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

  “Sorry,” I apologize. Neurotic Lori is definitely taking the fall. “All my fault—”

  “It’s okay. However, my meeting has been moved to eleven,” Borya tells Danny. “Time zone misunderstanding. Teleconference. So we may not have much time this morning.”

  Borya spots me observing him from the corner of my eye, and he snaps away fast. Maybe this is awkward for him too.

  “Shall we?” Borya gestures down the hall toward the conference room, and we follow.

  He peers over his shoulder at me, and this time I play the cover harder and give him a why-are-you-looking-at-me? look.

  This is because of last night’s little scene, right?

  Before Borya fully turns back, Danny detects our strange, silent exchange. He shoots me a question in the quirk of his eyebrow.

  I give him a helpless, sorry-your-bestie’s-a-freak shrug. I’m choosing not to tell him the full truth about our unromantic rendezvous for obvious reasons, but . . . even if Borya weren’t here, would I tell Danny? Would he believe me?

  “Everything okay, Lori?” Danny asks as we reach the conference room’s glass doors.

  I give a benign let’s-get-on-with-this smile. “Yep.”

  He scrutinizes me a long minute, weighing my words. We might have gotten to a good place last night, but there’s still more to settle.

  “Okay,” Danny says. His eyes are solemn, and I get the neon flashing message: I’m trusting you. Hope we have a chance to get this worked out before even our truce fails.

  Once they’ve struck a more balanced agreement ready for the bureaucratic gauntlet of Shcherbakov and NRC, we troop out of the conference room. Borya and Danny may be all grins, but I’m trying to convince myself the mission wasn’t a failure (tablet files notwithstanding).

  Before I can think of an excuse to visit Borya’s office to snag another USB drive, someone steps between me and Danny and Borya. They continue down the hall, chatting, and I look up to see who cut me off. Kita, pinched and skeevy as ever. “Yes?” I ask.

  “Where should we go to dinner?” Kita finally replies.

  Oh. He’s just interested in me? (A dancing bear would get hit on in this much makeup.) “I fly back to Moscow tonight.” I start to brush past him, but he stands his ground.

  “Lunch, then.”

  Lunch dates aren’t a thing in Russia. “I’m working.”

  Behind Kita, Borya consults his watch and flinches, then says goodbye to Danny. Kita’s still not moving. Danny catches the awkwardness. I don’t need a decryption app to get Danny’s message: what about this guy? Couldn’t he be the officer?

  Maybe I can rule Kita out. I bat my eyes at him. “So you’re an engineer?”

  “Um.” Kita swallows. “I work in personnel services.”

  HR? Not R&D, where Semyon said the FSB officer worked. I give Danny a quick save-me glance. He’s there in an instant. “Let’s go, Lori.”

  I give Kita an it-can’t-be-helped shrug, and join Danny. “Not him,” I mutter.

  Fortunately, he accepts that. By the time we have our coats and my bag, the receptionist has a real cab waiting for us. Danny opens the taxi door. “You sure everything’s okay? Things seemed . . . weird.”

  I take a seat in the cab. “With Kita?”

  “With Borya.”

  Do I tell him? Not in front of the cabbie. I scoot across the backseat to make room for Danny. “Just relieved to be done,” I murmur. “Anything you’d like to see today?”

  “Nothing springs to mind. Things I’d like to talk about,” he finishes under his breath.

  What does that mean?

  “You have been to rynok?” the driver asks in heavily-accented English.

  “The what?” Danny asks.

  “The rynok,” I repeat. “The market. If you want souvenirs, it’s the best place.” Not to mention food, clothes, accessories — it’s like a handmade Walmart.

  “Sure,” Danny says. He opens his mouth to say something, but looks at the driver and changes his mind.

  Nerves worm their way into my veins. What did I do wrong? Do I need to tell him about Borya?

  The taxi driver drops us off outside the rynok entrance. I brace myself for Danny’s topic choice, but he’s craning his neck to get a better view of the market through the gates. “Am I allowed to tell my parents I came to Russia?”

