“And he’s going to trade info back to the Canadians?” Will gives us another I-don’t-know-about-this frown.
“No no no,” I say. “Let’s use the secrets to lure him in. Show him something the Americans have that’s kind of boring or useless, and he’ll want to flaunt how much better their stuff is. Then I angle for an invite to Shcherbakov so he can show off more.”
Will leans against my desk and rubs his upper lip, but I’m pretty sure that’s an excuse to cover a smile. “Call James.” He’s a Staff Operations Officer at Langley. They’re freaking magicians. I know exactly what Will wants me to do: get some “sensitive secrets” (that are neither sensitive nor secret) to be ready for a trade or further op.
Will turns to the rest of the group. “We’ve got a high-threat target tomorrow morning. Let’s pull the file on Wilfrid’s. And has anybody worked with aerospace before?”
Nobody moves. And then it hits me: if I want Fyodor to talk aerospace, I need some idea what he’s talking about. I doubt a vivid retelling of the political embroilment that grounded the Avro Arrow sixty years ago will do, with or without the allusions to the CIA’s involvement.
I really need Danny. No. I need to use Danny.
I get off work at a reasonable time for once, but I actually don’t want to see Danny. Horrible, I know, but the thought of pumping him for information — even information he’d willingly share — isn’t my idea of fun. Instead, I default to my usual routine. Three mundane stops to check for surveillance, my apartment sweep ritual, and making myself dinner.
Tonight: oatmeal, the perfect fuel for a spy. It’s filling without slowing you down (avoiding hunger attacks in the middle of an op), it helps heart health (vital for the physical and psychic stress of the job), it’s got protein, carbs and fiber (sustained energy). And if you make it with apple juice, brown sugar and maple syrup, it’s tasty, too.
I eat and thoroughly review the objectives for my meeting with Fyodor and the lay of the land. I.E. browsing Flickr photos of Wilfrid’s and picking out what I’ll order. Meeting for breakfast is a plus. First thing in the morning, I won’t have to explain why I’m not drinking. My cover identities aren’t Mormon, but that’s one thing I can’t disguise about the real me.
After finding the best position for the changing of the guard from four shaky YouTube videos, I’m satisfied I’m prepared as I can be — and I’ve put it off as long as I can. I grab my phone and text Danny.
“Sorry about lunch. Again,” I answer when he calls.
“I know.”
I barely allow an inward groan. It’s awful, but somewhere inside I guess I was hoping he’d take that chance to apologize for making me promise not to break a date, a promise I’m still not sure I’ll be able to keep. But he doesn’t. I bottle my disappointment, and we move on to chatting about our days. I keep my side brief, and listen to his personnel woes. If you thought people in a high-level scientific research facility acted like, you know, adults, sometimes you’d be sadly disappointed.
His tale of the latest drama winds down, and the timing seems perfect. “So.” Please let my voice sound normal. “What exactly are you working on now?”
He’s quiet long enough for another page of Flickr photos of Wilfrid’s to load. It’s true, you cannot be too prepared. “Why the sudden interest?” he asks.
I pull out the cover I polished somewhere between the grocery store and the dry cleaners. “Without saying too much, we have a client who’s thinking about suing a competitor for patent infringement, and it’s in your sector.”
“Oh.” Danny sounds like I’ve reassured him, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Let me know if you need an expert witness. I’m cheap.”
“And you just jumped to the top of the list.” I wait for his laughter to subside before building on the joke. “Actually, on second thought, we pass those expenses on to our clients. So, um, don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
“Riiight. You’re such a lawyer.” I can almost hear his good-natured eye roll. “Want me to take a look at the patent? Give me the number.”
He’s not trying to grill me, but it still feels that way. “I don’t have it on hand.” He’ll want me to email it tomorrow, so I add, “And, you know, that whole confidentiality thing.”
“Oh. Sure. Then what did you want to talk about?”
