“How about dinner tonight?” he asked, trying to smooth things over. “That new Thai place on Flower's supposed to be good.”
“I can't. My father's in town and I'm supposed to have dinner with him.”
“Really?” Noah seemed amazed.
“What's so strange about that?”
“Nothing! Nothing, it's just . . .” He put on a teasing grin. “Maybe I don't like the idea of you going out with another guy.”
Perfect, Sydney thought, her answering smile catching on her teeth. I guess now's not the best time to mention Burke.
By the time Sydney ditched her rental car and disguise at school and drove back downtown to the Union Hotel, she was running fifteen minutes late. Her palms were sweaty with anxiety, slipping on the wheel of her Mustang as she turned into the hotel drive. Her father was never late, and he wasn't going to appreciate her tardiness.
I could have been on time if I'd come dressed as Kristin Jarvis. She nearly laughed aloud imagining her straightlaced father's reaction to that blond wig and excess of makeup. He'd freak out so bad I almost wish I'd done it.
She would have gotten away with it, too, she realized. There wasn't a chance in the world he'd ever guess why she was dressed that way. But she couldn't risk blowing her mission just to give herself a thrill. Spying so close to home made it all the more important to keep her two lives separate.
A valet ran up to the Mustang, opening the driver's door before the car had fully stopped. Sydney handed over her keys, wishing she had time to park it herself. Her father was waiting, though, and she was already getting off on the wrong foot.
Not that there's a right foot, she thought, nervously checking her reflection in the hotel's glass entry doors.
Her hasty removal of Kristin's makeup had left her looking even more freshly scrubbed than usual, with only a little residual mascara and some pink gloss over her lips. Her hair was the worse for having spent the afternoon under a wig, but her black slacks and blazer were fresh from the cleaner. Taking a deep breath, Sydney walked through the automatic doors into the Union's lobby.
It was darker inside than out. She squeezed her eyes shut to adjust to the light, and when she opened them again her father had appeared on the opposite side of the room.
He looked exactly the same as always. A dark suit and tie had become his uniform over the years; she could barely remember him in anything else. His gray hair was short and combed with a slight wave over the forehead. His face was impassive—it was always impassive—and as she met his aloof gaze, she felt a sudden urge to run.
This is going to turn out badly, she thought, panicking. It always turns out badly, and I'm going to wish I hadn't come.
But she couldn't turn back now. He'd already seen her. She forced herself forward, her empty hands fluttering at her sides.
This part was always the worst, seeing him after a long absence. Part of her wanted to hug him, or at least shake hands, but her body wouldn't let her. The distance between them just seemed too vast.
Not that he was rushing toward her with open arms. Jack Bristow stood where he was, letting her come to him.
She covered the final few feet, stopping awkwardly at arm's length. He hadn't mentioned her lateness, so maybe this was a good start after all. She searched his face for a sign.
“Hi, Dad,” she ventured at last. “Sorry I'm late. I got here as soon as I could.”
Jack twitched his head slightly. Annoyance? Dismissal? Forgiveness? She didn't have a clue.
“Hello, Sydney,” he said coolly.
4
“SPACESOFT TECHNOLOGIES. THIS IS Ssss—Kristin,” Sydney said into the phone, so consumed by her personal problems that she almost made a stupid mistake.
“Give me Bob McKee,” a voice demanded on the other end. “Tell him it's Roger. He'll know why.”
“Just a minute, sir,” she said, pressing a button. The light went dead—she'd lost him—and the next word to escape her lips made her glad no one else was in SST's lobby.
“Rachel is going to kill me,” she groaned.
After two more hours of training that Tuesday, Sydney's new supervisor had decided she was finally competent to handle the switchboard alone, but over the past ten minutes, Sydney had dropped three calls and transferred two to the wrong people. She was already counting the seconds until Rachel came back from her break.
This is harder than it looks, she thought. Especially when your head's not in the game.
She couldn't concentrate on the switchboard, couldn't concentrate on her mission, couldn't even rouse herself enough to wonder whether Noah was in the building. All she could think about was dinner with her father the night before—and how horribly awkward it had been.
Considering how long he'd been away, they should have been able to find something to talk about. She'd done her best to start a conversation about South America. But all she'd gotten back from him were dry recitations of facts—menus, customs, populations, elevations.
Elevations! she thought as the phone rang again. What kind of social misfit goes to exotic foreign cities and remembers their elevations?
“SpaceSoft Technologies,” she said into the phone. “This is Kristin.”
“You just hung up on me, Kristin,” a testy voice informed her. “How about transferring me to Bob McKee this time?”
“Right. I'm so sorry. If you could just hold for a second—”
“I don't want to hold.”
Another line started ringing.
“All right. I'm transferring you. It's just that I have to put you on hold to ring you through to Mr. McKee. Five seconds, I promise.”
“I'll be counting.”
She put the caller on hold and picked up the second line. “SpaceSoft Technologies. This is Kristin.”
“Yes. Uh . . . I was wondering . . .”
Across the lobby, Sydney saw the front door open. A scruffy-looking young guy wearing shorts and flip-flops walked in, his layered sun-bleached hair the perfect complement to his surf shop T-shirt.
