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)

by Jordan McCollum

  Talia cocks her head, daring me to push her. But when she speaks, the defenses are still high in her voice. “It was just — I don’t know — a little . . . moment.”

  Finally, that thing people are supposed to have — you know, “better judgment” — kicks in, and I see that if I tease her more, she’ll shut down. I slide back into business mode. “Okay, they’ll be expecting us at seven—”

  “‘Us,’ Kemosabe?” The nerves are gone, replaced by an excuse-me eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you and your driver.” I gesture at myself.

  She gives me a riiight look. “Thursday night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” Talia reaches under her desk and grabs those ever-present case files. “Well, my Turkmen friend is holding a forum on natural gas pipelines this afternoon, and I’d better get down there to support him.”

  “Is that who’s got you all giggly?”

  This time it doesn’t faze her. “I’m not giggly. If I were, it’d have nothing to do with him.”

  “I bet.”

  Talia rolls her eyes and packs up for the day. “I’ll practice after that. See you tomorrow.”

  I nod my goodbye. And yes, I watch her walk away.

  She’s only gone for a minute when it hits me.

  A guy. Someone she’s known. A “moment.” Little, nothing, no future.

  That split second in front of the guards Friday night flashes through my mind again. Tucking her hair behind her ear. The cover in her eyes falling away. The real need, the real protectiveness showing through both our stories. The boa constrictor slowly closing around my ribs feels every bit as real.

  I love Shanna. I do. But she’s been pulling away for a long time, and she’s the one who needed time more than she needed me.

  And I’m a guy. And Talia’s a cute girl. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had a thing for her. A little thing. A thing I was going to ignore.

  Until she needed me.

  Work just got a whole lot more complicated.

  After our surveillance detection route Thursday night, we still manage to arrive comfortably early — not just for Talia’s performance, but the whole reception. The Ottawa Convention Centre looks like a glowing glass zeppelin landed in the middle of downtown. Impressive, but the security isn’t nearly as rigorous as we expected. They barely glance at us or the list before they wave us into the garage.

  Maybe we didn’t have to jump through all these hoops, cancelling another act and getting Talia all set up as the designated replacement. But as long as they wave us through to the party that easily, and don’t kick us out once her twenty minutes are up, it’ll all be worthwhile.

  We follow the garage guards’ directions to the greenroom on the second floor, and we don’t recap our objectives. We don’t touch. We don’t make eye contact.

  Okay, my gaze does kind of drift elsewhere. I don’t know much about women’s clothes, but I like Talia’s dress — black, long sleeved, past her knees but not too long to cover most of her calves. I think she spots me looking this time, but she says nothing.

  Then I catch the way she’s biting her lip, the adjustment to her red updo wig. Jitters.

  This is exactly why I’m here. “Stage fright?”

  Talia doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

  “Break a leg.”

  She doesn’t make a comment about me keeping an eye on them for both of us. She doesn’t do anything but maneuver a foot closer to me as we approach the token security guard at the top of the escalator. We have a legitimate excuse to be here, so there’s no reason for nerves now. And security’s hardly interested in us anyway, especially when Talia flashes her folder of music at them.

  As soon as we’re cleared, I slide a little closer to her. “I thought pros don’t need music.”

  “I’m a replacement.” She shoots me a sarcastic look, but when she looks away, that same semi-secret smile she’s worn all week wins out. And all week, the same mini-defibrillator response has kicked in my chest.

  That’s because of me.

  And I like it.

  We reach the greenroom, but there’s no time to talk with the singer, a folk dancing troupe, and the “headliner” for the night, a string quartet, all hanging around.

  Suddenly this feels more like something Shanna would drag me to than an op I designed. I haven’t forgotten Shanna, not for a minute — but when somebody wants you to forget them, wants to get away from you, it could be the right thing to let them. Maybe.

  Talia settles into one of the chairs ringing the room, running through imaginary scales on her lap. I take a seat next to her and take her hand to stop the nervous movement. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I tell Talia, “You’ll do great.”

  She slides free to flex her fingers. “Just staying warmed up.”

  Good idea, since we have a while to wait. One of those obnoxious headset-and-PDA-hardwired-to-her-nervous-system wedding planner types strides in and collects the performers to practice their entrances and exits.

  I take the time to plan my next move. And not on Talia.

  We’re in, but from here, it gets tougher. I’ve done my best to memorize the face of every Emirati staffer, Talia’s taken the Americans, and we’ve both been over the ranking members of Transport Canada. Now we just have to find some connection between somebody inside our embassy and the Emiratis’. Right. They could have the same cleaning lady for all we know.

  Okay, we’ve checked that, so not any local-hired staff. And the American side has to be somebody close to the ambassador.

  With the rehearsals finished, it’s up to me to keep Talia’s nerves in check — although she’s not that nervous anymore, so could be just me. All of a sudden, the first act is up, the singer. Twenty minutes seem to simultaneously crawl and fly until the folk dancers leave and the singer returns to pack up her stuff. Our turn. Without looking over her shoulder, Talia disappears.