I skim another page of image results. “I’m kind of hoping — and kind of terrified — that Elliott will ask me to second chair, and I don’t want to look like an idiot.”
“Elliott.” He says it like it’s a problem. I don’t have a choice: Danny only knows one of my coworkers’ names. He and Elliott have never met (the CIA doesn’t do office Christmas parties in the field), but they probably feel like they know each other with how much they’ve heard about one another.
“You want my help to impress Elliott?” Danny pronounces each word a little too carefully.
“Mostly the client. But if you think it’d be better if I keep my mouth shut . . .”
“Doesn’t the Bible say something like ‘Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt’?”
He’s teasing me — but he isn’t. I try to keep my rising defenses from reaching my vocal cords. “You want me to look like an idiot?”
“No,” he sighs. I wish I’d gone to his place for this conversation. I need way more feedback than the limited frequencies a phone transmits to figure out what’s going through his head. Normally, we’re grateful for any time we get together, so I do not understand what’s happening these last few days.
“Okay, then. Will you please talk aerospace to me?”
“You really know how to sweet-talk a guy, you know that?” And now he’s totally kidding. I laugh partially at the joke and partially out of relief. Danny starts in on Bernoulli’s principle, and I go to my closet to rustle up something to meet Wilfrid’s “smart casual” dress code.
But now I’m worried dating around for a work assignment isn’t the biggest threat to our relationship.
By the time Elliott’s knock comes early Wednesday morning, I’ve already run through my pre-op routine from dressing to deep breathing, from reviewing my prep notes to prayer. It’s weird to ask God for help to lie, I know, but until I pray for protection at least, I’m just not ready.
Ready? You’re never really ready. As I’m reminded by my tripping pulse.
I answer my door, but don’t mention Elliot’s baby. He’d tell me if there was anything to tell.
“What, no skirt?” Elliott greets me. He’s always adamant about me using my best assets to our full advantage.
I roll my eyes and let him in. “Morning to you too.”
“Nice shirt.” He nods at my emerald green buttoned blouse. Like his opinion counts. He’s a guy.
“You too.” I purse my lips at his red and black Carleton University T-shirt.
He mimics my expression. “Too much makeup.”
I can count the number of times he’s seen me in anything stronger than eyeliner on one hand, so again, his opinion = invalid. “You too.”
“Do you want my help or not?” He holds up the tiny mic for my top button.
I hold my hair out of the way and fix my eyes on the ceiling. Once Elliott’s fully engaged in his face-time with my shirt, though, my gaze falls to him.
I hate to admit it, but I’m edgy. The nerves are vibrating down to my fingertips.
Worse, I’m not nervous about getting close to Fyodor. I’m more worried about the man standing in front of me, threading the wires of my made-to-match mic through my buttonholes.
Disloyal? Precautious. Pragmatic. Paranoid.
Am I better off alone?
Before I can begin to contemplate the answer, my phone rings. The morning of an op, I have to answer. Unfortunately, it’s on my bed. Yes, we’re in my bedroom — it’s a bachelor. I mean the world’s smallest studio apartment. Where else is there? Elliott can’t let go of what he’s doing now, so
we do an awkward shuffle-and-lean dance to get my cell.
Danny. That’s a little weird. I don’t think he’s ever called before work. And he’s lucky he caught me. No personal phones on ops.
“Hey, Talia,” he says. “You at work yet?”
Why would he care? I mean, I don’t object to him caring, it’s just kind of a strange thing to care about an hour earlier than most people report to work. “No, not yet.”
“On your way?”
Now? That’d be enough time for two round trips to work. I may or may not have let Danny believe I cannot find my way from point A to point B with a map, a GPS and a personal satellite, but that’s ridiculous. “Actually, I’m still at home. Elliott and I are getting ready for a meeting with a client on the other side of town.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause on the line. I may be suspicious for a living, but it feels like there’s something in this silence.
Elliott eyes my phone, questioning with his eyebrows. Like I need the reminder I have him in my face and Danny on the line.
