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

  He peers back at Danny, and I swear Valya looks like he knows too much. Then I remember — walking’s how you get to know someone better in Russia . . . when you’re dating.

  The man already knows who I am; is thinking I’m interested in Danny worse?

  “Enjoy your walk,” Valya says to Danny. He pulls over to let us out.

  Still not ready. I have to find a way to help his daughter, stop sickness from stealing another of Valya’s girls. “Can I come see Melanyushka?” I ask.

  “She will be at the hospital for treatment tomorrow evening. How about Thursday?”

  “I leave Thursday. I could come to the hospital, if that’s okay.”

  “If she’s up to it,” he says. “Hospital number one.”

  “Will you bring Svetusya?”

  “Sveta.” He winks. “Certainly.”

  I switch to English for Danny’s benefit. “Thank you, Valya. It’s so good to see you.”

  Valya hesitates, but finally speaks in Russian. “Seeing you again means a lot. After Ksena and Melanyushka . . . sometimes I worry God forgot old Valya.” He smiles at last. “Then he sends me you, to say, ‘See, Valya? I cannot forget you.’”

  I know he’s right — I know it with every brain cell, blood vessel and bone of my body. It’s no coincidence I ended up at church tonight. But at the same time, I’m totally unworthy. I’ve done nothing but lie to this man, my friend, since the minute I saw him tonight. Now the best I can do is to be the symbol that God still remembers him, even as He takes everything away?

  I have to do more. But all I can say is “I’ll see you tomorrow, Valya.”

  I get out of the car, and Danny follows my lead (even using spasibo with Valya, though I’m hardly surprised Danny’s polite). Once Valya’s off, we start down the street.

  Not sure where we stand, so I let Danny begin the conversation. “Is that a Baskin Robbins?” He’s squinting at a bright pink hut between us and the river.

  “Probably a knockoff. You need to try the Russian ice cream. Their dairy products are more . . . dairy.”

  He raises an eyebrow at my awesome description. “Is that why Borya insisted I needed so much butter?”

  “No, that’s to fatten you up to make it through the winter.”

  He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to laugh, but I’m not joking. “Oookay. So those were friends from your mission? Or . . . more than friends?” He’s grinning, because Mormon missionaries aren’t allowed to date (so Garo’s advances were doubly inappropriate).

  “Sorry. Garo’s never been good at understanding subtle social cues — you know, like when we said, ‘no, we can’t marry you, and we don’t want to.’ But he’s harmless.”

  “I know the type. Guess I was just delusional to think I was the first to ask.”

  I flash him a smile, then scan behind us. We can’t stay out long without a coat for Danny, but once I’m back in disguise, I can return his. And I do need to get back into disguise soon. Talia isn’t staying at the Hermitage; Lori is.

  “Is the guy who gave us a ride another ex-boyfriend?”

  I give his joke a single hiccup of a laugh. Valya looks older than he is (late forties?). “No. When I knew him, he was married. I taught his wife.” I take a deep breath. Danny will understand the magnitude of this blow. “Just found out she died a couple years ago.”

  Danny slides an arm around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  I don’t pull away, because there’s more. “Their daughter — she can’t be older than ten — she has cancer, too. Sounds aggressive. I want — I have to help.”

  Regret rings through my voice, and Danny squeezes my shoulder in a side hug. “I know. Not a lot you can do,” he says.

  I steer him around another corner, but the truth sinks into my stomach.

  There is something I can do. Valya isn’t just some “old soldier.” He’s a podpolkovnik, a lieutenant colonel, stationed at the Russian Ground Forces’ district headquarters. I can get Melanyushka treatment, get her to Moscow or Germany, get her cured. I can fulfill their obligations and maybe manufacture a few miracles.

  I just have to get Valya to be a spy.

  It feels so much later than it is, it’s almost a shock to find stores open. We duck into the nearest McDonald’s (we’re awful Americans) to change out of our disguises. Well, since our disguises are us, maybe it’s the other way around? Once we’re safely in our “regular” clothes, the professional barrier goes up again. More whiplash.

