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 pull away suddenly. Danny’s eyes fly open, as surprised as I feel. This is a gamble, and I can’t gamble with his safety — his life.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  That question is what’s wrong: he doesn’t understand. And why would he, when I’ve basically said we don’t have to play spy when we think nobody’s around?

  I extricate myself from his arms and sit on the stairs. He has to see how serious this mission is. “Ever heard of Moscow Rules?”

  Danny’s gaze wanders away as he searches his memory. “Maybe?”

  “Legendary operational rules for Moscow as the center of Soviet power. Google will tell you it’s things as basic as ‘Trust your gut.’”

  “Sounds like Des Moines Rules.” He leans against the wall, settling in to listen below a flickering light.

  “Right. In other places, reasonable caution’s enough. In Russia, you have to be so careful you don’t look like you’re being careful. The real Moscow Rules are stuff like . . . assume everyone’s an agent or officer of the enemy. You are under constant surveillance, so on the street, never, ever stop. Don’t turn around. Don’t tie your shoes. Don’t check your reflection in a store window. Don’t do anything anyone could construe as looking for surveillance.”

  “How do you work?”

  “You walk. For hours. And hours. And when you’re about to drop, you do something so totally normal no one would blink twice.”

  Danny scrutinizes me. “Are we in Moscow?”

  “No,” I admit. He has a point: Rostov is Russia’s tenth largest city, and it’s a port with military and aerospace connections, but still, it’s not like 10% of the FSB is roaming the streets.

  “You realize the USSR broke up over twenty years ago, right?” he continues.

  “Remember the last time you tried to tell me that? Aboard a certain boat?” The unspoken component of the context hovers above us: when a certain Russian had taken us prisoner. After he stole Danny’s plans.

  He shifts his weight against the wall, looking away. I have to drop the other shoe, make my last point — Borislav’s the enemy, whether Danny wants him to be or not. But Danny’s taking too much pleasure in picking on my paranoid proclivities lately. If I make that accusation, Danny will chalk it up to more paranoia.

  And he’ll still be in danger.

  I shoot for a kicker as close to the truth as I can get while still within the realm of believability for Danny. “You want to trust me on the whole international politics thing or not?”

  He regards my feet. “You know I trust you.”

  “Yeah.” I stand and wait till he meets my gaze. “I know.”

  He leans in to kiss me — but a door above us opens. I jerk free of his grasp, on my feet before that door slaps shut. Danny follows me down the stairs. “Sorry,” I murmur at our floor.

  “I know.” He winks and opens the door. We emerge into the hall, stepping back into our roles.

  We reach our rooms, but Danny doesn’t go in. He moves closer — close enough to kiss — to lower his voice. “Borislav said there’s a cool restaurant on the river. Dinner?”

  “Sure.” I subconsciously glance at his lips.

  Yesterday, we were on our honeymoon. Today, we’re supposed to be new acquaintances. But I’m closing in like I’m succumbing to the inevitable pull of his gravity.

  This cover whiplash is going to cause more than soft tissue damage.

  “Let me know when you’re ready.” He straightens and unlocks his room, leaving me hanging.

  “You did that on purpose,” I say.

  He tosses a grin over his shoulder before he shuts his door.

  Well, that’s plain evil. I unlock my door and consult the bug scanner. My room isn’t safe either.

  My phone buzzes. A text message with a series of random Cyrillic letters. Classic. I hunt for the program to block the data signal and decode the encrypted message.

  There’s an app for that, at least at the CIA. We usually disguise it in a boring game, and I find the right icon in the menu and enable the Easter egg code. Within thirty seconds, I’m reading Semyon’s message in ungarbled Russian.

  Ul Krasnoarmeyskaya, 168. 1815. I’ll find you.

  Now my heart rate’s high for a different reason, but my stomach sinks. The app deletes the data from the phone: encrypted message, decrypted message and single-use key. I check the time. Quarter till six. Enough time to get ready, get in an SDR and get there safely.

  So much for dinner with Danny. Sigh.

