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)

by Jordan McCollum

  Morozov’s answers grow shorter and shorter. If the guy could respond with a single letter, he would. Each monosyllable weighs on my heart, squeezing out hope. Great job, Brand.

  Plus we’re in the final stretch. The airport’s so far from downtown that traffic has thinned out. That “Château Laurier courtesy van” had better still have our back.

  My hopes perk up when a phone rings, and Morozov answers, “Da?” But Morozov’s monosyllables continue for the caller, too. Is he allowed to talk on the phone and drive?

  Finally, as we slow down for the airport speed limit zone, Morozov hangs up and Brand circles back. “Moving here’d be tough. All that stuff — and what am I going to do, sell my guns?”

  “Here we have club,” Morozov says, more life in his voice than I’ve heard the whole trip. “Is very nice.”

  Two sentences? He’s got him back on the hook. I join Brand leaning forward.

  “Like a hunting club?” Naïveté. Once again, a classic elicitation technique, getting our target to spill his guts without ever asking a direct question.

  Morozov waves away that error. “Gun club. For shooting. For practice.”

  “Oh yeah? You know of a good one?”

  And there it is. I automatically hold my breath for the split second before Morozov answers, though he doesn’t hesitate. “Esquimalt Gun and Rifle Club. You must join.”

  “Esquimalt,” Brand repeats. “Thank you, sir. Thanks a lot.” The cab rolls up to the terminal. Brand parlays the rest of his gratitude into a hearty handshake, and probably a hefty tip. He retrieves our bags from the trunk, and we stride off for the doors until the coast is clear.

  By the time we return to the passenger pickup, the cab’s long gone and Justin’s waiting.

  I have to admit, Brand pulled it off without a hitch, from design to execution. Justin loads our bags for us, and we duck into the back of the van. I yank off his ring and replace my real one before the doors are even shut.

  Once Justin’s in the driver’s seat again, he and Brand exchange another fist bump, and, okay, it’s deserved. Brand looks back to me, like the teacher’s pet searching for approval.

  “Nice job,” I tell him. The smidgen of praise only needles me a little.

  “Now, can we talk about Samir?”

  I lower my gaze. If that’s what bringing me along was really about — yep, once again, he’s played the “Game,” played me perfectly. Maybe keeping Wasti’s video from me is another of his strategies. “Tomorrow night,” I say. “See you there.”

  I spend all of Friday waiting for Brand to tell me about the video (he doesn’t) and surreptitiously interviewing everyone in the office to see if this is all in my head. Even spies aren’t immune to a little eliciting when someone they trust gets past their defenses.

  Unfortunately, Brand’s spent most of his time listening to their current cases and palling around instead of talking, so I can’t dig one little bit of analysis out of any of the guys. Useless.

  Once it’s dark, I start on my SDR to the rendezvous with Samir. The routine stops are uneventful, as usual. No Bond scenes or gunplay or even incorrect change tonight.

  Contrary to popular belief, as a spy I rarely carry a gun. Aside from running afoul of Canadian gun laws, real spies actually don’t want action. If it comes to bang-bang shoot-’em-up, that’s not covert: attention, possibly press, all kinds of trouble.

  Again, less than covert.

  For the most part, we’re all about HUMINT: human intelligence. Which is why officers like me rely on agents like Samir (well, I hope, anyway) — they provide information and, more importantly, analysis and insight we could never get from a drone or a bug.

  And that’s exactly why tonight’s meeting is so important. Brand had better not blow it.

  I park at the end of the alley where Samir should be waiting and try to squelch the nagging anxiety. It isn’t too late to make this into a car meeting.

  No, after yesterday, I’m sure Brand will be fine. Maybe he’s right, though I hate to think it. Maybe I’m sensitive because of our past. I can’t erase those memories, but Samir won’t have that problem, I remind myself as I pause at the curb to pick him up. I count to five, like we’re both supposed to, to make sure we’re clear. Half a second late, Samir emerges from the shadows.