“. . . um,” the caller continued. “Do you have any openings?”
“What kind of openings?” she asked, tracking Scruffy's progress over the immaculately polished black floor.
“Like, say . . . for jobs?”
“I'm not sure. I'll have to put you on hold.”
Scruffy reached the desk just as Sydney pressed the Hold button.
“Hey. How's it going?” he asked.
She held up her left index finger, dialing Bob McKee's extension with her right. Luckily, he picked up quickly.
“Mr. McKee? You have a phone call,” she said all in a rush. The second line was still on hold, and a third light had just started blinking.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It's . . . I forgot,” Sydney admitted miserably. “But he said you know him.”
“Who are you?”
“Kristin Jarvis. I'm new, and I'm really sorry. Do you want me to ask his name again?” Her tone pleaded for mercy.
“No, put him through. Just pay more attention next time.”
“I will,” Sydney promised gratefully, transferring the line.
“I want—” Scruffy tried again.
“One second.” Sydney cut him off. “Just let me get these phones.”
She transferred the job hunter from hold to Human Resources. The new caller wanted driving directions to SST from somewhere in Orange County.
“I'll have to ask you to hold,” Sydney said, pressing the button. The light on the switchboard went dead.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Did they just hang up on me? I think they hung up on me.” She put a hand to her aching head. “At least I really hope so.”
Scruffy leaned forward across the counter and flashed an ingratiating smile. “I can't imagine anyone hanging up on you.”
“Then you don't have much of an imagination,” she said, ignoring his attempt to flirt. “What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if you h
ave anything for me. Behind the desk, I mean.”
“Like a package?” Sydney glanced around her work area, confused. Rachel hadn't said anything about a package to be picked up.
“A roll of plans. They could be wrapped in brown paper.”
From where she was standing, she could see the plans clearly, leaning against the inside of the counter. They had been tantalizing her ever since she'd come on shift and noticed the tag addressed to Mr. Vincent attached to their brown wrapping, but she hadn't been able to sneak a look yet. She shook her head at Scruffy.
“Sorry. Not unless you're Owen Vincent.”
Scruffy's face lit up. “As a matter of fact . . .”
“Yeah, right. Don't even try it. I've seen the man's picture, and you're not him.”
“The picture behind the fountain? In the atrium?” he asked, pointing in exactly the right direction.
“Yes,” Sydney said cautiously.
“What a relief! I'd have to shoot myself if I looked like that. If I looked like that all the time, I mean.”
“That's not you,” she repeated, but she was suddenly a lot less sure. Part of her brain was busy imagining Scruffy with a shave, a crew cut, and a really boring tie—and the picture in her head lined up a little too closely with the one on the bulletin board. “I mean, you're so much younger,” she added desperately.
“Suits age a guy—which is why I try not to wear them. Funerals and contract signings are the only time I look like that stiff in my picture. I mean, why pay a marketing department if they're not going to wear the uncomfortable clothes, go to the boring meetings, and do whatever else I don't want to do?”
There was no further doubt in her mind. This scruffy, laid-back guy was Owen Vincent.
“I'm so sorry!” Sydney said, knowing she'd be even sorrier if Vincent fired her. “It's just that I'm new, and the phone's been ringing off the hook, and . . . I swear it won't happen again.”
Owen waved off her apology. “Not a problem. I like it when people don't recognize me.”
“Really? Why is that?” she asked, hoping for some useful intel.
But Vincent just gave her a flirty smile. “Maybe sometimes I get tired of being a software nerd. A guy likes to have options.”
Sydney was trying to decide whether to flirt back when Rachel walked into the lobby, loaded down with mail.
“Hi, Owen,” she said. “Somebody dropped off some plans for you.”
“I know. Kristin was just getting them for me.”
Rachel dropped the mail on the counter next to Sydney. “How were the waves?”
“Small and stinky,” he replied. “Hardly worth getting wet.”
Sydney handed him his package.
“Thanks, Kristin. Catch you later.” With a parting wink, he sauntered off in the direction of the elevators, his flip-flops slapping time.
“I can't believe it,” Sydney groaned, slumping against the counter. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Rachel asked.
“That Mr. Vincent was coming in, and that—oh, yeah—he's a total surf rat!”
Rachel laughed. “Nothing that drastic. He's just . . . Owen. Listen, how about leaving now and taking that mail to the post office? The letters'll get there a day sooner and you'll get off a half hour early.”
“Okay.”
She had already lost her chance to see the plans. Besides, with the kind of day she'd been having, it was safer to get out before she ruined anything else. Gathering up the mail, Sydney beat a quick retreat to the parking lot.
She was waiting at the second traffic light before it occurred to her there might be spying opportunities right in her lap. Pulling to the curb, she flipped through the envelopes, some white, some manila. A stiff manila one addressed to the FBI immediately caught her eye.
Could it be?
It didn't seem likely she'd get that lucky, but she ripped the envelope open, not even trying to be sly. Two fingerprint cards fell into her lap, one for Kristin Jarvis and one for Mick LaMonte.
So much for SST security, she thought, feeling a little better as she tossed them onto the car's floor mats. If only the rest of my life were so easy!