  Tonight’s sweater and jeans are less businessy and a heck of a lot warmer than a skirt. I apply yet another coat of paint, this time an evening look. (Thanks, YouTube tutorials.) I pack my extra coat into a fashionable (reversible) tote, in case I need to change disguises.

  Once I’m ready, I’m left to the task I’m dreading most — telling Danny we won’t be eating together after all. I quash the instinct to walk into his room and knock instead.

  He answers the door, smiling. “Ready?”

  Ouch. “Sorry,” I begin. “Just realized I can’t take you to dinner.”

  “Why not?”

  “Meeting. They should take care of you in the restaurant downstairs.”

  “Oh.” That sounds less like disappointment and more like distaste — and I doubt he’s got anything against the hotel restaurant.

  What can I do? I scramble for an excuse or a reason or . . . whatever Danny needs. “Work stuff, you know.”

  “I thought I was work this week.”

  I try to go the silent conversation route, shooting for give me a break here. His shoulders slip down a centimeter.

  Ignoring the jolt to my heart, I switch tacks. “I can order room service for you.”

  “I’ll figure it out. I can even tie my own shoes, you know.” He’s teasing, but . . . something there isn’t a joke.

  I know Danny’s an adult, and it’s not like he’s helpless. “I mean—”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I’ll come by when I get back.”

  “Have a good meeting.” He peers over his shoulder, like he’d say more if it weren’t for his room’s listening devices.

  You and me both, dude. “Stay safe.” I let my eyes convey how seriously I mean that.

  He releases a silent sigh, as if he lost some internal battle. “You too.”

  A small reassurance, but I’ll take it. I shoot him a wink before he shuts the door, and I head into the night alone.

  As soon as the corner store clerk’s occupied with someone else, I step into a secluded corner of the produkty, my last surveillance detection stop. I pull out my dark coat. My tote flips inside out to hold my red coat and wig. In under sixty seconds, I’m ready to meet Semyon, I’m on time, and I’m black. (Free of tails.)

  I troop down Bol′shaya Sadovaya street. I don’t know if it’s the streets I spent so many months walking, or the familiar routine of the SDR, but something about this . . . fits. Like I’m finally in my element again.

  That thought makes me flinch as I check behind me again. My element is Ottawa, I remind myself. My hands in Danny’s, his arms around me, my lips against his.

  I reach the Rostov Administration Building and turn, barely allowing myself a glance up at the familiar sight. A glance is all I can afford, since the ornate façade with filigrees, cherubs and shells makes me think of Paris. Which makes me think of Danny.

  Where I really fit. Right?

  Now’s no time to worry about that. I keep my pace brisk, both to make my meeting, and to get off the dark street.

  Maybe I should’ve brought Danny. Well, not Danny, but someone. Last time I was in Rostov, I never, ever went anywhere alone. Like I said, I can take care of myself, but usually that means not wandering alone in the dark. (Not that I’m asking an untrained civilian to be my bodyguard.)

  I reach the address. On the outside, the building seems like just another brick in the strip-mall wall. Insid
e, however, it’s clear they’re trying to distinguish themselves with a blend of modern industrial (exposed ducts and can lights), eclectic (mismatched dining sets) and shabby chic (with repurposed, artfully worn furniture).

  On a weeknight, the atmosphere is subdued, but the trendy twentysomething crowd must pack in here on the weekends. I hesitate at the antique entry table — more shabby, less chic. No hostess in sight, so I take a seat at a tiny black coffee table with a good view of the door.

  I scan the harmoniously mismatched table arrangements, but Semyon’s nowhere in sight. How much have Moscow Rules changed? No contact in public? Probably should’ve mentioned that before he arranged this morning’s meeting.

  The waitress takes my drink order and disappears. A man a couple decades older than me strolls through the door. I scrutinize him to be sure it’s not Semyon, but it takes me a second too long, and he spots me. He comes to sit in the overstuffed armchair beside me. Which is okay in Russia — but not with me. Unfortunately, I can’t run away without drawing more suspicion.

