“I’m not worried about day to day operations.” He took a swig of his beer. He didn’t plan to give her free access to embassy files. CSIS didn’t need to have its nose in all his affairs. “A big part of my job involves social functions and dinners, and you should accompany me. It’s the easiest way for you to get to know the right people. You won’t have much free time in the evenings.”
“In my last position I was on call pretty much twenty-four seven. I’m used to long hours.” She looked at the drink in her hand. It trembled a little and she set it down with too much precision. Harry wondered what that was about. Maybe she wasn’t as confident with this assignment as she’d have him believe. She ran one finger up and down the sweating glass. Her eyebrows rose, drawing his gaze to her eyes, and once again he was caught up in how blue they were. “Who would you normally take to dinner?”
Again he had to wonder if she was flirting with him, and if so, what her purpose for it might be. If it was to unsettle him, mission accomplished.
He had an urge, no doubt bolstered by the beer, to shake all that feminine confidence. “My girlfriend recently ended our relationship. No one will think it odd for me to bring my young, very attractive, new personal assistant with me.”
Lies’s expression changed. Compassion filtered into her eyes and she leaned toward him, ever so slightly, before drawing back as if changing her mind about whatever she’d been about to say or do. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was overdue.” Alcine had always been more interested in the lifestyle than him. Her interest in Vanderloord, however, had been the final straw. He pushed his unfinished beer away. He’d had enough to drink, especially since he had to watch what he said around Lies.
She was studying him. A slight frown tugged at her finely-arched brows. He knew what she saw—a dull, middle-aged businessman of passing good looks. The most exciting thing about him was his career and that could hardly impress a CSIS intelligence officer. She leaned on her forearms, bringing her head closer to his from across the small table.
“In order to do my job, I need to know where I fit in your life,” Lies said. “Am I someone you overlook because you see me as unimportant, or do I have a position of power with you? Do you confide in me or do I carry your bags? Do I know every detail of your life, both personal and professional, or do I know nothing about you at all beyond your work schedule?”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead and didn’t like to make quick decisions. “Does it matter? Do we need to know that right now?”
“It does and we do.” She placed her hand over his, adding another layer of intimacy to the discussion, as if they were well acquainted already. She leaned closer still until their noses were scant inches apart. “Crime bosses go for the top of the food chain or the bottom. The middle’s not worth their time.” She stroked the tip of one finger across the back of his wrist. Whether the gesture was absent-minded or calculated, he couldn’t tell. He did know it was distracting. “Why do you suppose the ambassador’s wife was a target? And she was, Harry. He got more than a good time from her. She probably knows it too, but is afraid to admit it. That makes me very curious about the information she gave you. If it’s accurate, why did he underestimate her so badly? Is it possible she told you things he meant for you to hear?”
She posed very good questions.
“Dita isn’t exactly what one would describe as sophisticated,” Harry explained carefully. “She’s a former model and quite attractive. She’s also only twenty-three years old compared to her husband’s sixty-seven. It’s possible she wasn’t the target in this case, but doing some targeting herself, and got more than she expected.”
A smile of enlightenment curled Lies’s pink-tinted lips. “So you’re suggesting she’s working her way out of Albania… Let me guess. The story she gave you came with a plea for protection and an offer you couldn’t resist.” Her smile brightened, a hint of laughter lurking in her eyes. “Although I’d bet money you did.”
He wasn’t stupid. Or a naïve twenty-three year old. And yet Lies made him feel as if he were both. A flush of heat that had nothing to do with a tight tie or the beer he’d consumed crept up his neck. “I’m not interested in women who play games—especially dangerous ones.”
Let her make of that what she would.
If anything, it amused her even more. “We still haven’t settled the question of whether I’m a low-level staff member you have little time for, and basically ignore, or someone you keep close to you.”
“Close,” he said far too quickly, but there was no way he could afford to ignore her and he didn’t care if she knew it. Someone had to protect the innocent and unsuspecting. He flipped his hand over so their palms connected and he laced their fingers together, ignoring an image in his head of how far they could take this charade. Then he laid out what he believed to be the best scenario under the circumstances. “I’d like to be sleeping with you, but you want to keep things professional between us to protect your career. You’re ambitious, but you know better than to sleep with your boss.”
Her fingers stiffened in his. A muscle puckered one corner of her mouth as she straightened and withdrew her hand.
“That’s our flight, Mr. Jordan,” she said.
“Pardon?”
At first he thought he must have struck a nerve, which was why she was suddenly so formal, and puzzled over what he’d said wrong. Maybe she’d misinterpreted his words, taking them too literally, and was offended.
Maybe she’d read his mind.
The collar on his shirt shrank a size over that last possibility.
“The announcement?” She waved a finger at the ceiling, indicating the airport’s public address system. “They’re calling our flight.”
There was nothing wrong with her nerves or his words, then. His collar loosened its grip. She’d simply slipped into the role he’d assigned her, and with an ease that left his head spinning.
