by Susan Mann
Silently berating herself as the worst spy ever, she slalomed through the tables and hurried out of the pub. Stopping just outside, she scanned the sidewalk to her left and right. There was no sign of him.
“Dammit,” she spat and thrust her hands through her hair in frustration. She was screwed.
She stood rooted to the sidewalk, trying to decide what her next move was. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t have one.
The incessant electronic burbling of a cell phone caused her irritation to spike. “Answer the damn phone,” she growled and glanced at the people occupying the outdoor tables. Not one made any movement to answer a phone.
She pushed aside her annoyance and threw back her shoulders. She knew what she had to do. The op was bigger than her pride. She’d call Meyers, confess she’d lost Bondarenko, and fall on her sword. Wanting some privacy, she spun on her heel and marched off in the direction of her truck.
“What the hell?” she muttered when she still heard that damned ringing phone. Was someone following her? She stopped, pretended to look in a shop window, and peeked to the side to see who stopped, too. No one. Everyone filed past. And still the phone rang.
The answer dropped on her like a ton of bricks. She rifled through her purse and found a cheap prepaid cell phone tucked in the outside pocket. She took a deep, calming breath and flipped it open. “Yes?”
A voice changer distorted the words. “The wire transfer has been received. Proceed to the southernmost bench in the playground area of Montrose Park. You will be given further instructions as to the location of the prototype.”
The call ended. Quinn lowered the phone and stared at it in absolute bewilderment.
“Holy crap,” she mumbled when the pieces fell into place. “The meet happened. With me.” Bondarenko must have believed Quinn had been at the pub on behalf of the weapon’s buyer and had slipped the phone in her purse on his way to the men’s room. She’d lost Bondarenko but now was on the trail of the actual prototype instead.
No way would she call Meyers now. She still had a chance to turn her initial failure into a success if she secured the weapon. Keeping it from the bad guys was surely a top priority, even if the op hadn’t gone exactly as planned.
She stuffed the burner in her bag and hurried to her truck.
At the park, she walked to the playground and sat on the appropriate bench. While she waited, she alternated between surveying the area and watching little ones climb on the play equipment.
No one approached. No one called. Nothing happened.
A thought struck. What if her “further instructions” were already there? Bending forward, she ran her fingers along the underside of the bench.
A quiet yelp of victory bubbled up when her fingertips touched what felt like an envelope. She peeled it from the seat and withdrew a piece of paper with a couple dozen Cyrillic characters written on it.
Using the Ukrainian keyboard on her phone, she painstakingly hunted and pecked for each character. She felt a real sense of achievement when all the words were in recognizable English. Her triumph was short-lived, however, when the words were, “Organic Dog Treats Bella Moose.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. What did dog treats have to do with the location of a weapon prototype? Was it another code to crack?
Applying Occam’s Razor, she figured the obvious thing should be her next step. A quick Internet search informed her there was indeed a product called “Bella Moose’s Organic Dog Treats.” A picture of a smiling golden retriever was featured prominently on the website. She knew she was on to something when she noted a pet supply shop only a couple of blocks away stocked them.
Tenacity was one of the things that made Quinn an exceptional research librarian. Once she was on the trail, she wouldn’t give up until she found the answer. That same thrill of the hunt buzzed through her as she hoofed it to the store.
The door chimed when she entered. She headed straight for the treats and scanned the shelves. It only took a moment before she spotted the smiling golden retriever on the front of each bag.
As discreetly as possible, she nudged the bags around, searching for any kind of clue. When she came up empty, she feathered her fingertips under the shelf. Nothing.
She took one of the bags and skimmed the information on the back. It assured her the treats were “so tail-waggin’ flavorful, your dog will wish she has opposable thumbs so she can open the bag herself.” Quinn breathed a quiet laugh when she thought of her grandparents’ dog, Pot Roast. His response to a bag coming between him and his treats would be “Bag? What bag?”
A quick glance at the list of ingredients had her admitting to herself that if she were ever hungry enough, she wouldn’t be opposed to eating a treat or two. She read nothing relevant to her quest, however.
Working under the assumption someone was watching and her purchase of the treats would be a signal to approach and hand off the prototype, she took the bag and queued up in the checkout line. No matter what happened next, Pot Roast would be the beneficiary of her trip to the pet store.
As she waited, she idly wondered if she could cajole Rasputin, her brown tabby cat, to try one. She smiled when she pictured the look of utter contempt and betrayal he would certainly give her.
She paid for the treats. When the cashier handed her the receipt and her change, it came with a second piece of paper. Schooling her features, she clutched it all in her hand and hurried outside.
Written on the paper were two sets of numbers separated by a comma. Both sets consisted of two digits, a decimal point, and then six more digits. Whenever she saw numbers like that, her mind automatically went to the Dewey Decimal Classification system. But Dewey numbers always had three digits to the left of the decimal. When she noted a minus sign in front of one of the sets of numbers, she discarded the idea completely.
