All I can do for him now is nod. With multiple tails, this guy’s days as a double agent may be numbered.
SARD holds out a blue five-dollar bill. I take it with a smile, and he heads off. Unsurprisingly, Red Polo, next up in line, offers me a purple ten-dollar note and a chagrinned smile. “I apologize; this is the smallest bill I have.”
“Oh, sorry, do you want change?”
“Please.”
Kind of an obvious ploy to get back the fiver SARD gave me. No problem. I hand it to him, making an extra flourish mostly to demonstrate that SARD didn’t pass along a form defection letter. “Do you need more than that?”
“No, thank you, that is perfect.”
Couldn’t agree more. Red Polo disembarks, as does Pink Floyd Fan.
I glance back at the remaining passengers: Balding Businessman, New Dude and Gorgeous But Rude all keep their places. “Residence Inn or Courtyard?” I ask.
“Residence,” Balding Businessman and New Dude both say. Great. I can’t run in to intercept SARD’s tails. I consult Gorgeous But Rude, still on the phone. “Sir?” I try. “Residence or Courtyard?”
He scowls in my general direction, pointing at his phone. Yikes. He plops into SARD’s vacated seat, kicking his feet up on the chair across the aisle, blocking everyone’s escape path.
Gorgeous But SUPER RUDE studiously ignores my attempts at eye contact. Fine. Whatever it takes to get this guy out of my hair and give me the chance to confer with New Dude for our next strategic step.
I navigate the short drive to the Residence Inn. I help Balding Businessman unload, but New Dude takes off with his blue messenger bag. Gorgeous But Rude doesn’t have any luggage with him, either, but he loiters in the seat. Is he waiting for me to take him to Courtyard? Crud.
I hardly have time for the guy who can’t be bothered to acknowledge my existence. I dash off the van after New Dude. Balding Businessman has disappeared ahead of us. I finally catch up with New Dude by the lobby’s stacked stone hearth and flat screen TV and take his elbow. “Did you get it?” I ask.
He wheels around, brow furrowed. “Get what?”
Okay, so the guy seemed a little slow, but seriously?
“SCOUT, stand down,” Will’s voice comes over comms from back at the airport. Yeah, I have a camera, but is Will watching my feed now, or is just assuming I’ve gone rogue (and stupid) and run after SARD?
New Dude stares at me. Those bees finally reach my brain, creating a long minute of static as I try to figure out how to communicate with Will without looking like a complete nutcase.
“Tanya!” The shout puts a strange twist on my cover name, TAN-ya instead of the more common TAHN-ya, and for a split second, even the bees freeze. That’s way too close to my real name (Talia). I turn around to find Gorgeous But Rude jogging up to us, finally off the phone. He looks from New Dude to me. “You going to hunt me down for a tip, too?”
Uh . . . yeah. I’ll take his money. I hold out my hand. “Thanks very much.”
Gorgeous But Rude stuffs a crumpled bill into my palm. I stick it in my pocket — too well-trained to count a tip in front of the tipper. Gorgeous But Rude flashes me another condescending expression, then strikes off for the front desk. Good riddance.
I focus on New Dude and slide my fingers from my pocket, and I feel it. A slim cylinder wrapped up in that tip.
I swallow a groan. This dude I’m looking at isn’t New Dude (and he’s edged away a good five feet). My mind grapples for a cover. “Oh, yes, you have your bag. Good.”
He squints suspiciously at me, but turns away again.
And I’ll be seeing way too much of Gorgeous But Still Super Rude.
An hour later, I’ve returned the courtesy van to its rightful hotel. Pink Floyd Fan managed to find me there, then tail me through a couple of my routine errands. Once I stopped by a grocery store to stock up on feminine hygiene products, he was convinced I had nothing of interest.
The surveillance detection run (and disguise) wins again. As an extra precaution, I make three more stops before I finally go back to our office. Well, I pretend to head up to the OB/GYN on the sixth floor, but when nobody comes in the building after me, I get off the elevator early to hike the last set of stairs to our real office. Our real fake office, I guess.
