Not a chance. The only thing Lies had in common with either woman was Harry. So what might honest, upstanding Harry Jordan have done to anger a man who was essentially a crime boss?
She checked the time. It would be eight o’clock in the evening in Ottawa. She should check in with John Carmichael and see what he thought. He might have insights that would offer an explanation.
John answered on the second ring. “Marlies. I was wondering when I might get another update from you. How was the expo?”
“Enlightening.” This wasn’t the first conversation they’d had since she’d arrived in The Hague, but she finally felt she had something worthwhile to discuss. “I met the Canadian trade mission delegates today. One of them has a connection to Vanderloord that could prove of interest.”
She told him about Mike Freeland and how he’d gone to university with Bernard, and of his meeting with a Ukrainian helicopter company. “I didn’t find out who Vanderloord went to that expo to meet with though. He’s very careful with his business in public. We shared a table at dinner with other expo attendees and he’s great at small talk, but he wasn’t at all interested in them. Whatever his agenda, it wasn’t about networking.” She told John that she was supposed to have dinner with Bernard and a few private guests at his home. “Hopefully, I’ll learn more.”
“Here’s what we know to date,” John said slowly. “Help me follow the train of events. One, Vanderloord hit our radar because of another old classmate of his from McGill by the name of Marc Leon Beausejour. Another officer has been tracking Beausejour since March. He found out that Beausejour is—or once was—a good friend of the Canadian Minister of National Defence.
“Two, a software engineer working on a top secret drone project for a defense contractor here in Canada had her email hacked through the Russian Business Network. She traced the hack back to the Minister of Defence’s official office here in Ottawa, but not who it went to within the department. Shortly after her contact list was stolen a nuclear physicist working on that same drone project turned up dead in London. The nuclear physicist also once worked in the Netherlands.
“Three, Vanderloord told you he got into the import-export business with former classmates right after he graduated from McGill law school. Those former classmates are first-or-second generation immigrants with family connections in their countries of origin.
“Four, Vanderloord, whose legitimate business is shipping, was at an international helicopter expo. Since helicopters are used for ship-to-shore transport, that’s not so unusual. However, those drones also have ship-to-shore capabilities. That’s another piece to consider since we have reason to believe, from information Harry supplied us with, that Vanderloord is moving stolen Canadian military weapons systems parts across EU borders using a hawala system of exchange. Also based on information Harry provided, Vanderloord has a connection to goods being transported into Russia. And coincidentally we have a Canadian lawyer, another former classmate of Vanderloord’s, who’s part of a shipping trade mission delegation to the Netherlands. That lawyer was anxious to attend the same helicopter expo as Vanderloord, where he met with Ukrainian representatives. The lawyer is someone I need to have investigated.
“All of which,” John concluded, “makes Vanderloord of considerable interest to CSIS. All roads lead to Rome. It doesn’t, however, give me enough to connect the defense minister to the supply chain for those missing weapons systems parts. The military will already have their intelligence officers conducting an internal investigation, but I’m reluctant to open a dialogue with them just yet. They’d file a report as part of CYA if I did, and I want to keep as much information off the radar as possible.”
CYA was an acronym that stood for cover your ass and the military was big on it. They had their own justice system—which was also overseen by the Minister of National Defence—and no one in their right mind would risk having to stand before one of its tribunals to justify their actions.
“Can the business Vanderloord says he started with friends straight out of McGill be investigated that far back?” Lies asked.
“Vanderloord does seem to have stumbled on an intriguing business model at a fairly young age,” John mused. “I wonder how legitimate it was in the beginning. If they registered it as a company or ran it informally as a hawala system even then. The government is getting better at tracking those types of businesses, but back in the early nineties it would have been like a license to print money to anyone with the connections and cojones to pull it off. And now I’m curious to find out if that lawyer has family in the Ukraine.”
“Would a Ukrainian connection have been of any use to anyone running a hawala back in the early nineties?” Lies asked.
“Yes. The Cold War officially ended in 1991 and Canadian trade relations with the Ukraine started up again in the mid-nineties. Because of our high Ukrainian immigration population, old family ties were quick to reemerge.” She could imagine John frowning as she waited for him to work it through. “What surprises me is that young men in their twenties would have been shrewd enough to see the opportunities.”
“They likely had those opportunities pointed out to them by people with more experience. Or had family back home who took advantage of their second-generation or landed-immigrant status,” Lies said. She came from an immigrant family. She knew firsthand how hawala systems worked. Money and goods crossed borders between family members all the time.
“We’re doing a lot of speculating.” The silence following the statement told her John was thinking. “Freeland might give us the link we’re looking for. If he has it we can find it. But it’s not illegal to have family and friends. When you go to Vanderloord’s home for dinner, don’t forget to plant a listening device. He’s not dealing directly with the minister. So who’s acting as their go-between?”
“Are we still ignoring Vanderloord’s other activities?” Lies asked. Harry expected Bernard to be arrested. She’d love to do that much for him at least.
