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

  When he’s a couple feet past us, Borya casts a quick wink Nadezhda’s way.

  Danny doesn’t turn back. I’m not disappointed he’s playing his cover. I told him to treat me this way, and he’s on-mission. It seems bad, but it’s actually good.

  At least, I really want it to be good.

  Nadezhda and I fall into step behind our men. (Okay, she doesn’t know that.) “How long have you been ‘seeing’ Borya?”

  Her eyebrows flinch, but beyond that, Nadezhda betrays no emotion. “Almost a year.”

  Since before the promotion? Then does she know he’s FSB? Or was he recruited more recently? I toss another lure into the water. “He seems like a good man.” Not.

  “Very.” She fixates on the back of his head, and I can’t tell if she absolutely does or absolutely does not believe herself.

  Yep. She’s the cashew I’ve got to crack.

  “I’m sure he treats you well,” I say, though I try to leave a question in my tone, like I’m concerned about her well-being after seeing too many of these relationships go south.

  She gives a quick noncommittal nod. Danny and Borya hang a left and we follow.

  “He must trust you. And like you a lot.”

  “Both, I hope,” she says. “What about you? How long have you been an interpreter?”

  I play my cover easily. “Four years. First time in Rostov-on-Don, though.”

  “How do you like the city?”

  I borrow Danny’s diplomatic tack. “I like what I’ve seen, but that’s mostly the hotel and here.”

  “We’ll fix that. We have your sightseeing excursion this afternoon.”

  That’s right. More time to trick her into talking about her boyfriend. (Totally not above that.)

  Danny and Borya stop ahead of us and take a left into an “ugleplastiki” lab. (Angle plastics?) We observe them through the lab’s window, not invited to come along.

  Nadezhda props her arms on the sill, watching Danny and Borya and the other workers in the lab. Borya holds up a piece of black fabric, obviously pretty proud of himself. Oh, right. He promised composites. “Why do people complain learning Russian is difficult?” The tone of Nadezhda’s small talk matches her vacant expression. “It is so easy even babies learn it here.”

  “Um.” Wow. I see why her boyfriend thinks she’s stupid. “Was English difficult for you to learn?”

  She breaks away from staring at Danny and Borya’s silent conversation to me. “That is different.”

  “Yes.” Only not.

  “Was Russian difficult for you?”

  “Somewhat. Being in the country helps a lot.”

  Skepticism settles in the lines around Nadezhda’s squint. “Is this why you have been working in Russia for four years?”

  “No, mostly it’s the people.” No hesitation. It’s the thing I’ve missed the most. Valya, Ksena, even Garo — people I served and taught and laughed with and loved. (Though maybe not quite how Garo wanted me to.) I turn back to Danny and Borya, talking to someone in a lab coat, all huddled around another computer.

  “Did you need any specialized training for your job?” Nadezhda asks.

  My suspicions creep up a notch, like the hairs at the back of my neck. What’s she fishing for? “Yes,” I lie. (Spy.) “I’m certified.”

  “Where do you work in Moscow?”

  So glad I didn’t go rogue with this support mission for Danny. The CIA’s already fully backstopped my legend — meaning they’ve provided the documentation and bribes necessary for people to verify my story, so I can say this without worrying. “InterpretiRossiya.”

  “Do you work in the Moscow office?”

  “I work wherever they send me.” I know she’s trying to make small talk, and I’m all for the relationship-building exercise, but I only like playing Twenty Questions when I’m the questioner. Now it’s my turn. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh.” Nadezhda blushes and looks back to the window. “I don’t mean to bother you. I’ve always wanted to interpret.”

  “English?”

  “Ukrainian.”

  “I could see if there are any openings.”

  She looks at me, and a small smile shines in her eyes. “Davai na ty,” she says.

  Tough concept to translate. In Russian, like Spanish, French and most European languages, there are two forms of “you”: the formal one for superiors and strangers, and the informal one for friends. Nadezhda’s offering to move me from the first category into the second.

  “Da, davai,” I agree.

  “Call me Nadia.”

  You know, I kinda like her. Not that I’ll let that block my objective. She might even help.

