Alex continues his lecture. “This is the only way to go uphill, one step at a time.” He holds up two flat hands, palms down, one about six inches higher than the other, then brings them to touch at the same level. “He’s in lock five, already way above us, and a rising tide raises all ships, right?” He repeats the meet-in-the-middle action. “Until the water level is even, thousands of pounds of water pressure hold the gates closed. Even if you could open them, you’d release forty feet of water and wash everyone back over the doors.”
I glance at the boats behind us. Unacceptable risk. I fold my arms. “Well, gentlemen, welcome to the world’s slowest boat chase.” And we’re below him. Definitely at a disadvantage. “Do you have people on the canal?”
Luc gives half a shrug. “OPS should.”
The Ottawa Police Service. “Let’s get a boat to the top. We need to get above him.”
“Wait.” Elliott holds up hand. “Anybody know if these sats are on a delay?”
“If they are, it’s a couple seconds, max,” I say.
“Someone’s getting off their boat.”
Alex, Luc and I all shoulder in to see his computer again. Sure enough, their deck looks to be level with the top of the cement wall in their lock, and there’s a man walking alongside the boat. Waving.
We need to stay with him. We need to make sure he’s not headed back to his room, to catch CSIS mid-search. We need to know if this is even Timofeyev.
“Got it.” I’m already climbing to the prow. Our lock is half full, so the only way out now is to climb the mooring rope or the ladder in the far corner of the cement block walls ahead. Knowing my luck with rope climbing, the ladder is the safer bet, even if it’s less accessible.
I climb over the railing. The guys behind me call for me to stop, but we don’t have a choice or backup waiting upstream. I say a quick prayer: please help me fly.
And I leap.
In the eternity between two heartbeats, I soar four feet over the water. Will myself not to close my eyes. Throw out my arms for the ladder.
At the last second, I jerk my head out of the way. My arms wrap around the ladder poles, one of them jamming into my shoulder, as hard as a battering ram.
The pain resonates with the metal vibrations shaking through me. My feet fumble for the rungs. One foot drops — a splash. The water rushing into the lock is barely audible over the blood crashing through my ears.
My arms slip. My pulse surges in my throat. That rope’s looking better and better.
Too late to second-guess. I wrap my fingers around a rung and hold tight, my arms still twisted around the ladder poles. Tucking my knees up, I finally find purchase for my feet.
And the rest of my team is watching this awkward struggle. I give them a thumbs up, and now the thing that hurts the most is my pride. Once I untangle my death grip on the ladder, I’m on the sidewalk in no time.
“Everything all right, miss?” calls a lock worker.
“Yes,” I assure him over my shoulder, already on the first set of stairs. “Just late.”
I scan the crowd on the next level, and I think I see Timofeyev at the top of the steps further up: white polo shirt, dark slacks, short dark hair. I take the next flight two at a time, pulling out my cell. Time to use one of those bells and whistles.
Most cell phones have cameras these days, but most don’t have software to produce shots almost as good as a professional telephoto lens. Right now, my camera doubles as a telescope (or a periscope), keeping me clear of tourists at the bandstand by the Bytown Museum terrace.
If I can shoot a photo of my quarry, one tap on the touch screen will send the encrypted photo over a secure connection to a fail-safed server at headquarters, delete the image from my phone and return definitive confirmation from our facial recognition software in under three seconds. Yep, there’s an app for that. (Sorry, it’s not in the app store.)
Timofeyev is on the stairs at lock five now. I lower my phone a minute to run after him. I need at least a profile shot.
I bound up the stairs and jog ahead of the target. At the foot of the next flight of stairs, I turn back, holding up my phone both to hide my face and to act like I’m taking a picture of the locks in the sunset. He can see me, as long as he doesn’t notice me.
Got him.
I touch the button to send the photo to the CIA and start the count. One . . . two . . . I look up. Even in the waning light, I can tell it’s not the guy. His beard is fuller and his hair a little longer. He might be too tall, too. My stomach drops an inch in disappointment.
