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

  At his desk, Zverev accidentally knocks over a pile, launching a miniature avalanche, knocking half a dozen USB drives off the corner. My heart rate kicks up, as if I haven’t already recovered the drive Fyodor stole from Danny. Still — I want those. (And it seems he’s worse than Danny in accumulating those things, like they’re the stray dogs of the engineering world.)

  Before we can move to help him, Zverev’s rebalanced the stacks and shoved the USB drives back in place. He approaches us, hand outstretched. Danny holds out his hand as well, but doesn’t move from the doorway.

  Crud. I nudge him forward, all the way into the office. I whisper the explanation I didn’t give Lori, Jim and Noah. “Where you should never shake hands: across the threshold.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. Once again, he’s smiling. “Don’t smile,” I remind him.

  He obeys and frowns — at me — before looking back to Zverev.

  “Zverev, Borislav Vyacheslavovich,” he introduces himself with a broad grin. (And I finally get a first name for the guy.) “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fluker.”

  “Nice to meet you too.” Their knuckles both turn sufficiently white for a good business handshake. Danny’s a tall guy; Borislav’s got a good three inches on him. Not that it bothers Danny. “You speak English?” he asks.

  “Yes, here we learn English from third grade.”

  Great. Guess who’s superfluous. Well, with him. Not everyone here will speak enough English to get by.

  Borislav swings to me, still beaming. “We don’t have many people bring their sweethearts to the office.”

  “I’m his interpreter,” I correct him. Or have we already blown our covers? I hold my face muscles as still as possible to hide the rising panic.

  “Naturally.” Borislav moves on, and my premature panic peters out. He looks back to Danny. “Good to bring her. Come, sit.” He gestures to the office chairs buried in stacks and rolls of paper.

  I inspect the nearest pile. My eyes land on the line TIMOFEYEV, FYODOR OLEGOVICH.

  The air rushes out of my lungs like I just got a kick to the chest. I check the next pile, and the next. Fyodor’s plans, his approval, his signatures. His work, his life.

  I thought I was dealing. I’ve talked to CIA counselors, coworkers, my station chief. The memories and nightmares come less and less. But to be here? Don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but I’m standing in the office of the man I killed, staring at his paper ghost.

  “Or perhaps we stand,” Borislav finishes.

  “Standing’s great.” Danny smiles. But he checks my reaction, and his smile instantly fades. “Are you feeling okay?”

  His voice sounds far away — in the present. And I’m drowning in the past. I shake my head. “I need water.”

  “Oh!” Borislav practically leaps over three paper piles. I have to backpedal to dodge him. I bump into Danny, who steadies my arms. Borislav fills up a plastic cup at the water cooler half-buried in papers and holds it out eagerly. “Can I get you anything?” he asks Danny.

  “No, thanks.”

  I take a sip from my brimming cup. Russians aren’t inhospitable — with friends. Which we’re not. Falling all over yourself for a stranger? Strange.

  Borislav backs off a step. “You’re my first visitors. But you — you hosted Fyodor Olegovich, yes?”

  I nearly drop my cup, and water sloshes onto the closest stack, instantly blurring Fyodor’s signature. “Sorry,” I say quickly. We both drop to swipe at the puddles on the pages (much easier once Danny takes my cup).

  “Dinyushka!” Borislav bellows — a form of Nadezhda’s name. But not a standard short name like Nadia. A pet name: Naddiekins, practically. There are more intimate forms, but this is definitely not what a superior normally calls a secretary.

  Of course, Russian gender politics could be in play. He’s her boss, so even if something’s going on, it doesn’t necessarily mean the relationship’s reciprocal.

  Nadezhda appears at the door. Borislav sends her off to fetch cleaning supplies. A minute later, she reappears, towing a janitor’s cart. The three of us just gape at her, silently responding with a chorus of Seriously?/Ser′yozno?

  She ducks out again. Once she’s gone, Borislav murmurs, “Durochka Dinochka.”

  I gape at him a second. He’s using an affectionate form of the adjective and her nickname, but “that fool Naddiekins” isn’t exactly a term of endearment. I glance up at Danny. “Explain later,” I mouth to him.

