I, Spy - Jordan McCollum

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR I, SPY Nonstop action, a sigh-worthy romance, and plenty of laugh-out-loud moments all laced through with a spine-tingling mystery that will keep you turning the pages at lightning speed. —Emily Gray Clawson, author of A Way Back to You

Take sure-handed writing, a great main character with a lot of snark, an awesome plotline, a romance on the rocks, and a possible Russian spy. What do you have? The recipe for a great book, and also an apt description of I, Spy by Jordan McCollum. I, Spy started out with a bang and with the confidence that it takes some authors years to develop. . . . You know you’re looking for a great read—put I, Spy on your to-read list. —Tristi Pinkston, author of the Secret Sisters series

I love how Jordan McCollum blends the best of both Canada and the U.S. in her debut novel. With plenty of polite humor, cloak and dagger mystery and fun romance, there are great characters from both sides of the border, and a case that had me turning pages quicker than I could say, “poutine.” This Canadian author gives I, Spy two thumbs up! —Julie Coulter Bellon, author of Ashes Ashes 

MORE ADVANCE PRAISE FOR I, SPY Okay, I'll admit it. I'm completely biased about this book. :) I loved, loved, LOVED the TV show Alias, and this story follows in Sydney Bristow's footsteps. Like the Alias TV show, I, Spy features a fantastic, likeable spy heroine who's trying to juggle her personal life with her work life. Talia Reynolds struggles with doing the right thing while under pressure to catch the bad guys. The edge-of-my-seat undercover operations kept me turning pages, and just when I thought the story would go one way, plot twists sent it down another path. Thrilling, adventurous, and romantic, this book has it all for an Alias fan. —Jami Gold, award-winning author Fall in love with the unique, snarky and quick-witted Talia as she goes you the low down on what it’s really like to be a CIA operative in I, Spy by Jordan McCollum. Jump into this fun-filled spy adventure as Talia battles for balance between life as a spy and what a normal twentysomething girl should experience. Will Danny, the man she loves, be able to handle the truth about the girl he has fallen in love with and embrace her secret-filled life? You’ll love this fast-paced, quick-witted, and enjoyable read to the last word. —Cindy M. Hogan, author of Watched 

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OTHER BOOKS BY JORDAN MCCOLLUM

Spy for a Spy

NOVELLAS

Mr. Nice Spy Spy Noon

NONFICTION

Character Arcs: Founding forming and finishing your character's internal journey

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 DURHAM CREST BOOKS

Cover design by Steven Novak I, SPY © 2013 Jordan McCollum All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. First printing, 2013 Published by Durham Crest Books Orem, Utah Set in Linux Libertine ISBN 978-1-940096-00-1 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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For Ryan

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DON’T DO CATSUITS.

The leather/plastic/spandex coatings female spies pour themselves into on TV are ridiculously impractical for actual spy tradecraft: no mobility, reflective in low light, loud colors. Nothing shouts “I’m a covert operative!” like a catsuit. But I kinda wish I had one now. At least it wouldn’t snag on every half-screwed bolt I come across in this narrow ventilation shaft. My clothes are dark, close fitting and comfortable no matter how I have to contort myself, but I can’t move more than ten feet without getting caught on something—like now. If I yank my pants hem free, my knee will hit the metal flashing, inches from my targets’ neighbors making dinner on the other side of the wall. I suck in a silent breath thick with their garlic and ginger. I’ve made it this far. I’m not about to let one more hitch stop me. I keep my weight evenly distributed and lower myself to the bottom of the narrow tunnel. This looks a lot cooler on TV. James Bond never had to deal with wardrobe malfunctions. 

He also never faced off with Lashkar-e-Omar, or any other terrorist armies bent on killing people just because they were American. And I’m not going to get a chance to do it either unless I can get to this apartment. “C’mon, Talia,” I whisper, like selfpep talks are effective. I wriggle backward, bending my body into an awkward V against the cold metal to grope for my ankles in the dark. “Talking to yourself, FOXHUNT?” comes Elliott’s voice in my earpiece. “T-plus eighteen.” I have to stick to the targets’ routine. We should know it; we’ve timed them every night for more than a week. I have twenty minutes left until our window is narrower than this ventilation shaft. I need to move. At last my fingers find the bolt and I unhook my CIA-issue, top-secret-weave pants. (I’m kidding; they’re just pants.) Finally free from the flashing, I unkink my body and lift into a low crawl for my targets’ vent a few feet away. After inching through this tunnel for so long, it feels like I’ll never get there. I swear, the movies seriously gloss over how long this entry takes. I’ve never met anyone who’s done this for a break-in-andbug, “black bag” op in real life, and the unexpectedness is part of the reason we chose this Hollywood-style clandestine entry. The only woman on our team, I was the only one agile enough, small enough, eager enough for the job. Remind me not to do this again. Within seconds, I’m there. The room below me is lit by the moon streaming through the windows. Nothing remarkable: desk cluttered with office supplies, stained mattresses shoved in every corner, rotting bookcase with a single half-empty shelf. Shabby chic it’s not, but I’ve bugged filthier. I unwrap the twine from my wrist and thread it between 

the slats of the vent, pulling it back through the other side. Holding both ends, I can be sure not to drop the vent once it’s free. A special tool made for unscrewing bolts from the wrong end—sorry, I can’t say much more about it than that—makes for quick work and the built-in rare-earth magnet keeps them from clattering to the bare floor below. Before I move the vent, I have to make sure I know where I’m going. If there’s no way out but the front door, I don’t want to get myself trapped. Like the catsuit, that’s a little less than covert. I spot my way out of the apartment, a cold air return near the front closet. I’m going in. My pulse measures the seconds in double time, and I pull the vent cover into the shaft. It’s tough unless you know the trick to turn it on a diagonal. I lower myself within a couple feet of the clear area on the desk, not daring to breathe. Even super-secret “quiet shoes” make some noise if you jump hard enough. Luckily, I don’t have far to go and I land between the precarious piles of Post-Its in near-silence. If someone were in the apartment, they’d probably come to check. Two quick heartbeats later, I let myself breathe again. No one’s home, and watching the door to make sure that doesn’t change is Elliott’s job. “Status?” I request. “All clear. Yours?” “I’m in.” Fourteen minutes until I need to leave. I can do that. I reverse my diagonal trick to replace the vent, pocket my twine, then hop to the floor. Our meticulous preparations give me an odd sense of déjà vu, but I’ve only “been here” in the safety of our office. Over the last week, we’ve lived this case: taking telephoto pictures of the apartment, finding someone in these guys’ circles to get us closer to them, fabricating the bug. I’m here to place it so we can collect the intelligence to identify and target them. Until 

now, Lashkar-e-Omar has operated strictly within Pakistan, but if they’re expanding overseas, this cell has got to be the cream of their criminal crop. “Hey,” Elliott launches a conversation. “How’s it going?” “Um, fine?” “Oh, hold on—” Is he talking to me, or is he on the phone? “Keep the line clear, would you, Ellie?” The last word is out before I can stop it, and I mentally kick myself. Elliott isn’t a complete novice, and I’m not a complete idiot, using his name over comms. But Ellie’s not a play on “Elliott.” It’s short for “Elephant,” his youwouldn’t-say-that-to-his-face nickname around the office after our last few missions, and some particularly inelegant missteps. He doesn’t react to my gaffe. “Yeah, sorry, FOX.” A soft click tells me he’s switched off his mic. We’re in the middle of an op; if he’s making phone calls, there’s only one person he should dial right now. Our boss. And if he’s not calling Will, I’m waiting for the elephant’s other foot to fall. But I don’t have time to sit around. I turn back to the desk. I’d love to put the bug in the smoke detector—we’ve got one you can wire into the nine-volt and even if they change the battery, they wouldn’t notice it—but that’s not for this time. The coolest equipment on the planet to back us up, and tonight we’re stuck with the good old cliché, the phone. Yes, they have a landline, one of those gray numbers from the nineties. I lift the receiver just enough to disengage the hook switch. Dial tone. Nice. I borrow a piece of tape from the dispenser on the desk— double sided? In some ways this is closer to an Office Depot than a dissident den—and place the tape over the hook switch. The dial tone would be a little distracting, but the off-the-hook signal is designed to get someone’s attention. Exactly what I don’t want. 

My thin-bladed screwdriver is perfect to pry apart the receiver. If these guys were dumb enough to plan over the phone, we’d probably already have the intel we need to get to them, but this bug is designed to pick up the chatter whether the phone is being used or not. I grab the bug and some pliers from my left belt pack. The plastic coating comes off the wires easily enough, and after half a dozen twists, the bug’s installed. This design looks like just another black wire in the phone. It’s my second favorite. I cover up the wire joins with electrical tape and tap the undetectable microphone. Elliott’s supposed to tell me he’s getting the signal, but his end is so quiet I can hear the interference from my tapping. I snap the phone back together. “Still all clear?” He doesn’t answer. “HAM?” I try the short version of his code name, HAMMER. “Just a sec.” He should know the answer right off. I don’t like this. I put the phone back into place. Elliott swears. “They’re in the building! Get out now!” Adrenaline and training kick into overdrive, jolting my muscles into action before I think about what to do. How long do I have? I snag my screwdriver and take it to the screws on the cold air return. Each time my tool slips, the muscles in my back ratchet tighter. My watch says fifteen seconds have passed since Elliott’s warning, but it feels like fifteen minutes—hours—days. We’ve timed our targets every night. Thirty-two seconds from front door to apartment. Half my timeline is gone. Maybe they’ll chat with the neighbors. I pause for half a heartbeat, but I don’t hear any chatter in the hall. I wipe clammy fingers on my sleeve and attack the vent. Finally, the last screw is loose. I yank the cover off. Just 

before I climb into the ventilation tube again, I remember the tape on the phone’s hook switch. If they see that, they’ll know the phone’s bugged, and our work will disappear into the dark of the night and the bowels of Lashkar-e-Omar’s training camps. And if they catch me? I’m on my own. I dash back to the desk. Keys ratchet into the doorknob. Without time to even breathe, I rip the tape off the hook switch and slip the phone into place. The door swings open, and I barely stay ahead of the light shaft spreading across the floor. I jump in the duct, sliding feet first. Hot pain slices into my calf. A shout seizes my lungs, but I clamp my mouth shut and turn back for the vent cover. A couple words of Urdu carry through the haze of hurt. Salām, kya haal hai? Oh, sure, now the neighbors want to talk. The corner is swathed in shadow, but I have to move cautiously. Just because they’re distracted doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. The door is open, and I’m still visible. I reach for the cover. The double-sided tape is still on my finger. I stick it on the top edge of the vent and pull it into position. Magnets from my right belt pack fasten the cover in place. On the other side of the slats, our targets bid the neighbors goodbye and walk into view. With groceries. The light flips on. My watch says twenty-seven seconds. Five seconds missing. Suddenly I hear my own breathing, hard and fast and loud. They’ll hear me for sure. I force my lungs to fill slowly, completely. Silently. The targets cross the room. They don’t look at the desk. Releasing a soundless sigh, I ease my head into the dust bunnies and tuck the screws in my belt pack. No time to celebrate—now I have to get through this 

18-inch tunnel without making noise. I can still screw this mission up. I hope this building has decent walls. Thirty feet from my position to the main shaft to the basement. I don’t dare look at the stinging spot on my calf. Not that I can see it in the dark. Focus. Keep my body spread out. Not too much strain on this claustrophobic little vent. I don’t bother keeping track of time, just distribute my weight over my hands and knees and drag through the dirt until I finally reach the drop. After being careful not to put too much pressure on any of the joists, it’s a little odd to wedge myself against the wall of the down shaft, toes braced on one side, back on the other. Down. And yes, since I know you’re wondering, my shoes may or may not be specially equipped for extra traction, but no, I can’t say any more. Some things are just classified. I lower one foot at a time, but with the way I have to keep my knees bent practically into my face, I can only move a couple inches. Within seconds, my legs are trembling with the excess energy and exertion. “I take it you made it out?” Elliott asks in my ear. I want to snap out a witty comeback, but he did come through in time, barely—and I can’t think of anything. “Of the apartment, yes,” I whisper. “The building? Working on it.” “How long?” Craning my neck, I peer into the dark. Have I made it feet or inches? “Let you know.” I press my arms against the metal flashing behind me to take the pressure off my back. I wish I could do a controlled slide, but that would make more noise. Not an option. It’s twenty minutes before I get to the bottom. The basement doesn’t hold a laundry room, so tenants don’t have a 

reason to hang out here. I don’t have to be quite as cautious. I climb out of the vent and replace it, doing my best to ignore my aching back and rubbery legs. “Okay. T-minus six to rendezvous, HAMMER.” For the last time, I dip into my left belt pack for two sheets of ultra-fine-and-yet-not-sheer fabric. (Now that’s a top-secret weave.) The sheets can compress down to two cubic inches, but unfolded and wrapped the right way, they can pass for the traditional Pakistani long tunic and headscarf, kameez and dupatta. Skin color–changing gloves and a quick swipe of our very special makeup should cover my fair complexion, and my hair’s already dark enough to pass, but just in case, I creep out the back. I have to hoof it to make our meeting point. Not that I want to be hanging around this part of town after dark. Ottawa’s generally a safe place (a lot safer than DC, I’ll tell you that), but like any city there are places you don’t go unless you’re looking for trouble. My planned route is mostly deserted, however, and circuitous enough that I’m sure nobody’s following me. I come up behind the gray van with a plumber’s insignia and look into the side mirror. Elliott catches my eye. I rearrange my dupatta to signal the all clear, and he shifts from park to drive with one working white reverse light flashing. We’re clear. It’s over. At last, I can hop in the back of the van and breathe easy. The cool, sweet satisfaction of a job well done—or at least survived—doesn’t hit my bloodstream until I’ve scrubbed off the makeup and we’re in line at a 24-hour Tim Hortons (like a Dunkin’ Donuts), the first stop on our surveillance detection run. We did it. It was close, but even if no one can ever know, we’re that much safer, that much closer to stopping Lashkar-eOmar. I casually scan the late-night crowd, but the release of 

relief I’m waiting for, the last hit of that satisfaction, doesn’t come. Because I almost didn’t make it out. And Elliott and I both know why. The tension tightens along my spine. “Two medium Double-Doubles, please.” He orders two coffees with his I’m-so-charming-you-should-throw-in-something-for-free smile. “You pulling an all-nighter?” My question’s more of a challenge. He turns that smile on me. “No, I wanted to get you something.” I just stare back. He knows I don’t even pretend to do coffee (Mormon), and even if I did, does he think sixteen ounces of caffeine would make everything all better? He gives me elaborately casual elbow nudge. I’m taken and Elliott’s married, but the guy’s got tall, dark and handsome down to a T, with broad shoulders and blue eyes to match. And he knows it. He bats those baby blues at me. “You know you can’t say no to these eyes.” Again, I shoot him a cool glare. Normally, my deadpan response would be part of our banter, but tonight I’m not joking. “Okay.” Elliott turns back to the clerk. “One medium Double-Double and a donut.” He winks at me, though we both know I won’t eat. Against my will, I take the maple dip donut. I had to leave before dinner with my boyfriend for this op, but now I’m not hungry. If there’s anyone I can rely on at work, it’s Elliott. We’ve worked together so much, we anticipate one another’s steps and strategies and even sentences. Despite the teasing, sometimes I wonder if he remembers I’m a woman, with how long I’ve been in the boys’ club—though now I remember how much he looks the part of a superspy. But tonight he was less James Bond, more Maxwell Smart. 

Once we’re back in the van, I pick at my donut’s maple glaze. “Five seconds are missing.” Normally, Elliott would whip out another of those killer grins and aim it at me. Tonight, he sips his coffee. “Sorry.” The charm switch is off, those baby blues fixed on the road. There’s no traffic, so it’s not like driving requires his full attention. I wait for him to continue. “I turned away—just for a minute. When I looked back, the screen door had moved. I backed up the tape and saw them.” “You were supposed to spot. Why didn’t you?” He’s still not looking at me. “Shanna texted about contractions. False alarm.” He was on the phone with his wife. His wife who I do not kid about. Who’s due any minute with their first. Who’s justifiably jealous of the time I spend with her husband. I’d like to yell at him. I really would. Those five seconds could have cost me my life. But they didn’t, and no matter what I do now, he’s going to get it when Will reviews the recordings. The Elephant has struck again.

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NCE WE FINISH OUR VERBAL DEBRIEF,

Will sends us to our desks and our post-action reports. But I only make it halfway there before Will takes my elbow. “Write it up tomorrow.” We generally turn in reports ASAP, and I was so close to a Saturday off, so I already don’t like this. But when Will casts a meaningful I-want-to-do-this-alone glance at Elliott’s back for my benefit, I know it’s not optional and not good. Elliott’s my best friend, but all I can do is let him salvage an ounce of his dignity and leave. I pop by the grocery store and a few more dull errands as a surveillance detection run. Instead of evading potential threats and tipping them off that you have something worth pursuing, we identify and then bore them. Tonight, I’m black (Agencyspeak for clear). I head to my bachelor—Canadian for studio apartment, not an actual single man—and my pulse kicks into a higher gear. One last obstacle before I can feel safe. In the hall, I close my eyes for one second, relishing the adrenaline, letting it sharpen my senses. I set down my gro

ceries and move to the hinge side of my door. In a single motion, I unlock the door and fling it open. If an intruder tried hiding back there, they’d get a nasty surprise. But as usual, my door hits the doorstop and bounces back, rattling. That’s just the beginning of the inspection. Don’t get me wrong. I realize being a CIA operations officer in Ottawa, of all places, is the bottom rung of the ladder in terms of detecting threats and being in danger. But when the options are be careful or be killed, we get “careful” drummed into our skulls pretty hard. I’m good at careful. Stress draws my shoulders up and I make an effort to lower them. A little fear keeps you safe. A lot of fear makes you crazy. My back to the wall, I begin a circuit of my apartment. A flick opens the cabinets. Only my cleaning products. I move from the kitchenette to the living room/bedroom. My strategic mess—six socks, a skirt and three shoes, placed just so—appears intact. The bathroom door is still ajar, the shower curtain still drawn back when I check inside. The closet is empty. The silver ball bearing balanced against my window, set to roll out if anyone opens it, sits in its spot. I puff out a breath and turn off high-alert mode. We’re good. One advantage to living in the world’s smallest bachelor: the sweep is quick. I fetch my groceries and lock up. Okay, so I’ve never had someone break into my apartment. But I don’t know if a spy can be too paranoid. If you can, I might be getting close. I can’t eat unless I watch every step of the prep or make it myself. I can’t enter a room without scanning for escapes. I can’t relax until I’ve scoured my place for intruders. 

