Under the Rose

by Nolan, Kathryn

  Sam’s mouth pinched in the middle. “That could be an issue. If he’s in attendance, he could make us as the ones who tried to run him down.” Disappointment sloped along his shoulders.

  “Counterpoint,” I said, “Dahl won’t be there. Let’s be honest. It’s likely that dude was the go-between. Responsible for the drop and nothing else. What happened this morning was unfortunate but probably didn’t hurt our chances that badly.”

  Sam appeared surprised at the life preserver I’d tossed him. Almost as surprised as I was that I’d thrown it to him.

  “What would your plan be if your cover was blown?” Abe asked.

  “Throw a drink in their face like a woman on Real Housewives,” I said. “Run away as fast as I can.”

  “Not bad,” he said dryly. “Sam, I’d like to hear your response from a Bureau perspective.”

  “Honestly, there wouldn’t be much to do,” Sam said. “I’ve never had my cover blown before. But FBI procedure would direct us to inform the person they were mistaken”—Sam cleared his throat—“and get out of there alive.”

  Abe nodded, face grave. “The longer you’d be undercover as Julian and Birdie, the more dangerous it will become. Our ticking clock is fast on this one for a number of reasons. The festival is three days long. We have four days—max—to recover these letters. And your cover could be blown, easily, at any second.”

  Next to me, Sam leaned forward onto his knees. “All due respect, sir, I think we’d be playing with fire. Agents at the Bureau could find these letters faster than we can.”

  “Not based on my experience,” Abe said, voice chilly. “It’ll take them four days just to get their act together. The letters will have disappeared. I guarantee it.”

  Sam’s hands clenched into fists, tendons standing out in his forearms. If anyone drank the FBI Kool-Aid, it was Sam. But Codex had been Abe’s counterargument against the Bureau’s sluggish bureaucracy. Given our impressive success rate, I tended to side with Abe on that matter.

  “I think Sam and I were born to play Julian and Birdie,” I continued. “They’re already interested in rare letters. That’s an access point we can manipulate. If we assume new identities, there’s no telling if we could infiltrate this next level during the course of this festival.”

  “We’d draw less attention to ourselves if the identities were our own,” Sam interjected. “Which, according to the contract, is what our client wishes. Seems like that should take precedence over following a tenuous code word that might not even exist.”

  “Oh, it exists,” I shot back.

  “Your proof is circumstantial, at best.”

  “I’ve been working these contacts for three years. I know a pattern when I see one.”

  “And I know a sloppy plan when I hear one,” Sam said.

  “We’ll go with Freya,” Abe said, cutting our argument off cold. Sam and I were still glaring at each other, assuming our favorite adversarial positions—and Abe’s decision shocked us both.

  “What?” Sam said.

  “Um…what?” I echoed.

  Abe was writing Julian King and Birdie Barnes on the board. “Freya, you’ll be working your first undercover case as Birdie Barnes. Sam will be Julian King. Spend tonight and tomorrow morning developing your cover stories so that you can successfully uncover where Jim Dahl is, where those letters are, and who the hell has them. Once we have that information, we can make an extraction plan.”

  Delilah and Henry were already jumping into familiar action—but I was still frozen in place.

  “Freya?” Abe said. “Do you have any issues with this?”

  I had about a metric fuck-ton of issues with it—but with my irritating rival sitting next to me, I decided that a smug, “That sounds grand,” was my best next play.

  Internally, I was screaming like a banshee. I’d let my need to win against Byrne convince my boss to send me undercover on a high-profile case with a hard deadline and Sam as my partner.

  Debating with Sam in class had been my favorite thing to do—pressing on the vulnerabilities in his arguments. Exposing the flaws. He did the same to me in the most aggravating way possible. It was our version of a relaxing Sunday morning brunch.

  I’d let Byrne yank me into an argument I accidentally won. And now my most annoying enemy would have a front-row seat to all the reasons why I couldn’t hack it as an FBI agent.

  “Sam?” Abe arched a brow his way.

  “We’ll make it work, sir,” he replied.