He slung the strap of his laptop over one shoulder, then picked up his black leather overnight bag and squeezed the rubber grip on the handle. He would never have hired a woman like Marlies Wiersma as a personal assistant and she was going to cause speculation among the people who knew him.
But as far as spies went, he acknowledged John really might well know what he was doing. Lies was a chameleon. It would be interesting to watch how she chose to play Vanderloord. He hitched the laptop strap higher.
What wasn’t so interesting was how easily she could play him.
* * *
They landed at Schiphol close to noon local time. Harry had a car waiting for them, a luxury Lies was unused to.
She asked to be dropped off at an address on the outskirts of The Hague she’d been given. CSIS kept flats in major cities across Europe for intelligence use. This one was in an area of the city housing a number of immigrants and students, and perhaps not so coincidentally, Canadian ex-pats. Vanderloord would never live in a low-end neighborhood such as this, but here, she could keep her eyes and ears open as to what activities others living abroad might be involved in.
Harry made a face when he saw the building, but said nothing. Lies shrugged off his unspoken disapproval. Not everyone who worked for the government could live in the luxury flats surrounding the Canadian embassy in the heart of the city.
He insisted on walking up with her so he could help carry her bags despite her assurances that she could manage. The flat wouldn’t meet his high standards, but that was his problem, not hers.
The elevator was out of commission. The stairs off the main entry of the building were narrow and steep, and smelled funky, like urine. Her flat was on the third floor, accessible from an outdoor walkway encircling the building. By the time she unlocked the door and they’d dragged all her luggage inside, he was frowning.
It wasn’t fancy, even she had to admit. But it wasn’t awful either. It was tiny, with a combined living room and kitchenette, and through an open door, she caught sight of a shower in a corner of the bedroo
m. The entrance had a small toilet enclosure and enough room for her to store a bicycle, which was the best way to travel and what everyone used. The train station was nearby so she’d have no problem getting to and from work. They’d passed a schoolyard down the street too, meaning the neighborhood would be reasonably safe. Parents tended to be vigilant.
And it was furnished.
“Isn’t this cozy!” she exclaimed, just to see how Harry would react.
He gazed around the entire flat from the safety of the half-open doorway. “I’ll find you accommodations closer to the embassy.”
It would be a mistake. Lies might be Canadian, born and raised in that country, but she’d been taught traditional Dutch values. Her family wasn’t rich but they had money, and the thought of flaunting it would appall them. She couldn’t work with the Dutch staff at the Canadian embassy and live in a flat no one else could afford. She’d never earn their trust or respect. If this was going to work, she had to be just what she seemed at all times.
“No thank you,” she said.
Harry’s jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. “I told you, you’ll have to work late hours. You can’t walk this neighborhood late at night by yourself.”
She could be stubborn too. She was here on assignment as an intelligence officer. He didn’t have any real authority to dictate how she was to live or behave while she was here, or interfere in her case simply because she was a woman, and she couldn’t afford to allow him to. John and Dan had both intimated that CSIS had a lot riding on this case. She’d been given a second chance not to screw up and she planned to prove just how good she could be at her job.
Her job didn’t have to be boring however.
She widened her eyes. “That’s right. I forgot that you’re supposed to be pursuing me. Granted I’ve only known you a short while so I could be mistaken, but it seems out of character for you to be setting an employee up as your mistress. Picking an embassy apartment for me might be crossing a line. I’ll be fine here.”
His too serious, too honest brown eyes warned her he wasn’t used to anyone challenging his decisions, or making jokes at his expense—which meant she found it fascinating to do so. Her heart revved up in spontaneous anticipation. He’d been standoffish from the moment she’d met him, posing a challenge she couldn’t seem to resist. She wondered what his breaking point was.
And then he reached for the handle on the door, preparing to leave without a fight, ruining her fun. “I’ll send a car for you tomorrow morning.”
“I’m already familiar with the transit system here,” she reminded him, pushing a little bit harder. “The Netherlands is a second home to me. I can get to the Canadian embassy on my own.”
“Very well. If you’re sure.”
Then he was gone and she was staring at the peeling paint on the closed door, disappointed Harry had opted not to react.
Goading him was harmless fun. He was safe, predictable, and no way did he live life on the edge. He was as unlike Michael as it was possible for two men to be. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t complicated.
Perhaps that was why she couldn’t leave him alone.
She discovered clean linen in a cupboard and made up the bed. They’d traveled all night and she was exhausted, but she didn’t want to sleep the whole afternoon away, preferring to adjust to the six-hour time difference as fast as she could. Without unpacking or doing more than wash her face, she set the alarm for two hours and crawled between the welcoming sheets.
Later that day, she went out to the shops and picked up a few groceries to have on hand for the morning—a loaf of bread, a brick of cheese, and a selection of fruits and juices. Her flat had a coffee maker so she bought a package of coffee too. She found a café and sipped a fresh-brewed cup at an outdoor table while she sat in the warm sun and observed the activity on the street.