  I glance left and right. “Of course,” I say softly. “Why not?”

  Danny leans down. “Absolutely no reason,” he murmurs. I turn to him, and his face is inches from mine. Lightning rockets down my spine, landing in my stomach.

  Why do I have to be Lori?

  I adjust my bag on my shoulder — and then the idea pops into my mind. An even better way to kill time keeping Danny away from ulitsa Novatorov. “Tell you what,” I say. “That café’s good.” I point to Vkusno Lyubov′, the place where I lost Eager Igor. “Let’s start there and then we’ll check out the rynok. Matryoshka dolls are always nice . . . samovars — you know, the Russian tea kettle-type things—”

  “Yes, I know what a samovar is.”

  “Right. Honey’s also big. Pity you didn’t come in May. There’s an entire honey festival.”

  “Yeah,” Danny jokes. “The honey festival’s the top reason why it’s better to visit Russia in May than November. That’s it.”

  I laugh and reach for his hand. For a split second, we’re on our honeymoon again — but then I stop myself. I have to get out of this disguise first.

  And see what he wants to talk about.

  We reach the sidewalk in front of the little restaurant, and Danny gets the door for me and a stooped old babushka. But instead of thanking him or walking in, she snaps at Danny, shaking a finger an inch from his nose with every harsh word.

  He jerks back, aghast. She goes in for a second round, but I quickly cut her off. “He’s a foreigner,” I tell her in Russian. “He doesn’t understand.”

  The babushka scowls at Danny, the deep lines etched on her face carving into critical canyons. But she says nothing else and marches into the shop.

  Danny finally steps in after me. As he helps me with my coat, he leans down. “What did you save me from?”

  I turn to him. Even through the curtain of copper hair separating us, I can see there’s something strangely subdued about my husband. Because of the babushka? “She said you need to button up. ‘It’s cold out, don’t you know that?’”

  “Good thing you’re here to protect me.” He shakes his head, like that’s a joke. Doesn’t sound like he’s kidding.

  Could whatever he wants to talk about be no big deal?

  Danny hangs my coat next to the same brown one that was left on the rack yesterday. We let the babushka take her turn at the counter, then I order blackberries, smetana and honey again. I look to Danny, and he gives a palms-up helpless gesture, like I have no idea what to get. So I order my favorite savory blin for variety: smetana and beef.

  I explain what we’re getting to Danny, and he listens like this recipe will save his life. “You like Russian food?” he asks.

  “It’s not bad. Except kholodets — two words: meat jelly.”

  “Oh, like aspic?”

  I can’t hide my horror. “We have the concept of gelled meat and fat in English?”

  “My grandma’s favorite. I couldn’t touch it.”

  “Whew. For a minute there, I was worried we—” couldn’t be married. I cut off the joke for a host of reasons (not just my cover), the biggest two being that 1. I don’t actually find that funny, and 2. the owner arrives with our blini. I can almost pretend we’re back in that Paris crêperie, with slightly different crêpes and fillings.

  Danny and I sit, and he pulls out the tablet. I put a hand over the screen. “It can wait.”

  “Something more important come up?”

  “Nothing until our flight at seven,” I reply. That’s all Danny needs to know. I don’t have to tell him about Borya’s deal
or keeping Danny away from ulitsa Novatorov. Like that’ll even be a challenge.

  Before Danny can bring up his subject — I’m guessing it’s not something he needs to talk to “Lori” about — I come up with a cover.

  “Tell me about your meeting.” I get out the biggest piece of quick-dissolve paper, like I’ll be taking notes between bites. Danny furrows his brow a split second, but launches into a fairly generic description of the model shop, the machinery inside, and Shcherbakov’s manufacturing capabilities. All good stuff for the CIA to know (we like to keep tabs) — but I’m not taking notes on Danny’s observations (which he’ll report directly during our layover in Paris tonight anyway). When he’s done, I finish off my last bite of my blin and hand off the “notes.” “Proof that and see if it seems correct,” I say. “Have to run to the restroom.”