The text comes back from the program: Jean Quesnel. CAN cit. Canadian citizen. I stand where I am and let Quesnel pass without turning. This could be a classic surveillance evasion method, a bait-and-switch, if he’s SVR. If he’s a spy.
But at the top of the stairs, Quesnel meets up with a brunette, probably his wife, and three girls in their early twenties, and they walk off together. A rendezvous with your family isn’t a very secure SDR, putting them in danger.
I scan the locks. A third of the men out here are wearing white polos, including the lockstation workers and a group of Scottish country dancers in kilts.
I look up at the Château Laurier on the other side of the canal. The sun is halfway down, and they’ve turned on the lights shining up the beige exterior toward the dark copper roof. True to its name (château means castle), the grandest hotel in the city normally looks like a palace, but right now, I’m getting more of the creepy, haunted mansion vibe people like to joke about. But Timofeyev is no ghost.
And I cannot afford to lose him yet. Swallowing a sigh, I lift my phone again and call Elliott. “Lost him.”
“How could you look away from The Beard?”
“You’re making this into a very weird obsession.”
Elliott doesn’t respond to the insult. “Top of the last steps, headed for the bridge.”
I turn around and cast my gaze up past the locks. White polo shirt. Adrenaline shoots back into my veins and I dash up the rest of the stairs, trying not to shove too many people out of the way and apologizing profusely in a Canadian accent. He turns back for one split second. I manage to capture the image before he heads for the west arch of the Plaza Bridge looming above the sidewalk.
Bad. Really bad. There are too many exits that way: cement stairs to the street wind up through a fork in the bridge west of the canal, with another set of steps before the bridge, and the straight path. My thighs are already burning, but Timofeyev doesn’t slow as he plunges into the arch’s shadow.
My phone chimes and I spare it a glance: Fyodor Timofeyev. Russian citizen.
I try to keep an eye on his silhouette, but there are too many people moving under the bridge. I lose him in the shadows before I can lift my sunglasses. I think he turns for the stairs to the street, and I pound the pavement to pursue him up the steps.
But when the silhouette I’m following pops into the last orange light of sunset, his shirt is pretty obviously gray. No, no, no. I chew my lip, like that’ll help.
My momentum runs out on the first landing, and I call Elliott back. “Tell me you’re still transfixed by that beard,” I say.
“I lost him under the bridge.”
“Me too.” I scan the crowd again, but they haven’t finished testing on those night vision corneal implants yet, so I can’t see him in the shadows. (Kidding about the implants.)
The lights under the bridge finally flicker on, and after half a second to recover, I search for him again, but it’s no use. He’s gone. The defeat hits my shoulders. But the CSIS team is facing more than disappointment. I lost Timofeyev — and now they’re in danger.
“Put out the word, fast,” I tell Elliott. “He’s in the wind.”
“Roger.”
The connection I felt earlier, the thrill, the buzzing ball breaks and the extra energy leaches from my system. I drift back to the CSIS boat, now waiting for lock two to fill. Elliott waves, but I stand there until the deck is level with the si
dewalk. I hop on like this is the way everyone boards boats (it’s not; in fact, I’m not sure it’s allowed) and grab my computer again.
We. Will. Get. Timofeyev.
I’m still kicking myself for losing Timofeyev, and apologizing to Danny the next day when he and I pick up our gigantic shawarma platter at the Lebanese place up the hill from his work. The wait is long and the restaurant’s not the cleanest, but part of the reason we love this place is the website is so bad it’s good. (The other part: the open kitchen.) But today it seems neither of us are up for the owner’s usual banter. We avoid him until we can find a free table.
“What were our awesome plans?” I can’t lift my eyes from the toasted pita and king fries.
Danny picks up a fry. Doesn’t eat. “The Bistro at Signatures added Monday seatings,” he says, his voice a little flat. “It’s the restaurant at Le Cordon Bleu Ottawa.”
Have I mentioned Danny speaks French? Yeah. I’ll be honest: it’s hot. And for someone raised speaking Finnish to say that, it means a lot. The Finns think theirs is the language of romance. Let me say, I’ve never seen anybody who makes French look as good as Danny.
