by Cat Johnson
The first notes of the Westminster chimes drew my attention. That was followed by the clock—or rather the bronze monkeys atop the clock—striking a bell twelve times for the hour.
I glanced around but didn’t see Ivan.
He was late.
The clock began its show, the animals rotating around the clock tower above the arches to the tune of a childhood lullaby as I looked around me one more time.
“Are you Tristan?” A child’s voice saying my name had me frowning as I glanced down.
“Yes.”
“A man told me to wait for twelve o’clock and give you this and you’d pay me twenty dollars.”
I lifted a brow. “Oh did he? And what did this man look like?”
“Old with gray hair. But not like Santa Claus. More like Scrooge. And he talked funny.”
I let out a bark of a laugh. Ivan deserved that description for promising the kid I’d pay him twenty dollars for the folded newspaper he handed me.
There had better be something worthwhile inside. I reached into my pocket to fish for the money to pay the lad. I held out the folded bill, but pulled it back. “One more question. How did you know I was the right man?”
“He said to look for a guy who’d be dressed real good, like he was on TV, but wearing too many clothes for the summer.”
I smiled at how spot on both Ivan and the child were. I only bought suits that were real good, as he’d described. And I was definitely wearing too many clothes for today’s heat.
Basic spy craft—wearing a jacket gave me the option of taking it off to change my appearance if I needed. So did the sunglasses I wore.
I handed the boy the money. He snatched it away and ran, probably to spend his earnings on something his mother wouldn’t have approved of had she known.
A park bench along the path provided the perfect place for me to sit and open the paper to try and figure out what in the bloody hell Ivan was up to.
I was relieved he’d made contact. It meant he was alive and well—for the moment. But that he didn’t meet me in person was disturbing.
He’d always come himself. Employing a street urchin was an oddity I hoped didn’t mean something was wrong.
I didn’t know what I was looking for in the paper, just that I’d know it when I saw it.
I was through the bulk of the main section and starting to worry I’d missed something when a circle drawn in pen drew my attention.
It was in the Obituaries, of all places.
Shaking my head, I stood and tucked the refolded paper beneath my arm.
It seemed I’d be attending a funeral this afternoon.
Lucky for me, I’d chosen my dark suit.
TWENTY-ONE
“Hello, my friend.”
“Ivan.” From behind my dark glasses I shot him a sideways glance. “You’re looking well.”
He snorted. “For now.”
Hands clasped in front of me in reverence for the departed—whoever the unfortunate bloke was—I stood far enough behind the mourners I could whisper and not disturb those listening to the preacher standing in front of the open plot and the flower-covered coffin.
“Anyone you know?” I asked.
“No. It was the right time and day . . .” He shrugged.
“And we’re here instead of the park why?” I tipped my head to peer at Ivan over the top of my sunglasses.
Ivan caught my glare and said, “Just being extra cautious, as you say.”
I couldn’t argue. He’d put his life on the line by working with me.
This was a dangerous era to be an informant—not that there’d ever been a safe one. But we were living in surreal times. An age when journalists who’d done nothing more than criticize the Kremlin were faking their own death to avoid assassination.
All the more reason to wrap up our business.
“Now that we have been extra cautious, do you have something for me?” I asked as low as possible.
“Perhaps.”
Another glance at Ivan showed me he was smiling. Or as close to a smile as a man who indeed looked like old Ebenezer could.
He was being coy. That had to be good. He wouldn’t be joking if he’d failed.
My heart raced with anticipation. “Tell me.”
He leaned in and whispered a man’s name. A name I didn’t recognize.
At my frown, Ivan continued, “He’s former CIA. For a price he offered to sell me information that he said my friends back home would find useful.”
Since Ivan was former KGB/FFV, I too was interested in what his friends back home would find useful. “What was it?”
“A list.”
Two simple words but they made my blood run cold. “A list of what?” I feared I knew the answer already.
“The names and locations of undercover agents working around the world.”
I mumbled out a low curse that was completely inappropriate for a funeral, but definitely called for given the enormity of this information.
“US agents?” I asked, trying to get a sense of how big this list might be.
He shook his head. “No. The name of every foreign operative the CIA is aware of.”
Jesus. I blew out a breath. I needed to call the home office. More, I needed to prevent this traitor from selling that list.
“How did you leave things?” I asked.
“We’re to meet again tomorrow. I’m to report back with the amount my friend would be willing to pay for such information.”
Smart traitor. Let the Kremlin name the price so he doesn’t undercut himself by demanding too little for the information. Too bad he wasn’t going to get to spend any of it.
Ivan’s gaze cut to me. “What are you planning?”
“You’re going to buy that list, and once you have it, hopefully I’ll be allowed to kill him.”
He nodded. “Good plan.”
I thought so.
I drew in a deep breath and stared at the coffin as I idly wondered how many more good years I had before I ended up in a box.