  He immediately studies the paper. And he should. Because he needs to follow those instructions to a Cyrillic T to make this work.

  The note says Danny should finish his blini, get his coat (reverse it, button up and wear a hat, both as a disguise and to avoid the wrath of babushki everywhere), and go into the rynok. He can browse for a few minutes, but then he has to make his way to the honey vendor he passed on his way in.

  The last line tells him to drop the note in my water bottle. Because it’s all on my quick-dissolving paper.

  By the time I leave the restroom, having ditched my usual disguise and waited long enough that Danny’s gone, our table is clear, and I don’t seem suspicious. I leave my coat with the other abandoned jacket (for now) and head to the first honey vendor at this entrance of the rynok. Buttoned up and gray hatted, Danny’s focusing on the vendor’s broken English and his description of the wonders of Russian honey. (He’s not wrong.)

  I reach Danny’s side and beam up at him. “American?” I ask, like I don’t already know.

  “Yeah,” he says. Anyone else could write off the amusement shining in his eyes as a general, cultural inside joke.

  I turn to the vendor and to Russian. “One twenty-five.” Which is fair, since I’m sure he’s willing to come down more.

  The vendor frowns. “Weren’t you here yesterday?” he asks.

  He could be an FSB informant — but what’s he going to tell them? We’ll be gone in seven hours. “Yes, and that’s how much you charged me.”

  He huffs out a groan. “Fine. One twenty-five.”

  I inform Danny of the new price and he fishes out two one-hundred ruble notes. “Thanks,” he says to both me and the vendor as he accepts the honey and his change.

  I wink and start for the next cart. “Stick with me and we’ll get you what you need.”

  “Apparently,” he mutters.

  That gets my attention. “What’s wrong?”

  He takes a deep breath, either thinking about what to say or thinking about whether he wants to say it. “Do you remember two days ago when you said I could handle myself here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  I know I should say yes. But he needs the truth, so I try to remember the exact conversation. After three seconds, Danny shakes his head and keeps walking. “Forget it.”

  “No, wait—”

  “Seriously, forget it. Stupid question.”

  “It’s not a stupid question.”

  But before I can figure out how to move this conversation forward, a vendor jumps in front of us with a tray of kholodets. We decline, and I glance up at Danny to share the inside joke. But he’s staring back at me, serious. Sad. Like he needs more than walking with Talia Reynolds, cute interpreter.

  I study him a minute longer. It’d be tough for the casual observer to recognize Danny with the hat (and actually buttoned coat), and nearly impossible for anyone without advanced facial recognition software to identify me. My paranoia screams for me to keep my distance — but more than that . . .

  Danny obeyed my instructions perfectly, though they were paranoid precautions, and he didn’t hesitate or complain or argue that this is exactly what he begged me not to do last night.

  He’s giving me that. I don’t know what’s the matter, but I can give him this. I take his hand.

  Danny looks at our hands and back at me. He smiles, but it’s not the full-on eye-crinkling one I’m anticipating. Instead, his expression is tinged with sadness.

  What am I doing wrong now? We keep moving through the rynok, racking up deals on Russian gifts (and things I can legit have at home, since it’s kind of a secret I lived here). Though he’s obviously trying to hide it, the melancholy lingers.

  I’m about to ask him what’s the matter again when I see someone I really, really don’t want to. Not Borya or anyone from Shcherbakov (thank goodness), not Semyon or anyone from the CIA (though I don’t know anyone else from the local office).

  Valya. My stomach lurches worse than at the idea of kholodets.

  He’s eating lunch. The rynok is a major lunchtime draw, and the district headquarters are less than a kilometer away. Running into him isn’t a major problem — but I’m the last person he wants to see today. After Danny’s reaction to my pitch, even with Valya’s unequivocal rejection? Yeah. This could get awkward fast.

  I try to monitor Valya without Danny noticing, steering us clear of him, changing up our speed to make us harder to track. For a few minutes I think I’ve successfully navigated those treacherous waters — until I catch Valya two stalls behind us once, twice, three times.