“I know how you watch the kitchen when we go out.” He tears off a piece of the pita but doesn’t eat it.
Luckily, my mouth is full, but I can’t help the little eyebrow dip. If he notices, I hope it looks like mild curiosity rather than the full-blown suspicion sprouting in my mind. I’ve never told him about my eating paranoia. Or any other kind of paranoia.
“I mean, you always make dinner, so I guess the cooking thing’s kinda big.”
Oh — oh. He’s seen me monitoring our food, even today, and he’s taken that as an interest in the culinary arts. Which is, of course, adorable. And also a lot safer than the truth.
Now I can swallow my perfectly cold, garlicky tabouleh. “That sounds really nice.”
“Seemed nice on the Internet, anyway.” Danny looks back at the food.
I wait until he raises his gaze again, and I smirk. “What, no animated GIFs or ‘My Sharona’ parodies? Not sure it’s our kind of place.”
I can tell he’s trying to fight it, but finally his hurt-slash-angry mask breaks and he laughs, softly at first and then harder, especially once I pull up the restaurant’s website on my cell phone and “My Shawarma” starts up. After a couple minutes of navigating the site to hear the parodies and radio commercials, Danny’s about to fall out of his chair. That eye-crinkling smile I love so much is back in full force, and I lean across the table to kiss him.
And then my phone chimes for a text. I close the browser, cutting off the song, and pull up the message. Elliott Monteith: You busy?
Danny sees at least part of it before I slide out the keyboard. “What does Elliott want?”
“Dunno.” I tell Elliott the truth. If the next words from your fingers aren’t “I’m on my way to the hospital,” you’re about to be.
What’s your favorite movie? he replies before I rekindle the conversation with Danny.
It’s shut up and leave me alone. I don’t bother him when I know he’s with his wife. Unless it’s for work.
My stomach starts to sink, but I can’t come up with a reason why he’d want to know my favorite movie for the CIA.
“Anyway.” I force a grin. Danny hasn’t returned to the I-wouldn’t-smile-for-money-or-aeronautics-chit-chat face, but he’s not laughing anymore, either. Somehow I don’t think pulling up the restaurant’s website again will help. “Thank you for planning such a nice dinner. I mean, that’s really thoughtful of you. And that’s what counts, right?”
Danny purses his lips a millisecond. “I sure hope so. That’s all I’m getting lately.”
He punctuates the sentence by rerolling his half of the beef pita wrap — and my phone rings. Elliott. I silence it, but I can’t turn off the I-hate-this in Danny’s expression. “I don’t even want to know.”
My eyebrow creeps north. “Ignorance is bliss?”
He takes a bite of his shawarma and gives me a yeah-right look. Our only real argument started over that statement from a fortune cookie. He’s a scientist (sorry, engineer); he believes in finding out everything you can. I have yet to convince him there are things you’re better off, not to mention safer, not knowing. I usually try to avoid the subject and the argument with Danny, after watching my mom and dad fight for most of my life, even after the divorce.
My phone rings again — Elliott — and I almost don’t take it again, but if he’s calling back, it’s got to be important. If it weren’t, he would have texted, right? “Yeah?”
“Mean Girls?”
“Seriously?” I stop short of telling him my favorite movie is I’m Going to Punch You in the Neck. Not in front of Danny, anyway. I pick something off my second-tier list. “Bourne Identity.”
“How about Charlie’s Angels?” Oh, sure, he picks now to remember I’m a girl?
“What are you doing, planning an office movie night?” In my peripheral vision, Danny’s head jerks up. A warning bell sounds in my mind, but I can’t interpret his gesture.
“Answer the question.” Where does Elliott get off getting snappy?
“Put me down for whatever. Or we’ll talk about it when I get back.” I glance heavenward for Danny’s benefit and hang up. “Lame office party, I guess.”
He nods, but his eyes slide away. Something’s on his mind.
My phone rings a third time. Before I stuff it in my pocket, I see the caller ID: Will. “Crap,” I mutter. “My boss.”
Danny knows what that means practically before I do. The look on his face downshifts into something along the lines of I just knew it.