  Now I have a real reason to worry. I watch his posture, his hands, his face, his eyes, even his mustache for any sign of what he’s been thinking the last few days. His eyes stay focused, his hands aren’t fidgety, and he’s as close to relaxed as I’ve seen him. His mustache is okay too.

  “So.” I finally break the silence after a good ten minutes, though I don’t want to start on anything too serious until we reach our destination. “Nobody followed you, right?”

  “No. Who would?”

  I pretend to laugh, though the image of Wasti’s video flashes through my mind. Something is coming. Soon. And Samir might be the only one who can help us stop it.

  But first —I brace myself for the truth. “I need to tell you something. A friend of mine will be meeting us there.”

  “Friend,” Samir repeats, like the word tastes stranger than maple curry. “Someone you trust?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it. “Someone who can help us.”

  He falls quiet again. Thinking. Calm.

  We pull into the Motel du Chevalier, and I give Samir a keycard and drop him off at the exterior stairs. We wouldn’t dare march into a hotel room together. I circle around and keep a close watch from the parking lot until the room door shuts. I reach for the handle of my car door — and a sharp knock at my window jolts me back. My pulse rushes in my ears. I turn to look, grasping for anything to use as a weapon.

  Brand.

  Great. I get out of the car. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” my voice says. My tone’s more like I guess.

  Brand doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He leads me to the room. Apparently he watched Samir walk in, too. I may be professionally paranoid, but when somebody IDs you and your agent that easily, you don’t feel very safe.

  Fortunately, Brand has to wait for me and the keycard, which gives me the chance to edge past him and get in first. “Samir, this is my friend Vince,” I say once the door is bolted.

  Brand holds out a hand. Samir stays where he is, the double bed forming a barrier between us. His eyes are wide, watchful. Can’t say I blame him.

  “I hear your cousin’s giving you trouble,” Brand starts.

  Samir looks to me and back to Brand. Silence.

  “I believe Tara was telling you how we could help.”

  Samir’s chin dips half an inch.

  Brand takes an armchair from the table and sits. No invitation for anyone to join him. “Tell me about the problem.”

  Though I try to silence my sigh, it sneaks out. Samir and Brand swivel to me. I can’t say I don’t like Brand’s pitch style, but I don’t. If he wants to set himself up as Samir’s savior — not the method I’d pick here — he needs a lot more groundwork than labeling the guy with a problem.

  I have to show solidarity for Samir’s sake, so I pull up the other chair and motion for Samir to sit on the bed. He does.

  “So, Samir.” Brand doesn’t give me a chance to smooth my slacks, let alone the situation. “We want to help you.”

  If his next words are “Help us help you,” I will drag that jerk out of this room by the hair.

  “Sounds like a good fit to me.” Brand narrowly avoids my planned rebuttal. (Dang it.)

  Logic isn’t the right way to approach him, either. Samir’s “problem” comes down to emotions, namely guilt. Intro to Public Speaking, lesson one: you approach the audience how they need to hear something, not how you want to say it. Though I’m hardly surprised Brand would make pitching an agent all about himself.

  I finally tear my glare from Brand and soften for Samir. “We do want the same thing — protect innocent people from becoming his victims.”

  That last word i
s supposed to have time to resonate, but again, this meeting is apparently about Brand. “I know how hard it is to feel like you’re betraying someone you care about.”

  Doubtful.

  “But you have to think about what’s best for everyone here. The US government would gladly make it worth your while.” Brand waggles his eyebrows, though last I checked, that meant cash or immigration favors or that kind of thing. (Not quite the edge of my imagination.)

  Samir’s chin juts out and he looks away. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

  “Obviously you’re not doing this for the money.” I shoot Brand another SHUT. UP. scowl before turning back to wait for Samir’s eye contact. “And neither are we.”

  “Have you seen the government pay scale?” Brand mutters.

  Samir’s gaze wanders away again. I cross my legs, “accidentally” (on purpose) kicking Brand in the shin. Seriously, what’s he trying to do? Sabotage this contact? Doesn’t he watch the news? Doesn’t he know what’s on the line?

