On the field in front of us, the foot guards takr turns presenting arms.
“What is this for?” Fyodor nods at the redcoats. “Are they real guards?”
“Well, they’re real guards, but this is all for show.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I fix my gaze on the field, and ignore how applicable my commentary feels.
Sometimes, when you’re undercover, you get so used to being that other person until you say or see or do something that breaks the fourth wall and out of the blue reminds you of who you really are. If you’ve ever watched outtakes from TV shows, you’ve seen how hard it can be to get back into character once someone’s broken the illusion. But today, I have to readjust my hold on my cover, close my eyes and dive in again.
I glance at Fyodor, the zero Gs bottoming out in my stomach. Oh Yeah. I’m diving.
The ceremony winds down with the band and one set of soldiers marching off the field. I run through my options. Mint Museum? National Art Gallery? War Museum? Yeah, can’t wait to see what he’ll say in the Cold War exhibit. Plus all those places are huge. What if I lose him? What if he has to run off to work?
And then I think back to the night I lost him mere meters away at the locks. Right past the Bytown Museum, housed in a little stone building, the oldest in the city. Housed? Contained, I should say.
“Are you busy now?” I ask Fyodor.
He turns back to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. “I have some time.”
Yesterday, he said he didn’t have any plans. In the morning. I really hope Robby is picking up on this. Maybe CSIS can find a copy of his itinerary. “Mind if I show you a little more of our history?”
Fyodor holds out his briefcase to say “Lead the way.” My hand’s still on his arm, and we stroll across the street and down the same stairs I chased him up — or tried to — thirty-six hours ago.
I am so glad Danny works in Gloucester.
In the museum, once Fyodor checks his case at the desk, we alternate between English and Russian. His English is very good, despite his heavy accent. But the more English he speaks, the more opportunities Elliott has to try to “help.”
“After visiting Montréal and Toronto, I wondered why Ottawa is the capital.” Fyodor and I pause in front of a display detailing the answer to that question.
“Tell him he’s the capital of your heart,” Elliott suggests. I stifle a groan. “You should compliment his beard, too. It’s pretty sweet.”
The dude’s beard envy has reached weird proportions. I’m tempted to run to the bathroom and ditch my earpiece, but without that connection, this is a real date. I don’t date the dark side, and I definitely don’t let the dark side out of my sight.
We move to the display about the first settler, Lieutenant-Colonel John By, and Elliott moves back on topic. “Keep him away from the front desk. Justin and César are taking a look at his briefcase.”
Huh. Normally, charming the cute desk clerk would be Elliott’s job, but I guess he’s busy. I do my part to keep Fyodor away from the entrance. We learn more about By and the Rideau Canal’s construction until Elliott gives me the all clear (nothing interesting in the briefcase, but we did manage to clone his laptop for further investigation). Once they’re done, Fyodor and I take in the other exhibits: contemporary art that looks like paintings of junk to me, and art and objects from Ottawa’s history.
By 11:30, though, we’ve pretty much exhausted Bytown. It’s fairly obvious our tour is winding down. Even Elliott has to comment. “CSIS needs him out of his hotel for at least another hour.”
I can’t let them down again after we failed them Monday night. And at least it’s related to the op and not Fyodor’s beard, right?
We drift to a stop in a doorway made of exposed beams, both staring up at the historic Union Jack in its glass case. “Fyodor,” I start, “if you’re only in town for a little while, why did you sign up for RussCa?”
“A friend recommended it.” He shrugs. “Isn’t love worth the risk?”
He doesn’t look at me, so I think I’m safe with a flirty little laugh. Definitely feels more like a risk than love to me. Especially since I need to keep him close for another hour. I’m still full from breakfast, but I know better than to take Fyodor anywhere larger than Bytown. “Would you like to have lunch?”
“Oh.” The surprise raises his normal pitch an interval. “That sounds wonderful.” Before the triumph blooms behind my rib cage, he continues, “But I’m afraid I can’t. I have an engagement this afternoon.”
