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

  “Absolutely. Good night.”

  I’m good and dismissed. Fine. I climb from the car without saying goodbye. Borya’s driver pulls away.

  I take a steeling breath and stare at the Hermitage’s façade. What will I tell Danny?

  I exhale, and all the adrenaline and energy seems to leave my body in this condensation cloud. Danny’s only with the guy until noon tomorrow. Then I can take him somewhere and keep him safe and out of custody. Then tomorrow night, drone or no drone, we have a flight to catch.

  Somehow, the logical plan doesn’t leave me reassured. Mostly because things never go according to plan.

  I wait until Borya’s car is down the block and around the corner before I move. I don’t know what to say to Danny yet, and I need to get this message to Semyon. I trudge into the hotel garage (or whatever this entrance is for). The text takes thirty seconds to type, encrypt and send to Semyon: B is doing something with al-Ansari on ulitsa Novatorov tomorrow afternoon.

  I lean back against the cement wall and just . . . breathe. It’s done. This is the last piece I need, and it confirms everything (as if the rendition wasn’t enough proof). Borya’s FSB. He’s the biggest threat. I was right all along.

  And he wants to keep Danny safe, too. On one little front, that makes Borya and me . . . well, co-combatants. Not friends.

  Besides, what can I do? Run up to Danny to crow I told you so? I have the trump card I need, but no witnesses, nothing better than my word to prove this isn’t my paranoia talking.

  No, he needs to know he’s more important than my paranoia. Even if all I’ve done is tried to keep him safe —

  Because my paranoia is me choosing him. Maybe not how he wants, but the best way I know. I don’t have to mention my tiny triumph tonight. He can keep his illusions, even about Borya, and I can look wrong and crazy and everything else — as long as he loves me.

  Please let him still love me.

  I gather the tatters of my strength and drag myself back to street level. Somehow, walking in the main entrance of the Hermitage takes more courage than anything I’ve done today. But I make it in the door, up the steps, through the lobby. I’m in the elevator when my phone buzzes. Random Cyrillic — Semyon. The decryption app spits out the message: aA is an arms dealer.

  I knew it. I knew it. Vindication vibrates through me, even after all tonight’s defeats and fatigue. I seriously doubt Shcherbakov’s working with al-Ansari on de-icing or composites or turbines. He’s an arms dealer — an arms dealer whose price is wrong, apparently.

  What’s Borya selling?

  My job to find out. I don’t have the heart to tell Semyon about Valya yet, so I delete his text and put my phone away.

  I make it to the hall at Danny’s door. Closed. Locked. And he hasn’t called or texted.

  Before I figure out what to do, my phone buzzes again. I barely have time for my hopes to lift before they’re dashed: another text from Semyon. This one translates to Exterminated video bug in exec’s room. Audio intact. Probably best to keep their suspicions down. Now we have a little privacy. I thank Semyon and he texts once more. Ready for a PCS?

  My stomach twists tighter than a babushka’s scarf knot. PCS = permanent change of station. Which = moving to Russia.

  On one hand, I’m glad to make a big impression. Yeah, I’m in the country two days and I’m recruiting a new agent (unsuccessfully, but Semyon doesn’t know that yet). Most officers couldn’t do that. Developing contacts, building relationships of trust, pitching: all take time. When you already know people, you can cut to the chase. Svyazi at its best.

  I should be thrilled I’m being scouted for Russia. If I’m honest, a good 50% of applying to the CIA was the prospect of coming back. Not necessarily to Rostov and the people I knew here, but to the culture, the type of people, the type of friendship I had here. Maybe that was unrealistic; a missionary and a spy have different objectives. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to end up in Canada, especially for so long.

  And just yesterday, wasn’t I boasting how much I belong here?

  On the other hand, Canada’s where Danny is, and our house and our life and our dreams. What do I do, leave him there for possibly years while I run off to fulfill a fantasy?

  I refocus on Danny’s door. In Paris, I was ready to resign for him. But that was when the Agency was targeting him. Do I have the courage — the strength — to decline something I’ve always wanted, all for him? For someone who wants me to “end this”?