I call in and Will makes sure the receptionist is out of sight when I come through the front doors. (Poor Valérie has no idea Keeler Tate & Associates isn’t a law firm with crazy strict confidentiality protections.) I swipe my security card and march into the bullpen.
If you were hoping for the retinal scanners and transparent LED screens you see on TV, sorry. Canada doesn’t get priority for bleeding edge technology or even designer furniture. The office doesn’t look much different than an actual (albeit less posh) law firm.
And yep, there’s Gorgeous But Rude. (Definitely have to stop thinking of him that way.) The other three guys in our office, Parker, George and Travis, have already flocked around him, laughing and swapping stories. Whatever. Not like the four of us have a lot in common anyway. Gorgeous pivots to greet me, but I stride away to the office where I changed into the driver’s uniform this morning.
“Nice job today,” he calls before I shut the door. Can’t tell if he’s being sincere or sarcastic.
I peel off four facial appliances, yank out twenty hairpins, and shed forty extra pounds until I’m me again (with a whole lot of blue eye shadow). I make for my desk, back in my sweater and skirt from this morning and still swabbing at my eyelids with a makeup remover wipe.
When I pass the guys, Gorgeous turns to talk to me, and does a double take. Yeah, I guess if you saw forty-something, borderline obese, dyed blond Tanya head into an office and twenty-six, dark hair, blunt bangs, but still kinda average Talia come out, you’d be pretty surprised too. But I’m hoping your eyes wouldn’t flick between my body and my face three times and settle on my knee-length business skirt and my calves.
Yeah, I don’t like this guy. At. All.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, too,” I say.
“Pleasure, huh?” He finally meets my gaze, that winning grin out in full force again. He crosses the distance between us, offering a hand. “Don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Oh, we’ve met. Today I’m Tanya, remember?” I reply.
His eyebrows make a minuscule jump. “And who will you be tonight?”
Am I reading too much into things, or is this guy a walking sexual harassment lawsuit?
“I’m Elliott,” he says. I’m debating whether I have to shake his hand when Will walks in.
“Everybody know each other?” He checks with Elliott and then me. I don’t answer but Will’s not blind. “Good. Elliott, Talia, tapes.”
Great. The only thing more tedious than filing a post-action report is watching tapes first. Imagine being on a championship sports team, drilled on every opponent’s every play. Now instead of plans with five players, think of the entire crowd in an airport or restaurant or lobby. And instead of big movements and strategies, search for patterns in expressions, footwork, hairstyles. (No, I’m not kidding.)
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
Will leads me and Elliott into his office. Unfortunately, he’s already set up the chairs so I have to sit next to Elliott. I stand.
Will leans a hip against his desk. “Multiple tails is overkill. If they trust SARD so little, they wouldn’t have let him out of the country.”
Can’t argue with his logic. “Extra paranoid?” I guess. “His intel’s really that valuable?”
“Speaking of.” Will holds out his hand, and I give him the concealment. Assuming SARD loaded his cigarette, we now have the full plans of the Iranians’ missile defense.
I relish the warm hit of satisfaction. Even knowing we’re about to review tapes, it still feels good to have accomplished something pretty darn important. (Especially considering we’re “only” in Canada.)
Will unrolls the fake cigarette’s wrapper. A
layer of thin white paper comes off. Then another. Shouldn’t there . . . be something there? He glances up at me, then Elliott. My throat grows dry.
Another blank paper.
Did we get the wrong cigarette?
Finally, Will unravels another layer, and the tobacco leaves inside disintegrate. Disappointment lands on my ribs like deadweight. He didn’t pass it off.
Will picks up the paper and the tobacco leaves — and something clatters to the desk. We all lean forward. A little plume of hope shoots up in my chest.
A teeny, tiny SD card.
I have to laugh at myself. I guess in the back of my mind, I have this stereotype of Iran as . . . not very techno-savvy. I was expecting miniaturized documents on the cigarette paper. SARD has done us one better.