  Borislav finds his secretary’s stupidity cute, and comments to us about it. Another strike.

  Nadezhda brings a towel, and we mop up the last of the water.

  As we stand, I barely catch the little gesture: Borislav’s hand touching the small of her back. He bows his head toward Nadezhda’s, and now he isn’t a giant towering over her. Something’s definitely going on there, because that’s not just a supervisor steering a subordinate.

  Nadezhda starts from the room, but stops halfway to the door. “Oh, should I file old requisitions by supervisor or amount?”

  Borislav studies her a minute. “They have a file number — you know, I’ll take care of those, too, just bring them in.”

  Nadezhda doesn’t turn our direction on her way out, and I can’t interpret anything about her posture or pace to put more context into her side of the “affair.”

  I don’t need another reason to cast Borislav in suspicion, but this isn’t exactly a point in his favor.

  “I apologize,” Borislav says. “Reorganizing the office is difficult, and Fyodor Olegovich had so much . . .” He trails off, gesturing around at the piles littering the room. “Obviously we did not plan for this.”

  “Of course,” Danny says.

  Borislav takes a let’s-move-on-from-that-unpleasantness breath, then slaps back on the grin. This guy’s not a normal Russian. I’ve met hundreds — thousands — of Russians, and I’ve never been treated this warmly until we became much better friends. (Then, you’re part of the family.)

  So why is this dude so eager to embrace us foreigners? My suspicion seismograph registers a tremor.

  “How are you liking Russia?” he asks us.

  Been a great two hours. Danny comes up with a better reply: “Can’t wait to see more.”

  “Very good.” Borislav claps once and gestures for the door. “We have a short time, so let’s get started.”

  Danny follows Borislav out. In my pocket, my phone buzzes and I take it out, along with the listening device scanner. Before I slide that back in, I spot a nlue light — the blue LED.

  The room’s bugged. Audio.

  My sternum presses down like I just put on all my Russian winter wear. I fixate on Borislav outside the door, discussing something with Danny, both of them earnestly conferring (and grinning) while they wait for me. Would a subordinate dare bug his office — or would the FSB recruit from the top? Either Borislav records meetings for his reference, or this is the real reason he got the promotion.

  That giant talking to my husband has got to be an FSB officer.

  And I’m foundering like a boat in the shallow Sea of Azov.

  “Everything okay?” Borislav asks when I reach them.

  “Yep.” I tear my gaze from them, sure my eyes are betraying me. The only logical thing to look at is my phone, still in my hand. The message flashes on the screen, giving me a valid excuse. “My phone’s out of battery.”

  “Oh.” Borislav takes it. I force myself not to snatch it back as he pushes past me into his office.

  An FSB officer took my phone. My CIA-issued phone. He’ll plug it into his computer, which will conveniently clone it while we’re out touring whatever, and he’ll know everything.

  My pulse escalates. I have to get it back. I approach him. “That’s okay. It’ll last until we’re finished.”

  “I insist.” Borislav rummages through his desk. Finally, he produces a charger — an AC adapter. Oh. While he plugs it into th
e outlet closest to the door, I wipe my screen clean so I can tell if anyone touches it. Borislav gently hooks up my phone, setting it on another stack of papers. “There you go,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  “Naturally.” Borislav pats my shoulder, and it seems like he has to bend over to reach that low. He edges past me to re-join Danny; they start down the hall we came in. Nadezhda watches us pass, and I nod to her. She squints at me, like she doesn’t understand the gesture.

  Borislav picks up where he left off. “We specialize in fixed-wing applications, though we want to delve more into developing lightweight composites — but my special area of interest is unmanned aircraft.”

  I monitor Danny’s reaction. He maintains cover, not casting a meaningful eye my direction. The plans Fyodor stole were for a next-gen drone with a hyperspectral camera. (Danny’s explained it like X-ray vision and seeing the past rolled into one.)

  We know he had electronic copies because we found Danny’s USB drive in Fyodor’s things — but could he have sent hard copies, too? I look back, as if I could see the stacks of paper littering Borislav’s office.