Ivan frowned. “Something wrong with you?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I’m trained to read people, my friend. My life depends upon it.”
Mine too. And my life and safety depended upon me being able to effectively mask my feelings. I’d apparently failed miserably in that area if Ivan noticed.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something. Do I need to worry? Should I cancel the meeting?” His already wrinkled brow creased with a deep frown.
“No. No, I promise. It’s . . . personal.”
It killed me to admit that. I did it anyway. I had to. My ridiculous emotions were going to sink this deal if I didn’t tell Ivan something.
I turned to make sure I hadn’t spooked him. This deal was too important. But he was smiling broadly.
Probably not the most appropriate expression for an attendee at a funeral. Luckily we were behind everyone—and out of earshot since this had become quite the long and involved conversation.
“Ah, it’s about a woman.” He nodded, a knowing expression on his face.
Now it was my turn to frown. I restrained myself from asking him why he’d guessed that. He was, as he’d said, well trained in reading people. Retirement hadn’t changed that.
I tried a different tact other than fruitless denial. “So since you’re so good at people, tell me. What the hell do I do?”
“Fuck her?”
In spite of myself I had to smother a laugh at his blunt statement. I shook my head and said, “And what do I do after that.”
“Marry her.”
That did surprise me. I turned my gaze to him. “Not what I thought you’d say.”
“Why not? I’ve never seen you like this in all the time I’ve known you. And how long is that?”
“We’ve been working together for two years.”
But I’d studied Ivan for years prior to that. It was no coincidence that when he retired and moved to New York
to be with his daughter and granddaughter, who’d landed a spot with the New York City Ballet, that I’d followed shortly after.
I’d had my eye on him to be turned for a long time. I had seen his potential years before from the conversations we monitored, the things he said, the choices he made.
The actions he took, and more importantly those he didn’t take, were all indicative of a man who wasn’t one-hundred percent on board with the current leadership of his organization or his country.
“If this woman can distract you from something this important, the only way to fix it is to give in. Make her yours. Then you can get on with work.”
Parts of what he said did have merit. Would making Chelsea mine finally cure me of this—whatever this was that affected me to distraction?
But there were issues Ivan wasn’t aware of.
I couldn’t tell him there were more problems. Namely the home office shutting down US operations for the time being. I trusted Ivan—but only to a certain extent.
It was better to let him think I was traveling to London to deliver the list and report on the case, not because I’d been recalled indefinitely.
I couldn’t ask Chelsea to give up her life here to follow me to London, any more than I could drag her around the world every time I had to relocate.
Then there were the short-term assignments that could last months during which I’d be off the grid and she’d be alone in a strange city.
How could I abandon her for that long after I’d uprooted her and she’d left her job, her friends and her family for me?
Christ, I was selfish. Here I was assuming she’d be willing to give up everything for me, without once even considering my giving up anything for her.
But now that the idea had crossed my mind, I didn’t hate it.
“Before you retired, would you have ever considered leaving the job for a woman?” I asked.
Ivan let out a chuckle. “I did. Only the woman was my daughter, not my lover. Love, between a man and a woman, or a father and a daughter, is a powerful thing. It makes us do things we never would have considered before. No?”
Love. I hadn’t let myself seriously consider the possibility. I’d barely let myself think the word before now.
I was certainly thinking it now.
TWENTY-TWO
“GAPS. Chelsea speaking.”
Just the sound of her voice coming through my cell phone had me smiling. “Hello, love.”
“Tristan.” She said my name on an exhale, but nothing else.
“Did you get my note?” I asked.
As upset with myself that I’d been stupid enough to leave it, I would be more upset if she’d never found it and thought I’d just abandoned her without a word.
“Yes.”
Hmm. Definite chill in the air. And bloody hell, if it didn’t make me start to get hard as I thought about some hot reunion sex with her angry with me for leaving.
“Good. I wanted you to know I really did have to be in New York for work. I wasn’t being a ghost.”
She laughed and I pressed the cell closer against my ear to better absorb the sound. “You ghost someone. You don’t be a ghost. It’s a verb. Not a noun.”
I pictured the smile on her face as she corrected me and was happy I’d screwed up the colloquialism since it made her laugh.
“Ah. Duly noted.” I smiled even as my heart clenched with missing her.
“Did you want to talk to Zane?” she asked.
I knew the real question behind her words. What she’d left unspoken. Had I called to talk to her?
“No,” I said, making her figure out the rest.
“You called for me?” she asked.
“Yes.” I stopped torturing her and said, “I miss you.”
There was the slightest of pauses before she said, “I miss you too.”
I drew in a breath, torn between being happy and sad.
“When will you be back?” She asked the inevitable question. The one I had no answer to at the moment.
“I’m not sure. It depends. I have to fly to London for work. If they approve my request for leave I’m hoping to be back in D.C. in a week or two.”
“Oh my God. Really? That’s so soon.”