When all else fails, search the Internet, she thought, and typed the numbers into the search box. A map popped up with a red dot indicating a café only a few blocks from where she stood. She doubted it was a coincidence that the restaurant was on the same block as the Embassy of Ukraine. Feeling like she was back on the scent, she power-walked to her truck and drove toward the café.
The parking gods smiled on her that afternoon. She pulled into a spot near the entrance to the pedestrian-only alley where the restaurant was located and checked the map again. She was practically inside the red dot. She hopped out of her truck and walked down the narrow lane of red and gray bricks until she came to a patio with a number of outdoor tables. At one of them, three men sat enjoying coffee and dessert.
As she neared them, the English bulldog lying under the table stood and lumbered toward her. His stubby tail wiggled with excitement. Quinn squatted down and rubbed the sides of his massive, wrinkled head with both hands. The dog received her greeting with happy, snuffling noises and then stuffed his face in her purse.
Baffled and annoyed, she looked up at the oldest of the three men and said, “Grandpa, you sent me on some elaborate wild goose chase to pick up dog treats for Pot Roast?” She scowled at Bondarenko, who sat grinning at her. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Settle down, angel,” her grandfather said evenly. “Have a seat and we’ll explain.”
Still frowning, she sat in the empty chair. Pot Roast flopped down next to her, dropped his head on her foot, and released a low, mournful sigh.
She arched an eyebrow at James, directly across the table from her. “Et tu, Brute?”
He lifted a shoulder and shot her a disarming smile.
“I take it there’s no Ukrainian death ray,” she said to Bondarenko.
“Nope. There’s no Ukrainian death ray,” he said, removing his glasses.
She sat up ramrod straight in surprise. She knew that voice. “Ben?”
Off came the wig and beard, revealing her friend, fellow librarian, and CIA covert operative, Ben Hadley. She’d met him when she and James rescued him from arms dealer Roderick Fitzhugh during their mission in En
gland. She kissed his cheek in greeting. “It’s great to see you. It’s been a while.” She settled back in her chair. “Now spill your guts or I’ll rip them out.”
Ben laughed. “I like how you’re always so demure. You’re a regular shrinking violet.”
She smirked in spite of herself. “Yeah, because being shy and reserved would have worked so well growing up with five older brothers.”
“Our Quinn has always been a bit of a spitfire,” her grandfather said. The blue eyes behind his glasses gleamed with pride. Less than three months before, Quinn had received the shock of a lifetime when her grandfather revealed to her he’d been a spy for the CIA for most of his life. Not only that, but he and the agency had been watching her, waiting for the time when they could recruit her to become a covert operative. “Now, before you melt us with your death ray glare, you should know this was a training exercise.”
“To train me to fail? I lost Ben completely at the pub.”
“Yes, and that was the plan all along,” Grandpa said. “This wasn’t about your abilities to follow a mark or decipher clues. The object of this lesson was to teach you that even the simplest, most straightforward assignments can go sideways very quickly.”
“My only task was to shake you,” Ben said. “No matter how long it took.”
“Well, it didn’t take long,” she said dejectedly.
“Don’t be hard on yourself.” He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks and smoothed his hair. “I’ve been trained to give people the slip, just like you will be.”
“So the creep at the bar. Was he in on it, too?” she asked. “Did you send him in to hit on me to distract me?”
James bolted up. Fists clenched, he growled, “A creep hit on you?” He glared at Ben. “That was not part of the plan.”
“Easy there, tiger. I had nothing to do with it. I just used it to my advantage. I slipped away when he had Quinn sidetracked.”
Nostrils flaring, James looked like he could spit nails. “You didn’t stay to make sure she was okay?”
Ben gave James an indulgent look and said patiently, “Quinn didn’t need my help. She looked like she was about to ram her hand down the guy’s throat and rip out his gizzard.”
Quinn shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”
Mollified, James sat back in his chair.
Her grandfather chuckled and said, “She’s a spitfire, all right.” He sobered and added, “And no, angel, you did not fail. You’re here.”
“Yeah, but only after you gave me a call on that burner phone.”
“It showed your willingness to continue despite the setback,” Grandpa answered. “What would you have done if the phone call hadn’t come?”
“I was about to call Meyers and tell him I’d lost Bondarenko.”
“Because the importance of the op outweighed your failure,” he said in a gentle voice.
“Yeah.” She lowered her gaze and stared at the chocolate cake crumbs scattered across James’s dessert plate.
“And that’s why you succeeded.”
Her eyes slid to Grandpa’s face. He beamed at her with approval. “You put the op ahead of your ego. The rest was to give you some practice on keeping your task a secret and working alone. And as a side benefit, picking up some of Pot Roast’s favorite treats.”
“Speaking of treats.” Quinn took the bag from her purse and opened it. A beefy aroma wafted up. Pot Roast snatched one of the soft morsels from her fingers and gobbled it down.
Using her grandfather’s napkin, she wiped the dog slobber off her hand and asked James, “Is that why you kept needling me when you escorted me out of the building? You were testing me?”
“Mm-hmm. And you didn’t give up a thing,” he replied. If it was possible, he seemed more proud of her than even her grandfather.