  Brand leans toward Samir in that classic all-right-let’s-cut-the-crap posture. “We know Wasti’s planning something big, and they always like to make a show, leave a path of carnage.”

  Ah, so we know this? Except Samir has never told me who his cousin is. Except Brand has never told me anything about Wasti’s plan. Except I never told Brand what I saw on the news. Samir’s question from the car echoes back to me: Someone you trust?

  Obviously Brand doesn’t trust me, so why shouldn’t I treat him the same way?

  Oblivious, Samir merely nods.

  “And you know about it, don’t you?” Brand presses him again.

  “Only a little.”

  Brand scoots forward in his chair until his knees are almost touching the bed by Samir’s knees. “And you could find out more, couldn’t you?”

  “Who wants to know more about these things?”

  “The people trying to stop them.” And for once, Brand’s answer is perfect.

  Samir clasps his hands, still wary, still wavering. My gut inches downward. You can’t push someone into becoming a spy. You don’t have a chance if you can’t figure out their values and motivations. And clearly we haven’t quite pinned down Samir’s.

  “We need your help.” Brand’s voice gains a cast of actual sincerity I don’t know if I’ve ever heard from him. “We have to protect these people — together. We can’t do it without you.”

  Samir slowly lifts his gaze to Brand’s.

  “We could save thousands of lives. Innocent women and children.” Brand searches Samir’s face, and for a minute even I forget I’m not sure I trust the guy. “Please.”

  Samir opens and closes his mouth, like he’s taste-testing the words about to come. “What would I have to do?”

  I allow a smile for my celebration, but my heart feels ready to burst. We got him. We got him. And now we can get Wasti.

  We set up the first Brand/Samir solo meeting for tomorrow, then launch into full-blown Tradecraft 101 with Samir, though I doubt he’ll come face-to-face with too many enemies.

  Maybe Brand just forgot to mention the video. Maybe he thought I knew. Maybe it was buried in something I didn’t read, like an email that began with his passive-aggressive ploys.

  And maybe I should start pretending nothing ever happened with him.

  The next afternoon, I take as deep a breath as this modern equivalent of a corset/torture device allows and sigh. I haven’t even gotten out of the dressing room yet and I’m already so. Done. With wedding dress shopping.

  Brand’s success with two missions this week notwithstanding, I should be the one meeting with Samir today. I should be getting ready — planning to fill in the gaps in our tradecraft lessons, probing for more details, trying to figure out how best to approach Wasti without sounding suspicious.

  Instead, Brand’s prepping and I’m jamming into dresses I can’t wear without major alteration. Mormon modesty standards raise the difficulty of almost any clothing purchase, and apparently sleeves and a high neckline don’t shout “couture” or “wedding day” even in Canada. Where, by the way, it gets cold. (Canadians might tell you they have about the same winter temps as the US, but I guess they haven’t heard of a little place I like to call the South.)

  “Aren’t you done yet?” says one of the girls from church waiting outside the door — and I know exactly which. Not Abby, not AB Beth (from Alberta), not BC Beth (from British Columbia). No, that’d be “Sassy” Beth who seems to forget her nickname comes from her home province, Saskatchewan. They’re the closest I have to girlfriends, though that one? Not so much.

  Helps that I’m marrying somebody she was pursuing pretty hard last year, I’m sure.

  “One moment,” the attendant, Marie, calls. I certainly hope so: she’s been tying this dress together for ten minutes, like it’s not only fashionable but also a DIY project. Just what every bride wants.

  Marie tugs one last time, cinching my waist another five inches, and bolts the sash in place. “All ready.”

  Easy for her to say. I brace myself (like my rib cage needs any extra bracing) and signal for Marie to open the dressing room door.

  I’m not sure what reaction to expect from my “friends,” but their looks of consternation, even Abby’s, weren’t it. Before I can shut the door and undo this mess, Marie pushes me out of the dressing room and to the wall of mirrors angled to give me a three thousand and sixty degree view of exactly why this dress is wrong.