  My final defeat of the night: I turn for my own room.

  I throw my gloves and hat on the dresser, but they slide off and land on a suitcase, my “probably won’t use unless it’s a real emergency” bag.

  Too bad I didn’t pack for a marital emergency. Doubt the carabiner or the climbing rope or anything else in there will help. I step to my bed, ready to sink onto the bedspread.

  Can I really give up this easily? Russian assignment or not, I came here to fight for Danny. I didn’t bargain on fighting with Danny, but if that’s what it takes to keep him and keep him safe?

  I still can. I have to. I unzip my emergency bag. The pad of quick-dissolve paper is exactly what I need. Once I tear off the first sheet — can’t leave impressions — I scratch out a message.

  I knock at his door, though I can hardly bear to look at it while I wait.

  Danny answers, and the circles under his eyes make him look like he’s slept less than I have since we took this assignment. Before things can get awkward, I keep the cover in place. “You said you needed help?” I ask, gesturing toward his room.

  “Russian paperwork.” He lets me in and closes the door. “Listen—”

  I gesture at the wall and my ears. We can’t say anything. He examines me. Disbelieving? “Sorry I snapped at you.” He pauses for about seven eternities. Finally, he adds, “Lori.”

  The name he hasn’t used yet crashes down on my heart. Welcome to the world’s hollowest victory. Ugh. Am I always such an idiot with relationship stuff? How’d I ever get married?

  I hold up my note and he takes it to read. I have chosen you. I have since we first met. I’ve always tried. I’m sorry it’s not enough. I don’t know where to go from here.

  Wish I had some solution or something more eloquent to tell him, but the truth is my last refuge.

  I demand the paper back with an impatient hand. He obeys, rubbing his eyes. I add to the note, using the door for a backing: I have to do this. I have to protect YOU & there’s nothing I won’t do to do that. I hesitate, but finally tack on: Nothing I won’t sacrifice. Even us.

  When he finishes reading, he’s the one gesturing for me to give him something. I shake my head — I don’t have anything. Finally, he takes the pen from my fingers. Oh.

  He scribbles something and flips the paper back. He circled my last word, “us,” and wrote NOT on the table.

  I take the paper and pen back. You said to end this.

  Again, he scribbles a note and holds it up for me to read. Again, he’s circled the last word, “this,” and added ≠ us!! He pulls the paper back to add more exclamation points. I put my hands over his. “I got it,” I mouth.

  He surrenders the paper and pen. “Sorry, I — I just . . . I miss my wife,” he murmurs.

  “I understand.”

  He meets my gaze, and the feeling passes between us. Then he grabs me in a long, tight hug.

  It feels like days — weeks — months since we’ve been this close, since he’s held me in his arms. I had no idea how much I needed this until I’m here, clinging to him just as tightly, drawing in the comfort and strength of being with him. We may not have everything perfectly worked out, but we’re not going to give up yet.

  He pulls back, taking my hands and staring at them. “I’ve been going nuts with you out there by yourself.”

  Is he saying what I think? “Why didn’t you call?”

  “And say what? ‘I’m an idiot.
You’re still alive, right?’”

  Before I can gaze-point at the walls, he grimaces. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He moves to neutral conversational ground and offers me the tablet. “Ready for paperwork?”

  “One minute.” I duck into the bathroom to flush the note, though the quick-dissolve paper’s gone before I hit the lever. As I turn for the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I smooth my long copper bangs to the side, half-hiding my face. But that’s not the real reason I look different.

  I am so tired of being Lori.

  I scrub off my eye makeup and rip out the dozens of pins holding the wig on. Then I undo my braids, shed the red coat, tug off my high heel boots. I consult the mirror.

  There I am. Lost myself for a second.

  Danny’s sitting on the bed, propped up with both pillows, and he doesn’t look up from the tablet when I slip in. I perch on the other side of the mattress, then he finally meets my gaze. The recognition is instant: he knows what I’m trying to say. But more than that — his wife is back, if only for a few minutes.

  He beckons me closer. I’m all too happy to oblige. I crawl across the queen-sized bed. Danny holds out an arm, and I curl up beside him, resting my head on his chest, where I fit perfectly.