I take a minute to enjoy the victory, or as much of the victory as we ever get to see. But the celebration doesn’t last long with the reality hanging over me: the SD card will head to Langley via courier any minute, and our little adventure today, vital though it was, will barely merit a footnote in the official file.
Meanwhile, we still have to return the favor to SARD and make sure he doesn’t end up dead.
So it’s back to our tapes. Will drags one more seat over, and Elliott and I get up to accommodate him. Before I can grab my chair, Elliott moves it for me.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Sure.” He flashes a smile, and my stupid heart flashes hot and cold in return, a quick jolt of why, hello there.
Ugh. I may be only human, but do I have to be? I plop into my chair and focus on the monitor and the grainy footage. Like I’m completely immune to the presence of one of the most attractive men I’ve encountered in real life. The cocky type is a total turnoff, I remind myself. Three seconds of good manners don’t change anything.
“Wait a minute.” Will’s voice brings me back to the present, where he’s pointing at a guy on the screen. “Wasn’t he on the van?”
Indeterminate hair color. Washed out coat/complexion. The guy I thought was our new dude. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s him.”
I lean forward in concentration. The footage is from a security camera in the airport, focused on SARD’s arrival gate. Will backs it up and we watch Mr. Anonymous pace backward up the aisle. Then back. Casual, slow. Like he belongs there, biding his time in the packed passenger waiting area until his flight boards.
But the time stamp at the bottom of the screen tells me an hour later he was running for my courtesy van. As much as they must really, really want to, people don’t generally hang out in the airport after their flights for no reason. Not exactly a travel highlight.
That can only mean one thing. Unlike Elliott, who’s practically a modern American Bond, this guy doesn’t even whisper “spy.” He could fade into the background of any group. Integrate into any industry. Pass for any European or North American. You’d forget his face before you broke eye contact.
I sure felt a lot better when I thought he was on our side.
“Should’ve seen this sooner,” Will says.
Is that reproach aimed indirectly at me? I offer all the information I have: “He had me take him to the Residence Inn. Didn’t tip.”
“Was he the one you followed off the van?” Will asks. Before I can answer, Will settles back in his chair and shoots me a scowl of reproof.
I hold up my hands, conceding defeat. “You said I was getting backup. Maxwell Smart over here was too busy chatting on the phone to even glance at me. I figured it had to be this guy.”
“I was on the phone with Will,” Elliott interjects from my other side.
Which means the call I just criticized was part of his Will-ordered cover. Yep, making myself look good now. I ignore Elliott. “Besides that, this guy was the one who ended up with the carton of cigarettes, and held onto the trash.”
He held onto the trash. In the brief silence, worries inch into my mind, but logic quickly takes over. There should be no trace of the pass in the carton. The paper should be nearly identical, the tobacco fibers — and even if they go to all the trouble of analyzing the cells to determine whether they’re a match, there’s no way of them knowing I didn’t pass that same package around yesterday.
Good logic. Sound. So why won’t the gnawing at my stomach listen?
Will turns back to me, and I can see the disappointment in the concerned furrows on his forehead. “What did you say to him again?” Will asks. But what I hear is How badly did you blow it?
“I asked him if he had it. He said ‘What?’ I said his bag.”
Elliott nods, as if Will didn’t hear the whole exchange over comms. Somehow that feels less like support and more like Elliott thinks Will won’t take my word for it.
“Do you have anything to help us out here?” Will asks. “Is that all you heard him say? Could you pin down his accent?”
I run through my memory of the van ride again. Elliott’s noisy soundtrack dominated everything — poor Will, having to listen to that — but there was something else. . . . “He talked to SARD. Asked him what business he was in.” I try to focus on his voice in my memory, but even that seems slippery now, like his accent is as nondescript as the man himself. “If I had to guess, I’d say generic American. Were we recording?”
Will shakes his head. His gaze travels to the side, his lips pressed together.
I’m already working twice as hard as everyone else here, going to law school as part — and on top of — my job. I don’t have time for family or friends or fun. And yet it’s never enough. I’m still the kid sister who can’t do anything right, the same way I felt growing up with three older brothers.