  My new friend offers his name: Lyosha (also a man’s name; short form of Aleksei). He takes my nod as a conversation invitation. I keep the small talk far from the truth, or any of my covers. The waitress gives Lyosha both of our drinks, and he passes my Perrier with pomegranate juice and honey. (Oh my goodness, I nearly forgot about Russian honey. They’re obsessed with the stuff — but their honey deserves the devotion.)

  “And where are you from?” Lyosha asks.

  Before I can lie, Lyosha turns to accept the bread from the waitress and orders a traditional starter, oliv′ye salad, for both of us. I never liked the potatoes, veggies, eggs and chicken in mayo, but I hardly care — I’m definitely not eating.

  “Moscow,” I finally answer. I scan the restaurant casually. Still no Semyon.

  “I thought you were from Kyiv. The most beautiful women in the world are from Kyiv.”

  Without my Lori disguise, I do not buy the obvious line.

  The waitress returns with our food, and she’s careful to place the bowl in my hands. I immediately figure out why: she tucks a piece of paper between my fingers and the dish. I wait until Lyosha is absorbed in his meal and use my bowl to shield the paper from his view.

  Басков дураки. Literal translation: Basque fools. Using actual words will hopefully be enough to throw any Russian speaker off the scent, but the real message is there. Басков = Cyrillic B + ACK. Back. And дураки = duraki = door.

  I set my plate on the table. Wish I could make the getaway cleaner, but I can’t afford to abandon both my coats here. (Bye-bye, one on the coat rack). I make a show of searching the pockets of my tote bag, like I’ll need something in the bathroom — makeup, feminine hygiene products, any excuse will do — and hitch the strap onto my shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Lyosha.

  He must know it’s a lie, though I hope he can’t guess why.

  Normally, I’d tap into the CIA’s social engineering skill set to get out the back, like in Paris, but nobody notices me in the kitchen, so I walk to the quiet side street.

  Crap, it’s cold without a coat.

  A beat-up, boxy beige coupe sits halfway down the block, facing me, someone in the driver’s seat. Tension laces through my shoulder muscles. If this isn’t Semyon, this isn’t good.

  I go that way, not looking at the driver. My pulse climbs with every step closer to that car. I don’t even know what Semyon drives.

  When I come even with the front bumper, the engine starts. I barely manage to not jump. The headlights stay off, but the dome light flashes in the car, illuminating the driver a split second. The fedora’s misleading, but there’s no mistaking the salt-and-pepper beard: Semyon.

  Whew. He rolls down his window. “Get in,” he calls in a mock whisper.

  “Duh. You think?” I mutter, and hop in. I have to avoid a briefcase on the floor on my side, and hold my tote on my lap.

  He drives onto the main road before he switches on the headlights. “So,” he says, one eye on the rearview. “How was your first day at the office?”

  “Slow. Can you get me another coat? Had to sacrifice one in there.”

  “Sure. I’ll have one in your room tomorrow. Any leads?”

  I flip through the few people I met today: Nadezhda, whose boyfriend/boss calls her dumb. Kita, the lingerer. Borislav, the guy who’s way too friendly with foreigners and strangers. “Oh, I think so.”

  “Sweet.”

  I glance at him, surprised at the wrong-decade slang (has it been that long since he’s been home?), but he’s too busy scanning the street. I check my side mirror: squarish headlights behind us.

  Semyon taps my elbow, drawing my attention. He’s holding out something the size of a thick credit card with a USB plug. I don’t use this device often, but I recognize it. A hard drive cloner. A low thrum of adrenaline begins to build in my stomach. This isn’t just a gadget: it’s an assignment.

  How soon can I get some alone time with Borislav’s CPU?

  For now, I slip the cloner into my tote. “Our hotel rooms are bugged. Audio and visual.”

  “Par for the course. I’ll have someone sweep when they bring your coat. But we can’t take all the bugs out. Attracts more suspicion.”

  Of course. “Need a SIM card for my executive, too.” The standard term for someone you’re protecting. Even Semyon doesn’t need to know who he really is.

  “Didn’t I tell you about the dead drop?”