And we don’t know what that is — and CSIS is depending on a longer timeline. “Ask him,” Elliott urges. I hope he doesn’t mean about The Beard.
“Really? What are you doing?”
He waves away my question. “Work. Nothing as interesting as this, unfortunately.”
I want to press him for more information, but I have to play this off first. “That doesn’t sound unfortunate to me.”
“Oh?” Fyodor begins to stroll back toward the entrance-exit.
I follow at a pace designed to slow him down. I need to keep him here. “I think it’s pretty lucky not to have competition.”
I’m trying to allude to that comment he made on IM, but he doesn’t seem to get the reference. He tilts his head and gives me a cocky half-smile. “No one could compete with you.”
Elliott snickers in my ear, but I, for one, haven’t forgotten why I’m here. “Well, your meeting must be very important.”
“Probably not” is all he says.
Like I said, elicitation doesn’t work on someone who’s careful. But now it’s time for me to dangle the bait, and hope I can keep him a little longer. “Let me know if there’s something I can do to help you. We have a lot of industry contacts.”
“We?”
“The Committee on Industry, Science and Technology. Lobbyists from all sectors come to us. You said you were in aerospace, right?”
Fyodor nods, and the little spark in his eyes says he’s intrigued.
Run with this. Keep. Him. Here. “Well, in the last couple months we’ve met with representatives from SinclAir and Malcolm and — ” I draw a blank. Glad we’ve switched to English, I try to signal Elliott for help. “Oh, what was that other company?”
“Um, um.” Elliott’s no better off than I am.
Fyodor claims his briefcase from the front desk and turns back to me, but doesn’t move for the door. “Oh, yes, I’m meeting with both of them already.”
“AeroTech Canada,” Elliott finally provides.
“What about AeroTech Canada? They’re one of the big ones.” I’m making that up on the spot, but I hardly think it matters.
Fyodor’s eyes narrow a split second. “No, I haven’t met with them. Unfortunately, my time here is very short.” He shoots me a meaningful look.
Great. He’s moving away from the subject and all I’ve done is rule out AeroTech Canada as his destination. Bait, then. “That’s too bad. We see lots of cool stuff from all those guys.”
“Oh really?”
Dangle, dangle, dangle. “Yeah, when they want government grants or legislation might affect them, they come running. Same with the Americans, actually. Seems like a lot of them are looking to relocate if we’ll give them tax breaks, and they love to show us how cool and impressive they are, all the things they could do for the Canadian Forces.” I scoff.
Fyodor’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I’ve got him. But I’m not going to go offering the secrets now. I don’t have them ready, and it’d be highly suspect if I did. So I yank the bait away. “Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them. Who does?”
“Actually, I would be very interested, but I must leave.” He checks his watch and moves toward the door. “I’m already late. I will send you a message?”
“Great.” I stay with him into the bright sunlight.
You know how awkward the end of a first date can be? Imagine if you also had to keep your date in sight at all times as a matter of national securi
ty. Yeah, now I really don’t know how to tie this up. Fyodor offers a hand, but I definitely need to “seal the deal” here, so I go straight for the hug.
It’s not as awkward as I expect, not so short as to make it seem like he’s pushing me away, and not so long as to make it uncomfortable. Even though in the real world, he’s way outside of my type, I know I can totally make this cover work.
Unless I have to tail him now.
Finally, Elliott’s voice comes through: “Ready to intercept. Trip on the stairs to confirm.”
I don’t know why I have to look stupid to communicate, but I guess it’s better than asking me to say something bizarre, so I pretend to trip on the way up the stairs just before the bridge. Fyodor takes my arm. And I do not look for Elliott behind us.
I hold onto Fyodor until we get to the statue of Wilfrid Laurier (Prime Minister of Canada a long time ago, hence everything named after him). At Laurier’s feet, Fyodor takes my hand. “Thank you again for showing me a little of your city.”