Professional paranoia saves lives. On the downside, living with the paranoia? Tough. I throw my salad together and text my boyfriend Danny. Believe it or not, you can date while you’re overseas with the CIA. If Canada counts as overseas. Danny calls five minutes into my salad. I answer with “Sorry to ditch you earlier.” We were supposed to bug the Pakistanis tomorrow, but they broke routine, and I had to break a date. “I know. Everything go okay?” “Brutal.” I settle on my bed and glance at the bandage on my calf. The cut’s superficial, but the brush with our targets was way too close. I can’t tell Danny the truth. For all he knows, my demanding job is with Keeler Tate & Associates, Barristers and Solicitors. Danny commiserates, though I can’t imagine aerospace engineering is all that stressful. I assure him I’ll live to litigate another day. “We’re still on for the morning, right?” he asks. My report shouldn’t take long. “I have a little work to finish up, but I should be good by nine thirty. Meet you there?” “Sure. Just don’t be late. We’ve got a lot to see.” He gives directions to a bike rental place under the Plaza Bridge in front of the Château Laurier. We rode the Ottawa River bike trails there for our first date, and I don’t bother trying to stop my silly grin. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’s definitely a romantic at heart. In fact, Danny’s absolutely adorable. It’s one of the reasons why, in spite of all my cultivated paranoia, I absolutely love him. And I can’t wait to see what he’s planned. Of course, I have to wait. The next morning, I march into work. You never stroll into the CIA, even if the name on the 

door is Keeler Tate & Assoc., even if you won’t be long, even if it’s Saturday. The weekend receptionist barely acknowledges me. I charge through my report, almost done when Will walks in. I look up to nod a greeting, and then I see it—Elliott’s desk. It’s clean. That’s bad. A lead weight sinks into my lungs. I have to do something. I have to fight. Will stops at his office door and beckons me to follow. He sits me down in front of his desk. “Talia,” he says. The hollow tone of his voice, the telling slump of his shoulders, the glance away, and I know. Elliott’s not coming back. Tension tweaks the bruises on my back. I can’t let this happen. I won’t. “After last night,” Will starts the let-her-down-gently explanation, “it was time.” “It wasn’t that big a deal. We got out okay. It was a little close—” Now he breaks in, one eyebrow propped up an inch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe it was your life on the line?” “Exactly. I made it out okay. There’s not a scratch—” I stop myself, but it’s too late. Will fires an oh-really? look at the Band-Aids peeking out of my capris. “Elliott’s distracted. His head isn’t in the game— last night it wasn’t even in the ballpark. How many close calls can we take before someone dies?” He’s right, I’m wrong, and we both know it. Heat blooms across my face. Will sees the weakness and attacks. “Every time he goes out, he’s putting someone in danger, himself, his agents, you.” “Come on, we can’t put all the blame on Elliott. I could’ve moved faster.” “‘Flash’ Reynolds now, are we?” 

“Hey, we all know Shanna’s his Achilles’ heel right now. And that’ll change soon.” I hope. “‘Soon,’” Will repeats. “You want to bank on ‘soon’?” “I want to bank on Elliott.” Will laugh-snorts. “Account’s overdrawn, and he keeps kiting checks.” “Everybody makes mistakes.” “Not this many.” His voice is too quiet, his sigh too soft. “It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.” I know. I know even in Ottawa, not exactly a Shanghai or Moscow (heck, not even a Toronto), there are people who’d kill us without a thought. I know because the Canadians are kind enough to turn over that information to us on a weekly basis. And I know because the Elephant has already come close to losing one of our own. I see it in Will’s eyes. Last night was Elliott’s last shot. The argument is over. “Can I finish my report?” Will jerks a thumb at the door. The report needs a quick proofread before I submit it, but afterward I’m not ready to leave—not ready to face that empty desk—not ready for Elliott to be gone. The recordings from last night’s bug are already on my computer. Breaking in was my job partially because I’m the resident Urdu linguist, too: Urdu, Russian, Finnish, and passable French, as long as we stick to the weather. I pull up our transcription program—yes, classified—and I cue up the recording. The computer pops up with a couple of guesses at the words under the transcript waveform. About ten seconds in, I’m totally lost. I’m no native, but I’ve put in a lot of hours transcribing conversations like these. Like the computer, I catch a word here or there, enough to make me feel like I’m missing something important. Or just everything. This sounds like gibberish. 

On the third pass, it hits me: this isn’t Urdu, what they’d use with their neighbors. It’s a Pakistani regional language, maybe Pashto, maybe Punjabi, what they’d use among themselves. Whatever it is, I definitely don’t speak it, and my work and intel and case will go to someone who does, either at the embassy or Langley. Great. I pull off my headphones and rub my back between the bruises. I’m here to file a basic report, not receive notice my favorite fellow operative is about to be shunted off to DC for remedial training or worse. Maybe there’s still something I can do. I check the clock on my computer. Five minutes until I need to leave to meet Danny. Enough time to talk to Will, to keep Elliott from getting fired, to fight. Will doesn’t answer his door. I know it’s mostly a tactic to give him the upper hand when he doesn’t want to hear what’s coming. This time, he’s probably right. Finally, he opens the door. “Any luck with the intel?” he asks, though he knows I couldn’t find something that quickly. “I want to talk about Elliott.” Will’s sigh is hardly surprised. “Now who’s he going to hurt?” The cut on my calf twinges at the reminder, but I ignore it. “Me. Just me. I can handle it.” He gives me a slow, patient blink, like I throw myself on my sword every week. I don’t. “Elliott’s saved me, or our team, so many more times than he’s put us in danger.” “You think this is a numbers game? The law of averages?” I can feel myself shrinking because I know he’s right. But I want him to be wrong. “I will go over every mission we’ve run to prove it. He is a better operative than last night.” “Are you willing to stake your life?” 

In most companies, that phrase is hyperbole. Not at the CIA. “Yes.” Will opens the door wider, shrugs out of his jacket and heads over to toss it on his desk. “All right. Prove it.” A thought tugs at the back of my mind. I need to leave if I want to meet Danny, but as much fun as a bike ride would be, this second, Elliott’s career takes precedence. He could be on a plane back to Langley or out of a job in hours. I’m the only one who can save him, and the man’s about to become a father. I step into Will’s office. “Start at the beginning,” he says. “With Lashkar-e-Omar?” “With Elliott. Every op. In detail.” A little sliver of shock shoots into my heart. Everything for the last two years? So much for seeing Danny today. It feels like hours (though I think it’s only one) before we finish slogging through the files. Not just the case material, but how Elliott acted, how his decision making skills were, how sound his judgment was. Every call, every question, every calculation, every mishap. I kill the last report on Will’s computer and look over the contents of the folder. It’s all there, the evidence that only in the last month has he taken this weird, sudden nosedive. “Once Shanna has the baby,” I tell Will, “he’ll get over the jitters and get back to work.” This meeting was about convincing Will, but I’ve convinced myself, too. It’ll be okay. It has to be. Will looks over the monitor for the last time. “One condition.” My lungs refuse to work. “Any mistake he makes? Falls on you. You got that?” This type of entanglement is exactly what you want to avoid. But Elliott is more than a friend or a coworker. We have 

the camaraderie that usually only comes from enduring the Farm’s paramilitary training together. “He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his, and I know he can save mine again. I got it.” Will rubs the gray streak starting at his temple. “Talia, I’m going to give you one last chance to back out. You are better off alone.” Worry cat-steps into my stomach and I fight against the sickening twist. No one in the Agency, especially not Will, would ever say that. Despite the image as lone rangers, we all know you never, never go it alone. When you do, people die. Which means what Will’s really saying—I don’t dare put it into words. “I know,” I say. “And you still want to run this risk?” I give a single, decisive nod. Will’s right—he could be right—but that baby is coming any day, and then Elliott will get back to normal. I hope. “He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his, and I know he can save mine again.” Will’s obviously made up his mind, but he pretends to deliberate a minute longer, his chin in his hand. “You got it. But remember: your funeral.” Again with the not-really hyperbole.

By the time I’m out of the office, I’ll be an hour late to meet Danny, with travel time. He’s ridiculously patient with my job, but still—there’s only so much standing up a guy can take. I call as soon as I get to my car. “Danny, I am so sorry.” “I know.” If he’s trying to hide his disappointment, he’s not trying hard. “I thought work wouldn’t take long, but a case got dumped on us, and Elliott needed me. Couldn’t let him down.” 

Danny doesn’t say anything for about five seconds. It feels like five hours. “Right.” I climb in my car, and then I hear it. Or I don’t: there’s no background noise on his end. He should be in the middle of downtown, on the Rideau Canal. Even with his cell compensating, I should hear traffic, people, wind, water. I hear nothing. He’s given up on me. The thought crumples my heart like so much ultra-compactable cipher paper. “Are you at home?” “No.” But before hope can buoy me up, he adds, “Something happened with security at work. I had to come check on a project.” I groan for him. “So you’ll be a while?” “Yeah, just got here. Sorry.” And his tone says he really means it, like he’s the one who stood me up. “Good luck. Call me if you finish before it gets too late.” “I will.” His heart isn’t behind his words. It’s probably crushed, too. “I love you.” Pause. Half a beat too long. “Love you too.” He sounds a little down. Distracted. Distant. I hang up and knock my forehead on the steering wheel. Will’s words come echoing back. But I’m not better off alone. I know I’m not. And I will make this up to Danny. Now. With a quick okay from Will, I borrow a couple bikes from the Agency. We use them to commute to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service headquarters. CSIS is their CIA+FBI, and yes, we work together. Sometimes better than we work with the actual F-entity. But today, the bikes and I walk past CSIS HQ to the grassy National Research Council Canada campus dotted with stuccoand-glass offices a mile up the road. An awkward trip, but unless I want to tie them to my roof, my options are limited. 

Luckily, I know which of the hundred buildings is Danny’s. I scour the half-empty lot for his Mazda. By the third silver sedan that isn’t his, my back has bunched in a hard little knot of worry. (It’s my only hobby, okay?) What kind of security do they have? What does an aerospace engineer do after a breach? What’s so important at NRC Aerospace? Sounds so boring I’d want to break out. These things are none of my business, but I’m much happier worrying about them than agonizing over Will’s parting words. Finally, halfway down the fourth aisle, I find Danny’s car. I sit on the bumper, and I wait. And I wait. I’m good at waiting—a big part of my job, after all—but when it isn’t for national security but to make sure I haven’t carpet bombed my boyfriend’s heart in addition to his plans, it’s a lot easier to get antsy. Or maybe I can’t stop picking at my fingernails because my brain’s still ringing with Will’s stupid warning. I certainly don’t feel better off alone. I try to ignore the riptide of worry, and keep busy by looking up the perfect place for our ride on my phone. A little before noon, competing pizza, steak and burger restaurant scents overtake the baking pavement smell. An hour and a half later, the breeze clears the air and finally dies. I puff my bangs off my forehead. For the tiniest dose of consolation, I’m dressed to be outside, in a lightweight floral blouse, capris and a ponytail. It’s a feat, since my date wardrobe is pitifully small. Shopping? I’d rather go shooting. My cell battery dwindles to a third so I have to give up on my one distraction. If I need backup and can’t call because my phone’s dead, I don’t want browsing bike maps as my last regret. But as soon as I tuck my phone in my pocket, it rings. I pull 

my cell out, my heart already shrinking. If it’s Danny saying he’ll be stuck at work until late, we’re even for today. And whether I’m better off or not, I’ll be alone. It’s Danny. I answer and then bite my lips together like I can bite back what’s coming. I can’t look at the building holding him hostage. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry I was so down about earlier.” “It’s okay.” And not just because he was justifiably disappointed. Like I’m about to be. I brace myself for the blow. “I think we’ve got everything under control,” he continues, “and I’m on my way out.” The extra gravity weighing down my heart disappears and I wheel around. He’s on the sidewalk, headed my way. “Still up for a ride?” I tell the truth. Sort of. “If I don’t get moving soon, I’m going to go crazy.” “Be there in fifteen.” I don’t answer, waiting to see when he’ll spot me. He’s close enough I can make out his favorite shirt, a well-worn blue Winnipeg Jets tee. The “favorite” part has more to do with the F-18 in the logo than anything else. It’s the Canadian version of the American F/A-18. I do listen when he talks about this stuff. I can tell the exact instant he sees me: he stops short. I’m waiting for his trademark grin, but it doesn’t come. He tucks his phone in his jeans pocket and strolls up to me. His eyes are less surprised, more skeptical. Is he still upset about this morning? I take a second to take him in. He’s handsome in a slightly geeky way I find absolutely adorable. (Have I used that word once or twice?) His dark hair, just long enough to flip out at his ears and the nape of his neck, his warm brown eyes, the way he looks at me—normally. But now, I can’t read his expression. “How long have you been here?” His tone is no help. “A little longer than fifteen minutes.” 

He doesn’t laugh, just looks back at his building. My questions about the breach resurface, but a lawyer wouldn’t ask. The cleanup’s got to be a little less extensive than destroying all papers and hard drives in a level-three burnout. “Everything locked down?” “Hope so.” He leans on his trunk and slides an arm around me, but the comfortable gesture doesn’t affect the belt tightening on my ribs. Something’s wrong. At work or with me? “Being in charge must suck.” Danny scoffs through his teeth. “No kidding.” I may not understand how he fills ten hours a day here, but I know he’s brilliant. NRC isn’t shy about their preference for Canadians, so for an American to get hired into management, he’s got to be good. Also, I saw his U-Mich transcripts—more A’s than a Scandinavian family reunion—after Elliott did a background check for dating-me–level clearance. Yes, Elliott’s worse than my brothers, but I made my peace with one more overprotective guy in my life. One more overprotective guy like Will. Who thinks I’m better off alone. I get the feeling those words will haunt me. “You’ve been here all day, huh?” Danny cuts in on my thoughts, finally looking at me. “Hungry?” “At this point, I might even try poutine.” “Dang. Knew I shouldn’t have eaten my emergency stash Thursday.” Danny claims the iconic/cliché Québécois snack is practically a delicacy, but considering it’s French fries, gravy and squeaky cheese, three foods I hate, I refuse to eat it even if I watch the kitchen. He pulls a backpack from his trunk and tosses me a granola bar, a bag of dried fruit, and the Swiss Army knife he always carries. Once an Eagle Scout, always an Eagle Scout. Does this mean we’re okay? If we were okay, he’d make eye contact now. He doesn’t. I 

finish the granola bar before he finishes repacking the snacks. “So,” he says, “Rockcliffe?” “Gee, I don’t know.” I inject a note of false innocence into my voice. “Isn’t there a museum out there or something?” Danny matches my tone. “Is there?” The Canadian Aviation Museum has been my strategy all along. Danny loves to tell me about the Avro Arrow with an illfated prototype’s severed nose as a backdrop. I’m less of a fan of the implication the CIA engineered political opposition to the fighter jet. I could look into it, but I’d rather not know. I can’t wait until we get into the museum to make sure we’re okay. I hand over his knife. “You’re onto my devious plans, Fluker.” “Devious plans to make my day? Go ahead.” We make eye contact and add the cherry to the unintentional Dirty Harry paraphrase in unison: “Punk.” Danny turns back to loading the bag. It’s taking him a long time, and the way he’s angled himself strikes me as . . . odd. Too familiar. Covert. Is he hiding something? Am I better off—? Oh, man. The job’s going to my head. He slams the trunk shut and beams at me. The belt around my rib cage breaks loose. That’s what I’ve been waiting for, that eye-crinkling, Talia-melting smile. He leans down to tell me I’m beautiful. That’s not quite true—I think part of the reason I got my job is because I’m unremarkable. Plain might not be an overstatement. But when Danny says it, I believe him. Almost. He kisses me, his lips warm and undemanding and gentle. Let’s just say his smile isn’t the only thing about him that’s Talia-melting. Danny straps on his backpack and rolls up his jeans on the chain side, and we head out. But somehow, even though I’ve made everything up to him, I don’t feel the relief I anticipated. 

Instead, the granola bar settles in my stomach like granite. And that has nothing to do with Danny being distracted by work disasters. I’m not going to feel better until Elliott and I get through the next week and whatever it might bring. Suddenly, I’m not as confident as I told Will. Am I better off alone?







FTER SPENDING THE REST OF THE WEEKEND TOGETHER,

all’s well in Danny-and-Talia-land, but I’m still worried. (It’s not a great hobby, no.) I try to squelch the thought Monday morning, on a company bike once again, heading to the CSIS building. The six of us riding together would be pretty conspicuous, so we break up, vary our routes and stagger our departures. By no coincidence, I’m sure, I’m paired with Elliott. I can only take a minute of quiet. “No baby over the weekend?” “Nope.” The lack of a clever comeback and the solemn stitch between his eyebrows aren’t the only reasons for my little twinge of disappointment. I’m excited for the baby, but I’d be lying if I said part of me doesn’t hope Shanna would hurry up and have the baby so Elliott could get his head on straight. Not today. We trek the bike path to the cement and blue glass building, the thick silence spreading between us. Our usual CSIS team is waiting in a conference room. Elliott and I are the last to walk in. Everybody else is already settled at the table. Mack, the 

head of our CSIS contacts, is already standing at the front. A picture of a man is already projected on the whiteboard next to him. Mack steps in front of the image. “Now that we’re all here.” The tune of his voice plays a little guilt trip. Elliott and I take the last seats. Mack jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the picture on the board. Neat beard and short, dark hair, slightly receding. He looks to be early forties. “Fyodor Timofeyev.” Instantly, my pulse perks up. I’m not the only Russian speaker working with CSIS, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who lived there for fifteen months before joining the intelligence community. I just know this case will fall to me. “Upper management at Shcherbakov Aircraft.” Mack gives a quick company profile. Headquartered in Rostov-on-Don—i.e. right where I lived—Shcherbakov is struggling against OAK, a conglomerate of a dozen aerospace companies a.k.a. the United Aircraft Building Corporation. Mack concludes the summary and turns to Will. “I understand you have some intel on him?” Will nods. “Timofeyev has been traveling a lot lately, and we believe he’s hunting for aerospace trade secrets, or worse, defense info. The FBI didn’t have enough to pick him up, but it looks like he’s stolen at least one key plan from a US company.” Luc, a French Canadian with CSIS, pipes up. “What are the odds he is Russian intelligence?” “SVR.” Mack’s lips thin, like he’s already seen way too much of Russian spies. “Let me put it this way: we’re not pursuing him for grins and giggles. We cannot rule anything out. After consulting with Citizenship and Immigration, we’ve decided to allow Timofeyev enough rope to make himself a nice new necktie.” I half-cover my smile with two fingertips. That could be fun. Mack taps the board. “He’s spent the last two weeks in 

Montréal and Toronto, and he gets here today, ostensibly pursuing manufacturing contracts. We’ve tried to place CSIS agents with him at each company he’s visited so far, but they haven’t found anything.” “How long before he goes back to Russia?” Elliott asks. “Saturday morning.” Elliott leans toward me as if to comment privately on our target’s travel schedule. Instead, he says, “Check out that beard. Pretty sweet.” Seriously? I eye his cheek. Have I ever seen Elliott anything but clean-shaven? “Beard envy?” “I know how you feel, T, but I don’t think you’d look good with facial hair.” Before I can retort, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I scramble to hit the button to silence it. They usually make an unofficial exception for us, but we’re not technically supposed to bring our phones in. No one seems to have heard. For Elliott’s benefit, I fix my gaze on Mack. “He has one or two more companies left on his itinerary. We should confirm his schedule at Malcolm Aerospace today.” The name’s familiar, though I’ve never worked in this sector before. “He’ll be there Thursday, and SinclAir today and tomorrow.” SinclAir sounds familiar, too. Then a bright burst of realization hits me. Danny’s worked with them both. He’d offered to show me their projects at the NRC facilities. Man, I wish I’d made time for at least a look around the offices now. It always helps to be an insider. Mack turns to Will. “I understand you have some men who speak Russian.” Will hesitates. “Yep.” It’s me and Robby, so not exactly “men,” but that’s probably what Mack means. 