  I glance at Borya and Danny passing a miniature black plane wing back and forth, chatting up the lab workers — my husband and the FSB officer who might have his stolen plans. I’ll take all the help I can get.

  After half an hour, Borya wraps up the facility tour and takes us to lunch at 16th Line, an art gallery/restaurant. Even as Lori I’m not cool enough to be here. The exterior is painted in hipster-style graffiti, giant graphic faces, while the industrial chic interior is all black, steel, chrome and mirrors. Oh, and alcohol. Walls of bottles in every shape, color and vintage.

  The hostess guides us back to a corner table. I step right up to the best vantage point to see the door, and Danny gets my chair for me.

  Not tuning out the barrage of aerospace chatter takes serious effort: watching, waiting, protecting Danny. At least they’re using English. Nadia has perfected the patiently, indulgently, vapidly bored look. Maybe I need to work on that. Or maybe it comes naturally to her.

  The waitress has brought us water and vodka (gee, thanks) by the time the topic of correcting tailplane instability finally winds down — but Borya’s just getting started. “So, the University of Michigan,” he begins.

  He’s testing Danny’s cover. Again.

  Fortunately, it isn’t a cover. Danny sips his water easily then smiles. “Yep.”

  “A very good school.”

  “They worked us hard.”

  “And an expensive school, too, from what I understand? That was the biggest shock of studying outside Russia, the price.”

  Danny gives a little laugh-nod (that’s actually really cute). “I was spared the brunt of it: in-state tuition. I’m from Michigan.”

  Borya slowly pulls his bottom lip through his teeth, and something tells me he isn’t pondering international tuition system differences. “You’re American, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  So much for the Canadian-employee’s-Canadian-himself charade, though it’s hardly worth the effort without that backstopping. Borya’s gaze slides away, thoughtful. Trying to find something else to trip him? Pondering what to do with an American? My palms grow clammy.

  “Did you know any Russians at university?” Borya asks.

  Danny rubs at his cloth napkin, also thinking. “Can’t think of any. A friend go there?”

  “Yes, for his Master’s. Oleg Kollerov?”

  I don’t dare signal an answer to Danny. Maybe Oleg did go to U–Mich, and maybe this is the obvious test. Or maybe Borya’s even cleverer. Maybe there is no Oleg, and he’s baiting Danny. If Danny says yes, his cover’s blown.

  One of the most important ways a spy obtains information is through elicitation: getting answers without asking direct questions. You flatter your new best friend. You pretend to be dumb. You lay a trap of misinformation.

  “When was he there?” Danny’s gaze is still distant, like he’s still searching his memory.

  “Would have been . . . eight years ago?”

  “Probably wouldn’t have run into him. I was an undergrad then.”

  Borya accepts that answer. Danny’s incredibly lucky — no, he’s lucky he doesn’t have a cover to play, that he can tell the truth. Their talk moves to Paris’s Musée de l’air et de l’espace, and it’s my turn to play my cover as some
one who wasn’t there last week.

  “What was your favorite exhibit?” Borya asks.

  Danny doesn’t wait a beat, settling back in his sleek black chair. “SO.9000 Trident.”

  “Oh?” Borya’s gaze wanders skyward as if he could actually look through his memory. “I don’t recall that one.”

  “Experimental hall, interceptor from the fifties. I have a thing for scrubbed prototypes from that era.” (I swear, if Danny mentions the Avro Arrow, the Canadian plane with an eerily similar history that he’s obsessed with, I cannot be held responsible for what I may do.)

  “Ah, your pet project. I’m eager to hear more.”

  Yeah, he’d better not.

  “What was your favorite exhibit?” Danny asks.

  “V-1 flying bomb, from the Great Patriotic War. I have ‘a thing’ for unmanned flight.” This is sure to be riveting. But when Borya leans forward, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes, my brain jumps to full attention. “Have you worked much with drones?”

  My heart also hops to high alert.

  “Worked with almost everything.” Good thing Danny’s used to being vague about his Canadian defense contracts. He guides the conversation in a different direction. “One thing I love about my job, the variety. Every week’s a new challenge.”