  We meander back to the hotel with as many surveillance detection stops as Danny can handle. No one’s in pursuit, but there’s something about being out, even in the dark and the cold. It’s the last thing you’d expect in Russia, but when the alternative is your hotel room, buttoned down and boxed in and bugged, the air outside is filled with freedom.

  By the fourth errand, Danny’s exasperation shows in the set of his jaw. I pay for my Alyonka chocolate sticks with delicate chocolate wafer filling (this is my hunt for Red October—the candy manufacturer) and lead him to the street.

  “Do you get frequent freak-out miles from the Company or something? Tax break? Claiming a new pair of shoes every month as a business expense?”

  The same message lurks behind the jokes — you’re paranoid — but I have to admit it’s funny. I share a couple chocolate sticks. “You realize only one of us is wearing heels, right?”

  “You realize that’s your own fault?”

  I pretend to be exasperated with myself. “You know, you never finished telling me what you learned at dinner.”

  “Are we clear?” he asks.

  I won’t respond to the exhaustion in his voice — though I think he’s less tired and more just tired of this. “Yes.” (Though I have one more stop before we finish.)

  Oblivious, Danny launches into his report from dinner. “Borya’s local, went to Toulouse for grad school. This promotion was unexpected, but apparently he was handpicked as Timofeyev’s successor.”

  “By Timofeyev?” We stop at a street corner, but traffic’s light enough we can jaywalk.

  Danny half-shrugs. “Sounds like it — sounds like Timofeyev was anticipating a promotion himself. Borya’s modest about it, but the way people treat him — did you see it? He’s the golden child, this protégé they kind of envy, kind of resent and kind of love.”

  Kita’s awe and reverence and fear today flashes through my mind. Danny was paying attention, and the assessment could be spot on. But if he’s so dedicated to aerospace, why is Borya with the FSB, too? “You discuss anything work related?”

  “After we finished, he started talking up his vision for Shcherbakov, and — what’s OAK?”

  “Obyedinyonnaya Aviastroitelʹnaya Korporatsiya,” I answer, guiding us around another corner, another semi-residential side street. “United Aircraft Corporation. The government formed a coalition of aerospace companies and left Shcherbakov out. They get the government contracts. Timofeyev said it makes life hard for Shcherbakov.”

  “Yeah, Borya feels the same. He says before OAK, Shcherbakov was on course to take over the industry, but several other companies had . . . svyazi?”

  “Connections, usually in the bureaucracy. Typical Russian attitude, blaming the establishment when you can’t get ahead. Though it’s the government’s fault more often than not.”

  “Borya seems to think he can reverse that, though. Sounds like he’s got a specific way to make it happen.”

  I give a sneaky, slow sideways glance. “A way that involves plans for a spy drone with a hyperspectral imaging camera?”

  “Yep, told me all about it.” With that much sarcasm in his voice, his eye-roll’s redundant.

  “Was it just the two of you at dinner?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “No reason.” The lie is out before I can stop it, but I backtrack to correct myself. “I think he’s dating — or maybe not ‘dating’ — Nadezhda.”

  “‘Not dating�
�?”

  I make another turn, debating the best way to explain the double standard. Respect for women is paramount — but maybe “respect” is the wrong word. Men have to be polite and accept no for an answer, unless they have some sort of power over a woman. To say no to your boss could be tantamount to professional suicide (or actual suicide). “Sexual harassment can be pretty institutionalized here.”

  Danny contemplates that. “Quick move for a new boss.”

  “Maybe.” An hour of interaction isn’t enough to analyze all the power politics that might be in play. Could be sending a message to the rest of his new subordinates, some of whom might’ve been passed over for the job.

  We reach the corner, and I finally recognize the cross street — the one Semyon’s note mentioned. The street with the dead drop.