“We’ll have them keep an ear out. The FBI’s evidence and a couple things he said in Toronto were enough for a warrant, so we’ll be bugging his hotel room, and searching it once he’s visited his last two companies.” Elliott tilts his head toward me again. “Thursday at Malcolm leaves all of Friday for a hit on his hotel room.” “As long as he’s not sitting in there.” My heart rate picks up again at the thought of another black bag op. I’m so not doing the ventilation shaft again. “We’re bugging his room today,” Mack continues. “We’d like to use your Russian speakers.” Will nods with his eyebrows. Robby and I use our heads. “We’ll shoot for a search Wednesday, post-SinclAir, and have a rolling plan in place for a follow-up once he visits the hotel after his Malcolm visit.” I try to rein in my tapping toes while Mack hands out all the bugging and search assignments to his guys. I want to do something. I want on this team. I want on this op. But Mack reaches his last agent, and stops. “Now.” He turns to us. “On to our friends.” My pulse resigns itself to its normal pace. Of course we’re not in on the big op. We collaborate, but we try to be very careful about keeping to our own jobs. CSIS is an ally—and as close as the CIA gets to a friend—so we try to play nice. We stick heavily to need-to-know and follow their protocol as much as we can. After all, if an op goes bad, it’s their heads, not ours. (We were never here.) Mack looks at each of us in turn. “Who are your Russian speakers?” Robby and I raise our hands. Mack doles out jobs to the rest of our group. I hold my breath until he gets to Elliott’s job. Please, let it be something safe. Mack points at Elliott. “We’d like you to track down some 

more background info on Timofeyev. Everything you can find.” The relief rushes into my lungs, almost strong enough to overpower my annoyance at CSIS. Other than mine and Robby’s, these are nothing jobs. Like they’re including us on the case because the FBI couldn’t catch the guy. A pity op. And Elliott’s “job” is something any desk jockey could do. But if I get to use my Russian—and keep Elliott in the office—I guess I’ll take a pity op. Robby and I pick up the in-depth analysis on Timofeyev, memorizing his bio, associates, education, family, hobbies, pets, interests. Until we get information from CSIS’s bugs, it might look like we’re doing nothing, but the better Robby and I know Timofeyev, the better we’ll be able to scan his conversations for any seemingly casual “references”—the groundwork for any real, face-to-face encounters we might have. When we get back to our office, Will stops us as soon as we reach the secured bullpen past the reception area, his head bowed toward the group. “The CIA has been watching Timofeyev, too. We want him as a target.” I join the others in a quiet, collective intake of breath, and we form a huddle by silent accord. We all know what that means, but when Will adds, “We’re looking at an offensive op,” there’s no mistaking the room’s uptick of adrenaline. We’re technically in counterintelligence, though we take whatever assignments we can get around here—but the chance to fully exploit this guy to our advantage, to stand eye-to-oko against a potential enemy? Yes. Even if it means the most grueling week we’ve endured in months. And I’ll bet this isn’t something CSIS needs to know. “We need a way to get at him. Talia, call Erica. Traces, profile, the works.” As a targeteer—Specialized Skills Officer—Erica does the analytical legwork to find the right targets and capitalize on their motivations and values. If we’re helping 

Timofeyev into CSIS’s necktie, or one of our own, Erica will know his size. I launch into my assignment, and it’s afternoon before I remember to check my phone. A text from Danny: Free

tonight? That depends on several things: how soon CSIS can get a bug in, whether Timofeyev will be in his room tonight, and Robby. But I won’t let Danny down again. I can’t. I lean across the laptop in front of us and lower my voice. “Robby, you busy tonight?” “Uh, I’m flattered, Talia,” he says, drawing out each syllable in confusion, “but I really don’t date—” Whoa, no. “I have a boyfriend.” Robby’s brow puckers. I like the guy, but he’s not the brightest bulb in the CIA chandelier. If I had to choose between him and Elliott, Robby would be the first to go. And if Danny’s on the line? Robby’d better get out of my way. “We have plans tonight.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. “Oh. Okay.” The rising note in his voice says he’s still not seeing the connection. “If we have to come translate something, can you cover?” Robby agrees. I manage to wait until he’s turned back to the Timofeyev file before I bite my thumbnail. I don’t know how much time Robby has spent in-country, but right now, I’m worried about not just his Russian but his general processing abilities. What if there’s something time-critical and he doesn’t catch it? I might not be the best CIA operative in the world—okay, obviously not if I’m stuck here in Ottawa—but it worries me when I feel like the team’s Most Competent Spy. I text Danny back with a yes, and hope for the best, for tonight and for this mission. 

I catch myself mid-pace Monday night. I’ll push my carpet over the edge from “cozy and broken in” to “scuzzy and broken down” if I’m not careful. But I can’t help the worry. I’m hoping Danny won’t ask about the healing cut on my calf, wearing my cutest non-business skirt and very, very early, a habit from adding SDRs to every outing. Typically, CIA officers only run these rounds to and from ops; the rest of the time we vary our routes. But I won’t even go to church without checking for surveillance. No SDR for me tonight. Danny’s driving. He wouldn’t give me any more details than to be dressed up and ready at seven. In the mirror, I fuss over my never-going-to-be-perfect-anyway-so-why-am-I-trying? hair. What if work calls? I hate when he drives. Skipping one run will be okay, right? What’s the worst that could happen? And I’m pacing again. Ugh. Me and my hobbies. I stop, take a deep breath. It’ll be okay. My phone rings. If it isn’t Danny or my mom—no, make that just Danny—it’s trouble. It’s trouble. And worse still, it’s Elliott. My stomach flops onto that “cozy, broken in” Berber. “Unless you have a baby,” I answer, “I don’t want to hear it.” “No baby. But listen, T—” “Direct all your translation questions to Robby tonight.” I should know better than to hope. Most of us do not pretend to have a normal life on assignment. I’ve never been one to follow the “most of us” crowd, but every once in a while, there’s a reason for the consensus. Disappointment sinks through my whole body, telling me 

this is one of those times. “I tried Robby. He’s tied up with today’s phone dumps. He’ll be doing that for hours.” What am I supposed to do? Shunt him off to someone we don’t know in CSIS? “Tell me what you’ve got before I decide.” “I hacked his Facebook account.” Elliott hacks? I check my watch. 6:50. “How long can it wait?” “I’m looking at his messages and I’m seeing the number seven and today’s date.” It could be 7 AM. It could be 7 anything. “After the seven, is there a y-capital T-p-a, or a funky letter-capital H-backward capital R?” Utra and dnya, Russian for AM and PM. “Neither.” I shake the anxiety out of my legs. Whatever it is, it’s not a time. Elliott continues, “I see seven funky y-a-c-o-b then funky letter-capital H-backward capital R. What does that mean?” “Seven o’clock PM.” The inward groan comes right out in my voice. “Read the date?” “Ten slash eight.” No help there. Elliott’s not dumb enough to misread a date written the European style, date then month. “Email me the message.” “Give me a minute.” He ends the call. What choice do I have? I sink onto my bed and text Danny, hoping to reach him before he leaves. Something’s come up at work. Not sure if I’m going to make it. As good as the noise canceling is on Danny’s phone, when he calls me back I can tell right away he’s in the car. “What’s up?” His voice is so upbeat, I almost change my mind—until my phone chimes to announce incoming mail. My shoulders settle 

into my resignation. Duty emails, and it comes first, every time. “They need me” is all I can manage. “Emergency lawsuit?” There’s a dangerous note of disbelief in his tone. “Client got arrested.” I repeat the lie in my mind seven times, as if that will not only commit it to memory but also make it true. “You do criminal law?” Crap. On my feet to pace again, I flip through my mental file of work cover stories, but I don’t think I’ve ever pinned my job down that definitively. I studied Canadian criminal and civil codes, so I’m safe saying, “We do everything. And the Mounties are waiting.” Danny doesn’t respond for a minute. I flip to speakerphone and pull up my email on my computer. “Federal crime,” he finally says. “That sucks. What if I pushed the reservation back?” “I don’t know how long this is going to take.” And that’s the truth. My computer finishes decrypting Elliott’s message, but I won’t be able to concentrate with Danny on the line. “Can’t someone else handle it? What about . . . what’s his name? Elliott?” “He’s already on his way, but they’re holding our clients separately. He needs me.” Danny makes this low noise, his groan of I can’t believe this. “Okay.” He does not sound okay. “Call me if you finish soon.” “I’ll call you either way.” It’s his turn. The conversation is over, and he’s supposed to say, “I love you.” But he doesn’t. My heartbeats measure out the silence. “I love you,” I try at last. “You too.” His tone is almost curt, and the call is over. I don’t normally flake on him twice in a week, but I do have 

to change our plans at least monthly. What’s up with him these last couple days? I’m pacing again, but this time I can’t stop myself. I do my best to make these things up to him, and he’s usually understanding to a fault. Especially considering he thinks I’m a lawyer, and I can’t tell him otherwise. (CIA rules: not unless you’re engaged. For me, basically never.) So what’s up with him? But right now, I can’t say no to duty. I have to pretend turning away from Danny and back to Elliott’s email is as easy as flipping a switch. And yes, this is about 99.99% as secure as if I were sitting in the office with Elliott. The message—messages are from Timofeyev and Mikhail Kozyrev, apparently old friends. Kozyrev seems to be local now. He’s offering Timofeyev a ride on his boat at seven tonight. Elliott’s right. That’s time sensitive. I request a workup on Kozyrev and call Elliott back. There’s a lot more than case file reading and traces to be done tonight. And there goes my night off. I turn to my closet to dig out a pair of pants. I should’ve known it was too much to hope. I’m definitely going to get this guy.







of being a spy is the equipment. Yeah, I have the latest cell phone with more security features than 24 Sussex Drive (that’s the Canadian Prime Minister’s house), options you wouldn’t believe in my car, and a computer that can do things most people only dreamed of last week. But tonight, the perk is a speedboat from CSIS, complete with seven secure and waterproof workstations in the cabin, faster Internet and satellite connections than everyone but the military, bulletproof sides, and deck chairs for me and Elliott. Oh, and Alex and Luc to drive. And none of it does any good if we can’t find Kozyrev and his boat before Timofeyev slips away and catches CSIS in his room. But if we can find them? I can protect my country, use my Russian, and feel the wind in my hair, speeding over the Ottawa River. Only one thing could make the night better—but I’m trying not to think about him. “How’s it coming?” Elliott asks from the deck chair next to NE OF THE BEST LITTLE PERKS



mine. I check with Luc. He takes a break from scanning the river to shake his head. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, but with our specially designed, readable-even-in-direct-sunlight laptops (okay, half the secret’s the sunglasses), we’ve dug through a massive amount of Facebook wall posts, messages and all the pages Timofeyev “likes” searching for clues. If he’s foreign intel, with a profile this extensive he’s either deep under or an idiot. But turning raw data into actionable intelligence is a lot harder than reading it. “I can tell you how he liked Montréal or how he feels about his ex-wife.” Which is downright generous compared to how my mom and dad felt after their divorce, I’ll grant him that. “That help?” Elliott’s lips twist. I’ll take that as a no. “Any luck with Kozyrev’s profile?” We haven’t tried hacking his account yet, since most of his information is public and in English anyway. Elliott straightens in his chair. “Here we go.” He hands me his computer. “What does this mean?” The screen shows a stout stump of a man in sunglasses on the deck of a small yacht. The Russian caption translates, basically, as “Traded in my wife.” “Ouch,” Elliott says under his breath. “He and Timofeyev have a lot in common.” More importantly, though, we can see the piece we need: the ship’s register number in the photo. Canada doesn’t exactly put RFID trackers or GPS locators in every boat, but without saying too much, that information is pretty much all we need to get them. “All right, he moors at . . . Dow’s Lake. Should have satellite on him any second.” Luc radios to the patrol boats west of Chaudière Falls and 

on the river on the east side of the city with the registration number. Robby’s at Keeler Tate, translating half a dozen calls Timofeyev made on the train this morning. The CSIS team is infiltrating his room, wherever that is. Even the Ottawa Police Service and the RCMP—the Mounties—are providing support with the canal and lockstations. I can almost touch the threads that connect the pieces of our plan. I breathe in the feeling, collect it into a buzzing ball in my chest, embrace it. I can’t describe what it’s like to be involved in an op. You’re a master puppeteer, but you’re not pulling the strings. You’re synchronized swimming, moving in perfect harmony. You’re playing a symphony. Only instead of applause, you’re working for life or death. The invisible connection with your team flows through your veins. You’re pushing yourself to the fullest of your capacity, and everyone else on your team is, too. Even when you’re left running on adrenaline and fumes, the conviction you’re doing the right thing for the right reason sings in every breath you take, and for that second, you own the world. Tonight I’m greater than the sum of my part and our coordinated efforts throughout the city to protect the information and companies and livelihoods, and yes, perhaps even the lives of millions of people, here and thousands of miles away. Yeah, we go through a lot—a lot—of crap on a pretty regular basis, but at times like this, I can’t fathom why officers turn to drugs or drinks with this kind of high. Like I said, though, there would be one more thing that could make tonight perfect. My elation and my heart deflate a notch. Maybe I can fathom it a little. “Got him.” Elliott raises a victorious fist, and warm triumph flourishes in my chest, too, building that buzzing ball. He turns to Luc and Alex. “He’s at the locks.” 

The CSIS guys exchange an uh-oh glance. “It’s almost seven thirty,” says Luc, his light accent a little more noticeable with the stress in his voice. “So?” “The lockstation closes at seven thirty. You have to be there three hours before that.” Elliott matches my expression of confusion. “Then what’s he doing down there?” “Maybe he ‘knows’ the station master?” Luc rubs his fingers against his thumb, the universal sign for bribery. “It’d take a pretty big payoff to keep me three hours after work,” mutters Alex. Silence falls after the particularly inept claim from someone who’s already put in a ten-hour day. Without another word, Alex brings the boat about and hits the throttle. I shift my balance with the momentum, wipe the spray off my waterproof monitor and plow through what must be a painful memory from Timofeyev’s past: a message to his ex-wife Olga with a rambling apology, and a little take-me-back begging. I wince, then hope my dark hair streaming across my face covers my reaction. Generally I try not to let my targets’ problems bug me—seldom helps my objectives—but every once in a while, I stumble across something so personal and raw that I can’t help genuine sympathy. The message is old, and maybe the wound has healed for Timofeyev by now, but his ex-wife’s curt answer brings to mind another one. My stomach gets a little turn from the guiltknife. I pull my hair into a ponytail and push all thoughts of Danny back under the surface. Business. All business. The sun heads toward the horizon, but I focus on the city lights of Ottawa and Gatineau flickering to life. There are people out there depending on me for a lot more than a dinner 

date, and I’m responsible to them first. No matter what I want. We approach the steel trusses of the Alexandra Bridge and the stone spires of the Gothic-style Parliament buildings beyond. Luc picks up the radio for a quick check in. “The station master talked to the RCMP,” he announces. “They’ve already let Timofeyev into the locks.” Alex scrubs one eyebrow with his thumb. “I’m telling you, this won’t work.” “Maybe they’re mooring overnight in the locks?” Elliott guesses as we pass under the bridge’s shadow. Alex shakes his head. “Not allowed.” Luc taps Alex’s arm before he can elaborate on the proper procedure for lock passage. Luc points out across the water and we all follow his hand. A banner arches high over the wooden gates to the locks. (Which are, of course, already closed.) Rideau Canal Festival Flotilla, it proclaims. Alex kills the engines and we drift closer on our momentum, bringing the smaller print into view. Free locking & docking, open late, fireworks Friday!, and the dates: this week. The sidewalks and lawn to the right are packed with people. Great. I navigate back to Kozyrev’s invitation in my email. Vecherinka, he said. Party. Why couldn’t he have said festivalʹ? Alex rubs the other eyebrow. “Must’ve expanded. Isn’t it usually a weekend thing?” “Popular demand.” Luc turns to Elliott. “How far up is he?” “Checking.” Elliott taps away at his keyboard. Before he answers, the white-shirted lock workers appear at the cranks and set to work. The old wooden doors glide open into the lock, and one lone boat cruises out. I think everyone but Elliott cranes their neck to watch the boat, though chances that it’s 

Kozyrev’s are pretty much nil. “We moving in?” Luc asks. “Right now,” Elliott says. I lean over to watch him zoom in on the satellite image, but at the last second I catch the look that passes between Luc and Alex. An are-they-serious? look. A do-they-know-what-they’re-doing? look. We sail into the lock anyway. Luc flashes a badge, probably for his cover ID, at the workers and they nod, directing us to a mooring along the tall cement-block wall. We’re the first in line a few feet from the next pair of wooden doors, with five more ships behind us. After we’re all in the lock, engines off, moorings on, the workers turn the chain winches atop the walls by the doors, and the gates swing shut behind us. As they close the last couple feet, one of the workers runs across the walkway along the top, hopping over the gap. The chains secured, the lock begins to fill, a square opening in the cement wall by the front gate churning out the water. Once our water level matches that of the chamber in front of us, they’ll open the gates and we’ll move forward to start the process again. “How long did you say it takes to go through the locks?” I call over the rushing water. Alex crosses the deck so he won’t have to shout back. “Once you’re in, about an hour and a half.” At least it isn’t three hours. “Got it.” We gather around Elliott’s computer. He points at a boat, then zooms out enough to tell which lock he’s in. “Five. And we’re in one.” Alex’s voice is filled with defeat. “Can we catch up to him?” Elliott tears his gaze from the computer. If we can’t, this whole exercise could be pointless. Elliott’s question is enough to push easygoing-Canadian

colleague Alex into I-only-like-you-people-when-things-aregoing-well Alex. “Do you know how locks work?” “Apparently not,” Elliott mutters. “The canal is twenty-five meters higher than the river—” “What’s that in feet?” Alex glares at Elliott. “Don’t know.” I doubt that, but I do the conversion. “Eighty.” Alex continues his lecture. “This is the only way to go uphill, one step at a time.” He holds up two flat hands, palms down, one about six inches higher than the other, then brings them to touch at the same level. “He’s in lock five, already way above us, and a rising tide raises all ships, right?” He repeats the meet-in-the-middle action. “Until the water level is even, thousands of pounds of water pressure hold the gates closed. Even if you could open them, you’d release forty feet of water and wash everyone back over the doors.” I glance at the boats behind us. Unacceptable risk. I fold my arms. “Well, gentlemen, welcome to the world’s slowest boat chase.” And we’re below him. Definitely at a disadvantage. “Do you have people on the canal?” Luc gives half a shrug. “OPS should.” The Ottawa Police Service. “Let’s get a boat to the top. We need to get above him.” “Wait.” Elliott holds up hand. “Anybody know if these sats are on a delay?” “If they are, it’s a couple seconds, max,” I say. “Someone’s getting off their boat.” Alex, Luc and I all shoulder in to see his computer again. Sure enough, their deck looks to be level with the top of the cement wall in their lock, and there’s a man walking alongside the boat. Waving. We need to stay with him. We need to make sure he’s not headed back to his room, to catch CSIS mid-search. We need to 

know if this is even Timofeyev. “Got it.” I’m already climbing to the prow. Our lock is half full, so the only way out now is to climb the mooring rope or the ladder in the far corner of the cement block walls ahead. Knowing my luck with rope climbing, the ladder is the safer bet, even if it’s less accessible. I climb over the railing. The guys behind me call for me to stop, but we don’t have a choice or backup waiting upstream. I say a quick prayer: please help me fly. And I leap. In the eternity between two heartbeats, I soar four feet over the water. Will myself not to close my eyes. Throw out my arms for the ladder. At the last second, I jerk my head out of the way. My arms wrap around the ladder poles, one of them jamming into my shoulder, as hard as a battering ram. The pain resonates with the metal vibrations shaking through me. My feet fumble for the rungs. One foot drops—a splash. The water rushing into the lock is barely audible over the blood crashing through my ears. My arms slip. My pulse surges in my throat. That rope’s looking better and better. Too late to second-guess. I wrap my fingers around a rung and hold tight, my arms still twisted around the ladder poles. Tucking my knees up, I finally find purchase for my feet. And the rest of my team is watching this awkward struggle. I give them a thumbs up, and now the thing that hurts the most is my pride. Once I untangle my death grip on the ladder, I’m on the sidewalk in no time. “Everything all right, miss?” calls a lock worker. “Yes,” I assure him over my shoulder, already on the first set of stairs. “Just late.” I scan the crowd on the next level, and I think I see 