Quinn looked into the face of each man in turn and then announced, “Well, since it turns out I didn’t screw up as much as I thought I did, I think I deserve a piece of chocolate cake.”
“Yes, you do,” James said emphatically and looked to flag a waiter.
“How’s it going in the library?” Ben asked.
“So far so good,” she answered and went on to tell him about her Women of the CIA project.
“Speaking of libraries, that reminds me,” Grandpa said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket hanging off the back of his chair and withdrew an envelope. “A good friend of mine at the Indian embassy sent me an invitation to the black tie opening of an exhibition of rare Indian manuscripts at the Library of Congress.” He removed the engraved invitation from the envelope and held it up. “I thought the two of you would like to go. Shall I tell him you’ll be attending in my place?”
“You and Grandma don’t want to go?”
He shook his head. “We have swing dance class that night.”
Quinn smiled. Her grandparents were adorable.
“Thanks for the invitation,” Ben said with a roguish grin, “but this librarian will step aside and let James go with Quinn.”
“That’s big of you, dude,” James said dryly. He turned to Quinn. “I’m game. I have a new appreciation for manuscripts, and I’ve never been to the Library of Congress.”
She goggled at him. “You’ve never been to the—? I went the first week I was here.”
Her visit had been akin to a religious experience. It wasn’t just the beauty of the building, with its magnificent statues, busts, mosaics, and murals. Or the almost incomprehensible number of books, films, photographs, and so on the library held in its collections. It was that it influenced every library in the country, from the massive library systems in large cities to the tiniest branch libraries in small towns across America. It was a touchstone.
Her next question came with an accompanying smirk. “How are we even friends?”
“Because I have a cool car,” he replied with a cheeky smile. It was true. His dark gray Lotus Elise was extremely cool. He looked like James Bond in it.
Returning his attention to Quinn’s grandpa, James asked, “When is the exhibition? I hope it’s before I leave for Moscow.”
Quinn’s stomach clenched when James uttered the word “Moscow.” He would be returning to the same post he’d left six months ago in pursuit of information regarding a stash of hidden weapons. It was during that covert op that James and Quinn met and fell in love. Other than a six-week stretch before she moved to Virginia, she and James had been together ever since. And now he was going to leave.
“It’s a week from tomorrow night.”
“Perfect. I don’t leave for another two weeks. You want to go, Quinn?”
Narrowing her eyes at her grandfather, she asked, “This isn’t another one of your throw-Quinn-in-the-deep-end training sessions, is it?”
Grandpa huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You’re so suspicious. And no, it’s not. Rest assured it’s completely on the up-and-up.”
Already bubbling with excitement, she said, “In that case, we accept.”
Chapter Three
Quinn was seconds from ripping off her shoe and flinging it at the fluorescent light above. She was already in a foul mood after having to endure yet another polygraph that morning. And now the unrelenting buzz coming from above worked her last nerve. The specter of James’s departure the next week didn’t help her mood, either.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Several more hours of work faced her, as well as the party at the Library of Congress she and James were to attend that evening. There was a part of her that wanted to change into her sweats when she got home, sit on the couch, and sulk.
That urge was exactly why she needed to get her roiling emotions under control. She wanted their final week together to be amazing. Her stewing in her apartment would be the opposite of amazing. She needed an attitude adjustment before the reception, and fast.
At the word “reception,” she groaned and rubbed her fingertips against her temples. Her best friend and former coworker at the public library Quinn used to work at
, Nicole Park, and her boyfriend, Brian, had become engaged on Valentine’s Day. And as one of Nicole’s bridesmaids, Quinn received daily wedding-related emails. Yesterday she’d asked Quinn’s opinion on traditional wedding cakes versus cupcakes tiered to look like traditional wedding cakes. Quinn didn’t really have an opinion but knew she needed to form one. When it came to Nicole’s wedding, “I don’t know” was not an acceptable answer. At least she had some time to think about it since she couldn’t respond until she left headquarters. For security reasons, personal phones were prohibited inside the building. She could go outside, but that meant finding someone to escort her out, and that was a hassle. Banging her forehead on her desk seemed to be the only viable option.
“Excuse me, Quinn?” she heard in a soft voice.
Quinn opened her eyes and saw Patricia Jaworski standing next to her desk. Small and unassuming, Patricia looked like the last person on the planet who would work for the most famous spy agency in the world—which was probably the point. Quinn had learned quickly that Patricia was a topnotch librarian with the amazing ability to find anything, especially old agency white papers.
“Hey, Patricia,” Quinn said. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s someone up front who’d like to speak with you.”
Quinn’s first thought was of James, but there was no reason for him not to come find her at her desk like he always did. Maybe it was the recruiter she’d been doing research for. Quinn stood and said, “Lay on, Macduff.”
Patricia smiled and raised her chin. “ ‘And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!” ’ ”
“Well done,” Quinn said. “Now I know who to come to for all my Shakespeare needs.” It felt good to smile for the first time all day.
“If you’re interested, maybe we could go to the Shakespeare Festival they put on at William and Mary during the summer. It’s only a couple of hours south of here,” Patricia said.