  “What do these say?” He indicates a column of Cyrillic by a list of percentages.

  “Titan, alyuminiy, vanadiy, palladiy, zhelezo.”

  He nods, then gently, silently, plants a kiss on top of my head. I arch my neck and pull him close for an equally silent kiss.

  “Rakastan sinua,” I whisper.

  “I know.” He winks. “What do you say back?”

  “Ja minä sinuakin.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  I settle into the crook of his arm. “I’m guessing your list is—”

  “Titanium, aluminum, vanadium, palladium and . . . iron?”

  Okay, the first four are obvious, but zhelezo sounds nothing like iron. “How’d you guess?”

  His shoulder shifts in a shrug. “The percentages are similar to a standard alloy with iron, but the palladium’s new — guess it makes sense in Russia.” He trails off into sciencey-thinky-land, and I let my eyes drift shut. I sigh out the air I’ve been holding for two days, it seems. Still a lot to work through — sometime when we can have a private conversation — but tonight I’ll settle for a truce.

  The next thing I know, I’m waking up to light streaming in the window — and an insistent knock at the door. “Gornichnaya,” comes a woman’s voice from the hallway. The maid.

  Oh, crap. We overslept.

  Oh, crap. I’m not supposed to be in Danny’s room.

  Oh, crap. I’m not supposed to be me.

  I hop away from Danny, who’s scrambling to get up, too. We’re still dressed from yesterday. At least there’s that. My brain jumps back into paranoid mode faster than I can blink. If the room is bugged, is anything here safe? Who knows who the maids are reporting to?

  I point to the tablet on the bedspread. He must’ve dropped it during the night. Danny stuffs the tablet under the mattress. Not a great long-term option, but good enough.

  Another knock.

  “Just a minute!” Danny calls.

  Uh yeah. Privacy’s not found in the Russian conceptual vocabulary. Centuries of communal farming built up a deeper value on community and interresponsibility than private space. (This is why strangers fuss you out for not buttoning up, too.)

  Out the window or into the bathroom — and dang it, I left my rappelling equipment in my other hotel room. I race into the bathroom and ease the door halfway shut so it seems vacant.

  The housekeeper opens the room door, and Danny’s there to stop her. “Oh, we don’t need anything today. I mean, I don’t — I don’t need anything.”

  No time, no time. I pin my bangs to the side and twist up my long, dark hair. In this much of a rush, I hold it in place while I awkwardly wrestle the wig cap on. The wig is next. I only have time for a quick adjustment before I snag my coat and check the door.

  “Ne govoryu po-angliyskiy,” the maid says. She doesn’t speak English. “Polotentsi?” She mimics drying her hands and shoulders. “Polotentsi?”

  She wants the towels? She’s coming in here. My pulse does a freaking polka. I call Danny’s attention over the housekeeper’s head and gaze-point into his room.

  He understands perfectly. “Oh yeah, over here.” He turns to lead her into the room, like he has any idea what she’s after.

  I open the bathroom door and sneak out. The room door’s still open, but if a team of maids is working in the hall —

  My feet hit the hallway carpet, and no one’s there to spot me. I’m safe. I take a silent breath — and then it registers.

  There’s a reason I can feel the hallway carpet. Because my shoes are still in his bathroom.

  I pivot back to the open door and knock. Too late; the maid’s already invaded the bathroom. I glance at Danny. He watches me warily, unsure what’s wrong.

  I push the bathroom door and find the housekeeper examining my high heel boots. “Akha, tam oni!” I exclaim. There they are. I bring Danny in on the cover. “I must’ve left them here last night.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “you left in a hurry. Figured you’d gone to bed, and you could get them tomorrow. Today.”

  I take the boots from the maid. Let’s get rid of her before she finds anything incriminating. I address Danny. “Do you need towels?”

  “Not today.”

  I dismiss the maid as politely as possible and refrain from shoving her out the door. Danny closes and locks it. We exchange a wide-eyed, that-was-close expression.

  “Bringing your tablet?” I nod exaggeratedly to supply his answer.