Timofeyev at the top of the steps further up: white polo shirt, dark slacks, short dark hair. I take the next flight two at a time, pulling out my cell. Time to use one of those bells and whistles. Most cell phones have cameras these days, but most don’t have software to produce shots almost as good as a professional telephoto lens. Right now, my camera doubles as a telescope (or a periscope), keeping me clear of tourists at the bandstand by the Bytown Museum terrace. If I can shoot a photo of my quarry, one tap on the touch screen will send the encrypted photo over a secure connection to a fail-safed server at headquarters, delete the image from my phone and return definitive confirmation from our facial recognition software in under three seconds. Yep, there’s an app for that. (Sorry, it’s not in the app store.) Timofeyev is on the stairs at lock five now. I lower my phone a minute to run after him. I need at least a profile shot. I bound up the stairs and jog ahead of the target. At the foot of the next flight of stairs, I turn back, holding up my phone both to hide my face and to act like I’m taking a picture of the locks in the sunset. He can see me, as long as he doesn’t notice me. Got him. I touch the button to send the photo to the CIA and start the count. One . . . two . . . I look up. Even in the waning light, I can tell it’s not the guy. His beard is fuller and his hair a little longer. He might be too tall, too. My stomach drops an inch in disappointment. The text comes back from the program: Jean Quesnel. CAN cit. Canadian citizen. I stand where I am and let Quesnel pass without turning. This could be a classic surveillance evasion method, a bait-and-switch, if he’s SVR. If he’s a spy. But at the top of the stairs, Quesnel meets up with a brunette, probably his wife, and three girls in their early twenties, 

and they walk off together. A rendezvous with your family isn’t a very secure SDR, putting them in danger. I scan the locks. A third of the men out here are wearing white polos, including the lockstation workers and a group of Scottish country dancers in kilts. I look up at the Château Laurier on the other side of the canal. The sun is halfway down, and they’ve turned on the lights shining up the beige exterior toward the dark copper roof. True to its name (château means castle), the grandest hotel in the city normally looks like a palace, but right now, I’m getting more of the creepy, haunted mansion vibe people like to joke about. But Timofeyev is no ghost. And I cannot afford to lose him yet. Swallowing a sigh, I lift my phone again and call Elliott. “Lost him.” “How could you look away from The Beard?” “You’re making this into a very weird obsession.” Elliott doesn’t respond to the insult. “Top of the last steps, headed for the bridge.” I turn around and cast my gaze up past the locks. White polo shirt. Adrenaline shoots back into my veins and I dash up the rest of the stairs, trying not to shove too many people out of the way and apologizing profusely in a Canadian accent. He turns back for one split second. I manage to capture the image before he heads for the west arch of the Plaza Bridge looming above the sidewalk. Bad. Really bad. There are too many exits that way: cement stairs to the street wind up through a fork in the bridge west of the canal, with another set of steps before the bridge, and the straight path. My thighs are already burning, but Timofeyev doesn’t slow as he plunges into the arch’s shadow. My phone chimes and I spare it a glance: Fyodor

Timofeyev. Russian citizen. I try to keep an eye on his silhouette, but there are too 

many people moving under the bridge. I lose him in the shadows before I can lift my sunglasses. I think he turns for the stairs to the street, and I pound the pavement to pursue him up the steps. But when the silhouette I’m following pops into the last orange light of sunset, his shirt is pretty obviously gray. No, no, no. I chew my lip, like that’ll help. My momentum runs out on the first landing, and I call Elliott back. “Tell me you’re still transfixed by that beard,” I say. “I lost him under the bridge.” “Me too.” I scan the crowd again, but they haven’t finished testing on those night vision corneal implants yet, so I can’t see him in the shadows. (Kidding about the implants.) The lights under the bridge finally flicker on, and after half a second to recover, I search for him again, but it’s no use. He’s gone. The defeat hits my shoulders. But the CSIS team is facing more than disappointment. I lost Timofeyev—and now they’re in danger. “Put out the word, fast,” I tell Elliott. “He’s in the wind.” “Roger.” The connection I felt earlier, the thrill, the buzzing ball breaks and the extra energy leaches from my system. I drift back to the CSIS boat, now waiting for lock two to fill. Elliott waves, but I stand there until the deck is level with the sidewalk. I hop on like this is the way everyone boards boats (it’s not; in fact, I’m not sure it’s allowed) and grab my computer again. We. Will. Get. Timofeyev.

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



’M STILL KICKING MYSELF for losing Timofeyev, and apologizing to Danny the next day when he and I pick up our gigantic shawarma platter at the Lebanese place up the hill from his work. The wait is long and the restaurant’s not the cleanest, but part of the reason we love this place is the website is so bad it’s good. (The other part: the open kitchen.) But today it seems neither of us are up for the owner’s usual banter. We avoid him until we can find a free table. “What were our awesome plans?” I can’t lift my eyes from the toasted pita and king fries. Danny picks up a fry. Doesn’t eat. “The Bistro at Signatures added Monday seatings,” he says, his voice a little flat. “It’s the restaurant at Le Cordon Bleu Ottawa.” Have I mentioned Danny speaks French? Yeah. I’ll be honest: it’s hot. And for someone raised speaking Finnish to say that, it means a lot. The Finns think theirs is the language of romance. Let me say, I’ve never seen anybody who makes French look as good as Danny. “I know how you watch the kitchen when we go out.” He 

tears off a piece of the pita but doesn’t eat it. Luckily, my mouth is full, but I can’t help the little eyebrow dip. If he notices, I hope it looks like mild curiosity rather than the full-blown suspicion sprouting in my mind. I’ve never told him about my eating paranoia. Or any other kind of paranoia. “I mean, you always make dinner, so I guess the cooking thing’s kinda big.” Oh—oh. He’s seen me monitoring our food, even today, and he’s taken that as an interest in the culinary arts. Which is, of course, adorable. And also a lot safer than the truth. Now I can swallow my perfectly cold, garlicky tabouleh. “That sounds really nice.” “Seemed nice on the Internet, anyway.” Danny looks back at the food. I wait until he raises his gaze again, and I smirk. “What, no animated GIFs or ‘My Sharona’ parodies? Not sure it’s our kind of place.” I can tell he’s trying to fight it, but finally his hurt-slashangry mask breaks and he laughs, softly at first and then harder, especially once I pull up the restaurant’s website on my cell phone and “My Shawarma” starts up. After a couple minutes of navigating the site to hear the parodies and radio commercials, Danny’s about to fall out of his chair. That eyecrinkling smile I love so much is back in full force, and I lean across the table to kiss him. And then my phone chimes for a text. I close the browser, cutting off the song, and pull up the message. Elliott Monteith:

You busy? Danny sees at least part of it before I slide out the keyboard. “What does Elliott want?” “Dunno.” I tell Elliott the truth. If the next words from your

fingers aren’t “I’m on my way to the hospital,” you’re about to be. 

What’s your favorite movie? he replies before I rekindle the conversation with Danny.

It’s shut up and leave me alone. I don’t bother him when I know he’s with his wife. Unless it’s for work. My stomach starts to sink, but I can’t come up with a reason why he’d want to know my favorite movie for the CIA. “Anyway.” I force a grin. Danny hasn’t returned to the Iwouldn’t-smile-for-money-or-aeronautics-chit-chat face, but he isn’t laughing anymore, either. Somehow I don’t think pulling up the restaurant’s website again will help. “Thank you for planning such a nice dinner. I mean, that’s really thoughtful of you. And that’s what counts, right?” Danny purses his lips a millisecond. “I sure hope so. That’s all I’m getting lately.” He punctuates the sentence by rerolling his half of the beef pita wrap—and my phone rings. Elliott. I silence it, but I can’t turn off the I-hate-this in Danny’s expression. “I don’t even want to know.” My eyebrow creeps north. “Ignorance is bliss?” He takes a bite of his shawarma and gives me a yeah-right look. Our only real argument started over that statement from a fortune cookie. He’s a scientist (sorry, engineer); he believes in finding out everything you can. I have yet to convince him there are things you’re better off, not to mention safer, not knowing. I usually try to avoid the subject and the argument with Danny, after watching my mom and dad fight for most of my life, even after the divorce. My phone rings again—Elliott—and I almost don’t take it again, but if he’s calling back, it’s got to be important. If it weren’t, he would have texted, right? “Yeah?” “Mean Girls?” “Seriously?” I stop short of telling him my favorite movie is I’m Going to Punch You in the Neck. Not in front of Danny, 

anyway. I pick something off my second-tier list. “Bourne Identity.” “How about Charlie’s Angels?” Oh, sure, he picks now to remember I’m a girl? “What are you doing, planning an office movie night?” In my peripheral vision, Danny’s head jerks up. A warning bell sounds in my mind, but I can’t interpret his gesture. “Answer the question.” Where does Elliott get off getting snappy? “Put me down for whatever. Or we’ll talk about it when I get back.” I glance heavenward for Danny’s benefit and hang up. “Lame office party, I guess.” He nods, but his eyes slide away. Something’s on his mind. My phone rings a third time. Before I stuff it in my pocket, I see the caller ID: Will. “Crap,” I mutter. “My boss.” Danny knows what that means practically before I do. The look on his face downshifts into something along the lines of I just knew it. Yeah, me too. I hit the icon to answer. “Wrap it up,” Will says. “Unless you want Elliott texting you every two minutes.” I turn in my chair, like that’ll shield the call from Danny, and vice versa. “Can it wait?” I never, ever ask this, not to Will, so I hope he understands the next twenty minutes are important. Will’s voice changes, too, and I must have tipped him off about who I’m with. “Miss Reynolds, this case goes to trial in three days. Get your lunch to go. Unless you want to lose.” The high-handed card is an act (so not Will’s style), but he wouldn’t play it if he didn’t need me back. “Fine.” Once I put my phone away, I can barely look up. “You have to go,” Danny says. “Work.” I can’t interpret his tone or his expression. 

“Yeah.” “I understand.” I know he does. He pulls long hours in the middle of a project, too. But there’s some undercurrent in his voice that worries me, like I’m in the lowest lock and the gates are holding back forty feet of water. “I’m sorry,” I try. He responds with a frown-nod. What’s gotten into him? Once again, he’s taking this hard. “Take the shawarma.” I snag a piece of baklava and my ginger ale and push the rest of the spread toward him. He paid for it anyway. “Nah. Not hungry anymore.” “Seriously.” I don’t store food. If I don’t finish it at work, it’s going in the garbage. He pulls the tray closer with one finger. I bide my time by taking a bite of baklava, showering down sweet flakes of honeyed phyllo. I have to go, but I can’t leave him on this note. But Danny changes the whole tune abruptly. “Listen, Talia, I’m sorry. It’s just disappointing to plan these things and then . . . nothing.” “I know. I’m sorry.” It sounds pretty hollow after the fifteenth repetition though. “I need you to promise me you’ll come next time.” I tilt my head. Surely I didn’t hear that right. He’d never ask— “What?” “Promise me: the next time I plan something special, you will do everything humanly possible to stay away from work. Turn off your phone.” If they wanted me, that wouldn’t stop them. “Leave your casework at the office.” Not a problem. Classified stuff doesn’t leave the premises. “No clients.” Sure. 

I look—really look—at Danny. He has no idea what he’s asking: put aside the country I’m protecting and the vows I’ve taken. I’m supposed to be available pretty much 24/7, and I don’t think the CIA would accept “I’ve got a date” as a reason not to come in to work. But with each second I hesitate, I can see Danny’s eyes grow more and more earnest, his desperation deepening. He needs this—he needs me—and I have to be there for him, too. Besides, what are the odds he’ll call in this favor at a bad time yet again? “I promise, Danny. No work.” He searches my eyes another second, and then finally, the smile comes. So genuine, so unreserved—so Danny. Good and honest and brilliant and gorgeous. I kiss him goodbye. At the door, I pause to catch a glimpse of his Talia-melting grin again. I love him. And in that moment, I know deep down I was right to make that promise. Or I just really, really hope.

When I get back to the office, Elliott’s at his computer with Robby, giggling. Yes, giggling. If you’ve ever seen a grown man giggle, you know this knocks down their innate hotness level by at least seven points. On a ten point scale. And if the joke is dirty or sexist or otherwise offensive, double that. Negative hotness. Did he interrupt my lunch with Danny for this? I’m afraid to ask. “What’s so funny?” Elliott jumps at my voice, straightening and clearing his throat so fast he almost chokes. “Hey, T.” But that’s all he can get out before another guffaw seizes control. Robby cackles, too. Seeing I’ll get nowhere with them, I 

head to Will’s office. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with the Marx Brothers.” Will pulls away from his monitor and frowns. I’m out of luck: he knows exactly who I mean, and doesn’t correct my assumption. We walk the ten feet back to Elliott’s desk. “Boys.” A warning hangs in Will’s tone. And his word choice. He never calls us stuff like that unless we’re totally out of line. Elliott composes himself with a final sniff. “Sorry, just—” Another paroxysm threatens to take over, but he uses a cough to cover it. “Just working on this profile.” Unless the CIA and CSIS are suddenly interested in the world’s most inept criminal, there’s definitely something I don’t like about any profile this hilarious. “Make it believable.” Will’s still using his stern voice. I round Will to peer at the screen between Elliott and Robby’s shoulders. The first thing I notice is the picture—it’s me. Why are they profiling me, and why are they using such a cruddy picture to do it? My eyes move to the information in the right column. In Russian. I doubt we’ve hacked Russian intelligence files, and if we have, if they have a photo of me that recent, we’ve definitely done something wrong. And then I read the info. Natalia Zhzhyonov. 25. Should I be flattered they’re shaving my age, or not? Twenty-eight isn’t exactly ancient. And then I see that one little line that changes everything. Looking for a man 25-45. Oh, no, no. This isn’t just a social networking site. It’s an online dating profile. The dread curls around my ribs. I eye Elliott, Robby—and Will. “What are you people doing?” Elliott taps on the logo at the top of the screen. РуссКа/RussCa. The slogan underneath translates as “Your 

Russian/Canadian connection.” I just saw this somewhere. “Timofeyev liked RussCa on Facebook.” Elliott pulls up the site’s Facebook page. Now I remember. He clicks on another tab, a profile of a now-familiar bearded man on the deck of a boat. If I had to guess, I’d say the boat was on the Don (it’s Rostov-on-Don for a reason). No wonder he wanted to go out with Kozyrev yesterday. The name at the top reads RotorFyodor. A rhyming username on a guy? Apparently the flying thing is more than just a career. They’re setting me up. I resist the urge to slap the back of Elliott’s head. It’d be hard to hit him anyway, since he’s swiveled to watch my reaction. I check. So has Will. “You want me to what? I mean, we’re not above Internet dating, but we know better than to date the dark side.” Robby points to a paragraph near the top of Timofeyev’s profile. I am in Ontario this August and would love to find

someone to pass the time with. Travel is very lonely. “I—okay, yes, I see that, but we haven’t been preparing for face time here.” Watching him, tailing him, chasing him, yes. Dating him? No. What’s the problem? Will’s eyebrows ask.

The problem is that I already have enough problems with my boyfriend, I don’t scream. Not to mention that it’ll take more than a day or two to get ready to meet a possible enemy spy. “Travel is very lonely.” Robby points at Timofeyev’s profile again. I do not want to do this, but I don’t get a chance to voice a further objection. “It’s not like we’re asking you to sleep with him,” Will says. And of course they’re not. We do not sleep with targets or agents, and when the honey pot route is absolutely necessary, we turn to . . . “specialists.” 

Will puts on his I-mean-this voice. “The only female Russian speaker available from CSIS this week is a throwback to the Cold War.” I don’t really have a choice here. I choke down the defeat and the dread, the nerves and the flavor of fear, and then reach between Elliott and Robby to pull up my profile again. No point in draining the resignation out of my voice. “Where was I born?” “Canada.” If Natalia had been born in Russia, her last name should have been Zhzhyonova, but a lot of Russians dropped gendered last names in the States and Canada. Still, I shake my head. “What?” Elliott says. “You don’t think he’ll buy a twentyfive-year-old messaging him?” “I don’t know, maybe. But we need a different profile picture.” I’m not sure where they got the shot of me in eye and ear protection, but they know better than to advertise that sometimes I use a gun. I upload my copy of the picture Danny uses for me on his phone: me walking a bike across the locks, the Château in the background. It’s from our first date, so you know I made an effort to look good. “Make sure I’m looking for friendship, not a relationship.” Robby checks the appropriate box. Next, I read through what little they’ve got. I highlight a sentence under About me. “What’s this?” “‘I’m a laid-back girl’?” Robby translates. “Might as well say ‘Lyublyu dolgie progulki po plyazhu.’” Robby smirks; Will and Elliott don’t. “I like long walks on the beach,” I tell them. Will gives one of his eyebrow-nods. “Good luck.” I glance back at what they’ve got in the profile. Snagging and prepping for a “date” in the next forty-eight hours? My stomach turns cold. We’re going to need a lot more than luck. 

