the guy who tailed me yet.

  “Think he’s lying?” Danny asks.

  They’ve certainly raised enough warning flags. But something about this goes beyond criminal to just deeply wrong. (Something = Surveillance Man.)

  “Are you still there?” Tammi returns to the line.

  “Yep.”

  “Let me connect you with Mr. Crystal’s secretary.”

  Okay, so he works there — but that doesn’t prove he was the one at our door a couple hours ago.

  After two rings, a man answers. “Noah Crystal’s office.”

  “Apparently I have an appointment with Mr. Crystal.”

  “Okay,” he says, instantly warming. “What’s your name?”

  Old habits die hard: I scan the half-full crêperie and lower my voice. “Talia Reynolds.”

  Danny clears his throat, and my gaffe registers. “Fluker,” I add, way too late. “Talia Reynolds Fluker.”

  No answer for a long second. Two. Three. I’m about to check my phone to see if we’re still connected when the secretary finally speaks again. “We’ll see you at one.”

  Closer to a command than a question. “I guess so,” I say, fighting the falling feeling in my stomach.

  “See you then.” He ends the call.

  The scent of warm chocolate reaches me before a warm, delicate crêpe coated with Nutella does. I manage to thank the owner, but I’m not sure I can eat.

  “Well?” Danny asks.

  “We’ve got a date.” Yippee.

  As you might expect, the US embassy in Paris is pretty huge. Housed in a classically designed behemoth, it could be a nightmare to navigate, but of course they’re expecting us. We surrender our phones and follow our escort through a maze of halls, a breezeway, more halls.

  This isn’t some paperwork problem we can resolve in the main chancery. It’s something big. Every step, I’m holding Danny’s hand tighter.

  And every step, we get closer. I’m not clinging to Danny because I’m afraid of what we might be headed for. I’m clinging to him because I know exactly what we’re getting into.

  Okay, not “exactly,” but enough to realize it isn’t good. Though Langley would never confirm or deny anything about Noah Crystal across an unsecure line, bureaucrats aren’t the only people in an embassy.

  Which makes me wonder if Danny should be here. But I’m not letting go.

  The guard leaves us in a sleek waiting area. The modern seating and polished receptionist desk are empty. The rest of the office is deserted. Even the drooping flag’s creepy.

  Tension still ties my heart in knots, but Danny instantly relaxes a bit. “Gee.” He sweeps a hand around the office, which is only missing the Company seal. “Wonder why we’re here.”

  “The CIA. We’re subtle.” My voice carries the same sarcastic twist. “Says so right on our letterhead.”

  Danny settles on the black leather couch, and I pace a minute until he beckons for me to join him. He slides an arm around my waist, but the closest I can come to comfortable, casual closeness is drumming my fingers on his knee. What does the CIA want that couldn’t wait a couple days till I’m home and back at work? And what’s with the scare tactics?

  Finally a man too young to be an overworked bureaucrat comes bustling into the office. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He gestures for me to come along. I hesitate a split second, not quite
ready to abandon Danny, especially here in the belly of the beast. The man stops and turns back, waiting for me.

  Alone. It goes without saying.

  I squeeze Danny’s knee and stand to follow this guy. He leads me down a hallway. At the last second, I catch Danny’s what now? expression.

  Whatever this is, it’d better be quick. The dude leads me to his office. The glass desktop positively gleams. In front of it, a pair of cushy armchairs waits for a nice fireside chat. “Noah Crystal.” He offers a hand with his introduction, though I sincerely doubt that’s his real name.

  I shake his hand, but obviously he already “knows” me. Noah pats the back of the blue chair farther from the door. I perch on the cushion, bracing myself for the blow.

  Pessimistic, maybe, but this is the CIA. If they’re begrudging my first vacation in too long — not just a vacation, my freaking honeymoon — it’s probably not to give me that belated wedding gift.

  “We need to discuss an assignment,” Noah says. He settles into the other chair. As if the setup wasn’t enough — not sitting opposite me across his desk, but in this tender little tête-à-tête — he arranges his light brown hair and his features to project a perfect air of competence and kindness. I’m not buying #2.

  He senses the reluctance in my silence, because he adds, “An opportunity.”

  Again, not buying #2. “I’ll stop you here. Answer’s no.”

  “Ms. Reynolds, you don’t understand.”

  I’m already on my feet. “Nope, I got it. Thanks for thinking of me and hunting me down in a very threatening way on my honeymoon, but I’m sure there are spies in Paris with less on their plates.”

  “Sorry about the approach. But we need to talk to you two.”

  I spear him with a sarcastic glare. “Who, me and my landlady? Your goons followed her, you know.”

  Crystal sighs through his teeth. “Never would’ve come to that,” he mutters, “if Jim hadn’t—”

  He cuts himself off, but I’ve heard enough. Doubt his little scapegoat exists. Barely restraining an eye-roll, I head past his chair. Crystal doesn’t bother to stand, letting me grasp the doorknob.

  “You’ll really want to hear this,” he says. “You’ll kick yourself the rest of your life.”

  I pause, and that split second’s enough for him to strike. “It’ll give you closure with Fyodor Timofeyev.”

  The name hits my back like a cold splash of acid. It’s been three months since that case went horribly wrong — and Fyodor died. I’m still working through the aftermath, but I thought I was close to finding closure.

  Still, I can’t resist the question tearing through my thoughts. “How?” I turn and ask.

  Crystal stands slowly. He doesn’t acknowledge my question. Instead, he points toward the lobby we just left. “That was your husband? The aerospace engineer?”

  My lungs jolt in panic, and I instinctively position myself at the door, ready to protect him. “Danny’s fame precedes him.”

  “Just part of your file.” Crystal turns to his desk, his voice deceptively casual. “Your husband met Timofeyev too, right?”