Yeah, me too. I hit the icon to answer.
“Wrap it up,” Will says. “Unless you want Elliott texting you every two minutes.”
I turn in my chair, like that’ll shield the call from Danny, and vice versa. “Can it wait?” I never, ever ask this, not to Will, so I hope he understands the next twenty minutes are important.
Will’s voice changes, too, and I must have tipped him off about who I’m with. “Miss Reynolds, this case goes to trial in three days. Get your lunch to go. Unless you want to lose.”
The high-handed card is an act (so not Will’s style), but he wouldn’t play it if he didn’t need me back. “Fine.” Once I put my phone away, I can barely look up.
“You have to go,” Danny says. “Work.” I can’t interpret his tone or his expression.
“Yeah.”
“I understand.”
I know he does. He pulls long hours in the middle of a project, too. But there’s some undercurrent in his voice that worries me, like I’m in the lowest lock and the gates are holding back forty feet of water.
“I’m sorry,” I try. He responds with a frown-nod. What’s gotten into him? Once again, he’s taking this hard.
“Take the shawarma.” I snag a piece of baklava and my ginger ale and push the rest of the spread toward him. He paid for it anyway.
“Nah. Not hungry anymore.”
“Seriously.” I don’t store food. If I don’t finish it at work, it’s going in the garbage.
He pulls the tray closer with one finger. I bide my time by taking a bite of baklava, showering down sweet flakes of honeyed phyllo. I have to go, but I can’t leave him on this note.
But Danny changes the whole tune abruptly. “Listen, Talia, I’m sorry. It’s just disappointing to plan these things and then . . . nothing.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” It sounds pretty hollow after the fifteenth repetition though.
“I need you to promise me you’ll come next time.”
I tilt my head. Surely I didn’t hear that right. He’d never ask — “What?”
“Promise me: the next time I plan something special, you will do everything humanly possible to stay away from work. Turn off your phone.”
If they wanted me, that wouldn’t stop them.
“Leave your casework at the office.”
Not a proble
m. Classified stuff doesn’t leave the premises.
“No clients.”
Sure.
I look — really look — at Danny. He has no idea what he’s asking: put aside the country I’m protecting and the vows I’ve taken. I’m supposed to be available pretty much 24/7, and I don’t think the CIA would accept “I’ve got a date” as a reason not to come in to work.
But with each second I hesitate, I can see Danny’s eyes grow more and more earnest, his desperation deepening. He needs this — he needs me — and I have to be there for him, too.
Besides, what are the odds he’ll call in this favor at a bad time yet again?
“I promise, Danny. No work.”
He searches my eyes another second, and then finally, the smile comes. So genuine, so unreserved — so Danny. Good and honest and brilliant and gorgeous. I kiss him goodbye. At the door, I pause to catch a glimpse of his Talia-melting grin again.
I love him. And in that moment, I know deep down I was right to make that promise.
Or I just really, really hope.
When I get back to the office, Elliott’s at his computer with Robby, giggling. Yes, giggling. If you’ve ever seen a grown man giggle, you know this knocks down their innate hotness level by at least seven points. On a ten point scale. And if the joke is dirty or sexist or otherwise offensive, double that. Negative hotness.
Did he interrupt my lunch with Danny for this? I’m afraid to ask. “What’s so funny?”
Elliott jumps at my voice, straightening and clearing his throat so fast he almost chokes. “Hey, T.” But that’s all he can get out before another guffaw seizes control.
Robby cackles, too. Seeing I’ll get nowhere with them, I head to Will’s office. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with the Marx Brothers.”
Will pulls away from his monitor and frowns. I’m out of luck: he knows exactly who I mean, and doesn’t correct my assumption. We walk the ten feet back to Elliott’s desk.
“Boys.” A warning hangs in Will’s tone. And his word choice. He never calls us stuff like that unless we’re totally out of line.
Elliott composes himself with a final sniff. “Sorry, just — ” Another paroxysm threatens to take over, but he uses a cough to cover it. “Just working on this profile.”
Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy) Page 5