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and rub my face. It took most of the afternoon, but we’ve finally got a profile that I think sounds like an actual human might’ve written it. An actual human Timofeyev might want to talk to. It’s one thing to tail the guy; it’s another to try to actively engage him as a decoy. “All right.” Robby clicks the button to publish my profile. Now I have no choice. Now we have to initiate contact. Because even worse than getting a date with an enemy spy? Failing to get a date. It takes another half hour alternating between tedium and taxing to craft the perfect “Hi how are you ;)” message. We send it through RussCa’s KoketniChat system, a cute play on the Russian koketnichatʹ, ‘to flirt.’ Timofeyev isn’t online, at least not according to the gray icon beneath his profile picture. He’s touring SinclAir today, and we probably won’t get a response soon, unless it’s from someone else. I don’t like it, but I’ve had a lot of practice at misleading and deflecting interest from innocent parties. I turn to my translation work, a call to Timofeyev’s mother LEAN BACK IN MY CHAIR

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from this morning. Disturbing. A guy in his forties, overseas on a business trip, checking in with Mommy? Nothing interesting or useful there, so I check on his RussCa page again. Still offline. Next, I pull up his Facebook profile. I dig out the Wall message from Mikhail Kozyrev about RussCa. Apparently Kozyrev has used the site to meet a herd of tyolochki. That’s “heifers” in direct translation, but something closer to “chicks” in slang. I have to question the wisdom of advertising that on Facebook. Check my email, check RussCa. Nothing. It’s about four—and about four hundred profile-and-email checks later—when I get an email from RussCa: a new KoketniChat is waiting. I close my eyes and click. I hope it’s not some random dude. We made my profile appealing to Timofeyev without looking like we were gunning for him, shooting for a 70% overlap in hobbies and interests. You want a target to feel you’re just like them—dating or intel target. But obviously Timofeyev isn’t the only guy who likes flying, biking, and sailing. One message in my KoketniChat inbox. From RotorFyodor. My pulse picks up almost like this is an actual adventure in dating. “I got a bite!” I announce. Will, Elliott and everyone else crowd around my desk, though Robby and I are the only ones who can read the text. I go sentence by sentence for a rough translation. “Hello, TashOttava.” My username, a totally original (not) take on the pet form of Natalia and Russian form of Ottawa. “Very nice to meet you. Please, call me Fyodor. As I say on my profile, I am 43 and divorced. I work in aerospace. I see we share many interests. Normally I wouldn’t suggest this so soon, but I am only in Ottawa this week, and I would like to meet you. Are you busy?” Once I finish, I turn my chair to the rest of my team to cele

brate. For a split second, a splash of surprise stuns me. I was almost ready to squeal, as if this were real, as if I were surrounded by my college roommates instead of the boys’ club. But now these guys are the closest I get to girlfriends. No squealing, though there are a couple big grins. “CSIS can search his hotel room.” Will checks his watch. “How about tonight?” “No, there’ll be fewer people coming and going during the day,” Elliott points out. Fewer witnesses. “We might even get a hand from housekeeping.” A flush of mother-pride fills my chest. I try—and fail—to hold back the smile that goes with it. Elliott hasn’t completely lost his touch. “All right.” Will looks to Robby. “Do we have Timofeyev’s itinerary for tomorrow?” “We haven’t found anything yet.” Will leans over me to pull up the Natalia Zhzhyonov profile. “Where do you work?” It took us twenty-five minutes to find the right position, but I think we scored with my cover’s legend. “I’m an admin for the House of Commons Committee on Industry, Science and Technology.” I should be able to pass the appearance standard of Parliament Hill on my own, as long as it’s lower than that of Pokrovsky Square. (It’s in Rostov-on-Don.) I’m no competition for Russian girls. “What’s good in Parliament Hill?” Will asks. “Changing of the guard,” three of us say in near-unison. The changing of the guard at Parliament is one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions, and Timofeyev has been too busy to make it. “At . . . ten, right? Breakfast before or lunch after?” I wait for someone to answer, but take the question myself after two seconds of silence. “It’ll be easier to meet for breakfast 

than find him in the crowd. What’s walkable?” “The Château.” Robby doesn’t speak French, but he manages this word with a good accent. Pity, considering even francophone locals seem to pronounce it more like “the Shadow.” Will considers it. “Convenient.” Especially if Timofeyev’s staying downtown. But can we pull together an op for tomorrow morning—if I can get a date at all? “So, Wilfrid’s or—what’s that other place? The café?” Nobody knows, so I Google it. No, not any special superfast version. Just regular Google.ca. Yes, Google is one of the CIA’s secret weapons. “Zoé’s doesn’t open until afternoon tea.” I double check. That’s 2 PM, apparently. “Wilfrid’s is better for us anyway. Got a lot of data on it already.” We discuss the best time to meet, and settle on between 8:30 and 9, so we have time to talk and eat before heading down to get a good place on Parliament Hill. We work out the details of keeping a tail on me until my computer makes a pop-click sound I’ve never heard before. I turn back to the monitor and kill the tab with Zoé’s schedule. My RussCa profile is underneath—and there’s a little blinking box at the bottom. An instant message KoketniChat. From RotorFyodor. My stomach crawls into my throat and hides, but my heart isn’t racing just from fear. Am I up to this challenge? “It’s Timofeyev,” Robby announces. I click on the blinking box and it grows taller to show the message from RotorFyodor/Timofeyev. A simple “Hi.” Privyet, not the formal zdravstvuytye. Elliott leans in. “What does he say?” “Hi.” Robby and I have the same current of excitement run

ning through our voices. And suddenly it does feel like I’m surrounded by my college roommates. Robby dashes off to wheel a couple chairs over, César and Justin take a seat on his desk with a view of mine, and Will takes the lead position standing at my shoulder. But no pressure. “Say ‘hi’ back.” Elliott backs up his urging with a shoving gesture. “No, you don’t say ‘hi’ back in Russian.” I switch over to a Cyrillic keyboard and type in the proper response: Kak dela? How are things? RotorFyodor: Not bad, thank you. I am enjoying your

lovely city. Are you from Russia? TashOttava: No, I was born here. My parents are Russian. I don’t want to give out too much info that I might forget right now. I steer the conversation to our plans. I got your message.

I’m free in the morning. RotorFyodor: Tomorrow? You don’t have work? My stomach falls back to a couple inches below its normal location. We need a reason for that. I translate the question. Will tells me what to write. I work for a House of Commons

committee but they don’t meet until later. I can take off. Are you busy? RotorFyodor: No, no plans in the morning. Although the setup we’ve worked so hard on is itching to come flying out of my fingers, that might be too abrupt. I have to go slower. Lay the lure. Reel him in. So instead I type, Have

you had a chance to see the city? RotorFyodor: Only the inside of SinclAir. And the river. TashOttava: Oh, then you should see the changing of the guard. No visit to Ottawa is complete without it. I wait for him to take the initiative to ask me to go there in the morning. My cursor seems to be blinking slower with each 

second.

RotorFyodor: When is it? Oh, right. 10 o’clock every morning. RotorFyodor: Then you would like to do that. Okay, so he’s not actually using punctuation, and in Russian the question and the statement form of that sentence are exactly the same. I can’t tell if he’s asking me or stating the obvious. Either way, I think my answer works: Sure.

RotorFyodor: Where would you like to meet? I give him the summary version of what my team and I discussed about meeting on Parliament Hill—we’d never find one another in the crowd, etc.—and I suggest meeting beforehand. It takes me a second to transliterate/translate the name of our rendezvous (Restorane Uilfrida, Wilfrid’s restaurant), but he seems to get it.

RotorFyodor: In Shato-Lorye? I don’t understand until I read it aloud. The Château Laurier. Da, I tell him. That’s it. He picks the time, 8:45. When I translate the confirmation, the men around me burst into cheers. Yeah, not that different from college, down to the shot of giddiness running in my veins. But getting the date is only the beginning. Fyodor’s still there. Now I have to make it look like I’m actually into this— into him. The hard part. Especially when I have to face him. And you are not working now? he asks. I read it off to my crew, but think of the clever response first. No, I say, they took my plow, so today I’m one with a spoon. The original proverb is “One with a plow, seven with a spoon,” meaning for every productive person, there are a lot of slackers.

RotorFyodor: Seven nannies and the child is without an eye. 

I translate, and then have to translate it again. “It means if you have too many people on a project, nobody does the actual work.” “Isn’t that the truth.” Elliott glances at the other guys around the desk, spectating. TashOttava: It seems no one is looking after you, either.

RotorFyodor: Who said I wasn’t working now? TashOttava: Am I interrupting? RotorFyodor: They think I am taking careful notes. But they have nothing here I’m interested in. I lean forward over my keyboard. Once the rest of my team knows what he said, the joking mood evaporates. Oh? What are

you interested in? Aerospace is all he says. The tingling of my scalp is all the prompting I need to subtly bait him. We do a little work with aerospace in my committee.

RotorFyodor: What committee is that? TashOttava: House of Commons Committee on Industry, Science and Technology. RotorFyodor: What do you do? Here it comes. I have to get this right, make this look natural, and still somehow work in the fact I work with sensitive stuff. Stuff he might care about. Stuff he might want. I start small, but I can feel my pulse in my fingers. Look at

laws related to industry and technology capabilities and R&D. RotorFyodor: Yes, but what do YOU do? Nice lead in, if I can use it. Oh, I do support work. Law analysis, effect reports, accountability. Sometimes take lobbyists off the MPs’ hands. Honestly, we’re not sure committees have admins. MPs definitely do, but standing committees? If we can’t find out, I doubt Fyodor can, either. But the tension pulls my back taut. 

TashOttava: And what do you do? RotorFyodor: R&D and manufacturing. Is that an opportunity? My gut says yes. So you’re researching, developing and manufacturing the future of aerospace? RotorFyodor: Trying to. We have a lot of competition. TashOttava: That’s tough. RotorFyodor: That might change soon. We’ll see how long they last. And that trails an ominous fingernail down my spine. I check reactions around me. There’s something in there we can draw out, but we have to tread carefully. Come back to it later. He writes again. I have to pay attention now. I’ll leave word

with the maître d’hôtel in the morning. Ask for Fyodor’s table when you get there. TashOttava: Okay. See you in the morning. The little green light below Fyodor’s profile picture changes to gray. I expect a release, the stress of watching my every word gone, but I spin around to face my team with a sinking feeling that’s a lot closer to dread, or maybe disappointment. I do not want to go getting this guy confused for someone I’d actually date. And Danny isn’t the least of the reasons why. No, he’s pretty high up there, but what Timofeyev might do to me if he knew who I really was ranks a little bit higher. I glance over at Elliott, who lifts his hand for a high five. Like the hard part’s over. “Ne govori gop, poka ne pereprygnesh.” He furrows his brow, and I translate: “Don’t say ‘hop’ until you’ve jumped over.” Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Yeah, I’m a little worried. Will claps. “All right. We’ve got an op to plan.” 

There’s a minute of thinking silence, and then inspiration flashes into my mind. “Got it.” I sit up straighter. “Erica said we don’t think he’ll go for full-out betrayal, at least not from what we’ve seen of his motivations. But his profile indicates he could be interested in showing off.” “What do you have in mind?” “Maybe false-flag?” Will looks supremely unconvinced, but Elliott picks up the idea. “What if we convince him she’s Canadian, but she loves Russia and wants to give him some American secrets?” “And he’s going to trade info back to the Canadians?” Will gives us another I-don’t-know-about-this frown. “No no no,” I say. “Let’s use the secrets to lure him in. Show him something the Americans have that’s kind of boring or useless, and he’ll want to flaunt how much better their stuff is. Then I angle for an invite to Shcherbakov so he can show off more.” Will leans against my desk and rubs his upper lip, but I’m pretty sure that’s an excuse to cover a smile. “Call James.” He’s a Staff Operations Officer at Langley. They’re freaking magicians. I know exactly what Will wants me to do: get some “sensitive secrets” (that are neither sensitive nor secret) to be ready for a trade or further op. Will turns to the rest of the group. “We’ve got a high-threat target tomorrow morning. Let’s pull the file on Wilfrid’s. And has anybody worked with aerospace before?” Nobody moves. And then it hits me: if I want Fyodor to talk aerospace, I need some idea what he’s talking about. I doubt a vivid retelling of the political embroilment that grounded the Avro Arrow sixty years ago will do, with or without the allusions to the CIA’s involvement. I really need Danny. No. I need to use Danny.



I get off work at a reasonable time for once, but I actually don’t want to see Danny. Horrible, I know, but the thought of pumping him for information—even information he’d willingly share—isn’t my idea of fun. Instead, I default to my usual routine. Three mundane stops to check for surveillance, my apartment sweep ritual, and making myself dinner. Tonight: oatmeal, the perfect fuel for a spy. It’s filling without slowing you down (avoiding hunger attacks in the middle of an op), it helps heart health (vital for the physical and psychic stress of the job), it’s got protein, carbs and fiber (sustained energy). And if you make it with apple juice, brown sugar and maple syrup, it’s tasty, too. I eat and thoroughly review the objectives for my meeting with Fyodor and the lay of the land. I.E. browsing Flickr photos of Wilfrid’s and picking out what I’ll order. Meeting for breakfast is a plus. First thing in the morning, I won’t have to explain why I’m not drinking. My cover identities aren’t Mormon, but that’s one thing I can’t disguise about the real me. After finding the best position for the changing of the guard from four shaky YouTube videos, I’m satisfied I’m prepared as I can be—and I’ve put it off as long as I can. I grab my phone and text Danny. “Sorry about lunch. Again,” I answer when he calls. “I know.” I barely allow an inward groan. It’s awful, but somewhere inside I guess I was hoping he’d take that chance to apologize for making me promise not to break a date, a promise I’m still not sure I’ll be able to keep. But he doesn’t. I bottle my disappointment, and we move on to chatting about our days. I keep my side brief, and listen to his personnel woes. If you thought people in a high-level scientific research facility acted like, you 

know, adults, sometimes you’d be sadly disappointed. His tale of the latest drama winds down, and the timing seems perfect. “So.” Please let my voice sound normal. “What exactly are you working on now?” He’s quiet long enough for another page of Flickr photos of Wilfrid’s to load. It’s true, you cannot be too prepared. “Why the sudden interest?” he asks. I pull out the cover I polished somewhere between the grocery store and the dry cleaners. “Without saying too much, we have a client who’s thinking about suing a competitor for patent infringement, and it’s in your sector.” “Oh.” Danny sounds like I’ve reassured him, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Let me know if you need an expert witness. I’m cheap.” “And you just jumped to the top of the list.” I wait for his laughter to subside before building on the joke. “Actually, on second thought, we pass those expenses on to our clients. So, um, don’t call us, we’ll call you.” “Riiight. You’re such a lawyer.” I can almost hear his goodnatured eye roll. “Want me to take a look at the patent? Give me the number.” He’s not trying to grill me, but it still feels that way. “I don’t have it on hand.” He’ll want me to email it tomorrow, so I add, “And, you know, that whole confidentiality thing.” “Oh. Sure. Then what did you want to talk about?” I skim another page of image results. “I’m kind of hoping— and kind of terrified—that Elliott will ask me to second chair, and I don’t want to look like an idiot.” “Elliott.” He says it like it’s a problem. I don’t have a choice: Danny only knows one of my coworkers’ names. He and Elliott have never met (the CIA doesn’t do office Christmas parties in the field), but they probably feel like they know each other with how much they’ve heard about one another. 

“You want my help to impress Elliott?” Danny pronounces each word a little too carefully. “Mostly the client. But if you think it’d be better if I keep my mouth shut . . .” “Doesn’t the Bible say something like ‘Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt’?” He’s teasing me—but he isn’t. I try to keep my rising defenses from reaching my vocal cords. “You want me to look like an idiot?” “No,” he sighs. I wish I’d gone to his place for this conversation. I need way more feedback than the limited frequencies a phone transmits to figure out what’s going through his head. Normally, we’re grateful for any time we get together, so I do not understand what’s happening these last few days. “Okay, then. Will you please talk aerospace to me?” “You really know how to sweet-talk a guy, you know that?” And now he’s totally kidding. I laugh partially at the joke and partially out of relief. Danny starts in on Bernoulli’s principle, and I go to my closet to rustle up something to meet Wilfrid’s “smart casual” dress code. But now I’m worried dating around for a work assignment isn’t the biggest threat to our relationship.



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ELLIOTT’S KNOCK COMES early Wednesday morning, I’ve already run through my pre-op routine from dressing to deep breathing, from reviewing my prep notes to prayer. It’s weird to ask God for help to lie, I know, but until I pray for protection at least, I’m just not ready. Ready? You’re never really ready. As I’m reminded by my tripping pulse. I answer my door, but don’t mention Elliott’s baby. He’d tell me if there was anything to tell. “What, no skirt?” Elliott greets me. He’s always adamant about me using my best assets to our full advantage. I roll my eyes and let him in. “Morning to you too.” “Nice shirt.” He nods at my emerald green buttoned blouse. Like his opinion counts. He’s a guy. “You too.” I purse my lips at his red and black Carleton University T-shirt. He mimics my expression. “Too much makeup.” I can count the number of times he’s seen me in anything stronger than eyeliner on one hand, so again, his opinion = Y THE TIME



invalid. “You too.” “Do you want my help or not?” He holds up the tiny mic for my top button. I hold my hair out of the way and fix my eyes on the ceiling. Once Elliott’s fully engaged in his face-time with my shirt, though, my gaze falls to him. I hate to admit it, but I’m edgy. The nerves are vibrating down to my fingertips. Worse, I’m not nervous about getting close to Fyodor. I’m more worried about the man standing in front of me, threading the wires of my made-to-match mic through my buttonholes. Disloyal? Precautious. Pragmatic. Paranoid. Am I better off alone? Before I can begin to contemplate the answer, my phone rings. The morning of an op, I have to answer. Unfortunately, it’s on my bed. Yes, we’re in my bedroom—it’s a bachelor. I mean the world’s smallest studio apartment. Where else is there? Elliott can’t let go of what he’s doing now, so we do an awkward shuffle-and-lean dance to get my cell. Danny. That’s a little weird. I don’t think he’s ever called before work. And he’s lucky he caught me. No personal phones on ops. “Hey, Talia,” he says. “You at work yet?” Why would he care? I mean, I don’t object to him caring, it’s just kind of a strange thing to care about an hour earlier than most people report to work. “No, not yet.” “On your way?” Now? That’d be enough time for two round trips to work. I may or may not have let Danny believe I cannot find my way from point A to point B with a map, a GPS and a personal satellite, but that’s ridiculous. “Actually, I’m still at home. Elliott and I are getting ready for a meeting with a client on the other side of town.” 

“Oh.” There’s a pause on the line. I may be suspicious for a living, but it feels like there’s something in this silence. Elliott eyes my phone, questioning with his eyebrows. Like I need the reminder I have him in my face and Danny on the line. “The aerospace company that shall remain nameless?” Danny finally asks. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” “Knock ’em dead. And call me later.” Again, there’s some little hint in his voice, but I can’t exhaust my people-reader before meeting Fyodor. Once I’m off the phone, Elliott finishes wiring me up, and I put in my invisible-to-the-naked-eye earpiece. It tests fine. Will, Elliott and Robby are all running backup for me, with the rest of the team observing as security, but only one of them will be talking to me to minimize chatter and confusion. Will’s tapped Elliott for the job for obvious reasons —i.e. reminding me it’s my neck on the line. I finish my final mental prep and turn to Elliott. “Any last words of advice?” Elliott’s comms rig looks more like earphones for a phone or MP3 player, and he holds one earbud for a second, then covers the mic so he doesn’t double broadcast. “Will says to have fun.” He’s got to be joking, right? My orders are to have a good time on my date with a target? “Guys can always tell if you’re only pretending. If you actually enjoy yourself, we might be able to keep building on this relationship.” Pretending was definitely my plan. “Hooray, I get to fraternize with the enemy.” “You don’t have to go that far. Just keep him busy until thirteen hundred.” 