  Abe tapped the whiteboard. “Well done, Freya. Seems like your behind-the-scenes work was exactly what we needed to put you undercover.”

  I nodded meekly—an action Delilah didn’t miss. She glanced at me, her face kind.

  “What if I helped you and Sam prep tonight?” she said. “We can run through scenarios for your characters, get the two of you on the same page.”

  “I’d love that, actually. Should I call for more emergency tacos?” But when I stood to give my friend a grateful hug, the room slanted violently, and I pitched forward, vision gray.

  “Hey, careful,” came Sam’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically gentle. But his hands were locked tight around my arms, cradling me. I blinked. His face swam back into view. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, uneasy. Adrenaline had tricked my body into staying awake for almost two days straight.

  “When was the last time you slept?” Sam asked, eyes narrowed.

  “I’m going to guess Monday,” Abe said. Delilah was already pressing a glass of cold water into my hands.

  “I get a little fainty when I’m not sleeping,” I explained. With control, Sam edged me upright. I was wobbly, but able to drink the water. While trying not to notice the heat of his reassuring palm low on my back.

  “I know. This used to happen at Princeton during finals,” he said. “I once caught her before she fell down a flight of stairs at the library.”

  The glass paused at my mouth. “Wait. You did?”

  “You forgot my act of dramatic heroism?” he asked, voice dry.

  The memory flared to life, buried beneath a hundred others. We’d been at the top of the fourth-floor staircase at Princeton’s library. It was late, past 1:00 in the morning. I’d been teasing Sam, being silly—my flirtatiousness a by-product of having slept a combined six hours in three days. One moment, I’d been trying to get him to laugh—a pointless endeavor. The next, I was tumbling down the stairs.

  And Sam had caught me. When my eyes opened, I’d been clutching at his worn black sweater, fingers grazing the hard planes of his chest. He’d looked terribly frightened. And I’d wondered what would happen if I leaned in and kissed his throat.

  “I…remember it now.” My voice was shaky. “Your heroism did not go unnoticed. Thank you.”

  “You don’t look right,” he continued—looking like he had that day, holding me in the stairwell. Although he had the nerve to look hotter.

  “I am, I promise.” My smile at Sam was truly sincere, which brought color to his cheeks. “Anyway, where do you want to chat, Del?”

  “Not a chance,” Abe said, nodding at Sam, who was already gently escorting me toward the door. “Delilah will drive you home.”

  I inhaled to argue, but a vicious yawn stopped me in my tracks. Exhaustion settled over my bones, threatening to drag me under.

  “The next seventy-two hours are going to be stressful,” Abe said quietly. “I won’t have my agents going into a high-pressure situation on no sleep.”

  “But I need to prep, Abe. I’ve never gone undercover like this for Codex before.” My anxiety was duking it out for dominance over my exhaustion. “Don’t I need—”

  “You need sleep,” Sam said. “I’ll work with Delilah for a couple of hours and then I’ll pick you up at your house in the morning. We can reconvene and head to the hotel in the morning to register.”

  The thought of my giant warm bed and a cup of tea felt so fucking amazing I almost fainted again out of sheer n
eed. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “They’re right,” Delilah murmured next to me. “I wouldn’t let these guys send you home if they were wrong.” She draped my jacket over me and squeezed my shoulders.

  “Hey, Frey?” We all turned to Henry, looking every bit the dapper librarian, surrounded by open books and scribbled notes. “I’m pretty damn sure you’re right about that code.”

  “House?” I asked. “Empty house? Thirteenth house?”

  “Empty house,” he said confidently. “It’s a Sherlock Holmes reference.”

  Sam turned to openly gawk at me.

  “Sherlock Holmes fakes his own death in the story The Final Problem. In the next story, Sherlock re-appears to Dr. Watson. Alive and very well, much to Watson’s surprise. They’re investigating the case of a colonial governor killed by a gunshot to the temple. The mystery being the man was in a room that locked from the inside, and the only escape would have been through a window with a twenty-foot drop. And not a single person heard the sound of a shot.”