  “And is that how you worked with hyperspectral imaging?”

  I swallow hard — or I would if I could. That’s the drone Fyodor stole. Sure, Danny mentioned it to him yesterday, but at the time Borya had never heard of it.

  I’m sure my gaze is drilling into Danny, but his is fixed on his cobalt blue glass. “Oh, yeah. That was a while ago. Our latest projects are on de-icing.”

  “Ah.” Borya takes the answer, but I can see it lurking behind his acceptance — the subject is far from dropped. “You’re coming back to Shcherbakov this afternoon, yes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I can’t wait to hear more about that.”

  Why, why, why did I not tell him who Borya is? Danny knows better than to spill classified secrets, but what about everything that’s okay to tell a business partner but not an FSB officer (i.e., everything)? We’ve got to grab a minute alone.

  The waitress finally arrives to take our orders — an “ox fillet” is just beef, right? — and heads away. Customer service isn’t the aim of Russian restaurants, so it could be a while before we see her.

  As soon as she’s gone, Nadia takes advantage of the interruption and leans over to murmur something to Borya. They both glance my direction with wary eyes.

  Oh, crap. She’s telling him about finding me in his office. She has to be.

  But he gave me his keys. He has no reason to suspect me, and it isn’t news to him. Still, my pulse ticks up a notch.

  “Wait.” Borya slips back to Russian and turns to her. “They need me to do what? Why?”

  Oh. My pulse returns to normal — after another minute of discussion shows this business note for what it really is: my chance. I catch Danny’s attention and point to the Galereya sign across the restaurant. “There’s a gallery upstairs. Why don’t we let them work?”

  Borya acknowledges us with a nod and focuses on Nadia.

  I lead Danny upstairs. He immediately maneuvers closer. “‘Great Patriotic War’ — World War II?”

  Not the topic I was planning. “Yeah. Still a big thing here. I mean, Rostov was besieged twice, Volgograd was practically leveled, and despite that, they won. A big deal.”

  I try to make our browsing seem casual while steering him away from any prying ears. When we’re the only ones admiring a photorealistic painting of a beggar on a cracked sidewalk, I kick off that classified conversation. “Be careful what you say to him.”

  Danny eyeballs the destitute man in the picture. “Doubt he’s gonna talk.”

  I spear him with a patented Look, and Danny relents (and sighs). “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious, thank you.”

  “Obviously he’s harmless. He’s just an engineer.”

  “Like you? Like Timofeyev?” I.e. the man who stole Danny’s plans.

  Danny presses his lips together. Really, we still can’t confirm Fyodor was doing anything other than “normal” corporate espionage, but in this case that should be more than enough.

  “There is an officer at the company.” I add extra emphasis so he knows I’m not talking about an executive.

  He shakes his head, focusing on the painting again. He opens his mouth, then closes it, rethinking his response. Instead of speaking, he walks to the next painting, a shaggy dog in psychedelic colors.

  I follow, keeping to whisper range. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m listening.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

  “He’s trying to extract information. Don’t you see that?”

  “Don’t you remember drones are his specialty, the topic of his thesis? It’s a coincidence. I don’t know why you’d think—”

  “I told you.” I scan the gallery. No one’s close enough to hear, but I’m not getting specific. “Nobody’s this friendly with strangers without an ulterior motive.”

  Danny points a thumb over his shoulder. “Have you seen his office? If he had anything, even he wouldn’t know.”

  I can’t fault his argument or logic or how he avoids mentioning sensitive intel, but my brain shouts to not buy into this.

  “So can we not?” Danny asks. “We’re here, we’re looking — isn’t the real assignment enough?”

  Now I’m the one whose mouth is working without an answer. I don’t believe for a minute that Danny’s siding with a dude he met yesterday over his own wife (of two weeks).

  And for the first time, it dawns on me: we were married two weeks ago today. Last week, that seemed like a milestone worth celebrating. Now, we’re lucky to make it this far.

  I’m silent too long and he pivots away. “Here’s a plan: wait until we have one shred of evidence before we overreact.”