“Fantastic progress!” Wilson said when she checked in at headquarters. “It's better you didn't recognize Vincent. Now he thinks you're just some green young thing to hit on.”
“That could be useful,” Sydney agreed, her confidence back on the rise. Despite her problems with the switchboard, she had still made contact with the primary target of SD-6's investigation—not to mention snagged both her own and Noah's fingerprint cards.
Not bad for an afternoon's work.
Wilson continued flipping through SpaceSoft's mail, looking for other items of interest. “What have you got going tomorrow?” he asked.
“Well, classes, of course. And my shift at SST. Then I'm supposed to meet someone for dinner.”
She didn't feel like telling Wilson the “someone” was her father. If he started asking questions about her family, they could be there all night. And she was suddenly so tired. . . .
“Plus I've still got a load of studying to catch up on from Hawaii, and I wouldn't mind getting to bed early for once, either.”
Wilson nodded, still busy with the mail. “I get the hint. I'll try not to work you to death.” He looked up abruptly. “I mean—I didn't mean . . .”
Sydney smiled at his stricken expression. “Thanks.”
“Good,” he said, smiling back.
For just a second, she imagined tucking her head against Wilson's broad shoulder and falling fast asleep. She'd be safe there. She'd be warm and welcome. In so many ways, Wilson was more of a father to her than Jack would ever be.
“I want you to go see Graham,” he said. “If Vincent talks to you again, let's get it on tape.”
“Okay,” she said, perking up.
She had used Graham's gadgets in Paris, but she had never actually met SD-6's high-tech genius. Noah knew him, though, and had raved about how smart he was.
Wilson dialed an extension on his speaker phone.
“Hello?” answered a muffled voice.
“Graham? This is Reg Wilson.”
Sydney heard a crash that could have been a chair falling over. A moment later, Graham came back on the line, his voice considerably more clear. “Hello, sir!”
Wilson shook his head for Sydney's benefit. “Graham, I've got Sydney Bristow in my office, and she needs some gear for the SST mission. How about coming in here and getting her?”
“Sure!” he said eagerly. “Sure, I'll be right there.”
Wilson hung up the phone. “I don't know why these gadget guys are always so odd, but Graham's one of the best. Don't let his lack of social skills fool you.”
Before Sydney could reply, Graham burst into the office, his arms windmilling backward to keep him from sliding into Wilson's big desk.
“Hi! Hi, sir! Here I am.”
“So I see,” Wilson said dryly. “Graham, this is Sydney. How about showing her where you work?”
“Yeah! That'd be great.”
“See you later,” Wilson told her with a wink.
The next thing Sydney knew, she was following Graham through a maze of back hallways into a room heaped high with disemboweled comput-ers, recycled electronic components, wires, microphones, bugs, pliers, magnifying glasses, soldering irons, and at least five monitors, all of which were on. A battered swivel chair lay on its back in the middle of this chaos, and Graham rushed to set it on its wheels, motioning for her to sit down.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said anxiously. “I was just . . . You don't want to lean too far back in that chair.”
“Okay,” Sydney said, stifling a smile as she took the seat.
Graham rubbed his hands together. “So. You're on surveillance at SpaceSoft Technologies.”
“Yep.”
He seemed to expect more, but she had no idea what he wanted to hear.
“I applied there once,” he
said at last. “When I first got out of college. Well, actually twice. Three times, if you count that internship.”
“You were an intern there too?”
“Actually . . . no. That place is harder to crack than the CIA.” He gestured around him. “Obviously, right? But, no. It's not that I'm not happy here. I just never figured out . . . I mean, I'm good at what I do.”
“Everyone says you're the best,” Sydney reassured him.
“Really?” Graham pulled himself up to full height. “Because I am pretty good.”
“So what do you have for me? Wilson wants me to record my conversations with Owen Vincent.”
“He does? Okay. I have just the thing.” Graham rooted around on a cluttered tabletop and came up with a pen.
“Just a pen, right?” he asked, holding it up for her inspection. “It looks like a pen, writes like a pen.” He pulled off the cap and mimed writing in the air. “But anytime the nib is extended, it's a digital recorder. Plus, it's a transmitter. You can leave it in someone's office and hear what's being said with this earpiece.”
He handed her a tiny, flesh-colored lump that he shook out of the pen cap. “Totally invisible once you have it in. Oh, and there's an eraser!”
Turning to a desk, he opened a drawer and removed a polygonal pink eraser. “Remember these from grade school? Don't you love the way they smell?” He held it up to his nose and took a big whiff. “But this one has a directional microphone inside. Point it at what you want to hear, and it magnifies sound like a giant boom mike. You can leave it lying out somewhere, but it's really cool for listening through walls. Hold it to a wall, like this, and you can totally hear what's going on in the next room—it feeds right to your earpiece. Plus, it links to the pen, so you can record whatever you want.”
“That'll work,” Sydney said, reaching for the pen and eraser. Given Graham's reputation for genius, she was a little disappointed that his offerings were so pedestrian, but they were exactly the types of things people would expect to see in an office. She could use them right in the open without arousing suspicion.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “Not very exciting, right?”
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