  I give the smallest nod in recorded history. The instincts that have served me well today now growl like this conversation has taken a bad turn.

  “In fact, wasn’t he a victim of corporate espionage on Timofeyev’s part?”

  “Obviously you’ve done your research, Mr. Crystal.”

  “I like to be thorough.” He flashes a grin, like his little laid-back pretense will build our relationship. “Call me Noah.”

  I’m done. I tug the door handle, but before I pull, he scrapes in a last-ditch effort. “Don’t you like to be thorough? Wouldn’t it bother you to leave a loose end dangling?” He lets that resonate before he lowers his voice to add, “Don’t you want this put to rest at last?”

  I eye him over my shoulder. He’s moved to sit on his desk, ankles crossed in the picture of corporate casual. No way can he know how much this case affected me. If it weren’t for that assignment, I never could’ve agreed to marry Danny. I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be married.

  I wouldn’t have Fyodor Timofeyev’s blood on my hands.

  That very literal image — a memory — surfaces, and I’m gripping the door handle like it’s a shield, a lifeline, the hilt of a knife.

  I’ve gotten through this. I have. As much as possible. But it’s only been three months, and I’m a spy, not an assassin. I know some people never escape that weight, that guilt.

  “I’d want it closed. Over with,” Crystal finally finishes. “I’d at least listen.”

  I release the doorknob and turn to him again. “Listening.”

  “We need to know if the plans Timofeyev stole from your husband’s office made it back to Shcherbakov.” He’s already brought up Fyodor, but suddenly I’m in the deep end of the espionage pool. This isn’t some superficial loose thread to tie up. This could be serious.

  I recovered the drive he stole, but, hello, email? A file could’ve circled the globe twice before we knew it was gone. Granted, the stolen plans belong to Canadian defense, but I don’t think anybody at CSIS, Canada’s spy agency, would dare argue Timofeyev isn’t my turf.

  Apparently my full attention isn’t enough for Noah. He hops off the desk and shrugs, walking away. “Your call.”

  I won’t play his game. “Great. I’m sure you’ll find someone to handle it.” Someone not on their honeymoon, I don’t add. I’m about to leave once again when Noah launches a heart-seeking missile.

  “Do you trust your husband?” Now Noah circles around me, but he’s not nearly tall enough to intimidate me with just his proximity.

  “Duh?”

  “No, no — I mean, of course. I just want to be sure we can trust him before we go any further. You know, with his allegiances to another country. Allegiances that could be exploited.”

  Danny’s Canadian job and Canadian clearances hardly qualify. This time, I don’t hold back the eye-roll.

  Noah closes in to I’m-dropping-the-act distance. “All I’m saying is you need to be extremely careful of what lines you two will and won’t cross. What’ll happen if Danny has to choose between his country and his job? You and his job?”

  I school my features into a stare of stone. I trust Danny. With everything. “As much as I appreciate the marital advice, I think we’re done.”

  Crystal ignores me. “And what if you have to choose between yours and him?”

  “Is that what this is about?” I laugh, a single syllable without humor. “My husband or my job? Push me on that, and I don’t think you’ll like the answer.”

  Crystal’s phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. Like I’m not standing right here. He looks up with this little frown-smirk. “What I’m trying to say is this assignment isn’t for you.”

  “That tactic won’t work—”

  “If you would stop interrupting, I could finish what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes.”

  Only one of us has been beating around the bush the whole time. I say nothing, letting Crystal finish so I can get out of here.

  “The assignment’s for Danny.”

  That’s a joke. It has to be. I peer at him a minute, willing him to crack a smile.

  None comes. I remember — Noah said “you two.” You two. Me and Danny.

  The silence spins beyond my control, and my stomach floats in zero Gs, like I’m at the top of the climb, the split second before the plummet back to earth. More memories assault me — Danny in danger. Danny facing off against a traitor. Danny at gunpoint.

  I will never, never let that happen again.

  “No.” I hold up both hands. “No way.”

  “They’re his plans. We need him to go to Shcherbakov.”

  “There has to be someone else. Technical officer. Anyone.”

  Crystal’s expression finally breaks, but not into a grin — a grimace. “It’s the only wa
y.”

  I step away from the door, coming at Crystal. “Why are we talking about this? My husband wants nothing to do with the CIA. We’ve made this clear to my station chief.”

  “I’m afraid this is out of your hands.”

  “My husband’s involvement with my job is ‘out of my hands’?”

  Crystal holds his arms in a defensive position, and I realize my voice, my posture, my words are already on the attack.

  Because I am. I will protect Danny. “My husband’s already gone way above and beyond what any civilian should have to endure. You cannot put him in danger.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”

  What, because I said yes to the CIA and to Danny, my hands are tied on all decisions about the two of them? Heat builds in my chest and my cheeks.

  This is my fault. He’s in danger again because of me, because of my job. That’s the only reason they can get to him.

  I have to stop this. I have to. And I have one sure way to keep Danny away from danger. The idea hurts — physically hurts — but nothing’s worth putting him in harm’s way. Not again.

  I stride to Crystal’s desk and grab a pen from the holder. “Paper.”

  “Talia, listen to me—”

  I rip a blank sheet from the ink jet printer on an ebony end table next to his desk and scribble out my message. I, Talia Reynolds, resign from the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency, effective immediately. I sign and shove it at Noah. “Now you can’t touch him.”

  Noah won’t take the paper, but he won’t take his eyes off it, either. “I can’t accept this.”

  “Take it,” I say through my teeth, though this must be way outside the correct protocol.

  Yeah, well, so’s recruiting my husband.

  “You don’t understand.” Crystal tilts my wrist, moving the resignation out of his way. “Danny’s already said yes.”