Spy for Hire

by Cat Johnson

  A few nodded to me as they passed. Of course, they didn’t know who I was. They’d already been on the way to Somalia when I’d arrived. No doubt they’d learn soon enough.

  “Hey.” One paused as he passed by me. “You need something? You look a little lost.”

  If I hadn’t recognized his voice from listening to it so closely during the raid, I still would have been able to identify Alpha one from the camera he wore.

  “Um, just waiting for transport, actually.” As his teammates continued on and there was just the two of us, I decided the whole truth would come out sooner or later so I might as well confess. “Actually, I’m with British intelligence. It was my information that sent you into that house tonight. It was a hell of a mistake and I apologize. I was wrong.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Actually, I don’t think it was a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were an awful lot of wives and children on site to have belonged to just that one guy. I think your intel was probably right. He was there. Maybe not tonight, but recently.”

  I drew in a breath. I felt moderately relieved that my instincts, which I’d grown to trust over the years, weren’t completely off. But it didn’t change the outcome.

  Lifting a shoulder, I drew in a breath. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We didn’t get him.”

  “No. Not this time. But we got six bags of shit for the analysts to go through. Laptop. Couple of cell phones. A ton of documents.”

  In my misery, I’d barely thought twice about the overstuffed bags some of the men had carried. I thought about them now. We weren’t dead in the water yet. It could yield a treasure trove. Clues to his associations. His plans. His location. My mind spun.

  “Hey, you want a drink?” the SEAL asked.

  I laughed. “I’ve wanted a drink since you turned over that fighter and I saw it wasn’t Abdulkadir. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the local drinking establishment.”

  “Lucky for you, we travel with our own.” He grinned.

  The SEAL’s good mood was infectious. With that, and his assurances I hadn’t been completely wrong, I couldn’t help but feel lighter.

  I nodded. “A drink sounds exceptionally good.”

  “I hope you like single malt scotch whisky.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. And I don’t know how to thank you . . .” I realized I didn’t even know his name. “My apologies. I don’t know you as anything other than Alpha one. I’m Tristan Fairchild.”

  “Zane Alexander, at your service.” He shook my hand and tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. There’s some fifteen-year old Macallan with your name on it.”

  I lifted a brow at that. “That’s good stuff.”

  He tipped his head to the side and lifted one shoulder. “In this job we learn to celebrate the small wins, as well as the big ones.”

  “Small win meaning the intelligence you were able to recover?” I asked, as I followed him.

  “No, the fact we’re all still alive and in one piece. But yeah, the intel is good too.” He grinned as he opened the door for me to walk through. Once inside, he called, “Hey, Jon. Pour James Bond here a drink. He needs it.”

  Jon glanced up, bottle in hand. “You got it.”

  “Hey, did he bring us any of those Bond girls?” the SEAL with the thick southern drawl I’d heard over the radio asked.

  “No,” Zane answered flatly.

  “Well damn. What the hell good is he then?”

  “Please ignore Brody.” With an expression of indulgence, Zane passed me my drink.

  “Thanks.” I raised the paper coffee cup containing the whisky I knew cost more than I liked to spend on alcohol.

  It deserved a real glass but it still went down fine.

  As the joking and laughter around us continued, Zane raised his own cup and said, “They’re all pretty good guys once you get to know them. You’ll get used to them.”

  All it took was one sip and I decided I could definitely get used to them. To all of this . . .

  ONE

  Manhattan, New York 2018

  I walked past the sweeping steps of the New York Public Library and kept going, stopping at a food cart down the side street on the next block.

  “Getcha somethin’?” The vendor shouted at me over the noise of midtown traffic and the display of canned beverages stacked high on the narrow counter between us.

  “Coffee. Cream and sugar.” I loathed coffee, but I would have hated what passed as hot tea from a street vendor far more.

  The reality was I hadn’t come for a beverage. The stop provided both an opportunity for me to make sure I wasn’t being followed and an excuse why I’d passed my destination.

  “Two-fifty.”

  I took a few American dollar bills out of my pocket and shoved them at the man in exchange for the covered paper cup.

  How long had it been since I’d had British pounds in my pocket? Six months? No, closer to eight. Too long.

  “Keep the change.” I nodded my thanks to the man, taking the opportunity to scan again for any possible tails before I turned back toward the way I’d come.

  The short trip to the library had taken me hours longer than it could have as I made numerous stops and side trips to ensure I wasn’t being followed. Not to hide my movements—nothing secretive or covert about a trip to the New York Public Library—but rather to see if I was on anybody’s radar.

  I needed to protect my contact with whom, with any luck, I’d be meeting very soon.

  My cover story—low-level paper pusher at the British Embassy—allowed me to travel openly between the British consulate in New York and the embassy in Washington D.C..

  But if anyone suspected my informant of passing secrets to me—it wouldn’t matter that I was MI6 rather than an embassy worker—I might not be able to protect him. It could cost him his life.