“It is soon.” I smiled at her enthusiasm.
This wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I’d told her everything she needed to be satisfied. I hadn’t had to lie. I hadn’t compromised security. Maybe I could do this.
I glanced at the flight board above my head and remembered the real problem was ahead, past the time I hoped to get off, when I had to go back to work and wherever MI6 sent me.
An announcement, loud and distracting, cut through the terminal.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“JFK.”
“Oh. So you’re leaving today.”
“Yes. But the sooner I leave, the sooner I can get back.”
“That’s true.” Her tone perked up at that promise. My mood did not as the obstacle that was my profession loomed large, casting a shadow I couldn’t escape.
“I should go.”
“Will you text me when you’re away? Can you text from London?” she asked.
“Yes. I can do that . . . if you give me your number.” Funny, after all we’d been through I hadn’t gotten that yet.
“I have your number on the caller ID. I’ll send you a text from my cell and then you’ll have it.”
“Brilliant.” Quite the problem solver, my Chelsea. Maybe together we’d be able to come up with a solution to the problem of how we could be together when we were going to be so far apart. “I should go. There’s a line at security.”
“Okay.” She was quiet for a moment.
In my misery, I didn’t have the words to fill the silence because the one thing that was left to be said was goodbye and I wasn’t ready to say that yet.
“Tristan.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
My breath left me in a whoosh at the words I hadn’t been expecting. Time for honesty. “I love you too.”
I heard her sniffle softly. My eyes blurred—it had to be the damn overhead lights. I turned away from them to face the wall. “I’ll talk to you again as soon as I can. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Bye, love.”
“Bye. Safe trip.”
“Cheers.” I hit to disconnect the call and blew out a loud breath.
Turning back to face the crowd of bustling travelers in the departures terminal, I took a few seconds to get my bearings.
I glanced toward the Virgin Atlantic counter. I was booked for a standby flight home.
Home.
The word felt odd.
After two years of being in the States, except for the fact my mother and father resided there, London didn’t feel like home anymore. But neither did New York or D.C..
I was a man without a home and for possibly the first time in my adult life, I felt like I wanted one. Wanted to make a home in Virginia, with Chelsea, the woman I loved, who through some miracle loved me back.
My heart picking up speed, I turned and glanced at the other end of the terminal and read the signs. Delta. American. Jet Blue.
Any one of them would take me to Reagan National—if only I could go.
Why couldn’t I? Why fly all the way to London just to ask them if I could fly back? That could be done over the phone.
I’d completed my assignment in spite of them recalling me. Based on my information from Ivan and the miraculous coordination of multiple US and British organizations, we’d secured the list and apprehended the traitor. I hadn’t gotten to kill him, but all in all it had been a sweeping success.
Ivan was laying low for his own protection—taking a holiday in Maine with his daughter and granddaughter, if he was to be believed. The CIA was again in possession of the information that had been stolen and sold. My part in all this was done.
I navigated to the Virgin Atlantic app on my cell and hit to ca
ncel the standby ticket.
Pocketing my phone, I grabbed the handle of my carry-on. Down the hall at the other end of the terminal I joined the queue for the Delta counter.
When it was my turn to approach the agent I said, “What’s the earliest flight you can get me on to Reagan National?”
TWENTY-THREE
“Zane.” I moved across the office and to his massive wood desk.
“Tristan. I wasn’t expecting you.” His gaze dropped to the bottle of Macallan I’d set on his desk with a clunk. “But of course, you’re always welcome.”
“Me or the single malt?” I asked.
“Both.” His lips twitched with a smile. “So, what’s the occasion?”
“Celebrating the small wins, as you taught me.”
“Anything in particular?” he asked.
“Perhaps. That depends on you really.”
“On me?” He cocked up a brow.
“Yes.” I thought this was going to be easy but suddenly I was nervous. It was ridiculous. What had I been thinking? It was a crazy idea, brought on by the free drinks in business class on the flight and my feeling like a teenager from knowing Chelsea loved me.
I’d gotten off the plane and come directly here, only stopping to buy the bottle on my way. I hadn’t even called Chelsea yet. I wanted to know where I stood before I did that.
Zane waited for me to explain, looking patient yet interested.
“If I’m not mistaken you once told me if I ever needed a job—” I didn’t get to finish before he broke into a wide grin.
“You’re hired.”
“Pardon?”
“If you’re telling me you’re thinking of leaving SIS and need a job, and you want to work for GAPS, then my answer is fuck yes. You’re hired.
I let out a laugh with a giddy sense of relief. “All right.”
“So, is that what you’re telling me?” He looked hopeful.
I heard the front door open and close. I pivoted toward the entrance of Zane’s office.
“Zane, they didn’t have the kale today so I got you a wheat grass smoothie—” Chelsea stumbled to a stop in the doorway, a disgusting-looking green drink in her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw me. “Tristan.”