  Ever the FBI agent, Sam asked, “How did the murderer get away with it?”

  “If I remember correctly, it was a sniper with an air rifle. When Sherlock Holmes reveals himself to John Watson, he’s disguised as an elderly bookseller.” Henry paused, adjusted his glasses. “The story was called The Adventure of The Empty House.”

  10

  Freya

  It was 6:59 a.m., and Sam’s boring car was pulling in front of my rowhouse.

  I peered through the pink curtains in my bedroom, watching him step out of the driver’s side and scan the street—presumably for criminals. His suit today was a dark blue. As usual, his hair was perfect, face clean-shaven.

  I didn’t know what Julian King looked like in real life, but I figured it was a safe bet that Sam Byrne would give him a run for his money in the looks department.

  I glanced at my own reflection in my floor-length mirror. The night of uninterrupted sleep had eradicated the haze in my brain. But the sight of Sam—and the knowledge of what we were about to do—lit a fire beneath my nerves, sending them cartwheeling. I pressed a hand to my stomach to quell the twitchiness.

  My cat, Minerva, meowed from the doorway.

  “How do I look?” I asked her, striking a dramatic pose. For the first time in my entire life, I was wearing a tight sweater—black—instead of my usual extra-large sweater. Black pants, red high-heels I’d found in the back of my closet. Lipstick to match and a set of dusty (fake) pearls I’d once worn on Halloween when I’d gone dressed as Vogue-era Madonna. Even my trademark bun was neat and tidy.

  To the mirror, I said, “You are Birdie Barnes. Rare bookseller. Rock star among thieves.”

  But when I pressed a stray strand of hair back into position, my fingers were trembling.

  Sam’s sharp knock sent Minerva fleeing down the stairs, and I was quick to follow her. When I opened the door, Sam stared at me quizzically. “You look different.”

  “You look the same,” I said. I pulled him into my hallway and closed the door. His imposing shape dominated the narrow space, and his jaw worked, expression a mystery, as he examined the framed art on the wall. I’d never even seen inside his dorm room—not at Princeton. Certainly not at Quantico. Seeing him now, in my actual home, made me feel naked.

  “Do you want, um…a cup of tea?” I asked, backing away from his broad shoulders.

  He nodded, casually looking around as I led him through my tiny sitting room with the window seat—perfect for rainy-day reading—and into my kitchen. He pulled out a kitchen stool. Minerva jumped onto the counter and tried to climb his shoulders. As I put the kettle on, I chanced a glance when Sam wasn’t looking—it was such an oddly domestic moment, I wanted to pinch myself.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Minerva,” I said. “A stray the animal rescue found living behind Bauman’s Rare Books in Old City. She looked feral when I adopted her but adapted overnight to being an indoor love-bug.”

  I poured steaming water into two blue mugs with Earl Grey teabags and caught Sam tapping Minerva lightly on the nose.

  “Minerva, as in McGonagall?” he asked. “Harry Potter, right?”

  I tilted my head. “How would you know about that? You told me at Quantico that you never read for pleasure.”

  It had been a random anecdote he had shared with me one day, pestering me as I dog-eared a worn paperback before a sparring session. My little nerd-girl heart had wilted at his admission.

  He lifted a shoulder. “I read.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I read those books, anyway.”

  “You read Harry Potter?”

  “After you told me about them.” He looked a little uncomfortable.

  “Oh,” I said, completely shocked. “Did you enjoy them?”

  “Yeah. I read them all in a week.” Sam didn’t smile, but he did hold my gaze while sipping his tea. Minerva butted her head against his shoulder. Picturing him in bed reading my favorite books made me feel fizzy, like a shaken-up can of soda.

  “I finally understand why you used to call me your personal Malfoy.” His tone was dry, mouth curved like a comma.

  I hid a smirk. “I never could figure out the spell to shut you up.”

  He raised his mug at me in cheers. “Same.”

  I scratched my bun, pretended to be interested in my tea. Sam touched a fingertip to his mug, which had a picture of a vintage Nintendo controller. The text beneath read Self-Rescuing Princess.