  I paused on the sidewalk and took a sip of the coffee . . . and wrinkled my nose at the taste. It was as unsavory as I’d feared it would be, but it served as a good prop and right now that’s what I needed.

  My dark glasses hid my eyes as I glanced one more time at the other pedestrians surrounding me.

  I paid particular attention to the homeless man digging through the trash as I took another sip of the foul beverage and pretended to enjoy it as well as the scenery. In reality, I watched for any sign the man wasn’t who he seemed to be.

  When he moved down the street without a backward glance at me, his near to overflowing plastic bag of cans and bottles clutched in one hand as he shuffled his way toward the next trash bin, I moved to toss my cup in the trash he’d been perusing and strode up the wide stone stairs.

  Inside, the library was quiet aside from the soft hush of whispers that seemed to float up to the high ceiling before being bounced back down again to the patrons.

  Sliding off my sunglasses I moved to the desk and smiled at the woman seated behind it. “I received a message the book I’d requested is being held here for me.”

  “Name?” she asked.

  “Fairchild.” I pulled out my library card and slid it across the wooden surface as she turned to the shelves behind her, looking for the book Ivan had placed on hold under my name.

  I held my breath, waiting, nearly vibrating on the inside while on the outside I managed a balance between patience and boredom.

  She emerged with a thick volume bound in leather—red leather.

  I blew out the breath I’d been holding. Taking the card and the book, I thanked her and did my best to hide my disappointment.

  Basic spy craft—my contact would submit a request for a specific book under my name. I’d get notified by the library and come pick it up. Red binding meant no meet-up. I’d been hoping for green, telling me our monthly, prearranged check-in was a go.

  Turning, I headed for the exit, dumping the book in the return slot on my way out, my mind spinning as I walked.

  Why had Ivan canceled? Was
someone on to him or was he just afraid they might be?

  I smothered a curse beneath my breath. I needed the information he’d promised me. We were so close. All I needed was the physical proof . . .

  The memory of how I’d been this close before and had been disappointed was never far from the forefront of my mind. That night in Kenya came back to me now.

  The reminder of my failure kept me grounded. Prevented me from getting too cocky and self-assured. There were no sure things. And even if it worked out differently this time and I got everything I needed, I wasn’t getting it today.

  Pocketing my disappointment and accepting that fact, I visually swept the street as I descended the stairs as much from habit as caution.

  Let them follow me. I had the whole day and all of New York City to explore.

  It was a nice day to take a stroll.

  Maybe I’d work my way over to the park later, visit the Central Park Zoo. I hadn’t been there in a while. I felt a certain affinity for the polar bear. We were both far from home, living in a strange land.

  I turned and headed in the direction of Grand Central Terminal first, whistling as I walked. After leading whoever might be tailing me on a wild goose chase for the day, I had a dinner scheduled with Brent Hearst this evening.

  That oddly random meeting should really confuse anyone who might be watching. I smiled at that thought and was on my way.

  TWO

  I didn’t escape from my day of diversionary tactics unscathed. A sudden rainstorm caught me unprepared on the way to meet Brent.

  Shaking the water from the jacket I’d stripped off just inside the door, I stepped toward the hostess's podium.

  Even in the usual dim lighting of the Manhattan restaurant, I could see she'd been hired for her good looks. I hoped she'd also been hired for her efficiency.

  Drenched from head to shoes from the storm that had caught me unprotected, I was ready to sit and settle in before my dinner companion arrived.

  "May I help you?" She smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth that stood out in stark contrast above the sea of black of her dress.

  "I certainly hope so. I made a reservation for two under the name Tristan Fairchild."

  The hostess looked down at the large leather book, open on her station. She dipped her head and my hopes rose that I was one step closer to a hot pot of tea, followed shortly by a Macallan. I didn’t have Zane Alexander’s money but after first meeting him five years ago, I too had decided to celebrate life’s little wins with the good stuff.

  Getting inside and out of the rain seemed like a good enough excuse to indulge to me.

  "Follow me, please." Grabbing two menus from beneath her station, she spun on one black high heel.

  I did as told and, surrounded by the low drone of patrons, followed her as we wove a path between the tables of diners.

  The restaurant had been my choice. I spent enough time in the city that never sleeps to have learned where I could get served a decent pot of tea, day and night.

  After my first horrifying experience in this country years ago, when a waitress had delivered a mug of barely hot water with a teabag on the side, I'd made it my business to seek out establishments that served tea the correct way.

  Just because I resided and worked abroad didn’t mean I had to live like a heathen. I hadn’t found many places that fit my standards, but those I had found had become my go-to venues. This was one of them.

  The waiter, an older man who’d told me he’d worked for the owner since the place opened decades ago, stepped up to the table. “Mr. Fairchild. Nice to see you again.”

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Marcus. Though it would be more of a pleasure if this bloody rain would stop.”

  “Let me hang your jacket.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I handed the item I’d dropped on the back of the extra chair to the man.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Most definitely.”

  Although I wouldn’t be at all opposed to a whisky with dinner. Of course, Marcus knew my habits and would no doubt be back to offer it. Being a regular had its benefits.