“The aerospace company that shall remain nameless?” Danny finally asks.
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Knock ’em dead. And call me later.” Again, there’s some little hint in his voice, but I can’t exhaust my people-reader before meeting Fyodor. Once I’m off the phone, Elliott finishes wiring me up, and I put in my invisible-to-the-naked-eye earpiece. It tests fine.
Will, Elliott and Robby are all running backup for me, with the rest of the team observing as security, but only one of them will be talking to me to minimize chatter and confusion. Will’s tapped Elliott for the job for obvious reasons — i.e. reminding me it’s my neck on the line.
I finish my final mental prep and turn to Elliott. “Any last words of advice?”
Elliott’s comms rig looks more like earphones for a phone or MP3 player, and he holds one earbud for a second, then covers the mic so he doesn’t double broadcast. “Will says to have fun.”
He’s got to be joking, right? My orders are to have a good time on my date with a target?
“Guys can always tell if you’re only pretending. If you actually enjoy yourself, we might be able to keep building on this relationship.”
Pretending was definitely my plan. “Hooray, I get to fraternize with the enemy.”
“You don’t have to go that far. Just keep him busy until thirteen hundred.”
Thirteen hundred? Great. That doubles my operating timeline. What are we supposed to do after the changing of the guard? Play mall rats at the Rideau Centre? Museum hop? (I am not taking him to the aviation museum. Some things are meant to be kept sacred. Plus there are half a dozen museums closer.)
“Good luck.” Elliott claps me on the shoulder.
I start one of our standard pre-op in-jokes. “See you.”
“Or not.” We head down to catch the next bus downtown.
Yep, every once in a while, spies use public transit. Of course, since we’re headed to an op, we have to follow different surveillance detection routes. Elliott gets off after ten minutes, a good a mile from Parliament Hill, and I wait two stops before I do the same.
The purpose of a surveillance detection route is just that, a route to help us determine whether someone is following us. If you see the same person in two adjacent chip shops, that’s a coincidence. If you see the same person in a totally different kind of store on the other side of town half an hour later, that’s surveillance.
There aren’t many options for stops along the route with the embassies and government buildings in this part of town, but I don’t see anyone too familiar between the bank I pretend to use, the convenience store and the Ottawa Convention Centre. I signal Elliott I’m black.
He comes back immediately. “We’re in position.”
“Roger.” I head for the Château.
“Remember, stay in sight.”
“I got it.” We often try to blend into the background, but today I have to remain very visible so my backup team, most of them in place since sunrise, can keep me covered.
Okay, mostly my objective is to stay safe and not need my backup team, but I’m glad they’re there.
As soon as I make it through the Château’s heavy, brass-trimmed revolving doors, I realize why this is the landmark in Ottawa.
I’ve seen the pictures, but to stand on the Persian rugs and marble floors, amid the curved blue couches and the walnut-paneled walls, under the thirty-foot coffered ceilings — I’m definitely underdressed. Underclassed. Under way too much pressure.
I brace myself, fighting to counteract my tensing back muscles. I can do this.
Beyond the marble archways, stairs climb to the mezzanine above. Wilfrid’s is past the staircase, to the left. I scan the tables before approaching the maître d’s stand. No Timofeyev.
I need to call him Fyodor. And I do when I speak to the maître d’. He leads me into the restaurant to meet my date. I pad over the rich carpet and my sensible flats aren’t the only things sinking. My stomach feels like I’ve reached the top of the climb, that second of weightlessness before you commit to the plummet.
Apparently I learned one thing from Danny’s aerospace lecture last night.
We reach the table. Fyodor stands and offers a hand. I shake it. He offers a stolid greeting: “Dobroye utro.” Good morning. No smile.
It’s time to commit to this. I will have fun. I will like Timofeyev. I will not think about how much I’d rather this be Danny.
I will live this part to the end.