  “You had this at Quantico,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve been nailing my personal brand for years,” I shrugged. Our gazes met for a feverish second. Dropped immediately.

  “So you’re probably a Gryffindor,” I said.

  “Extremely brave and incredibly strong? Of course.”

  I tapped my lip. “And yet you weren’t valedictorian of our class at Princeton, were you?”

  He didn’t reply, but his nostrils flared. Slipping back to our constant back-and-forth felt as soft and comfortable as a favorite sweatshirt. Sam’s eyes, however, lacked any sense of comfort. Instead, they flashed dark blue and hungry.

  I took a step back—startled—and bumped into the counter.

  “We should prepare,” he said. “Delilah dropped a few things off at my hotel room this morning.” He slid two driver’s licenses my way—there were our wallet-sized pictures and the address of King Barnes Rare Books. Mine falsely identified me as Birdie Barnes.

  “The things the kids can do these days,” I remarked. “Who did Delilah use?”

  “A gentleman she referred to as Grim.”

  “The less an FBI agent knows about him, the better,” I said. “Grim enjoys strolling through the legal gray-area, same as Codex.”

  “I got that impression. He make IDs for you often?”

  I shrugged, pocketing the fake ID. “Depends on how deep we’re going. Usually we’re not undercover for long. But for an event like this, I’m sure they’ll require identification.”

  He held a dangling chain out across the counter. “Delilah also gave me this watch and this necklace for you.”

  “Spy shit,” I cheered, slipping the necklace from Sam’s outstretched fingers. I dropped it over my head, the gold bauble landing right below my breasts. “There’s a tiny camera in here.”

  “Did Grim make these for you?”

  “Please,” I said. “You can get this at Best Buy.”

  Another almost-smile from my rival. He showed me the watch on his wrist. “Camera inside here too.”

  I nodded. “Without a warrant, I’m guessing you’re bound to private investigator rules. That means we can legally take pictures of anything we see that’s shady. But we can’t record voices or conversations.”

  “Got it.”

  “What else did you and Del review last night?

  “Playing up the notoriety angle. Letting our fans fawn over us. Inciting a sense of trust by allowing them to feel close to us.”

  “I
like it.”

  “We don’t speak unless spoken to,” he continued. I knew this lesson, but my nerves clamored to hear it again. “Listen and watch everything. Let everyone else do the talking. Allow for silences. No promises, no commitments.”

  “Birdie and Julian are sexy thieves, I think,” I said.

  “This is based on evidence?”

  “You don’t think we’re sexy?” I kept our eyes locked as I drank, saw Sam’s flick down my body for a nanosecond.

  “Sure.” His voice was thick. Clearing his throat, he said, “My sense is that Julian and Birdie are extremely wealthy. Smart and savvy. Elegant.”

  I snorted. “I’ll have to work hard to nail down elegant.”

  “You won’t,” he said.

  I touched my hair, unsure of what to do with that. “So…sexy thieves with adoring fans who are elegant and filthy rich. Got it.”

  Sam stared down at his mug, turning it left and right. “Codex has been working more intimately with book dealers than the agents in the Art Theft department. In your opinion, how would Julian and Birdie be running an illegal operation through their legal bookstore in San Francisco?”

  I clicked my nails on my mug. “We could have connections to libraries and museums. A shady contact who steals the books. We give them a cut, turn around and sell it for a significant profit. Masquerade as a legitimate bookstore, but underneath we’re illegal as hell.”

  “At a place like the book festival…”

  “We’d be looking to acquire illegal books. And legal ones, of course, to maintain the façade. Solidify the relationships we have to build trust. Close the circle and keep it tight.”

  His expression brightened. “That’s our angle. Sexy thieves looking for illegal wares while maintaining our allegiances.”

  “I think that’s absolutely what Julian and Birdie would do. At least the Julian and Birdie we’re going to be,” I said. “And I can’t believe I got you to say sexy thieves.”

  His gaze lingered on my lips. “I can’t believe we had a fairly civil conversation that ended on agreement.”