  This is my cue, before the dancers get back. I’m supposed to slip out of the greenroom and into the party like I belong there, mingling with and monitoring the guests to find anybody who looks familiar. Talia, no longer in disguise, will hit the floor, too, to try to read people and find that invisible connection.

  Not my most efficient plan, but one night of my life is worth a shot.

  Drinks with the ambassador may not be on my weekly schedule, but the CIA trains you early on in this scenario, so it’s not too difficult to blend in. Talia’s doing a good job, too, playing some piece that even I vaguely know. At least nobody’s staring at the stage in horror.

  She finishes, curtsies to the polite applause and leaves the stage. Now the real show begins. I make the rounds of small talk, trying to scope out any Emiratis, but the ballroom is too big and too dim to make this effective — especially without Talia.

  The string quartet that followed her finishes their second number. It’s been way too long. She should be here.

  I check the doors again. Still no sign of her. Before I can grab my operational phone to check the time or give hers a call, I spot someone else in my line of sight. Someone I need to see. Someone who isn’t alone.

  The Emirati deputy ambassador and his wife. They keep up the traditional dress here, but despite the shroud of the abaya, she’s obviously not too happy with her husband. She holds up a hand to cut off his protests, then swoops into the hall. The same hall Talia should be coming down any minute.

  She doesn’t need any rescuing, but a heads-up might be appreciated. I text the only real number programmed into my operational phone with the word Incoming.

  How much trouble could she get into? She’s probably stuck primping her post-wig hair or something, though that sounds a lot more like Shanna than Talia. I keep mixing and mingling and monitoring the door every other minute. Where is she?

  After five minutes that feel like forever, I get the text back. One word, like mine, but definitely not the word I want to see.

  Problem.

  Backup? I offer.

/>   Maybe. Greenroom.

  I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I stroll back to the side doors, like I’m slipping out because all these free drinks have caught up with me.

  The hall is quiet and dark — and empty. No sign of the Emirati’s wife or Talia in trouble.

  I double check her text. What kind of problem? Wardrobe malfunction? Security scuffle? I finally text again. Greenroom still?

  Greenroom bathroom.

  Not sure I want to know what problem has her stuck in a bathroom, but I text back for details anyway.

  Burqa and American in greenroom, she replies.

  Uh, yeah, that might qualify as a “problem” of sorts. Doing what?

  Ten guesses.

  Hm, big mystery. Probably a little more than free intelligence samples like they're at the Real Canadian Superstore.

  I reach the greenroom door, but don’t dare waltz in. Talia texts again: American chatted me up offstage. Been in here so long that it’ll get weird real quick if I walk out now. IF he doesn’t recognize me.

  And if he does recognize her? Yeah, magic color-changing hair isn’t a typical diplomatic accessory. At least not for those in the official corps.

  I’m still trying to come up with an idea when Talia sends one more message. Moving out.

  It feels like somebody’s standing on my chest. This is too big a risk. She could probably stay put in that bathroom until . . . whenever —

  But an American guy and an Emirati woman alone together? Exactly what we want.

  Picture, I demand.

  Pervert.

  Great, now she wants to flirt. But she’s got to know exactly what I mean and why, so I let it slide, pacing outside that door. One minute. One minute to snap the photo and sneak out. That’s all it should take.

  Three minutes pass, and my pacing is spiraling into a tight little tornado of terror. What is taking her so long? The room’s not that big. She’s in trouble. She’s in danger.

  She needs me.

  I crack the door as quietly and quickly as I can. On the other side, one can light shines down in the little hallway leading into the room, and beyond that, dark.

  I don’t see Talia. Or anybody else.

  The door jerks out of my grasp, and the handle slips and clatters. Talia appears from behind the door, glaring up at me in the weird lighting and silence.

  Then I see the movement behind her in the shadows. We’re interrupting someone — someone who was definitely expecting me a lot less than Talia was.

  We need a cover. Quick.

  I look back to Talia and somehow that soft smile from this week and the one moment both our covers slipped last Friday are all I can see. I know exactly what to do.

  I cross the last step between us, slide my arm around her waist and hesitate only a fraction of a second before I kiss her.

  Her lips are soft and cool against mine. My heartbeat slows in my ears, time drawing out until another voice interrupts. “Who’s there?”

  It takes me half a second to remember what I should be doing. This is our guy, but I can’t see him in the dark.

  “Oh,” I say, shooting for surprise and somewhere north of the world’s longest undefended border. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this room was . . .” I scan the room beyond the guy, but I don’t see the woman. “Taken.”

  He’s too far in the shadows for me to make out his face, but I can hear the hard set to his jaw in his voice. “It is.”

  “We’ll be going, then.” I tow Talia outside. She obeys without a glance back in the room. Smart.

  A lot smarter than my cover. Aside from the James Bond–style cliché, there’s something else wrong with this picture.

  Talia didn’t kiss me back. She didn’t move.

  In fact, if I’m totally honest, the second I leaned in, her spine went rigid.

  We’ve made some major miscalculations here. Or I have.

  The silence between us is turning more sour by the second. I have to say something. “Got what we need?”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t have to say the “let’s go” part out loud. We head to the garage.

  Major, major miscalculations.