  The skirt, made of seven hundred layers of tulle, probably individually imported by hand from Montréal or Milan or Mars, poofs out at my waist to form a shape more like a bell than a human. I’m not tall by any stretch — average is a good way to describe me — but this makes me completely stumpy. I’m not sure what’s up with the back; either Marie had no idea what she was doing or kludge is the new black.

  “Well,” Abby says slowly. “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, I guess that whole ballgown style doesn’t work unless you’re . . . not you,” Sassy Beth simpers, shaking her perfectly waved hair. Behind her, AB Beth and BC Beth trade a here-she-goes-again eye roll.

  I will myself not to snap back. I can hardly blame her for not wanting to be here. I should be prepping for a meeting with an agent. I should be thinking about my next stop on my surveillance detection route. I should be recruiting spies and stealing secrets.

  I shouldn’t be twirling in froof for people who aren’t my friends. I shouldn’t be staring at a wider, stumpier version of me stuffed into a cross between Yves Saint Laurent and IKEA. I shouldn’t be in a bridal store, at all, ever.

  “Why don’t we try something else?” Even Marie’s tone clearly shows how bad this dress is for me. As if she couldn’t have kept the other girls from seeing this disaster.

  I guess the next dress will be better by comparison, if nothing else.

  Marie helps me out of that one and into the next, but not even the persistent poking of the corset keeps my focus in this room. Is Samir doing okay? Is Brand treating him right? Are they both following procedure? Because the fastest way to get in trouble is to slip on tradecraft —

  “All right.” Marie zips me up and I’ve ended up in another pile of froof that would make a marshmallow seem substantial and solid. Like I can pull this off. Breaking in and bugging an apartment? Yes. Convincing high value targets to double-cross their motherlands? Sure.

  Light or airy or ethereal? Ha. Ha.

  The mirror confirms what I need absolutely no reminder of. The satin sweeps out into a full skirt. It doesn’t chop my body off at the waist, but . . .

  This. Is. Not. Me.

  AB Beth apparently wants to make up for her roommate’s rudeness. “That one’s nicer.”

  “Not saying much.” Sassy Beth grabs a bridal magazine, like I’m not worth her attention.

  And she isn’t worth my time. I turn to the one person I know will be honest with me, Abby. Tugging on her long dark blond ponytail, she scrutinizes me, the dress, me again, like
she’s calculating what went wrong where.

  “That cut only works on someone a lot taller than you,” Sassy Beth mutters.

  I’m done. I stride off the little viewing platform, straight for the dressing room. The dress is just for pictures anyway, and —

  “Wait.” Abby takes my elbow before I can dive into my dressing room. “Wait.”

  “Please just let me get out of this.” My brain means the gown, but when the words come out, I mean the entire dress shopping fiasco.

  “This isn’t you,” Abby continues. “I know you can see that.”

  I stare down at the white satin. Why isn’t this me? Yeah, I get the proportion thing, but . . .

  Abby pats my shoulder. “It’s just not your style.”

  Getting married wasn’t my style, either.

  “Why don’t we try somewhere else?” she makes one last attempt. My thoughts stray to the stranger in the mirror. What does it mean when I don’t see a bride looking back?

  Abby takes a breath and releases it slowly, modeling for me. Yeah, like I don’t know how to rein in my emotions (and like I can actually breathe). “It’ll work out,” she says. “I know another place — more your taste, I think. My sister got her dress there.”

  I don’t point out I’ll have to pay double for the rush alterations, if they can manage a total bodice makeover in time. I just want to get changed and go somewhere I can help, somewhere I belong — somewhere my agent is meeting with his new case officer for the first time.

  “Did you want to head over?” Abby asks, still on the subject of her dress store.

  “Sorry, I have a work thing. Let’s try again another time.”

  “Of course. Right?” Abby checks with the Beths. AB and BC Beth consult Sassy Beth, like they’re asking permission to answer.

  She gives an I-couldn’t-care-less-no-really-I-couldn’t shrug. “If our schedules work out.”

  Excuse me if I hope they don’t. I keep from tearing the dress off me, thank Marie and change back into my sweater and jeans.