  I check my back once again. Rostov’s a big city, but it’s been dark for hours, so it feels later than it is, and most people have gone home. Only a few people are out on the sidewalk: two grandpas shuffling away from us and two young couples clustered together, chitchatting softly half a block away. Nobody’s paying any attention to us. “Come on,” I murmur.

  Danny takes on that single lifted eyebrow that’s become shorthand for his favorite question today: what now? But he follows me around the corner.

  The blue box is mounted on the beige brick wall at the opposite end of the street. I wait until we’re close enough to read the Почта России sign to search the ground nearby. A grapefruit-sized rock sits nestled in a sidewalk divot by the building’s foundation.

  My rib cage slowly turns to steel. I scan behind me once more. All clear.

  I retrieve the rock. A little lighter than you’d expect. The seam between the halves seems like a natural crack. Well-made concealment device — but we work on these from the time we arrive on the Farm, so it’s hardly a surprise Semyon’s is good.

  No time to admire his workmanship. Careful to angle it so nothing falls out, I twist the halves apart to reveal the hollow compartment and its contents. I hand the SIM card to Danny and pocket the passports and mini USB drive cloner. The tiny hard drive cloner and the USB drive both fit in the compartment.

  “Oh,” Danny whispers. “I was beginning to think you didn’t take anything.”

  I purse my lips, but don’t respond to that. “That’s your SIM card. You’re welcome.” I screw the halves together and set it in its divot, brushing the cigarette butts around it into place.

  As soon as it’s secure, I’m off — but not running. A steady, casual pace. Danny matches me easily. “Do I dare ask what you just did?”

  “My job.” We round the corner to the main road.

  “Stealing trade secrets?” His question from yesterday echoes back in his tone: how does this make me any better than Fyodor?

  I’m not better than him, maybe — but I’m not stealing secrets. “Just making sure ours haven’t been stolen.” I glance behind us again, pretending like I think we dropped something. Nobody back there to appreciate my act. But ahead, a guy across the street peers at us too long. I resist the urge to pick up my pace (though my pulse takes the opportunity to spike).

  We stop in the nearest produkty. The clerk fusses at us that they’re getting ready to close for the night. I put him off, claiming we’re warming up for a minute. I browse the freezer cases, biding my time long enough that the guy across the street has to either come in or wait on the street a suspiciously long time.

  After a couple minutes, he hasn’t tailed us. The sidewalk’s empty when we leave the store — though I make sure that’s still the case every twenty feet or so.

  Danny catches my gaze with his frown of disapproving skepticism. “Glancing over your shoulder is making me nervous.”

  “I’m glancing so you don’t have to be nervous.”

  “Crazy thought: we could work together on watching our backs.”

  I laugh. “Thanks, but I got it. Besides, this is normal for a woman on a dark city street.”

  “Guess I wouldn’t know. Appreciate the vote of confidence, though.”

  Ouch. I change the subject, pointing to the high-rise apartments down the block. “Recognize those?”

  “The ones by our hotel?” His inflection says that’s mostly a guess, but he’s right. He takes the cue to drop the subject now that we’re on approach (though I do make one last stop to check for surveillance). We reach the forest green hotel awning and march in. Once we’re at the elevators, I can finally breathe easy. Man, it feels good to be done with walking.

  “What’s on the docket tomorrow?” Danny asks.

  “Tour Shcherbakov, roll with the punches.” The elevator arrives, and we step on. “Didn’t ‘Borya’ tell you the plans?”

  “Yeah, we’re looking at composites, and then he recommended sightseeing in the afternoon while he’s in a meeting.”

  With his superiors at the FSB?

  I have to tell Danny. Dread gathers in my middle like a coming blizzard. I want Danny safe — he has to be safe — but with the way he talks to and about Borya, he won’t like the truth.

  “Sounds like he’s got something to show off.” Danny’s words downplay the enthusiasm glowing in his voice and eyes. “Borya says that if we want, we could see—”

  “You should be careful about listening to what ‘Borya says.’” Before I can explain, we arrive at our floor. I reach for the button to continue up, but Danny gets off the elevator.