  An uneasy weight settles in my gut: dread. This is going to be a very long search.

  I spent three hours of my flight studying Russian aerospace vocabulary. Seems like a waste as we sit in the glossy conference room. Borislav personally translates the entire sales-y PowerPoint (pirated?), the standard “Welcome to Shcherbakov! We’re Successful®! Let’s Make Money Together!” spiel.

  He’s nearly done when there’s a knock at the glass door. A dude in his mid-forties stands there, eyeing me and Danny. This guy’s pinched face is full of suspicion.

  Borislav gets the door. He invites Kita in (short for Nikita, and yes, it’s a man’s name). I feign boredom, staring past them into the hallway. Kita holds out a sheaf of papers. “Could you review these?” The deference, even reverence, of his half-bow is unnerving.

  “Certainly.” Borislav accepts the papers. Just what the guy needs more of.

  “Customers?” Kita asks in an undertone. “Overseas?”

  “Business partners,” Borislav corrects him. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” I try to draw Borislav’s attention to finagle an introduction (so I can get to Kita later). But Borislav doesn’t notice and returns to the screen. Kita lurks in the back, his gaze lingering on me and Danny.

  Speaking of unnerving. The sensation slithering down my spine is way more than being watched — and if it were normal checking out, you’d think he’d be less interested in Danny (or me, you never know). He divides his time in observing each of us.

  Borislav jumps back into his PowerPoint. After loitering (totally creepy), Kita leaves. Definitely sticking a giant mental red flag on that guy, for our safety if nothing else. By the time Borislav finishes and leads us out of the conference room, it’s well past five.

  “I want you to meet our design team.” Borislav cranes his neck to survey the sea of cubicles, most empty. (No Kita.) “In the morning, perhaps. Let’s get your phone.”

  We trail after him to his office. He retrieves my phone (no signs of hacking), and he and Danny continue their animated conversation. Can I get away with coming back tomorrow if Danny really doesn’t need me?

  Borislav chats Danny up the whole way to the parking lot. I have to analyze every word, figure out his motives for small talk a normal Russian wouldn’t feel so compelled to make. Trying to sneak intel out of Danny? Borislav offers as much information as Danny does, though, so I can’t be sure. I can hardly wait until the cab to talk to Danny.

  “I hope they’re putting you somewhere decent.” Borislav doesn’t slow as he passes the first row of cars.

  “Hermitage Hotel,” I provide.

  “Oh, good.” He gestures to his black Jeep Cherokee. Clearly they’re already paying him well if he’s driving an import. “I’ll drive you.”

  There goes our chance to talk. Danny holds out a hand for me. “You can take the front.”

  “That’s okay. You two obviously have lots to discuss.” I take his hand to climb into the backseat. Jeeps aren’t particularly high, but in this skirt? I’ll take the help.

  As soon as Borislav folds himself into the driver’s seat, he picks up his conversation with Danny. “Not sure what to do with you now,” he says.

  My lungs capture my next breath and keep it. Threats?

  “This is really the first time I’ve hosted a guest. What is customary?”

  Oh. Yeah. He mentioned that. I relax (on the outside).

  Danny doesn’t seem to notice. “Don’t know how it’s done in Russia.” He pauses to check with me. I gesture for him to go on. “But at NRC, we take the opportunity to build the business relationship. Maybe take them out for dinner, show them the sights if they’ve never been to the city before — just try to get to know them better.”

  “Ah.” Borislav considers that a minute. “Then where did you go to school?” He’s testing Danny’s cover. He has to be. He’s suitably impressed at Danny’s University of Michigan pedigree. (He should see Danny’s transcripts.) Danny reciprocates the query.

  “L’Institut polytechnique des sciences avancées, in France.”

  Oh. Crap. My stomach inches toward the upholstery. Could this be a coincidence? Or has Borislav’s innocent small talk been fishing after all?

  “IPSA?” Danny asks. “A Toulouse ou à Paris?”

  “Tous les deux. Parlez-vous français? Oh, bien sûr — Canadien.”

  Yep. They both speak French. (Though once again, Danny doesn’t correct his assumption that he’s Canadian.)