  “Tristan.”

  I glanced up at the sound of my name and saw the man I’d first met a few months ago during one of the oddest scenarios I’d encountered since taking on this assignment in the States.

  “Brent. Good to see you.” I stood as the American, one of the heirs to the Hearst family publishing fortune, stepped up to the table.

  I extended my hand and shook his. I was tall, but Brent stood a good inch or two over me. If we added in the height of his wallet, the difference would be even more vast.

  “Sir, something to drink?” Marcus asked as Brent settled himself in the seat opposite me.

  “Yes. A bottle of the blonde ale. Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  As Marcus moved away, Brent smiled at me. “So it’s nice seeing you when there’s not a gun in each of our hands.”

  “Yes, quite. Though you handled yourself exceptionally well.”

  “For a civilian.” His lips quirked up in a wry smile as he added the words I’d purposely left unspoken.

  I laughed in agreement. “Your words. Not mine. And how is the third person from our little impromptu team doing?” I asked as Marcus reappeared bearing a tray with our order.

  He set out the items in front of us and moved away as Brent narrowed his eyes at me. “She’s very well, thank you. And how did you know that I’d know how Alex was?”

  I lifted the teapot and poured the aromatic steaming brew into the empty cup in front of me.

  “It’s simple. I’m just that good.” Grinning, I stirred sugar into my cup.

  Brent leaned forward, looking less amused than I was. “Well, since I’m sure your organization would never devote your valuable time to tracking my love life, I’m going to guess Zane told you Alex and I are together now.”

  I smiled at his guess, but didn’t confirm that he was mostly correct.

  After headquarters had cleared Alex of any connection to Moscow, my organization—as he’d called it—wouldn’t devote any assets to keeping track of her.

  MI6 didn’t know or care whom she dated, but our mutual friend Zane Alexander had mentioned Brent and Alex’s budding relationship to me when we’d spoken on the phone.

  Brent scowled. “Considering he had all sorts of high level clearance while he was a Super SEAL, and was no doubt privy to all sorts of secrets I can’t even imagine, Zane sure does like to talk a lot.”

  I’d seen Zane in action while he’d been in the SEALs, but I couldn’t speak to what secrets he was privy to then. Though I did know that chatting about a mutual friend was one thing and operational security quite another.

  I saw no reason to discuss the finer points of that with Brent, so I changed the subject. “So, what else have you been occupied with, besides the lovely Alex that is?”

  My real question was why he had contacted me out of the blue and asked for this meeting? I guess we had all evening to get to that if he wanted to spend a bit of time on small talk first.

  Brent drew in a breath as any hint of humor in his demeanor fled. “I need your opinion on something. Zane’s acting like everything’s fine, but I’m not so sure and quite honestly, I’m concerned.”

  When his sentence stopped there, I prompted, “Concerned about?”

  I could see from his pained expression this was something serious.

  The cell I used only for communicating with the home office vibrated. I held up one hand to interrupt Brent. “Pardon. My apologies, but I need to take this call.”

  “Of course.” Brent nodded.

  I stood and pulled the cell out of my pocket. The caller ID of course said UNKNOWN but I knew who it was. Only one person had this number. I made my way to the back of the restaurant and the moderate privacy of the hallway that led to the restrooms.

  “Collins,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Fairchild. Can you talk?”

&nbs
p; What was this about? It wasn’t time for our scheduled check-in.

  “A bit,” I answered, glancing around me.

  “We’re calling you home.”

  After taking a beat to digest that statement and all that it meant, I said, “Pardon?”

  “You’re done there. Pack up everything. Tie up any loose ends. You have until the end of the month.”

  The end of the month was next week. I’d been here for two years. There were more than a few loose ends, as he’d put it.

  I was on long-term assignment in the States and was scheduled to be here indefinitely. I’d figured that would be at least until I’d gotten the evidence I was still waiting for from Ivan. I anticipated another communication from him any day.

  During the past two years I’d taken short trips back to the home office, but this sounded more like a permanent recall. A reassignment.

  Why? And why now?

  “Collins, I’m close to getting what we need. Possibly weeks away from—”

  “This order has nothing to do with your assignment. It comes from far above me. The top, in fact.”

  The prime minister? What did that mean?

  “Everyone or just me?” I asked.

  “Everyone in the States and in danger.”

  I was always in danger. A man didn’t choose a profession with MI6 to be safe. But that the home office believed I was in more danger now—enough to call me home—was telling.

  I might not own a television but I kept up with the news online. I was very well aware of what was happening with international relations—particularly between Russia and my own country.

  Spies and their families being poisoned at their own front door had every one of us in that profession a little bit on edge. The fact my assignment was to investigate Russia’s foothold in the States made me even more so.

  I was good and I was careful. Not to mention I was undercover. Even within my own organization, only a small handful of people knew what my true assignment was. And the very few Americans who knew I was MI6 all believed I was here maintaining my cover while waiting for an assignment.