  Either he’s making his way through the market at the exact same slow/quick/slow pace (yeeeah), or he’s following us.

  My pulse shifts into the fast lane, and hope and dread battle in my heart. Could he want to smooth things over? Could I have another chance to apologize?

  We reach the arched gates to the street, and Valya hangs back. I tug Danny through the gates, then step closer to tell him, “I need to change. Can you get back to the hotel?”

  “Sure.” Not like he suspects something’s up. Not like he thinks I’m crazy paranoid. Like he’s willing to do anything I ask. His eyes search mine, and I have to know what’s the matter.

  “What’s wrong? You act like you’re leaving me here forever.”

  “Uh, yeah? ‘Paperwork ready. You belong in Russia.’”

  Semyon’s note. Danny’s spent all morning thinking — “Danny.” I’m so tired of weighing and measuring every syllable. If I’ve learned anything, it’s to not hoard the truth. “My contact’s trying to convince me to transfer. It’s been good working here, but . . .” I lift our hands and tighten my grasp. “This is where I belong.”

  Danny tilts my chin up, and I don’t think he even pauses to think — he just leans down and kisses me. Once again, I should dodge, I should stop him, but that’s the last thing I want.

  Instead, I breathe him in and kiss him back like I might never get the chance again. He pulls back all too soon. “Sorry,” he whispers.

  I sigh. “For kissing me or stopping?”

  “Neither.” He plants one final peck on my forehead. “Guess that’s not the only thing we need to work out.”

  Like the fact he hates a major part of my life? “Yeah.” But looking into his eyes, suddenly I’m not worried. He’s my husband. He loves me, and I love him so much I hardly have room to breathe. I don’t know how, but we’ll figure it out.

  But first things first: “We need to check out of the hotel within the hour. I have to change — can you get there on your own?”

  He studies my eyes a moment. “Yeah, I think so.” He squeezes my hands once more, then starts off to do just what I said. I watch to make sure he heads the right direction before I double back to the rynok.

  Valya’s ten feet behind me. And he seems . . . chagrined. For intruding on that private moment? I don’t know. I don’t bother acting surprised to see him, though, and approach, passing through the gates. “I’m sorry,” I start, but Valya shakes his head.

  “No.” He stops, and in the
silence, pain haunts his face. “You are right. Melanyushka needs more help.”

  As if being right is any consolation. A little girl — a little girl I loved — is dying, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it except make her father betray Mother Russia. Who wants to be right about that?

  Valya shifts his gaze to mine again. “It’s the only way.” But his eyes beg me to come up with an alternative to save him, to save his daughter. His pleas echo in me, but I can’t — I can’t care or I’ll crack.

  In a couple hours, I get to fly out of here, but Valya’s torment will just be beginning.

  “I will do it,” he says at last. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  Normally, recruiting an agent is a major victory. Celebrating the agreement together is fairly routine. That’s anything but appropriate here. “Thank you.” My empty words bounce around my chest cavity. I find Semyon’s number in my phone, then write it out on the last corner of the quick-dissolve paper. I doubt Semyon gave an officer in town for a three-day assignment his permanent local number, so I can’t be certain how long this contact is good for. “Call before seven o’clock today. My friend will tell you what to do next.”

  Valya takes the paper and studies the number.

  “Destroy the paper. It’ll dissolve in water.”

  His shoulders fall even further at his first tiny peek into the world of espionage. I want to snatch the paper away and stuff it in my mouth before he can memorize the number, he’s so broken and defeated.

  Just before I snap, Valya tucks the paper in his coat pocket. “I will call.”

  “All right.” In any other recruitment, I’d be glad enough to hug him. I know Valya better than any other agent I’ve ever had — and that’s exactly why I can’t bridge the gap between us. I don’t dare.

  What have I done?

  The thought seems to reverberate in Valya’s stare a long time.

  “If I knew any other way,” I breathe.

  “We do what we must. For those we love.” He glances over my shoulder after Danny.