  And yeah, this isn’t the conversational stuff I can manage: within seconds, we’re up to our antennae in aerospace jargon. I pick up on “canard” and “ailerons,” and I’m reminded how many English aviation terms are borrowed from French.

  They keep up the French the whole drive back. The aerospace terminology peters out, but the camaraderie doesn’t. At our hotel, Borislav lets Danny out with an enthusiastic handshake. “Tomorrow, we will see better things,” Borislav vows. (I dunno, that PowerPoint was awfully impressive. Animated and everything.)

  “Counting on it.” Danny helps me to the curb, and again, I appreciate the support. Once I’m firmly on the ground, he settles into holding my hand way too comfortably.

  Holding hands is such a small gesture, a tiny symbolic connection. You get used to it so fast — and you never expect to miss it so much. I want to interlace our fingers, but instead I pull my hand away, swallowing a sigh.

  Borislav’s smile doesn’t slip so if he notices, he may not care, considering his relationship with Nadezhda. We bid him goodbye and head into the hotel.

  The elevator doors slide shut. Finally alone. (Like November isn’t a popular time to visit Russia or something.) I’m weak: I take Danny’s hand. “So Borislav speaks French,” I observe. “What a coincidence.” My flat tone conveys my skepticism.

  Could Borislav have orchestrated Danny’s visit? Doubtful. But he could speak half a dozen languages and fished for something Danny spoke to cut me out of the loop.

  “Come on,” Danny says. “That guy? A threat? Even you couldn’t be that paranoid—”

  “Okay.” I cut him off, pretending that little dig doesn’t cut like a dagger. “Did he say anything pertinent?”

  The elevator reaches our floor and the doors slide open. No one’s waiting to get on, so Danny takes two steps for the hall. We’re not done with this conversation. I tug him back into the elevator and push the button for the fifth floor. The doors slide shut and the elevator rises again. “Did he?” I reiterate.

  “Not really. Didn’t react when I mentioned hyperspectral imaging.”

  “How’d you slide that in?”

  “He wants to work on infrared signatures. I said I had experience after a hyperspectral imaging project.”

  I squeeze his hand. That Danny. He can be tricky. I appreciate that — but is he tricky enough to
outmaneuver Borislav?

  Should I tell Danny exactly how much danger he’s in? I’m staring at him, and he pivots to me, waiting for me to speak.

  He doesn’t know. Paris didn’t tell him about the FSB officer. I’m beginning to think they didn’t know, and Semyon saw an opportunity to get in somewhere he’s been targeting for ages.

  I trust Danny, but that doesn’t mean I should throw all my secrets on him. We both know they’re a privilege and a burden that aren’t his.

  This is exactly why I came here: to protect him.

  “I know you know,” I say, “but seriously: watch what you say to him.”

  He scrutinizes me for a long moment. “You don’t seem to like Borislav.”

  “I can’t afford to like people.”

  “All he’s done is be nice.”

  “Exactly.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows express his disbelief.

  “Never known a Russian to be so friendly. That’s just . . . not who they are.” Unless they’ve got a good reason. AKA an ulterior motive.

  “Okay.” He draws out the word, making me sound even crazier. Clearly he didn’t get the subtext. He changes the subject. “If my room’s bugged, why don’t we jam the signal?”

  “The logistics can be tough — but the real problem is if someone’s listening and the feed goes suddenly haywire, it attracts attention. Attention is risky.”

  The elevator slows to stop at the fifth floor. “What percentage of your job is looking like you’re not doing your job?”

  “Seventy-five. Ninety.” I shrug and release his hand. “Depends.”

  The doors slide open, revealing an elegant elderly woman with a fur-lined coat waiting to board. She moves aside to let us off, and we oblige, staying silent until we reach the narrow back stairwell. We stop on the fourth floor landing, and Danny draws me close.

  Technically this meets the definition of “alone,” but I can’t relax till I check the bug scanner. We’re clear.

  Danny tilts my chin up to kiss me. I kiss him back, but something’s different. In Paris, everything was veiled by a newlywed haze of happiness. But kissing in a Russian hotel stairwell, his kisses taste too much like danger.