“My pleasure.” I keep my eyes on his, ignoring Elliott strolling past. I need to get Fyodor going or we might be tailing him from in front. Not ideal without a huge team and car support.
We’d better have car support.
“I hope to get to see more of Ottawa.” Fyodor’s gaze holds mine intently and I don’t look away. “And you.” He leans down and kisses my hand, his eyes on mine the entire time.
A cold chill travels my spinal cord, but I force myself not to react, and hug him again. “I’ll wait for your message.”
He squeezes my hand one last time and starts across the Plaza Bridge over the canal, toward the Château. I watch him for a moment, until Elliott passes me in his black and red Carleton University T-shirt. I wasn’t sure he could pull it off — he’s a little old for university, as they’d call it here — but with the earbuds and backpack, he’s pretty convincing.
A couple steps away, Fyodor turns back to me and waves. It’s hard not to grin at a 43-year-old acting like a smitten 14-year-old.
I’d like to take up third tail position, but I know it’s too risky. If Fyodor spotted me, I’d be wagering my cover, my mission and myself. I head for the Parliament buildings, living my legend. Once Fyodor’s out of sight, I’ll start my SDR, waiting until Elliott gives me the all clear to head back to Keeler Tate.
When word finally comes from Elliott — you’d be amazed at the range on these things, small as they are — I’ve already made it through two of my three mundane stops, National War Memorial and Ottawa Library. No sign of surveillance. I finish the last stop and catch a bus (okay, three to satisfy my caution) to my place to pick up my car.
When I unlock my apartment door, my cell is ringing. I hurry to get it. Danny.
“Hey. You up for lunch today?”
“Actually, I’m in Westboro.” Not true, but close. “Just got out of that client meeting.”
“Ah, the aerospace company whose name you dare not speak.”
I head to my closet for a different shirt and flip Danny to speakerphone. “That’s the one.”
“And were they thoroughly impressed by your high-level mastery of aerospace and its industry?”
I realize with a twinge of disappointment that I got to show off exactly none of what Danny told me last night. “No. I remained silent. You know, instead of removing all doubt.”
Danny laughs. But he doesn’t change the subject. “An aerospace company in Westboro?”
“Oh, we only came here to meet. Lunch conference, all that.”
“Gotcha.”
I check the time on my phone. I have to leave now to run my SDR and make it back to Keeler Tate for the rendezvous. If I don’t come in on time, they come in to get me. “In fact, I need to get to the office, so I’d better go.”
“All right. Let me know when you get there.”
Huh? “Pretty sure I can find it.”
“Just . . . call me.”
“Okay,” I say slowly.
“Whenever you get there.”
“Ha. Ha.” I have no problem with Danny teasing me about the world’s worst sense of direction. Between a security check on my car (yes, every time) and figuring out new SDRs and stops, it typically takes me twice as long to get around as anyone else.
I’ve never had the tables turned on me, or had anyone follow me home or figure out who I am, but I don’t believe you can be too cautious. Still, I find my foot pushing the gas a little harder than normal today. On my stops, I pick up my extremely healthy lunch: tortilla chips, salsa and a Crispy Crunch chocolate bar. Yes, the best lunch after a sugary breakfast is more sugar. I make it into the office in half an hour, the excitement building in my chest with every flight of stairs.
When I round the corner to Keeler Tate & Associates, I pause in front of the heavy wooden doors and the security cameras. Out of habit, I check behind me.
Nobody.
I open the door and the first thing I see and smell in the reception area is flowers. A huge bouquet of flowers. I don’t know much about them, though we did track a Somali botanist for two weeks — I didn’t have to pretend to date him — but I recognize some lilies, roses and snapdragons.
And it falls into place. This is why he wanted me to call. This is why he called this morning. Snapdragons are my favorite, though I can’t remember telling Danny that. He’s either very lucky or a better spy than I give him credit for.