  “Yeah. Fell asleep before I finished reviewing that paperwork.” He flashes me a look of did I screw up too bad?

  I shoot him a nah-you’re-good face. “We might have time later.”

  “Are we late?”

  “Don’t you have your watch?” I can’t help the smirk.

  Danny rolls his gaze heavenward and takes his watch from the nightstand. “Eight forty-five.”

  “When’s your first meeting?”

  “Nine.”

  “Better run.” I can skip one shower. I duck into my room to change clothes, rebraid my real hair and put on makeup. (Now I need it, breaking out after two days of this shellac.)

  I pause at my door. Facing off with an FSB officer? Better come prepared. My emergency bag’s too conspicuous, but I grab the market tote still full from last night. In three minutes, we meet outside his room and rush downstairs.

  We’re almost through the lobby when I notice the businessman on a gold sofa, perusing a newspaper. Semyon. If he’s here, it’s big. Too big to text. “One minute,” I tell Danny. I stop by Semyon’s chair and ask something totally innocuous. “Kakaya pogoda?” How’s the weather?

  “Khudsheye zima v gody,” he says. Worst winter in years — what they say every year. He sets aside the paper’s first section. I pick it up, eyebrows arched to silently ask for it. He nods.

  “Spasibo.” That’s all I have time for before we half-run out the door.

  And holy CRAP, Semyon wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t this cold even last night. Nothing like contending with Russian winter on your last day in the country. I button my coat and huddle closer to Danny. We don’t have time to wait for a marked cab today. The first car to pull up is a Lada, with a guy in his twenties behind the wheel. I open the back door to talk to him. “Kuda?” he asks. (Where to?)

  “Shcherbakov,” I tell him our destination. I give the address too.

  He winces. “Eight hundred.”

  That’s outrageous. I have to haggle. “Three hundred.”

  “Four.”

  I’ll take it. I give my very specific directions so the dude knows not to deviate from the direct course, and Danny and I pile in the backseat, tripping
over one another’s legs. Danny chuckles, and I can’t help it, I join in.

  The driver asks if tourists should be more careful with their vodka, and I don’t bother correcting him. It just feels good to be around my husband. Even if I’m still not me.

  “How do you like Russia?” The driver cuts into my thoughts in English. We need to be careful.

  “Loving it today,” Danny says. I glimpse his real, eye-crinkling smile. I’m loving it too.

  I flip through the newspaper and find a folded piece of paper like the one we used for our notes last night. Great. I have to eat this.

  I open the folded slip. Paperwork ready. You belong in Russia.

  Suddenly, the prospect of the paper’s sour taste isn’t the only thing turning my stomach. Not loving the day so much.

  Danny can read the English as easily as I can. (At least the newspaper shields us from the driver.) The laughter leaves Danny’s gaze, and he looks to me.

  “I’ll explain later.” I rip the paper in half and pop the side with the message in my mouth when I’m sure the driver won’t see my lips pucker at the taste. (It’s bad.) I pocket the blank half of the quick-dissolve paper before we roll up to Shcherbakov’s wacky façade. We pay the driver and hop out. Danny checks the time. “Five after.”

  “Crap,” I mutter. We should never, never, never be late. We hang up our coats, and I stow my bag. (Have fun looking through my clothes!) Danny keeps the tablet in his suit coat, and we stride through the interior doors.

  Once we’re alone in the elevator, Danny finally broaches the topic of the note. “What paperwork?”

  I cut my eyes at him and touch a finger to my lips. “Transfer.” I try to make my whisper dismissive and factually neutral to settle the issue. “My company is pushing for it.”

  Danny turns a hard, shocked stare on me, but before he can speak, the elevator doors slide open. Score another one for temperamental elevator chimes.

  Maybe we’ll get a minute alone at Borya’s office. But no, he’s waiting for us, and I mentally kick myself again (and not just because I can’t snag any USB drives). He’s caught us arriving late — and I wasn’t quite ready to see him face to face. “I was beginning to worry,” he says. He’s all smiles today, though he’s conspicuously not addressing me.