Thirteen hundred? Great. That doubles my operating timeline. What are we supposed to do after the changing of the guard? Play mall rats at the Rideau Centre? Museum hop? (I am not taking him to the aviation museum. Some things are meant to be kept sacred. Plus there are half a dozen museums closer.) “Good luck.” Elliott claps me on the shoulder. I start one of our standard pre-op in-jokes. “See you.” “Or not.” We head down to catch the next bus downtown. Yep, every once in a while, spies use public transit. Of course, since we’re headed to an op, we have to follow different surveillance detection routes. Elliott gets off after ten minutes, a good a mile from Parliament Hill, and I wait two stops before I do the same. The purpose of a surveillance detection route is just that, a route to help us determine whether someone is following us. If you see the same person in two adjacent chip shops, that’s a coincidence. If you see the same person in a totally different kind of store on the other side of town half an hour later, that’s surveillance. There aren’t many options for stops along the route with the embassies and government buildings in this part of town, but I don’t see anyone too familiar between the bank I pretend to use, the convenience store and the Ottawa Convention Centre. I signal Elliott I’m black. He comes back immediately. “We’re in position.” “Roger.” I head for the Château. “Remember, stay in sight.” “I got it.” We often try to blend into the background, but today I have to remain very visible so my backup team, most of them in place since sunrise, can keep me covered. Okay, mostly my objective is to stay safe and not need my backup team, but I’m glad they’re there. As soon as I make it through the Château’s heavy, brass

trimmed revolving doors, I realize why this is the landmark in Ottawa. I’ve seen the pictures, but to stand on the Persian rugs and marble floors, amid the curved blue couches and the walnutpaneled walls, under the thirty-foot coffered ceilings—I’m definitely underdressed. Underclassed. Under way too much pressure. I brace myself, fighting to counteract my tensing back muscles. I can do this. Beyond the marble archways, stairs climb to the mezzanine above. Wilfrid’s is past the staircase, to the left. I scan the tables before approaching the maître d’s stand. No Timofeyev. I need to call him Fyodor. And I do when I speak to the maître d’. He leads me into the restaurant to meet my date. I pad over the rich carpet and my sensible flats aren’t the only things sinking. My stomach feels like I’ve reached the top of the climb, that second of weightlessness before you commit to the plummet. Apparently I learned one thing from Danny’s aerospace lecture last night. We reach the table. Fyodor stands and offers a hand. I shake it. He offers a stolid greeting: “Dobroye utro.” Good morning. No smile. It’s time to commit to this. I will have fun. I will like Timofeyev. I will not think about how much I’d rather this be Danny. I will live this part to the end. I throw my faith into the accent I spent months perfecting. It’s been a few years since I’ve spoken Russian for more than about half an hour at a time, so my biggest worry is passing for a child of native speakers. I’m picking up speed into the dive, and my internal organs feel like they’re pulling three Gs, but I forge ahead. I have to 

enjoy this. Somehow. Even though I know Russians only smile with good reason, I can’t help the jitter-attack whenever Fyodor looks across the table at me with a blank expression. Which he does four times before our waiter takes our order. What now? I start with some classic techniques of elicitation, getting answers without actually asking questions. The methods are rudimentary, and they won’t work on someone who’s careful (like an enemy spy), but on the average person, they can be scarily effective. “You must have a very important job to travel so much.” “Not really.” The tactic is supposed to prompt him to say I only do something or other, but he doesn’t. “My English is better than some others’.” I rub the engraved pattern on my fork. “I’ve heard the Russian aerospace industry is going through a lot of mergers these days.” Deliberate misinformation, which I hope Fyodor will feel compelled to correct with intel I want. “No, not particularly. A large merger a few years ago.” Blank look. Sip of water. I look at all his body language: eyes, hands, posture. Nothing to help. “Are you losing him already?” Elliott asks in my ear. I don’t know, but I sure appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll have to try the elicitation later and play the ace I was saving. “You know, I once visited Rostov-on-Don.” He looks like I’ve offered him a suitcase full of cash and top-secret aerospace plans. “Pravda?” Yes, it’s a word in Russian, and here it means Really? “Oh yes.” I slip into Russian. “It was amazing! I’ve always wanted to go back.” A warm light slowly dawns in Fyodor’s eyes. Within five minutes after our food arrives, he. Is. Hooked. I don’t know what exactly I said, but when he smiles at my awkward joke 

comparing Russian food to our sumptuous breakfast, I know he’s buying everything. And to be honest, I am enjoying myself, and not just because I did succumb to Wilfrid’s Warm Maple Crêpes, and the maple butter and tangy-sweet berry compote are even more amazing than they sound. Now that I’ve loosened him up, Fyodor is actually a nice guy who pays attention and listens more than he talks. A great quality in a date. Less so in a target. Like I said before, I try not to sympathize with my targets. Seldom helps my objectives. But today, it seems, sympathizing with him is my objective. Once he’s paid for our food, it’s time to head to Parliament Hill, and take things up a notch. He pulls a briefcase from under the table. I’m guessing it’s not full of cash and top-secret aerospace plans, but it’s also not a good sign. Is he going to take off for work right after this? We head out of the restaurant, and I make sure to touch his free arm to get his attention for a little history on the Parliament buildings. Speaking Russian has more advantages than short-circuiting his suspicions, although that’s vital to establishing the kind of relationship I’m looking for. It actually feels like every sentence is something no one else can understand, our own little secret. Ours and Robby’s, wherever he is. They’re observing radio silence right now, and can I say how grateful I am? Fyodor and I reach the street in time to see the ceremonial band march by. The band and the guard are all dressed basically the same: red coats and tall poofy black hats. Think less Mounties and more Buckingham Palace. We fall in step with the red coats and don’t attempt to talk over the Sousa-like tune. At least the Scottish pipe band bringing up the rear isn’t playing. 

We get to the last cross street before Parliament Hill, and some guy filming the band brushes past me, almost knocking me down. Fyodor catches my arm, and doesn’t let go after I’m upright again. I smoothly shift to a less awkward position and we follow the band to the grass in front of the Parliament buildings. The band switches to another number, something reminiscent of Star Wars’ “Imperial March.” If Darth Vader or the Emperor had a consort, right now, I know exactly how she would’ve felt. The band finishes and the squares of red-suited soldiers line up. From here, we can barely make out the commanding officer’s shouted directions, so I offer my own narration, about how in the evenings they do a light show on the capital building, usually celebrating Canada’s cultural heritage and culminating in “O Canada.” On the field in front of us, the foot guards take turns presenting arms. “What is this for?” Fyodor nods at the redcoats. “Are they real guards?” “Well, they’re real guards, but this is all for show.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I fix my gaze on the field, and ignore how applicable my commentary feels. Sometimes, when you’re undercover, you get so used to being that other person until you say or see or do something that breaks the fourth wall and out of the blue reminds you of who you really are. If you’ve ever watched outtakes from TV shows, you’ve seen how hard it can be to get back into character once someone’s broken the illusion. But today, I have to readjust my hold on my cover, close my eyes and dive in again. I glance at Fyodor, the zero Gs bottoming out in my stomach. Oh yeah. I’m diving.

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



with the band and one set of soldiers marching off the field. I run through my options. Mint Museum? National Art Gallery? War Museum? Yeah, can’t wait to see what he’ll say in the Cold War exhibit. Plus all those places are huge. What if I lose him? What if he has to run off to work? And then I think back to the night I lost him mere meters away at the locks. Right past the Bytown Museum, housed in a little stone building, the oldest in the city. Housed? Contained, I should say. “Are you busy now?” I ask Fyodor. He turns back to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. “I have some time.” Yesterday, he said he didn’t have any plans. In the morning. I really hope Robby is picking up on this. Maybe CSIS can find a copy of his itinerary. “Mind if I show you a little more of our history?” Fyodor holds out his briefcase to say “Lead the way.” My hand’s still on his arm, and we stroll across the street and down HE CEREMONY WINDS DOWN



the same stairs I chased him up—or tried to—thirty-six hours ago. I am so glad Danny works in Gloucester. In the museum, once Fyodor checks his case at the desk, we alternate between English and Russian. His English is very good, despite his heavy accent. But the more English he speaks, the more opportunities Elliott has to try to “help.” “After visiting Montréal and Toronto, I wondered why Ottawa is the capital.” Fyodor and I pause in front of a display detailing the answer to that question. “Tell him he’s the capital of your heart,” Elliott suggests. I stifle a groan. “You should compliment his beard, too. It’s pretty sweet.” The dude’s beard envy has reached weird proportions. I’m tempted to run to the bathroom and ditch my earpiece, but without that connection, this is a real date. I don’t date the dark side, and I definitely don’t let the dark side out of my sight. We move to the display about the first settler, LieutenantColonel John By, and Elliott moves back on topic. “Keep him away from the front desk. Justin and César are taking a look at his briefcase.” Huh. Normally, charming the cute desk clerk would be Elliott’s job, but I guess he’s busy. I do my part to keep Fyodor away from the entrance. We learn more about By and the Rideau Canal’s construction until Elliott gives me the all clear (nothing interesting in the briefcase, but we did manage to clone his laptop for further investigation). Once they’re done, Fyodor and I take in the other exhibits: contemporary art that looks like paintings of junk to me, and art and objects from Ottawa’s history. By 11:30, though, we’ve pretty much exhausted Bytown. It’s fairly obvious our tour is winding down. Even Elliott has to comment. “CSIS needs him out of his hotel for at least another 

hour.” I can’t let them down again after we failed them Monday night. And at least it’s related to the op and not Fyodor’s beard, right? We drift to a stop in a doorway made of exposed beams, both staring up at the historic Union Jack in its glass case. “Fyodor,” I start, “if you’re only in town for a little while, why did you sign up for RussCa?” “A friend recommended it.” He shrugs. “Isn’t love worth the risk?” He doesn’t look at me, so I think I’m safe with a flirty little laugh. Definitely feels more like a risk than love to me. Especially since I need to keep him close for another hour. I’m still full from breakfast, but I know better than to take Fyodor anywhere larger than Bytown. “Would you like to have lunch?” “Oh.” The surprise raises his normal pitch an interval. “That sounds wonderful.” Before the triumph blooms behind my rib cage, he continues, “But I’m afraid I can’t. I have an engagement this afternoon.” And we don’t know what that is—and CSIS is depending on a longer timeline. “Ask him,” Elliott urges. I hope he doesn’t mean about The Beard. “Really? What are you doing?” He waves away my question. “Work. Nothing as interesting as this, unfortunately.” I want to press him for more information, but I have to play this off first. “That doesn’t sound unfortunate to me.” “Oh?” Fyodor begins to stroll back toward the entranceexit. I follow at a pace designed to slow him down. I need to keep him here. “I think it’s pretty lucky not to have competetion.” I’m trying to allude to that comment he made on IM, but he 

doesn’t seem to get the reference. He tilts his head and gives me a cocky half-smile. “No one could compete with you.” Elliott snickers in my ear, but I, for one, haven’t forgotten why I’m here. “Well, your meeting must be very important.” “Probably not” is all he says. Like I said, elicitation doesn’t work on someone who’s careful. But now it’s time for me to dangle the bait, and hope I can keep him a little longer. “Let me know if there’s something I can do to help you. We have a lot of industry contacts.” “We?” “The Committee on Industry, Science and Technology. Lobbyists from all sectors come to us. You said you were in aerospace, right?” Fyodor nods, and the little spark in his eyes says he’s intrigued. Run with this. Keep. Him. Here. “Well, in the last couple months we’ve met with representatives from SinclAir and Malcolm and—” I draw a blank. Glad we’ve switched to English, I try to signal Elliott for help. “Oh, what was that other company?” “Um, um.” Elliott’s no better off than I am. Fyodor claims his briefcase from the front desk and turns back to me, but doesn’t move for the door. “Oh, yes, I’m meeting with both of them already.” “AeroTech Canada,” Elliott finally provides. “What about AeroTech Canada? They’re one of the big ones.” I’m making that up on the spot, but I hardly think it matters. Fyodor’s eyes narrow a split second. “No, I haven’t met with them. Unfortunately, my time here is very short.” He shoots me a meaningful look. Great. He’s moving away from the subject and all I’ve done is rule out AeroTech Canada as his destination. Bait, then. 

“That’s too bad. We see lots of cool stuff from all those guys.” “Oh really?” Dangle, dangle, dangle. “Yeah, when they want government grants or legislation might affect them, they come running. Same with the Americans, actually. Seems like a lot of them are looking to relocate if we’ll give them tax breaks, and they love to show us how cool and impressive they are, all the things they could do for the Canadian Forces.” I scoff. Fyodor’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I’ve got him. But I’m not going to go offering the secrets now. I don’t have them ready, and it’d be highly suspect if I did. So I yank the bait away. “Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them. Who does?” “Actually, I would be very interested, but I must leave.” He checks his watch and moves toward the door. “I’m already late. I will send you a message?” “Great.” I stay with him into the bright sunlight. You know how awkward the end of a first date can be? Imagine if you also had to keep your date in sight at all times as a matter of national security. Yeah, now I really don’t know how to tie this up. Fyodor offers a hand, but I definitely need to “seal the deal” here, so I go straight for the hug. It’s not as awkward as I expect, not so short as to make it seem like he’s pushing me away, and not so long as to make it uncomfortable. Even though in the real world, he’s way outside of my type, I know I can totally make this cover work. Unless I have to tail him now. Finally, Elliott’s voice comes through: “Ready to intercept. Trip on the stairs to confirm.” I don’t know why I have to look stupid to communicate, but I guess it’s better than asking me to say something bizarre, so I pretend to trip on the way up the stairs just before the bridge. Fyodor takes my arm. And I do not look for Elliott 

behind us. I hold onto Fyodor until we get to the statue of Wilfrid Laurier (Prime Minister of Canada a long time ago, hence everything named after him). At Laurier’s feet, Fyodor takes my hand. “Thank you again for showing me a little of your city.” “My pleasure.” I keep my eyes on his, ignoring Elliott strolling past. I need to get Fyodor going or we might be tailing him from in front. Not ideal without a huge team and car support. We’d better have car support. “I hope to get to see more of Ottawa.” Fyodor’s gaze holds mine intently and I don’t look away. “And you.” He leans down and kisses my hand, his eyes on mine the entire time. A cold chill travels my spinal cord, but I force myself not to react, and hug him again. “I’ll wait for your message.” He squeezes my hand one last time and starts across the Plaza Bridge over the canal, toward the Château. I watch him for a moment, until Elliott passes me in his black and red Carleton University T-shirt. I wasn’t sure he could pull it off— he’s a little old for university, as they’d call it here—but with the earbuds and backpack, he’s pretty convincing. A couple steps away, Fyodor turns back to me and waves. It’s hard not to grin at a 43-year-old acting like a smitten 14year-old. I’d like to take up third tail position, but I know it’s too risky. If Fyodor spotted me, I’d be wagering my cover, my mission and myself. I head for the Parliament buildings, living my legend. Once Fyodor’s out of sight, I’ll start my SDR, waiting until Elliott gives me the all clear to head back to Keeler Tate. When word finally comes from Elliott—you’d be amazed at the range on these things, small as they are—I’ve already made it through two of my three mundane stops, National War Me

morial and Ottawa Library. No sign of surveillance. I finish the last stop and catch a bus (okay, three to satisfy my caution) to my place to pick up my car. When I unlock my apartment door, my cell is ringing. I hurry to get it. Danny. “Hey. You up for lunch today?” “Actually, I’m in Westboro.” Not true, but close. “Just got out of that client meeting.” “Ah, the aerospace company whose name you dare not speak.” I head to my closet for a different shirt and flip Danny to speakerphone. “That’s the one.” “And were they thoroughly impressed by your high-level mastery of aerospace and its industry?” I realize with a twinge of disappointment that I got to show off exactly none of what Danny told me last night. “No. I remained silent. You know, instead of removing all doubt.” Danny laughs. But he doesn’t change the subject. “An aerospace company in Westboro?” “Oh, we only came here to meet. Lunch conference, all that.” “Gotcha.” I check the time on my phone. I have to leave now to run my SDR and make it back to Keeler Tate for the rendezvous. If I don’t come in on time, they come in to get me. “In fact, I need to get to the office, so I’d better go.” “All right. Let me know when you get there.” Huh? “Pretty sure I can find it.” “Just . . . call me.” “Okay,” I say slowly. “Whenever you get there.” “Ha. Ha.” I have no problem with Danny teasing me about the world’s worst sense of direction. Between a security check 

on my car (yes, every time) and figuring out new SDRs and stops, it typically takes me twice as long to get around as anyone else. I’ve never had the tables turned on me, or had anyone follow me home or figure out who I am, but I don’t believe you can be too cautious. Still, I find my foot pushing the gas a little harder than normal today. On my stops, I pick up my extremely healthy lunch: tortilla chips, salsa and a Crispy Crunch chocolate bar. Yes, the best lunch after a sugary breakfast is more sugar. I make it into the office in half an hour, the excitement building in my chest with every flight of stairs. When I round the corner to Keeler Tate & Associates, I pause in front of the heavy wooden doors and the security cameras. Out of habit, I check behind me. Nobody. I open the door and the first thing I see and smell in the reception area is flowers. A huge bouquet of flowers. I don’t know much about them, though we did track a Somali botanist for two weeks—I didn’t have to pretend to date him—but I recognize some lilies, roses and snapdragons. And it falls into place. This is why he wanted me to call. This is why he called this morning. Snapdragons are my favorite, though I can’t remember telling Danny that. He’s either very lucky or a better spy than I give him credit for. “We have been waiting all day.” Linda, the secretary, smiles like she knows about my surprise party waiting behind the secured double doors. I’m pretty sure the surprise has already sprung. “Oh, the carte.” Her accent makes it a little hard to understand her sometimes (who knew? Linda is French for Linda), but she hands me the little envelope that comes with the bouquet. It isn’t sealed, and I’m pretty sure that means everyone in the office already knows what it says. The downside to 

working with spies. But I’m the only one who knows what it means when the short-but-sweet note ends with the sentence “Friday.” In Danny’s handwriting. He’s planning something big, and he’s calling in his favor. This week. I.E. the week I’m supposed to go out with Fyodor Timofeyev again.

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

MUST BE A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT,

or maybe just way too loyal to the guy, but I duck into the hall to call him back. “So, Friday?” I begin the conversation after he answers. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Happy anniversary.” “You too.” I hope my voice doesn’t betray the fact I was sure that was next week. “Thanks for the flowers.” “You’re welcome. I know it’s a little early.” I allow myself a little relief. “Oh, so next Friday?” “No, this Friday.” I swallow a groan and let my head fall back against the wall. This cosmic coincidence sucks. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling tiles. Does someone up there hate me? Join the club. Danny breaks our radio silence. “I take it that’s not good for you.” “I’m not totally sure.” I mean, my date with Fyodor might be tomorrow night. “Well, I need to know if it’s not going to work. I’ve got . . . stuff planned.” 