“For now. He’s pivotal to tracking our missing military parts, Lies. Who knows where his dealings might lead? First we take down his connections here in Canada. Someone’s authorizing the movement of those parts out of the country. After we do that, we’ll see if Vanderloord remains valuable to us.”
“I have another question for you.” Lies told him her theory that Bernard had a personal grievance against Harry. “He’s pushing Harry for some reason. You know Harry. Why do you think that might be? What reaction is he trying to get out of him?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” John admitted, sounding troubled. “Whatever Vanderloord hopes to accomplish, it’s safe to say that he’s going to end up disappointed. Harry’s as straight as they come. Keep an eye on it though. Harry’s a rising star in diplomatic circles. I don’t want his career touched by this in any way. He’s going to be useful to us someday.”
So much for any possible insights John might have.
Long after the call ended, Lies lay awake in the dark. Harry had gone to CSIS with a problem. CSIS was dealing with it, but not in a way that he’d consider helpful. Bernard would go about business as usual and Harry would go about embassy business believing that CSIS—meaning Lies—hadn’t gathered enough information to shut Bernard down, when the exact opposite was true.
It would be far worse if he found out that CSIS had deliberately let Bernard walk. She got that the bad guys didn’t always get what was coming to them and could shrug it off. Intellectually, Harry got it too. But in his case, because it had become personal, righteous anger would eat at him every time he looked at Bernard.
John didn’t know Harry well at all if he thought he would ever do favors for CSIS again. Not after they’d double-crossed him this way.
And by “they” she meant “she.” Because she’d let things become personal between them.
* * *
Harry liked the routine of drinking his coffee and opening his mail every morning, making a few early calls to countries in other
time zones, and generally putting his world into order.
This day, however, was off to a gray and dreary beginning. Rain pounded against the window of his office, streaming down the glass and blurring the outside world, ruining what little concentration remained to him. He couldn’t absorb what he was reading, poring over the same paragraphs multiple times. He’d discovered his coffee cup empty and had no memory of drinking it. Making phone calls was pointless because he wasn’t paying attention to whoever he called.
Instead, he waited for the cheerful sound of Lies’s voice as she greeted the other staff in the office, then the rapid click of her heels on the tile floor as she raced for her desk because she was always seconds away from being late. She’d turned his world upside down.
So much for calling it quits. He wasn’t finished with her.
He tapped the end of his pen against his desk. He wasn’t over the kiss she’d shared with Vanderloord by any means, but was willing to accept that it had meant nothing to her. The uncertainty over how he’d be able to face her after phone sex had become the bigger dilemma. He had no point of reference.
God, he really was dull. How he must entertain her. He’d lost all control in this relationship, whatever it was, and it was time to reclaim it. The next time they had sex it would be with full body contact. They would do things his way. He’d take it slow and be thorough, and there’d be no question as to how good it had been. Not for either of them. They’d both be present in the same room and would know.
She arrived three minutes after the hour and rushed past his open door without pausing. Disappointment warred with relief. All of the things he’d rehearsed in his head to say to her disappeared.
When ten o’clock rolled around and she hadn’t stopped by his office to torment him, he knew something had to be wrong. It wouldn’t have anything to do with last night because she wasn’t at all reticent when it came to sex. If she had complaints she’d have barged in here first thing and told him where his performance was lacking and given him tips for future reference.
If she wasn’t coming to him, then he’d go to her.
She was at her desk, sorting through a stack of invoices. Blond curls, dampened by the rain on her walk to work, had dried into a disorderly mass that had him wanting to dig his fingers through them. She looked up when he approached. A smile shone from her brilliant blue eyes, stealing the gray from the drab morning. She seemed happy enough to see him, and not at all awkward after their late night conversation, so why hadn’t she stopped by his office?
On closer inspection, as he was trying to decipher what her uncharacteristic restraint might mean, he noticed the faint bruises shadowing the delicate pale skin beneath her eyes and realized he was an idiot. Not everything in her life was about him. She hadn’t called him after midnight because she longed to hear his voice or thought it might be amusing to drive him insane by telling him how she’d kissed another man. She’d been going over her notes from the expo and her dinner with Vanderloord. She did an honest day’s work for him here, then had her own investigation to consider. The stress of holding down two jobs—of leading a double life—was beginning to wear on her. Last night would have offered her little more than an entertaining and somewhat safe diversion.
He couldn’t decide which of them he felt sorrier for.
“Go home,” he said abruptly.
Her smile faded. She canted her head to the side as if she’d misheard him. “I don’t understand.”
Of course she didn’t. No matter how it sometimes seemed to him, she wasn’t a mind reader. “You worked extra hours at the expo yesterday. You’ve attended several evening events on the embassy’s behalf already. You’ve earned a break.”
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
She wasn’t.
He made a rash decision. “I have a dinner meeting this evening and I’d like you to go with me. Go home, get some rest, and I’ll pick you up at six. Cocktail attire,” he added.
“It’s not on your calendar.” Faint exasperation tinged with long-suffering humor colored her expression. “Let me show you again how to add meetings into your phone.”