I throw my faith into the accent I spent months perfecting. It’s been a few years since I’ve spoken Russian for more than about half an hour at a time, so my biggest worry is passing for a child of native speakers.
I’m picking up speed into the dive, and my internal organs feel like they’re pulling three Gs, but I forge ahead. I have to enjoy this. Somehow.
Even though I know Russians only smile with good reason, I can’t help the jitter-attack whenever Fyodor looks across the table at me with a blank expression. Which he does four times before our waiter takes our order.
What now? I start with some classic techniques of elicitation, getting answers without actually asking questions. The methods are rudimentary, and they won’t work on someone who’s careful (like an enemy spy), but on the average person, they can be scarily effective.
“You must have a very important job to travel so much.”
“Not really.” The tactic is supposed to prompt him to say I only do something or other, but he doesn’t. “My English is better than some others’.”
I rub the engraved pattern on my fork. “I’ve heard the Russian aerospace industry is going through a lot of mergers these days.” Deliberate misinformation, which I hope Fyodor will feel compelled to correct with intel I want.
“No, not particularly. A large merger a few years ago.” Blank look. Sip of water. I look at all his body language: eyes, hands, posture. Nothing to help.
“Are you losing him already?” Elliott asks in my ear.
I don’t know, but I sure appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll have to try the elicitation later and play the ace I was saving. “You know, I once visited Rostov-on-Don.”
He looks like I’ve offered him a suitcase full of cash and top-secret aerospace plans. “Pravda?” Yes, it’s a word in Russian, and here it means Really?
“Oh yes.” I slip into Russian. “It was amazing! I’ve always wanted to go back.”
A warm light slowly dawns in Fyodor’s eyes. Within five minutes after our food arrives, he. Is. Hooked. I don’t know what exactly I said, but when he smiles at my awkward joke comparing Russian food to our sumptuous breakfast, I know he’s buying everything.
And to be honest, I am enjoying myself, and not just because I did succumb to Wilfrid’s Warm Maple Crêpes, and the maple butter and tangy-sweet berry compote are even more amazing than they sound. Now that I’ve loosened him up, Fyodor is actually a nice guy who pays attention and l
istens more than he talks. A great quality in a date.
Less so in a target.
Like I said before, I try not to sympathize with my targets. Seldom helps my objectives. But today, it seems, sympathizing with him is my objective.
Once he’s paid for our food, it’s time to head to Parliament Hill, and take things up a notch. He pulls a briefcase from under the table. I’m guessing it’s not full of cash and top-secret aerospace plans, but it’s also not a good sign. Is he going to take off for work right after this?
We head out of the restaurant, and I make sure to touch his free arm to get his attention for a little history on the Parliament buildings. Speaking Russian has more advantages than short-circuiting his suspicions, although that’s vital to establishing the kind of relationship I’m looking for. It actually feels like every sentence is something no one else can understand, our own little secret.
Ours and Robby’s, wherever he is. They’re observing radio silence right now, and can I say how grateful I am?
Fyodor and I reach the street in time to see the ceremonial band march by. The band and the guard are all dressed basically the same: red coats and tall poofy black hats. Think less Mounties and more Buckingham Palace. We fall in step with the red coats and don’t attempt to talk over the Sousa-like tune. At least the Scottish pipe band bringing up the rear isn’t playing.
We get to the last cross street before Parliament Hill, and some guy filming the band brushes past me, almost knocking me down.
Fyodor catches my arm, and doesn’t let go after I’m upright again. I smoothly shift to a less awkward position and we follow the band to the grass in front of the Parliament buildings. The band switches to another number, something reminiscent of Star Wars’ “Imperial March.” If Darth Vader or the Emperor had a consort, right now, I know exactly how she would’ve felt.
The band finishes and the squares of red-suited soldiers line up. From here, we can barely make out the commanding officer’s shouted directions, so I offer my own narration, about how in the evenings they do a light show on the capital building, usually celebrating Canada’s cultural heritage and culminating in “O Canada.”
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 7