“Stuff?” “Yeah.” The single syllable carries a defensive note trying to masquerade as nonchalance. Once again, a conversation I wish we were having face to face. So I tell him that. “All right. Later, I guess.” Disappointment levels his tone. I pretend not to notice, turning back to the Keeler Tate doors. And then I stop. Danny ends the call, but suddenly I can’t walk up to those doors. Now they don’t look like the usual barriers between our covert identities and the world. They’re the gates to the black hole. It’s so easy to see my life as the sum total of Danny’s disappointment, my complete lack of friends, seeing my family once a year. Yes, I’m potentially protecting millions of US citizens, but my job hurts the people I care about the most all the time. Including me. But the CIA’s more than just a job to me, and the long-dead mystique and glamour of the spy world aren’t what’s pulling me back into my office. It’s the same feeling that drew me into the Company in the first place: this is where I can actually do something. This is where I can make a difference. This is where I can contribute in my small part to protect my country, and that part’s something only I can do. Yes, I have to make sacrifices. But freedom is not free, and I’m willing to pay. Maybe more than my share of the cost. I start toward the doors but within two steps, the elevator around the corner dings behind me. Reflexes kick in. I press my back against the wall, fighting my rising heart rate. We’re the only tenant on this floor—we don’t like to share—and protocol demands we take the stairs. Before I can signal to the cameras that someone’s coming, I hear Elliott’s voice. “Sorry, Shan. Let me know. Anytime.” No. No, no, no. Elliott should not be here, and using the 

elevator isn’t his biggest breach. He’s supposed to be out there making sure CSIS is safe to keep searching Fyodor’s room. We don’t need to fail them twice in a week. Elliott turns the corner and I step into his path. He jumps; his cell phone quietly clatters to the carpet between us. He reaches for me before he recognizes me. “T, whoa.” “Shouldn’t you be with Fyodor?” “What, worried The Beard’s cheating on you?” I fold my arms, giving him an I-don’t-think-that’s-funny look. “Where is he?” Elliott picks up his cell, but leaves his gaze on the floor. “Lost him.” Not the Elephant, not again. I dredge the bottom of my Elliott-hope reservoir. All I can come up with is that maybe Fyodor’s as cautious as me, and there’s still the possibility he’s Russian intel. I drag Elliott back around the corner, out of the cameras’ line of sight. “What’s Will going to say?” I murmur. Elliott says nothing. “Who’s second tail? Does he have him?” He raises his defenses in his posture, his eyes, even his tone. “Would I be here if he did?” No, he would’ve fallen back into the support position. It’s why we use at least two tails. “Where did you lose him?” “He caught a cab at the Château.” He’d tailed him for what, two minutes? CSIS must be having the Canadian version of a conniption. “I was spotting, and we lost him in traffic. Somewhere along Sens Mile.” Then ten minutes to City Hall, and the part of Elgin Street dedicated to Ottawa Senators’ fan celebrations during playoffs. Danny and I were there for the party when they eked their way into the first round this spring. (See? I don’t always run out on him.) It’s also home to a bunch of bistros and boutiques, so 

there are dozens of places he might have gone, but none of them qualify as Fyodor’s “work.” And I’m sure Elliott checked most of them. It’s not losing him that’s the big deal; happens to the best of us, and it happened to me two days ago. It’s all about the reason. “Tell me this has nothing to do with Shanna.” I was shooting for a demand, but my voice is more of a plea. Elliott doesn’t say anything, but slowly, slowly, the get-offmy-case mask cracks. He doesn’t have to say it. It’s Shanna. She’s due any day (maybe yesterday?), but when we’re at work, we have to be at work. “Elliott.” The one-word reprimand is enough, and it’s a good thing. I don’t know how to finish. I don’t know how to put into words this—this frustration. Frustration that I’m sacrificing so much for this job and he’s not. No, I’m sacrificing Danny, and Elliott’s sacrificing me. Possibly literally. I study the carpet, like the random, swirling patterns will help me sort through the tangle to show Elliott what he’s doing to us—to me—and guide me to the perfect words to magically transform Ellie into HAMMER. “Do you remember last summer?” That’s all he has to say. I know exactly what he means: the ops that devoured both our lives when I started dating Danny and Elliott and Shanna got engaged. Not only did Elliott cover for me a couple times, but he saved my life. “I saved you, too.” That bond between us is written in the air with invisible ink. He knows I’m not reacting this way because I’m angry or mean or harsh. It’s because I’m right. “I want you to be there for Shanna and the baby.” I place a hand on his arm. “I really do. But you need to finish what 

you’re doing with us first.” “What if that takes too long? What if I miss it?” His voice drops even softer. “Miss her?” Elliott’s desperate eyes search mine like I have the last Agency-issue survival pack in the desert. But all I have is the truth. “I don’t know.” I don’t know if he’ll have a week like I’m having. I don’t know what will happen to us because of his distractions. Most of all, I don’t know if his biggest vulnerability will stop being a problem after the baby’s born. But if he can’t focus, he could miss more than her birth. “Elliott, you have to live to see it.” Before I can say the rest, the elevator chimes behind us. Elliott shields me, pushing me back around the corner, and sandwiching me against the wall. Beneath my racing pulse, I’m half-flattered, half-offended (okay, maybe 30/70). Protectiveness is cute and all, and yes, I’m a girl, but I can defend myself. A man steps around the corner and startles at the sight of me and Elliott. My brain registers I know the guy before it clicks who he is—Danny. I’d recognize Danny, of course, but seeing him here, so out of context? For a minute, it’s like trying to read a one-time cipher without the key, just a string of nonsensical information. I shove Elliott aside before he can start on the third degree, though he already knows who Danny is. “What are you doing here?” I ask. Danny folds his arms, the rolled up sleeves of his white dress shirt catching on his elbows. (I’m totally weak, but what girl doesn’t like that?) He looks casual with his tie loosened, but his expression is anything but relaxed. He looks from Elliott to me and back. “What are you doing here?” I point down the hall to the gold-lettered Keeler Tate & Associates, Barristers and Solicitors. 

“Catch you later, T.” Elliott claps my shoulder. I nod without taking my eyes off Danny. He knows where my building is, but he’s never been to the office, and we’re not listed on the building directory. I pick my tone carefully to mask the depth of my suspicion. “Our sign downstairs is broken. How’d you find us?” “I went to the wrong floor and asked.” “Oh.” I force a light note into my voice. “Well, you found us.” “Yeah, I did.” He glances at the doors closing behind Elliott. “So, why are you here? Danny turns back to me. “You said you wanted to talk face to face. About our date.” Right. “You really need me this Friday?” I pray he doesn’t notice the little lift of hope in my voice, hope he’ll back out, reschedule for next week, release me from my promise. Anything. But he says nothing. I try again. “I mean, would Saturday work? Or next week?” I’d suggest tomorrow, but Danny has to work late Thursdays, and if he gets the night off, I just know Fyodor will pick tomorrow. “My parents get in Saturday morning. If we’re going to celebrate our anniversary sometime this month—without them—it’s got to be this week.” Oh, man. I knew his parents were coming, too, and after the last time we met . . . yeah, I vote for without them. “Talia.” He steps closer. “If you have plans Friday, say so.” Thing is, I don’t. Yet. So I tell him that. Danny reads the neon lights blinking between the lines. “But you might.” The disappointment hangs there already. This would be the fourth—no, fifth time in a week I’ve either left early or stood 

him up or somehow ruined our plans. It’s usually not this bad, but I can’t blame the guy for hating the pattern. I try again. “I’ll do my best.” He looks away, and this time I interpret the silence. My best hasn’t been all that good lately, and unless I make a serious effort, that might not ever change. “Better than my best.” I take his hand. “I’ll level up in the ‘best’ department.” He’s still not convinced, and I can just tell, from the set of his jaw or the look around his eyes, that this is stake-your-lifesavings important. The walls seem to slide closer and my voice slips to barely above a whisper. “One more chance?” Danny is quiet for almost a full minute, staring at our hands. I dig really deep into my non-CIA bag of tricks, but the most persuasive expression I’ve got is Elliott’s please-pleaseplease puppy dog eyes. “Okay,” Danny says slowly. He squeezes my hand and meets my gaze again. “Pick you up at six thirty?” His voice sounds a little hopeless and hollow, but I’m going to work with what I’ve got here. “Sounds good.” I give Danny a quick kiss and thank him again for the flowers. And then I hold my breath. Is he going to ask to come in and meet my coworkers? “I wish I could see your office—” I cut him off before he gets too attached to that idea. “I know, but with so much confidential stuff, it’s hard to handle visitors, especially on short notice.” And explaining the security card swipe to get past the reception desk? Always awkward. His lips twist into a knot of concern. “I was going to say I need to get back to work, actually. A corporate bigwig is visiting and I’m supposed to meet him in like twenty minutes.” Which explains the dress shirt. “Better hurry, then.” I tighten his tie and run my fingers through his hair (which 

doesn’t really need straightening). I like the rolled up sleeves way too much to “fix” those, though. “Love you,” I murmur. “You too.” Danny leans in for another kiss. Odds are at least 50/50 that someone’s watching us on the cameras, so I’m trying to keep this approved for all audiences including my boss. I make sure it stays totally un-embarrassing and send him back to work before I head in my office. Fyodor had better be free tomorrow night.

Elliott doesn’t mention Danny or Shanna or the baby when I get in. He just pushes out the extra chair at his desk. One glance at mine tells me why: the massive vase has taken reign of the Kingdom of Talia, and although I appreciate the flowers, I’m kind of the live-free-or-die type. I grab my laptop and join him while I write up the morning’s post-action report. When I finish, we’re back to Facebook, it seems. I read through Fyodor’s recent mail. We’ve been apart an hour and he’s already mentioned me to his friend Mikhail Kozyrev. Any other day, I’d be excited for the lead, but now I’m too busy worrying about Danny. “Fyodor had a good time,” I report to Elliott. “You can tell from the beard. Extra fluffy. Don’t you want to touch it?” “I know you do.” I rub the back of my hand against his smooth cheek, less flirting, more taunting. Elliott smirks and turns back to the computer. The message makes some oblique references to the rest of the week’s plans. I cross my fingers Fyodor and Kozyrev are going out for a last hurrah Friday night, and our date will be tomorrow. I reread the note, trying to focus on the Russian. I skipped a line in my first pass: the plans are sailing again. With me? He 

doesn’t say, but we will be prepared. I tell Elliott, and he’s on the phone to CSIS in half a second. “You guys have the report from this morning?” Mack’s huff carries like static over the line. “All we found were oddly thorough organizational maps of Malcolm and SinclAir. You guys have anything?” Yes, our relationship is very formal. Elliott hesitates half a second, pulling up his email. “Our preliminary report found a program on his laptop designed to crack high-level encryption.” Suspicion crawls up my back and I don’t hear the rest of the conversation. That’s the first I’ve seen of the laptop results, but now we know for sure: he’s after something. Something he’s not supposed to have. Something he’s going to steal. Something secret. We need to come at him from every angle. I tap Elliott’s arm. “Mikhail Kozyrev.” Elliott relays the request and within the hour, CSIS sends a big intel dump. They only put this kind of resources—imaging of his yacht, floor plans, credit card bills, receipts from his last four grocery trips—behind someone they think is a threat. The intel doesn’t look suspicious on its face, although the grocery bill adds up to way too much food for a single guy. Was he having a “vecherinka” Monday night, or is that a cover? Before we can dig into the meal planning, I find some financial records for a boat renovation. The floor plans probably wouldn’t change, but if these are out of date, they do us no good. I spend the rest of the day trying to track down the reno company, but no one’s talking. By 5:30, I’m hitting more and more answering machines. The dead end is coming up fast when I check my email and find a RussCa notification. There’s a message in my KoketniChat inbox. I click through. It’s RotorFyodor. 

I sit up straight. “Got him.” Elliott pivots his chair to look at my laptop and Robby jogs over from his desk.

Tasha, it was a pleasure to meet you today. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night? 7? Fyodor “‘It was a pleasure’?” Elliott repeats after I finish my translation. Seriously. I mean, it’s good and we’re making progress, but it took me half an hour to get ready (that’s a long time for me), I fawned all over the guy, and that’s all the impression I made? “Should’ve complimented The Beard.” I ignore Elliott and reread Fyodor’s message. If he’s using head games here, it’s working. But you don’t play hard to get with the CIA. We play for keeps. Elliott’s phone rings again. And again, it’s CSIS. We all lean in. Will steps out of his office in time to see us hunched over the phone. He joins us, and Elliott puts it on speaker. “Elliott, it’s Alex. We got word from Malcolm Aerospace that Fyodor extended his tour there through Friday.” “All day?” “Yep.” Alex doesn’t know what that means. Even Elliott and Robby don’t. But I do. I try to fight the sinking feeling. Maybe it’s salvageable. Elliott finishes on the phone and we all turn to Will. He’s looking at me. “Have you heard back from Fyodor?” I pull my laptop over to show him the KoketniChat message. Robby summarizes it. I cling onto hope with every muscle in my body: hope that we’ll keep this date on Thursday and figure out something else Friday, hope that I won’t be on the phone to Danny in ten minutes, already rescheduling, hope that I can make this all work. 

“Move it to Friday.” Will’s ever oblivious, though I feel those fragile hopes pop and shatter in my chest like a flashbang grenade. “But . . . can’t we do something else Friday?” “If he’s at Malcolm all day, we have to check after his visit. You’re the best way to keep him occupied while we do it. And we’re angling for that invite to Shcherbakov, right?” “I’ll try.” That’s all I can manage. Will, Robby and Elliott all stand there staring at me, so I turn back to my computer. Robby is helpful enough to fetch my Russian keyboard from my desk.

Fyodor, I have committee meetings until late Thursday, but I’d really like to see you again. Would Friday work for you? Tasha I hate that stupid beard.







WILL HAS APPROVED the message for Fyodor, which suddenly sounds like a PSA for a political candidate, I hit send and we stay huddled around my computer to wait. Which is dumb, I know, but like I said, this Internet dating thing makes an office full of guys feel like my boy-crazy college roommates. I refresh the KoketniChat inbox for the fourth time, as if the instant updates aren’t fast enough. “What’s the earliest we can do this?” “Well, if he’s at Malcolm till five, we have to give him time to get back from Kanata and get ready,” Will says. I challenge his statement with one eyebrow. “What, change his socks?” “Comb The Beard,” Elliott tosses in. I ignore him. “Then, six?” Why couldn’t he have done SinclAir second? Nepean is so much closer. Okay, it’s like ten minutes’ difference, but still. Twenty versus thirty? Before Will okays my new timeline, a bird-like chirp announces a new KoketniChat message from Fyodor. NCE



Tasha, I’m sorry your work keeps you so busy. Friday is fine. I will meet you at seven o’clock. You know Signatures? A friend recommended it today. Fyodor Oh, yeah, of course. Of course, out of all the places in the National Capitol Region, he picks the one my boyfriend picked for me the last time I stood him up for Fyodor. Of course. Again with Will’s okay, I send my reply back: I’ve heard of

it. I’ll see you then! Tasha I know what the next two days will hold: reconning Signatures, translating phone calls and Facebook messages, and a work-over on Kozyrev in record time. But most of all, I know they’ll hold at least one disappointment for Danny. After a few minutes without a reply from Fyodor, Will, Elliott and Robby drift off to their jobs, or home, and I’m left refreshing the KoketniChat inbox, hoping Fyodor will change his mind, that there’s no way he can possibly go out Friday. Why couldn’t one of them be Thursday? But Danny’s weekly workgroup thing always runs late. I usually beat him home Thursdays if I’m not running an op or meeting an agent. I know, “workgroup thing” makes it sound like I don’t care or I’m being evasive. I do and I’m not. Do I know a lot more details of Fyodor’s schedule this week than I do Danny’s? Yes. Is that an accident? No, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a spy. I spend my entire work life collecting information about people to manipulate them. It would be so easy to play Danny the same way. I could use our mind games to make him think it was his idea to change our date, or to let me out of my promise. But I made myself a promise after he took me to the Aviation Museum for the first time, after an amazing (and 

pricey) dinner at Beckta—after the very first time he kissed me. I promised myself I would never use our Jedi mind tricks on him. I would never misappropriate CIA resources to keep tabs on him. And no matter what happened between us, I would never, ever spy on Danny Fluker. Either what we had between us would be real, or it would be nothing. I’ve never looked at the files the CIA and CSIS keep on him since then. I’ve never tapped his phone or used its GPS to figure out where he is. I’ve never even eavesdropped. I have never broken that promise. But Danny doesn’t know that. All he knows is I’ve promised him dinner on Friday. Him and Fyodor. Danny and Fyodor. I can see that now, bouncing back and forth between my boyfriend and The Beard at the same restaurant. I forget what I ordered at one table, what we’re talking about at the other. I use the wrong name. They see one another across the crowded room. Yeah. That’s waaay too risky in real life. I am not about to gamble with my cover, my life or my relationship with Danny. And putting him in danger? Totally out of the question. But . . . what if there was a way I could do both? If I can finish my date with Fyodor as fast as possible, then maybe I can spend the rest of the evening with Danny. I hop up and head for Will’s office. After a knock, I pop in. “Will, I have something big going on Friday.” “If it’s not your date with Timofeyev—” “No, no, but I don’t think it’ll interfere. What’s our timeline on the room raid?” Will looks over something on his computer. “Sixty minutes once he leaves the hotel. Total shakedown and cleanup.” “With the size of their crew, that’d be long enough to do DNA analysis of anyone who’s stayed in the room in the last ten years. By hand. In Braille. Can we move it to six thirty?” 

He smirks, but picks up the phone and hits the speed dial button for Mack. I’ll take that as approval. Now I just have to ask Fyodor to meet earlier, and I should be done by eight at the latest. It’s not what Danny’s already got planned, but better than nothing. I really hope.

I decide to pull the same trick on Danny that he pulled on me today, and once I get off, I drive to his office. He works past 6 pretty regularly, and tonight’s no exception: 6:15 and his car’s in the lot. I park next to it, roll down my windows and rehearse what to say. I don’t have long. Before I settle on a good script, I spot Danny coming down the aisle, chatting with a girl from work. Ariane. I’ve met her, and she’s as petite and pretty as her name sounds. Yep, that’s who I want hanging out with my boyfriend. Just to see what they do, I watch for a minute. They get closer and their voices carry to me, but I can’t understand them—French. Right, because Ariane’s from Quebec. It’s okay, I tell myself. I’m not going to start spying on him because he has a cute coworker. I face forward and turn up the radio to tune them out, focusing on what I have to do in the next two days: talk to Danny, pull off this elaborate and extremely rushed op with Fyodor— A hand reaches through my window. My breath freezes. I don’t think. I snatch the nearest weapons: two pens. I grab the hand, leveraging one pen across the back in a Kubotan-like submission hold. My other arm wheels around, ready to stab with the other pen point. My brain clicks into the right context. I halt abruptly and look. Danny. Super smooth. “Ow?” He nods at the hand I’m holding. I’ve brought 300

pound men to their knees with that hold (well, I did put more pressure on it. Still). I let Danny go, but, hey, I was going for the jugular with the other pen, so if I had to pick one side to stop, I think I chose well. He shakes out his hand. “What was that?” “You scared me. You know I don’t like surprises.” “I think I’m the one who got a surprise.” Not sure how to take that until he smiles. A distant voice calls to him, carrying over the song on my radio. Danny waves and bids her goodbye in French, but his eyes never leave mine. Danny. Is. Absolutely. Adorable. He leans through the window to kiss me and I realize that’s what he was doing in the first place. Spy training. Not always an asset. Danny folds his arms on the edge of my open window. “So, what are you doing here?” “We’ve spent like twenty minutes together this week.” This actually isn’t that strange—my job takes up at least three nights a week meeting with my sources—but I’m happy to spend more time with him than the few minutes we usually catch on the phone. Also, I’ve totally lost the nerve to bring up the real reason I’m here. “Have anything in mind?” Danny asks. “Nah. Movie?” “My place?” “If that’s okay.” We’re careful not to spend too much time alone—we’re both really serious about living our church’s standards—but my options are limited. I hate sitting in the dark in public, the exit situation in most movie theaters is borderline at best, and I find Danny a bit distracting, so I stick to places that are defensible. I mean, safe. Plus, Danny lives outside my main operational area. I mean, on the Quebec side of the river. 