He hated that app. He didn’t need the constant reminders chirping at him. “This was last minute.”
She looked at the stack of invoices, which likely weren’t helping to keep her awake, then up at him. “If you’re sure…”
“I am.”
She began gathering her raincoat and purse and he returned to his office.
Despite all the flirting. The teasing. The sex. He didn’t know her. He wanted to.
He had a phone call to make and a favor to ask.
* * *
The restaurant, a converted nineteenth-century carriage house formerly owned by the Dutch royal family, now belonged to a good friend of Harry’s.
Marlon, a short, round-bellied man, had thick, salt-and-pepper hair and a clean-shaven, baby-like face. He greeted them at the door, clasping Harry’s hand, his eyes wandering over Lies in a highly appreciative manner that didn’t bother Harry in the least. Marlon was happily married and Lies did look stunning. She’d tidied her curls but hadn’t bothered to try and tame them, a look that he liked. She wore a trace of makeup around her eyes, emphasizing their size and vibrant color, but taking nothing away from their natural beauty. Her lipstick was a dark shade of pink well suited to her light complexion.
She’d opted for the standard little black dress, a safe choice for an unknown venue, although it had a few departures from the typical conservative features. Harry viewed the anomalies with appreciation as they were escorted through the main level of the restaurant, Lies a few steps ahead. The dress had a high neckline and long sleeves, but the back was nonexistent, plunging in a wide vee from the rounds of her shoulders to her waist. The hem of the tight skirt touched a conservative inch above her knees. In the back however, the slit meant to facilitate walking hadn’t taken bending over into consideration.
Although Lies bent over while wearing that dress certainly had Harry’s consideration. He imagined her hands gripping the back of the sofa in his flat while he stood behind her, spreading her thighs, making her ready for him with deft strokes of his fingers. Perhaps his tongue.
He dragged his attention back to the moment. That was for later. He had other plans for the first part of the evening.
They climbed a spiraling central staircase to Marlon’s personal table. He was speaking to Lies in Dutch, taking for granted by her appearance that she was a national. She laughed at whatever he was saying, her rapid-fire response too fast for Harry, with his limited understanding of the language, to follow. All he caught was Canadees, which meant Canadian, and a reference to Frisians.
“He said my accent is charming and asked where I’m from,” Lies translated for Harry. “I told him I’m Canadian but my family is from Friesland.”
“And I said we won’t hold her family against her and she’s welcome here regardless,” Marlon interjected. “I’m usually very good at identifying what part of the country people are from. Her Dutch is impeccable but the hint of Canadian and Frisian in her accent made it difficult to place.” He held out a leather chair for Lies so she could sit down, then patted Harry on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be your waiter for the evening. Let me treat you to a bottle of my favorite wine.”
A silk screen separated their table, which overlooked the marble kitchen and its industrious staff, from the rest of the restaurant to give them an illusion of privacy. Lights made of Austrian crystal gleamed from low recesses in the high-ceilinged walls. Windows of distorted glazed glass extended from the ground a level below them to the ceiling a level above.
“Where are the others?” Lies asked as Harry took a seat across from her. She examined the table. There was enough room for eight but only settings for two. Candles and a centerpiece of orchids spoke of intimate dining. “Are we the first to arrive?”
“There aren’t any others. They all canceled.”
Lies leaned towar
d him, her elbows on the table and her chin on her linked fingers. She arched a brow. “Harry. Is this a seduction?”
This was more like her. Intent on unsettling him. He might not know her as well as he should, given the things they’d done together, but he was on to her game.
The problem was that he didn’t mind when she won. And that he didn’t like for her to play it with others.
“If you behave yourself, yes,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s a business meeting that went sideways thanks to my inability to master the meeting app on my phone.”
“How would you like me to behave?”
She made her words, so innocent when taken at face value, sound suggestive, giving him visions of her under the table with her head between his legs. His fly was open and she had her mouth on his erection. Already, it was shouting out for her attention.
He was a fine one to talk about boundaries. He’d thought phone sex had stretched his, but this…
He reined in his aching erection with ruthless determination.
“At least until after dinner,” he said, earning a smile that suggested she knew where the evening was headed and couldn’t wait for the next stage, making his own impatience soar.
He was saved by Marlon, who brought the bottle of wine he’d promised, then returned a short time later to take their order.
The evening passed quickly enough as they chatted about a number of benign topics. She enjoyed politics and sports, and interestingly, had a keen memory for statistics. Yet even though she appeared to be having a good time in his company, and he enjoyed being in hers, he could tell that something continued to bother her and he wanted to know what it was.
He’d planned on taking her to his place after dinner. Instead, as they said good-bye to Marlon at the door and walked into the evening, Harry made a slight change to his agenda. If they went to his flat there would be no more talking.
The rain that had poured buckets all day was finished, leaving the night air clear and warm, and smelling of earth and the approach of autumn.
His Spy at Night (Spy Games Book 3) Page 13