  I need to figure out how to subtly remind him I do know what I’m doing. “Trust me.”

  Instead of the tired line he gave me yesterday, Danny studies me. “I—”

  I pick up an incoming person in my peripheral vision and hold up a hand to silence him before I look. Nadia. I give Danny a we-are-sooo-not-done face and wheel on her. “The food has come,” she informs us in English.

  We thank her. As soon as she turns, Danny leans close. “Try to look normal this afternoon, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  We return to our table. Back to the waiting FSB officer. Back to our covers.

  Back to the invisible wall between us.

  I don’t have much of an appetite — which is fine because I don’t trust Borya and Nadia with my food. But Borya behaves himself the rest of lunch, unfortunately, seriously undermining my argument with Danny. Every minute, I watch my wonderful, devoted husband become better and better friends with the enemy, only stopping when Borya bids us goodbye to take a taxi for his meeting, and Nadia takes his Jeep for our tour.

  But our first stop’s within walking distance: unsurprisingly, Nadia’s top pick is the Eternal Flame, the World War II memorial — sorry, the Great Patriotic War Memorial. (Did you know Russia won the war for us? Yeah, I didn’t either until I lived here. I’d joke about how kind that was of them, but I’m guessing the reality is some blend of both our versions of history.)

  Nadia can speak English, but defaults to letting me translate, keeping me busy. Probably the purpose of this pursuit, eh? I relay the monument’s story as we walk around the roofless rotunda. Opposite the entrance, a woman’s stylized, sad face is sculpted next to one hand, holding an olive branch.

  “This is the only Great Patriotic War memorial to remember the women and their contribution to the fight.” Nadia finishes her monologue, and I finish repeating it to Danny.

  Nadia’s not done. She stares up at the woman’s bronze featur
es, but that isn’t who she’s talking about. “When something momentous happens,” she says in Russian, “you can be assured a woman is behind it.”

  Before I reflect that to Danny, for the briefest second, Durochka Dinochka pins me with an all-too-knowing look. My gut flash freezes, but almost instantly, her expression dissolves into her usual, slightly vacuous one. “Don’t you think?” she finishes.

  The look’s gone so fast I immediately doubt myself. But if I saw what I think I saw, she knows exactly who her boyfriend is. And she won’t help me go after him at all.

  Danny cuts in on my thoughts, moving closer to me — closer than a business associate would stand. He bows his head toward me to murmur, “What was that?”

  I pull back to the present and turn to Danny — and he is way too close. His uncertainty and pensiveness fall away in an instant at that range, like he’s forgotten all about our argument earlier.

  “Um.” I falter. I doubt Nadia’s message was intended for him. “Nothing.”

  He eyes me a minute longer, silently asking if I’m sure. To really dismiss the subject, I let the sarcasm flash through a yeah-right lip-purse/eye-roll combo aimed at Nadia’s back before I force myself to walk away.

  Nadia sweeps past us. I hope she missed our exchange. She makes no mention of it on the kilometer to our next stop. In the meantime, I try to play Nadia right back, but she neatly shuts down my most oblique references to Borya. She won’t even tell me where he’s from, something he told Danny freely.

  Next up on our magical history tour is Teatral′naya Square and its monument obelisk to “Soldier-liberators of Rostov-on-Don from German-Fascist invaders.” (Nazis, for those of you playing at home.) The tower is 200 feet tall, with stylized wings swooping out at the top. According to Nadia, the gold statue up there isn’t Mother Russia but Nike, Greek goddess of victory.

  I translate for Danny. He keeps the appropriate distance, with the appropriate responses, the appropriate cordiality. Which is great, I tell myself. Wonderful.

  Next, Nadia leads us through the pedestrian tunnels, decorated with mosaics, underneath the main thoroughfare. We emerge on the other side of the street, at the Park of the Revolution. It’s more than a city park with a carousel, a small zoo, tons of birds (even swans, peacocks and flamingos), rides, and an ice rink. Nothing’s quite as cool in November (except the weather), but apparently Nadia’s real goal is to regale us with history.