  The smothering silence sucks the air out of the car, but I think we manage to look like a couple out for a good time through our surveillance detection run. Unsurprisingly, nobody’s following the entertainment home from a human rights summit reception. We park at our drop-off and get out. And don’t walk away.

  Because I guess we have to talk about this. I lean against the rear quarter of the car. At least the street’s quiet, and we can do this without an audience.

  Talia joins me and hands over her operational phone. Shadowy pictures of tonight’s greenroom show on the screen.

  “Not enough,” she murmurs. I want to reassure her — reassure both of us — but she’s right. You can barely make out that there are people in these pictures, let alone their faces. I’m sure she’s sent the picture in to our facial recognition program anyway. And I’m sure the results are as dismal as they seem.

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. I’d recognize him if I saw him, though.”

  With a full-time sketch artist — one we could afford to let in on this whole secret, that is — we might be able to start a trace. But until then, our American mole will be a mystery.

  “Did you see the woman?” Talia asks.

  “I saw a woman leave the ballroom headed that way, but I can’t be sure. Wife of an Emirati deputy.”

  Talia’s lips twist into a little knot of thought, and I can almost feel those lips again, but this time responding, countering, moving against mine.

  I’m in a lot of trouble.

  But Talia doesn’t mention it. “We need pictures of the rest of the staff. Dig up everybody. Figure out what other Americans were at this summit. We’ve got to find this guy.”

  “He didn’t tell you his name?” Hello, Flirting 101: exchange names as fast as possible.

  Talia focuses on the plate glass storefront across the street. Her voice barely qualifies as a whisper. “Some guys can tell when a woman’s not interested.”

  I let her walk away, watching her, waiting that split second between the blade slicing through the flesh and the raw nerves going haywire.

  Major, major, major miscalculation.

  I learned a long time ago life doesn’t come with an “undo” button. However, a lucky few of us are equipped with a fully functional play-it-off switch, and I am deep in that mode when Talia gets to the office Friday afternoon. She jumps into her work with barely a nod in my direction.

  I’m not planning to get all hostile, but I’m not going to complain about a little breathing room in this suddenly stuffy office. The awkward silence — and the stack of papers on my desk for Talia — still hammer at my concentration. It doesn’t help that everyone else is out doing actual spy stuff this afternoon, while I’m doing paperwork and biding my time until my Lebanese friend can chat.

  After half an hour, I can’t pretend to work anymore — I have to give this to her. I wheel my chair over to Talia’s desk, tail between my legs and the equivalent of the embassy’s yearbook under my arm. “Ready for this?”

  Normally she’d counter with an “always,” and the whole exchange would sound a whole lot more like flirting. Instead, it sounds like somebody died.

  Not quite that serious yet. I slap the stack of paper on Talia’s desk and take a seat next to her. Fortunately, she knows what I’m trying to say — I totally screwed up — and gets right to work without any more discussion.

  When she turns the third or fourth page, it hits me — there’s no reason for me to stay by her. I never saw the guy well enough. Talia doesn’t need me. But somehow I still need to be here. Because I need to make sure we’re okay.

  Talia sucks her cheeks in, totally focused on the page of photos in front of her. I expect her to make fun of the “natural” smiles and the stuffed-shirt, kid-glove executive versions of foreign relations.
>
  Okay, yes, “overt ops” are important, too, and you never know if these guys applied to the Agency first and this job is their fallback plan. Still, it doesn’t feel great to stare at their smug little I’m-almost-famous grins in this tiny form of recognition, when we’re the ones risking our lives.

  But we knew when we signed up that we’d be safer living and working anonymously. And nobody goes into the Clandestine Service for the fame.

  I break the silence to distract myself from that line of thought. “Nothing so far?”

  Talia shakes her head. She’s not talking to me, not looking at me, not even thinking about me.

  Nobody focuses this hard on staring at photos. “Listen, about last night—”

  She holds up a hand, still clutching one of the pages, to cut me off. “We’ve said everything we need to say.”

  “I know. I’m not—”

  “Are you going to tell Shanna?”

  Dread freezes in my throat, drops into my stomach, sends ice spiraling through my gut, just like the minute I stepped into our apartment last night until I remembered she wasn’t home. I have no idea what to say, to Talia or to Shanna.

  Talia’s gaze travels the room. The two other people in the office are totally absorbed in their work, pointedly ignoring us. But we all know they’re listening. We’re always listening, always watching, always looking for information, even with people we should trust.

  Which means that Talia probably knows exactly what’s going on with Shanna. Probably better than I do, her being a girl.

  “I’ll figure that out.” I have to change the subject. And then I remember how to turn the tables. “What about your little boy toy? Are you telling him?”

  “Don’t see why I would.” She’s back to work on the embassy directory. “We’ve had all of one conversation.”

  It isn’t me. It isn’t me. I knew it — should have known it. How did I miss that? How did I ever think it was me? Idiot, idiot, idiot — work. Work. I have to focus on something besides my own scathing stupidity.

  I look around, but before I can find some excuse to leave her desk, Talia thumbs through the rest of the directory and shoves it away. “He isn’t here.”