  I hurry to follow. “I don’t trust him,” I mutter once I’m in range. There’s only so much I dare to say in this hallway.

  “Picked up on that one.” Again, Danny’s light tone doesn’t match his words. We get to his door, and he doesn’t stop to think whether we might be safer talking in the hall or letting me search his room after that “maintenance” call. He heads in and pulls off his tie. “Any reason you don’t like him?”

  At least he isn’t using names. I linger in the doorway. “He’s too nice.”

  Danny tosses his tie on the desk, then approaches me again, his face and his footsteps cautious. “‘Too nice’? What does that mean? Next you’ll stop trusting me?”

  “Whoa, no—”

  “I get you don’t like him.”

  I flounder in silence, my mouth moving a second without sound. “I guess I don’t.”

  Danny nods, looking at his open door. He wants to say more.

  And if he isn’t saying it, I’ll bet I don’t want to hear it. “Even if I’m wrong,” I allow (though I’m not), “it’d be safest if you didn’t go off alone with him again.”

  He gawks at me, incredulous. “And it’s safest for you to roam the streets alone?”

  “That’s different. I—”

  “Can take care of yourself,” he finishes for me. (Not quite what I was going to say.) “So what does that say about me?”

  The kick to the chest leaves me reeling. “You — I — Danny—”

  He closes his eyes. “Let me know when I can come out in the morning.”

  Before I recover enough to stop him, the door’s between us.

  I didn’t even get to tell him about the FSB. And would he believe me?

  I turn for my door and draw in a breath. Two more days.

  How have we only been here one day? It feels like a lifetime — and a lifetime of walking.

  I’m physically, emotionally and mentally drained. All I want is to curl up with Danny, the one thing that reminds me every day that the sacrifices I make are worth it to protect people like him.

  People who apparently think I’m on par with a common criminal and totally patronizing.

  I glance back at his door one more time, willing it to open, for Danny to take it all back.

  Nothing.

  I’m exhausted, but I doubt I’ll get much rest tonight.

  After two nights of scarce sleep, I definitely don’t have the energy to continue the fight in the morning, and my 3 AM run to cache a disguise or the two-hour
time change from Paris isn’t the real reason I tossed and turned. Even Semyon’s encrypted text doesn’t cheer me: B has contacts in Libya, Iran, etc. May have drone plans. Expect another package.

  Not solid enough to present to Danny. I avoid the argument and phone his room to have him meet me at the lobby bar’s breakfast buffet. We’re civil — or as friendly as Danny and Lori should be — over our kasha porridge and syrniki (fried pancakes made with the firmer Russian version of cottage cheese) with honey. At Shcherbakov, the receptionist waves us through and we make our way to Borya’s office alone.

  The elevator’s extra uncomfortable. Yesterday, an elevator ride with him meant a few seconds to relax our covers. Today, it means a few seconds it’s even harder to pretend.

  “I heard you had an adventure last night?” Borya greets us outside his office. He doesn’t bother hiding the amused smile. “The security guard tells me you came by.”

  “I lost the watch my wife gave me for our wedding,” Danny says. “Must’ve fallen off.”

  Is it me, or is there way more than mirth behind that smile of Borya’s? “Good thing it didn’t happen while we were at dinner, then. You’d never see it again.”

  The back of my neck turns cold. That’s got to be more than amusement. Did he notice Danny’s watch at dinner? It’s a nice watch, but . . . Do we need to be even more careful?

  “I know,” Danny says. “Thanks again for dinner; much better than sitting around my hotel.”

  I pretend I honestly don’t care about this conversation or Danny needling me for ditching him. What am I supposed to say? Yes, honey, please come to all my Top Secret CIA meetings?

  “Only doing what you suggested. Hope I didn’t cause you any trouble. Or worry.” Borya’s glance at me is lightning fast, but I still catch it. He knows. He knows I left Danny. He knows about our fight — over worrying.

  Because he’s listening to the bug in Danny’s room. He has to be. My rib cage shrinks.

  Yep. We’re in his sights.