  “Nope.”

  He sighs at his forgetfulness, patting his pockets. He pulls out a slip of paper. An address, then the words ozherel′ye, varezhki, like it’s a shopping list (for a necklace and mittens). But the items aren’t things to pick up: they’re a code. “Necklace” is the cryptonym for a postbox, and “mittens” means the dead drop concealment device is disguised as a rock.

  I slip the paper into my tote’s pocket, too. Like I’ve hit the end of a silent countdown, the familiar jitters steal into my legs. That’s not Restless Legs Syndrome. It’s only been a few minutes, but if we need this level of secrecy, this car meeting can’t last much longer. I need to get moving.

  I’m about to get up when Semyon starts the conversation again. “When you find the officer, let me know. We’ll take it from there.”

  Not like I have time to do more anyway, leaving the day after tomorrow. “Sure. Turn here.” I point at the next right and grab my bag. “This is my stop.”

  We both know we’re nowhere near my hotel, but Semyon obeys. He takes the right slowly — slowly enough that once the building provides cover, I can escape safely without stopping the car. By the time anyone can peer around the corner, Semyon’s door is shut, the briefcase I nearly stepped on is in my seat and opened, and the pop-up dummy inside makes it appear I never left. Meanwhile, I’ve yanked on my red coat and tucked my bangs under my wig. I move the cloner to my pocket. The quick-change act only works because my coat covers my dark braids, which I don’t have time to pin up properly. I’ll straighten it out.

  Maybe Danny and I can get a quick dinner, but then I’ve got another appointment — face time with Borislav’s computer. And Danny might be my ticket in.

  After stopping at several restaurants along the way back (not many options at this hour and part of town) to fix my wig and make sure I’m surveillance-free, I reach the Hermitage again. The lights shining up on the façade throw the green and white decor into deep relief.

  Deep relief sounds wonderful right now.

  Too bad I’ve got other plans. I go straight to Danny’s room and knock, proud of myself for heeding the right protocol the first time instead of my instinct to walk in.

  He doesn’t answer. “Mr. Fluker?” I call, knocking again.

  Still no answer. After my third attempt fails, cover or no cover, I’m going in. I fumble the key into the lock and let myself into the dark room. It’s barely seven; could he be asleep?

  Then again,
with all the time zone changes and red-eye flights we’ve endured in the last two weeks, who knows what time it feels like to him? I switch on the lights. “Danny?”

  No Danny on the bed. No note on the desk. No sign of room service trays or trash in the can. I glance at the bathroom. Empty.

  Fear flickers to life in the corners of my mind. I verify the room number on the open door: 302. Like they accidentally switched my room key with a universal one. I step in. His bags are still by the desk.

  It’s okay — he’s okay. He has to be.

  I told him to go to the restaurant. Maybe he got caught up with some new Russian friends. (Which could be trouble, but probably not danger.) He just hasn’t finished eating yet.

  I lock up and head down to join him for dinner — which I could use, too, since I didn’t choke down even a bite of my oliv′ye salad. Which happens to me way too often.

  The small restaurant’s warmly lit, the gold walls accented with white molding, both playing off the navy and white tablecloths. Reminds me of somewhere Fyodor Timofeyev took me to dinner, in fact. I suppress a shudder and scan the tables for Danny’s familiar longish hair or dark suit.

  Nope.

  I fight the tide of worry rising in my mind again and wander in for a better view, murmuring something to the maître d’ about meeting someone. Every table, every chair: not him, not him, not him.

  The maître d’ is reading his reservation book when I approach. “Is Fluker here, from room 302?”

  “Nyet.” He turns back to his book.

  No in Russia is usually a knee-jerk response to any request for concessions or help — yay, decades of Soviet bureaucracy — so I can’t be sure he’s sure. “We’re supposed to meet for dinner.” I brush my long copper bangs aside, carefully arranging them. (Calling attention to a positive physical attribute is almost required to get your way as a woman in Russia — when you’re not a missionary.) I describe Danny quickly, what he was wearing. “Have you seen him?”

  “Nyet.”