Nobody in this office understands how much I need this, I need somebody — I need Will to validate my course load and workload, my ninety-hour weeks, my nonexistent social life outside of work (and my pretty sad social life within the confines of work: 75%+ of my “friends” are people I’m targeting).
I’m letting him down. I already have. I need to do better.
Finally, Will blows out a breath. “SARD might not be the only double agent we’re dealing with here.” He looks to me. “You up to this?”
I borrow a page from Elliott’s playbook and plaster a cocky smile over all my worries. “Bring it.”
I thought that was the worst of the news until Will stands to look down on me and Elliott again. I can see it in Will’s eyes: I’m not good enough on my own. “I need you to work together on this case. The two of you can ID him better than anybody else.”
“And he can ID us,” Elliott mutters.
“Speak for yourself,” I retort. One of us worked pretty dang hard on that cover.
Will interrupts the not-quite-argument. “He didn’t follow you after the hotel, did he, Talia?”
“No, but one of the tails I dropped off at the Marriott did for a little while.”
“You’re black, right?” Will asks, extra wary. (It’s Agency slang for clear, free of tails.)
“Of course. Made triple sure.” I’m not stupid. In fact, since I’ve been here, my usual tradecraft practice has doubled, become my routine. I might be the world’s most paranoid spy.
“He could have signaled the others,” Elliott points out. “Called them after you tipped him off something was up. Did you watch for them?”
I frown at Elliott. “I know how to do an SDR — and I didn’t tip him off, thank you.”
Will clears his throat and we break off the fight again. “I’m trusting you to work together on this case. I’m sure you’re both more capable of doing that than you’re demonstrating now.”
We nod in unison. (See? Already making a good faith effort. Yay.)
“Good. Now —” A knock at the door cuts off Will’s next statement. He answers to find George there.
“Sorry,” George says. “Priority.”
Will gives us both the eye. “You two start planning.” He turns to just me, then consults the clock. “You’ve got what, an hour?”
“About that.” And t
hen I have to leave for my Company-funded law studies. I make sure Will’s uploaded the airport security videos to the ultra-secure server and lead the way out of his office.
As soon as the door closes behind us, Elliott closes in on me. “So, Talia, was it? You and me, huh?”
“In your dreams, dude.”
That obnoxious leer becomes an excuse-me expression. “FYI, ‘Maxwell Smart here’ didn’t blow the mission —”
“Neither did I.”
“I’m not saying —”
“‘FYI,’” I enunciate, “I don’t have time for this. I won’t let you drag me down.”
Elliott glances around, like Parker and Travis are going to back one of us up. They’re busy with their own cases — one of many reasons I rarely turn to anyone for help unless it’s totally necessary.
Elliott settles on the nearest empty desk. Right across the aisle from mine. Hope he’s not planning on staying long. “Are we racing to the target?”
I cock an eyebrow. “That a challenge?”
He stands again, strolling over to simper down at me. “You up to it?” he asks. Just like Will.
“I keep up with everyone else in this office, dancing backward and in high heels.”
“Now that, I noticed.”
I slowly drop my chin, my incredulity increasing every inch. “Is this what they’re sending out these days?”
“They seemed to like me well enough in Langley and Nicaragua.” His grin shifts from condescending to come-on. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
I flinch from the emotional whiplash a split second before I find my reply. “Nobody’s cute when they’re angry.”
“Hey.” The smile’s now cajoling. “You know you want me.”
I scoff. Even my temper is rising to this challenge. “Don’t flatter yourself. And I will get to the target first.”
That stupid smile stays while he pulls out the chair to the desk across from mine, staking his claim. “It’s on.”
I had to recruit George and Travis to laden Elliott with casework, recon and catch up to make sure he didn’t get a jump on me before I finished law school for the evening. (Attendance is kind of important in a class that’s technically part of my job.) But once I’m out of class and in disguise, the race is on.
Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 2