“We have been waiting all day.” Linda, the secretary, smiles like she knows about my surprise party waiting behind the secured double doors. I’m pretty sure the surprise has already sprung.
“Oh, the carte.” Her accent makes it a little hard to understand her sometimes (who knew? Linda is French for Linda), but she hands me the little envelope that comes with the bouquet. It isn’t sealed, and I’m pretty sure that means everyone in the office already knows what it says. The downside to working with spies.
But I’m the only one who knows what it means when the short-but-sweet note ends with the sentence “Friday.” In Danny’s handwriting.
He’s planning something big, and he’s calling in his favor. This week.
I.E. the week I’m supposed to go out with Timofeyev again.
I must be a glutton for punishment, or maybe just way too loyal to the guy, but I duck into the hall to call him back. “So, Friday?” I begin the conversation after he answers.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Happy anniversary.”
“You too.” I hope my voice doesn’t betray the fact I was sure that was next week. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome. I know it’s a little early.”
I allow myself a little relief. “Oh, so next Friday?”
“No, this Friday.”
I swallow a groan and let my head fall back against the wall. This cosmic coincidence sucks. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling tiles. Does someone up there hate me?
Join the club.
Danny breaks our radio silence. “I take it that’s not good for you.”
“I’m not totally sure.” I mean, my date with Fyodor might be tomorrow night.
“Well, I need to know if it’s not going to work. I’ve got . . . stuff planned.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah.” The single syllable carries a defensive note trying to masquerade as nonchalance.
Once again, a conversation I wish we were having face to face. So I tell him that.
“All right. Later, I guess.” Disappointment levels his tone. I pretend not to notice, turning back to the Keeler Tate doors. And then I stop. Danny ends the call, but suddenly I can’t walk up to those doors. Now they don’t look like the usual barriers between our covert identities and the world. They’re the gates to the black hole.
It’s so easy to see my life as the sum total of Danny’s disappointment, my complete lack of friends, seeing my family once a year. Yes, I’m potentially protecting millions of US citizens, but my job hurts the people I care about the most all the time.
Including me.
But the CIA’s more than just a job to me, and the long-dead mystique and glamour of the spy world aren’t what’s pulling me back into my office. It’s the same feeling that drew me into the Company in the first place: this is where I can actually do something. This is where I can make a difference. This is where I can contribute in my small part to protect my country, and that part’s something only I can do.
Yes, I have to make sacrifices. But freedom is not free, and I’m willing to pay. Maybe more than my share of the cost.
I start toward the doors but within two steps, the elevator around the corner dings behind me. Reflexes kick in. I press my back against the wall, fighting my rising heart rate. We’re the only tenant on this floor — we don’t like to share — and protocol demands we take the stairs.
Before I can signal to the cameras that someone’s coming, I hear Elliott’s voice. “Sorry, Shan. Let me know. Anytime.”
No. No, no, no. Elliott should not be here, and using the elevator isn’t his biggest breach. He’s supposed to be out there making sure CSIS is safe to keep searching Fyodor’s room. We don’t need to fail them twice in a week.
Elliott turns the corner and I step into his path. He jumps; his cell phone quietly clatters to the carpet between us.
He reaches for me before he recognizes me. “T, whoa.”
“Shouldn’t you be with Fyodor?”
“What, worried The Beard’s cheating on you?”
I fold my arms, giving him an I-don’t-think-that’s-funny look. “Where is he?”
Elliott picks up his cell, but leaves his gaze on the floor. “Lost him.”
Not the Elephant, not again. I dredge the bottom of my Elliott-hope reservoir. All I can come up with is that maybe Fyodor’s as cautious as me, and there’s still the possibility he’s Russian intel. I drag Elliott back around the corner, out of the cameras’ light of sight.
“What’s Will going to say?” I murmur. Elliott says nothing. “Who’s second tail? Does he have him?”
He raises his defenses in his posture, his eyes, even his tone. “Would I be here if he did?”
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 8