The neighborhood wasn’t as bad as Harry believed. Eclectic, yes. But Lies, used to life in Ottawa and the ethnic diversity of Canadian cities, barely noticed that. Political tensions ran higher here than at home, and people tended to segregate more, so the mixture of cultures in the community was nice to see. And Dutch streets were so neat and tidy. She loved that. Tomorrow, or before the end of the week, she’d have to buy herself a bicycle so she could explore.
In her head she ran over the case file she’d read on Bernard Vanderloord. It contained surprisingly little for someone involved in all his purported activities, but enough that his cross-border dealings should have appeared on Interpol’s radar long before this. The usual procedure was for them to alert the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who in turn, would notify CSIS to investigate. So why hadn’t that happened?
A few of the pages in the report had been redacted, another curious thing. There had been a grainy digital photo, an address for his main residence, and a brief history of his life in Canada before he left the country. Forty-seven years of age, he’d grown up in Quebec and attended McGill University, one of the finest educational facilities in the country. As far as anyone knew, he’d never been married. He threw lavish, under-the-radar private New Year parties and invited the entire diplomatic community as guests in an unofficial capacity, as well as senior representatives of the Dutch government. Harry probably attended too, despite having rebuffed any attempts Vanderloord made to do business with Canada’s Department of National Defence or its contractors. It would be a networking opportunity too good for either of them to pass up.
Normally anyone involved in activities like money laundering and espionage would give Harry, who wore his integrity like a badge of honor, a wide berth. He’d be incorruptible and not worth the effort, so the continued overtures on Vanderloord’s part to get to know him made Lies very curious. That would be the first thing she looked into. What was it about Harry that Vanderloord couldn’t seem to resist?
And why, if Vanderloord had a connection to the defense minister, did he not try and leverage that friendship instead? Why pursue Harry openly, but keep the ministerial connection so secret?
* * *
Wednesday morning, Lies joined the crowd on the train headed into the heart of the city. From the Mauritskade stop in The Hague’s city center, she made her way to the Canadian embassy.
At the embassy she had to pass through a security check. Harry had already cleared her by arranging for a temporary ID. One of the trade commission assistants, an attractive woman in her early fifties, came to the main entrance to escort her through the building. Her name was Hannah Leary, and she had a wide, pleasant smile that poorly concealed her curiosity. If her reaction was anything to judge by, Harry bringing in a new staff member unannounced was already creating a stir.
The Defence trade commission offices were on the second floor. Hannah showed Lies where the washrooms were located and then ushered her to a small, empty office. “Harry’s office is next door. He’s tied up on the phone at the moment. He’ll come get you when he’s free.”
So Lies was going to be cut off from the rest of the trade commission staff. It was the sort of thing she’d expect someone like Harry, who couldn’t quite hide his distrust of her or her profession, to do. He wouldn’t want his coworkers on CSIS’s radar.
He needn’t worry. The only embassy employee on her radar was Harry.
Almost an hour later, when she was ready to pass out from boredom, Harry appeared at the door.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I had an important phone call that couldn’t wait. Why don’t you come into my office so we can go over your duties?”
Since he’d approached CSIS, not the other way around, Lies would have thought she’d be near the top of his priorities too, but held her peace.
He ushered her into his office and shut the door. He smiled, turning his normal serious expression into one that made him appear years younger, and really, quite sexy. “I’ve told staff that you’re here on a temporary placement while awaiting a permanent assignment. They might have gotten the impression your father is important in diplomatic circles. It
will explain why you attend so many evening functions with me. They’ll think I’m keeping an eye on you for him.”
A good night’s sleep and implementing a plan he’d thought through without any input from her had apparently done wonders for Harry’s sense of control. He reeked of relief and she couldn’t have that.
“I’m disappointed,” she said. “I was really looking forward to being seduced by you.”
His expression never altered. “In retrospect, that plan would never have worked.”
“Why not?” she asked, genuinely curious and oddly let down as to why he’d abandoned Plan A. “It was simple enough, and you’ve got to admit, the track record for that particular ploy is pretty successful.”
“No one would believe it. I’m hardly your type. You aren’t mine either.”
He was being practical, not trying to insult her, and while he was right on both counts, she debated the benefits of pointing out that stranger things had happened. As long as Vanderloord bought in, what did it matter what Harry’s staff thought?
“You don’t know what my type is. Maybe I like uptight trade commissioners.”
“You like corrupting them. I don’t like being corrupted.” That disarming smile reappeared, adding warmth to his eyes and taking the sting out of his words.
He was right yet again. His comfort zone was so much smaller than hers. She liked men who were willing to take risks and anyone could see Harry was a looker, not a leaper. They were a definite mismatch.
Maybe Vanderloord pursued him because he enjoyed the challenge Harry presented. She’d already figured out the entertainment factor in that too, and could appreciate the attraction.
“At least being the spoiled daughter of an important diplomat gives me freedom.” She sighed. “I bet I’m a hell-raiser.”
Again, warmth slid into his eyes. “I bet you are too. I pity your father.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “He’ll survive. He’s had plenty of time to get used to me. What’s more important—does Bernard Vanderloord prefer hell-raising women?”
His Spy at Night (Spy Games Book 3) Page 3