Danny agrees, so I send him on two errands (a short, subtle SDR) while I pick up ingredients for dinner on my route. Before he has time to get home, I call him to buy something I “forgot,” making sure I beat him home to sweep his house. I’m pretty sure even if I ended up on someone’s radar, Danny would be safe, but I can’t let my guard down. No, really, I think it might be physically impossible. I do try when I’m with Danny, though. And everything is so good, so normal with him as we make pizza together, I totally almost forget what I’m supposed to bring up. But it’s not a bad thing to butter him up with a great date first, right? We end up watching some stupid romantic comedy on cable that looked mildly amusing but suffers from a bad case of all-the-jokes-are-in-the-traileritis. We mute the second half of the movie and provide our own dialogue. Our version is a lot funnier, but probably only to us. Okay, we’re both dorks. By the time our “dialogue” devolves into a contest to quote the obscurest movie, which Danny always wins, the worry has settled like a rock in my stomach. He’s going to think I did all this to soften the blow. He’ll be mad. Worse, he’ll be disappointed. And I delay the inevitable. I curl up next to him on the couch, playing with his hair where it flips out behind his ear, until the silent movie rolls to its big finale in a chapel with a long aisle. Oh, great, a wedding. Before Danny can recite the entire ceremony from The Princess Bride (not obscure, but still impressive, even if he refuses to do the voice), I grab our empty popcorn bowl, the old maids rattling in the bottom as I head for the kitchen. “I do not buy this.” I didn’t mean for him to hear, but Danny does and follows me. “What, that they’d get married in a church?” “Well, yeah, but mostly that they’d do it at all.” I’m a traitor to my gender, I know, but my mom and dad’s messy divorce 

and fifteen years of their feuding makes me a little cynical about the future of couples who spend 90% of a movie fighting. I trade the bowl for a clean glass and fill it at the fridge. Danny leans against the counter. “Hey, we thought Campbell would never get married.” At the mention of his former roommate, we both glance at the stairs, as if he’ll appear though he moved out three weeks ago. He and Angela are one of five insane couples at our church who’ve met and married in the year Danny and I have dated. And no, I’m not exaggerating. “Oh, come on, we both know he only went for it because she was his last chance.” “You obviously didn’t spend enough time with them and their cute yiddle baby tawk.” Danny’s voice climbs an octave before he rolls his eyes. “I’m so gwad we don’t do dat.” I join him at the counter and paint on a grin that borders on psychotic. “Yes I am! Oh yes I am!” “Sewiouswy.” I kill the act first. “Still surprised they went through with it.” “Campbell or—?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the TV. The couple’s at the altar. I turn away from the living room. “You watch. They’re going to run away.” Oh crap. My stomach tightens. I have to watch what I say here. I’m not the only one with commitment issues, and I don’t want Danny thinking I’m belittling him for his. “Cliché.” He borrows my water glass, apparently oblivious to my worries. “Come on, people don’t take that kind of plunge because they feel obligated to. When you love somebody like that, you can’t imagine not getting married.” I am so glad when he says “you” he doesn’t mean me, or I’d have the second panic attack of my life. I get crazy about 

marriage because I’m afraid; Danny’s afraid because he almost married a crazy person. He brought up his failed engagement early on to warn me to keep my expectations low and my animal fear of the M-word was clear. I’m not gasping for a paper bag yet tonight, but I can’t seem to look back at him right now. I retreat to raid the pantry. “At least that’s what Campbell said.” His voice is just loud enough to carry to me. Between Mom and Dad’s flameout, my mom’s and brothers’ failed attempts at matrimony, and the jeopardy Elliott’s family is putting us in, I’m not sharing what I’ve seen of marriage. He might not believe ignorance is bliss, but then, he doesn’t know what I know. By the time I return to the kitchen, empty-handed, the movie’s over. No idea if the couple went through with it. Danny’s hopped up on the counter, leaning back on his hands, lost in thought. Something in the air is different. Probably my fault. I have to say something about our plans, but could Danny already know what’s coming? I bite the brass jacketed hollow point and sidle up to him. But Danny isn’t paying attention to the movie credits or me. He’s thinking. After a second, I have to resort to one of our lame jokes, pulling out a gold-and-silver $2 coin. “Toonie for your thoughts?” He gets paid to think and he commands a premium. Like I said, our jokes are lame. Usually he spouts off some random science-y thing like “Writing a new law of thermodynamics” or “Trying to get Pluto reclassified as a planet.” I think he’s joking. Usually. But tonight, he just smiles. Peaceful. Serene. No idea what’s about to come. “Friday.” Great. “Danny . . . about that.” 

He sits up. Anxiety creeps into his posture and his eyes turn wary. If he were a target or an agent, I’d try to convince him it was much worse than it really is, so he’d be glad instead of let down when I tell him the truth. But honestly, I’m hardly ever tempted to play him like that anymore, though I can’t tell him the full facts about Friday. So I tell him what I can. “We had a client call in and they can’t meet until six thirty Friday. And it has to be this week.” Danny’s gaze swings around to his knees. I move to catch his eye. “But I should be done by eight. Eight thirty at the latest.” “Oh.” His shoulders fall—but not because he’s sad. I know relief when I see it. “So we need to push back our reservations?” “If that’s okay.” I offer my hand and a tentative smile. He takes them both. “I’ll see what I can do.” “I can meet you there, too. That much less time for you.” And I don’t want to waste time driving back out to Gloucester plus the “scenic route” to pretend I was at the office if I’m already going to be near our destination. Danny stares at his thumb tracing over my knuckles, clearly debating his options. “I guess.” He shrugs. “I just like picking you up because then I know I have you all to myself.” It’s kinda cute, but kinda not: that’s the exact reason I don’t like it, and now I know it’s intentional, too. Though I’m not sure I blame him. “So where are we going?” “The restaurant in the Château, Wilfrid’s.” My eyebrows skyrocket. Danny makes good money, but he’d rather make his recently-doubled-without-a-roommate house payment than drop $50 a person on dinner. I’m dating two men (sort of) who both take me (sort of) to Signatures and Wilfrid’s in the same week. I’ve never set foot 

inside the Château before today. How is it I’ll be there twice in a week? Do all aerospace engineers date alike? “Talia?” Danny’s voice draws me out of my thoughts. I’m with him right now, and that’s all that matters. For personal time, a spy has to live in the present. In this present, Danny is looking at me like I’m too good to be true, like he can’t believe I’m really here. “You know you’re beautiful, right?” I laugh the compliment off and turn away, trying to silence my mental whisper. It doesn’t work, and the No, you’re not. Don’t buy it echoes too long. He wouldn’t lie to me, but somehow when he says that, I can’t quite push myself to believe him. He slides off the counter, wraps me in his arms, and continues. “Know what I love about you?” “Um, no. After this week? I honestly don’t.” I silently pray it’s not my terrible sense of direction or my forgetfulness or any other part of “me” that’s a lie. Danny leans closer, his voice soft. Serious. Sincere. “You never give up. You fight for the things you care about, and you won’t let anything stand in your way.” And those are all true. “Thank you,” he says. “For what?” “For fighting for time with me Friday. For not canceling.” I bump his leg with my hip. “It was nothing.” “No.” He holds me closer, those warm, genuine eyes locked on mine. “It’s not ‘nothing.’ Not to me.” He trails a finger along my jaw to draw me closer for a kiss. The second my lips touch his, I can sense there’s something more behind this kiss. An electric current flows into my heart and my lungs and my brain, until I’m so lost in this kiss that I can’t tell which way is up. 

Something slams right behind me and I jump away from Danny, whirl around, ready to fight. Nobody there. I look back at Danny, leaning on one hand on the counter. A hand he just slapped down to catch us. Right. I’m an idiot. “You scared me.” “Sorry.” He wraps his arms around my waist again. I look into his warm brown eyes, and that same overwhelming feeling threatens me again. I don’t know what he’s thinking or trying to say, but I definitely prefer being lost in his kiss to just being lost. Danny presses his forehead to mine, placing us eye-to-eye. “I love you.” “I love you too.” I kiss him this time and try to forget everything I’m afraid of, everything that could go wrong Friday. I won’t let it.







T THE OFFICE,

we devote Thursday to tracking Mikhail Kozyrev—well, not at the office, exactly. Robby and César are out on his tail, and Elliott and I head to his two-story Tudor in the suburbs. After all, you can’t live on a boat year-round in Ottawa. His locks and the security system are pretty challenging. Maybe the career in security is legit. But we manage to get in. Raiding a house is easier when you don’t have to worry about putting everything back, but today we don’t have that luxury. Elliott starts in the kitchen, and I go upstairs to the bedroom. The house is oddly neat for a man who lives alone. Maybe he hires help? I search his nightstand. Only a pristine Russian edition of Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don. I’ve already read it (thank you, RUSS 340), but Kozyrev hasn’t touched his copy. Still, I shake the book and flip through the pages: nothing. The dresser: nothing. The closet: nothing. Even the bath

room and the trash cans: not a single piece of dental floss or receipt or note. No evidence a real person lives or at least visits here. Unless he has a very thorough housekeeper, this is a really bad sign. I text Elliott downstairs to look for a maid service’s number, but the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me everything I need to know. This is too suspect. I scan the room for the best place for a slick, the spy’s version of a sock drawer: an accessible but well-concealed hiding spot. The standard places like the door jambs and the baseboards look solid. In my apartment, I use an outlet hidden by a garbage can as my slick’s access point, and fake outlets are popular. But all Kozyrev’s plugs check out. Where else? There’s the classic/cliché false drawer bottoms or hollow books, though I’ve confirmed the only book in sight is real. Under or behind drawers. Under the sink. High shelves in the closet. There could even be a door to the attic. Kozyrev isn’t the real target in our investigation, and a search this thorough would take all day, at least. I groan and cover my eyes, sinking down to sit on the bed for a second of regrouping and restrategizing. When I move my hands and take in the view through the bedroom window, I’m anything but ready for the beat-up black sedan pulling into the driveway. Crap. My heart refuses to restart. Why haven’t César and Robby warned us? I jump up and straighten the bedspread. The room is just as pristine as when I came in. I dash down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Incoming! Abort!” The exterior garage door grates open. Elliott grabs a key hanging on the wall and unlocks the back door deadbolt. He takes the time to replace the key though we won’t be able to lock it behind us and half-drags me out the back and under the 

porch. The cool of the shadows and the humidity settle on my skin. I peer up between the deck boards at the gray sky looming over us. “Did you hear from César and Robby?” “Nope.” It’s hard to read the tone of a whisper, but I’m betting he’s no happier than I am. I guess none of us is immune to mistakes. We slink around the house, out of sight of the windows, until we can make a run for the neighbor’s yard. But even once we’re safe, I still can’t relax. Nothing here feels right. As soon as Timofeyev is taken care of, we’re getting a lot more eyes on Kozyrev.

Back at the office (for real this time), we get quite a reception: a list of contractors who might or might not have done Kozyrev’s remodel, the thermal imaging from Monday night (Thanks for making us a priority, Chief of Station Dixon. Not.), and a personal message for me from Mack at CSIS. I can count the number of times Mack has called me directly on no fingers, and we did just execute a totally illegal search, so right away I’m worried. A glance at the imaging, my one valid way to stall, confirms our suspicions: Kozyrev & co. weren’t having a big party, eating all that food they’ve stockpiled. Nope, party of two, until they leave the locks. And now I have to call Mack back. “Is everything all right?” “Yes,” he says quickly. “Just needed to talk to you about your boyfriend.” Man, that joke is lame. I slump further into my computer chair. “What about him?” “Well, how has he been lately? Fairly normal?” “I guess so. I’ve only known the man a couple days.” 

Mack is silent a beat too long. A tone of apology lilts into his words. “It says here you’ve been dating since last August.” I jerk back to sitting fully upright. “You don’t mean Fyodor.” “Oh, no, no. Danny Fluker.” “Right, sorry.” I rub my eyes and allow myself a little laugh. “Long week.” Mack laughs, too. “That’s only understandable. So, Mr. Fluker?” A suspicion this is way more than casual concern creeps— no, it freaking marches up my back. “Yeah, Danny’s fine. Why?” “Nobody’s spoken to you?” Is that worry in his voice? I wipe a suddenly clammy palm on my pants. I saw him last night. What could’ve happened? “About what?” “His latest security clearance?” Oh. But the closest to relief I feel is my heartbeat shifting from fifth to fourth gear. “Something wrong?” “No.” Mack’s tone turns his answer into a question, but Twenty Questions is getting old fast. “There should be a form here for your interview for his background check, and I can’t find it. So, how has Mr. Fluker been in the last few months?” “Fine.” And then I force myself to slide from girlfriend mode to operations officer mode. “From what I gather, he’s financially secure, enjoys his work and is very loyal to the organization.” “Tell me about his character. Is he honest? Trustworthy? Reliable?” I hold back my first response (“To a fault” isn’t a good thing to say to a spy) and go with, “Yes. He’s seriously one of the most upstanding people I’ve ever known.” “And what if he had to choose loyalties between Canada and the States?” 

That’s the real question here, lurking under all the other stuff. When you live in the US, it’s easy to forget Canada doesn’t have to agree with us 100% on everything—and they don’t. If they did, what would be the point of us working here? Canada has an agenda of their own, and I’ve seen the two come into conflict firsthand. More than once. But I know Danny. I relax into my chair. “If he’s signed on with you guys, it’ll be his integrity over nationalism, every time.” “Good, somebody already okayed him. Don’t know what they were thinking, without talking to me first.” Since he’s a US citizen, Danny’s clearance is a special case for both sides, but background checks are way below Mack’s pay grade. “Why’s that?” “Procedure. They’re supposed to interview everyone the candidate has lived with in the last decade, and if ‘Talia Reynolds’ comes up in our system, there’s a flag to talk to me.” Um, awkward. I glance around and lower my volume. I don’t like explaining this once, let alone six times. “We’re not living together.” “Oh. Well, sleeping together.” “Yeah, no. We’re . . . really conservative. Religiously.” My finger starts to tingle. I realize I’ve wrapped the phone cord around it so tight, I’ve cut off circulation. It takes Mack a minute to respond. “Okay. Guess that answers that question.” He doesn’t seem to think I’m a complete weirdo, but I have to steer the conversation to safety. “Hey, do you know what Kozyrev drives?” “One minute.” Silence. “Silver Chevrolet. Why?” That wasn’t his car pulling into his house today—which would be why César and Robby didn’t warn us. They were probably with Kozyrev the whole time. But Mack doesn’t need

to-know about our breaking and entering hobby. “Just looking for him.” I change the subject. “So what’s Danny’s security level up to now?” “Top Secret.” Was that what had him so worried when I brought up aerospace the other night, and why Saturday’s security breach was such a big deal? I’m a little surprised he hasn’t mentioned it— and a little surprised he needs clearance at all—but that’s kind of the point of Top Secret, isn’t it? Mack ends the call. Back to work for us both. After three hours of more phone calls, I finally get ahold of somebody who will admit to working on Kozyrev’s boat. Once I convince him I’m Kozyrev’s accountant working on an audit, the contractor fesses up. They upgraded the finishes throughout, added a “sky lounge,” and put in more soundproofing, but he can’t remember whether the floor plans were altered substantially. Leaving us little choice but to recon ourselves. In the sun’s fading light Thursday evening, Elliott and I are once again on a CSIS speedboat with Alex and Luc, this time on Dow’s Lake. In May, there are hundreds of thousands of tulips along these shores as part of the Canadian Tulip Festival. Yes, that’s something I did with Danny. What can I say? He’s my favorite part of the city. But more importantly tonight, Dow’s Lake is where Mikhail Kozyrev docks. The main detail that keeps an eye on Fyodor in the evenings hasn’t reported in yet, so for all we know, Kozyrev and Fyodor might be on board together. Someone’s definitely home: the lights are on below deck. Once we’ve puttered around enough to look like vacationers on the lake, Alex cuts the engine and lets us drift in the descending dusk. “I know we followed him when Timofeyev 

was aboard but remind me and why you care about this guy again?” Already in counter-CIA mode. Great. “Friend of Fyodor’s. They might hang out on the boat tomorrow.” Alex is silent, like I’ve stunned him with an actual reason to be here. Elliott starts the short profile we’ve assembled. “Single—” “Despite a herd of RussCa ‘heifers,’” I add. Elliott tosses off a touché expression. “Works in security, though we haven’t been able to define it better than that. Divorced four years ago and moved to Nepean from Rostov-onDon.” I finish him off. “He bought the boat used two years ago for about $110,000, so despite his claims, he didn’t ‘trade in his wife.’” We glance back at the mooring where Kozyrev’s been all night. I check my binoculars. Now that it’s nearly dark, the pavilion lights show his silhouette better. “He’s on the ‘upstairs’ deck of his yacht.” “Sky lounge.” Alex’s tone isn’t quite as curt as it could be. “And it’s a cabin cruiser, if you want to be specific.” “Always. He’s got a Jacuzzi on the sky lounge.” Seriously. “What’s he doing?” “Drinking himself into a stupor, looks like.” From here, I can’t tell whether this is a fit of depressive alcoholism or the guy’s typical routine. I’m guessing A, though, from the way he’s slumping over the side of the Jacuzzi and the death grip on the vodka bottle. Not what I’d expect from someone whose home is suspiciously sterilized. “Water approach?” Elliott calls from his deck chair. There aren’t many boats left out on the lake after dark, but I signal him to keep his voice down anyway. “You feel like 

swimming?” “Not what I came here for, but the water does seem fine.” “Not allowed. No idea why.” I make a point not to look at Alex, though I’m sure he’ll correct me if he can. But the restrictions might be to our advantage. With Kozyrev overhead, it’ll be easier to get a peek inside the boat from the mooring than the water—though a lot riskier. There’s got to be a better way. I turn to our Canadian friends. “Alex, Luc? Thoughts?” “We can do anything you want,” Luc says. “Flash your badges and board him?” Elliott smirks. Alex swivels in his seat, back to that expression of I don’t know why we work with you Americans. “I know you don’t have to worry about legality and warrants and all that, but here on our home turf, we do.” “What if he gives you permission to look around?” “On what grounds?” “Hm.” I walk from the side of the boat to my chair. “Tell him there’s been a series of boat robberies here and you’d like him to check his valuables. Offer to go with him.” “Sounds like a scam.” Elliott folds his arms. “It is,” I say. “But we’re not actually going to rob him.” “And there’s that whole warrant thing again.” Alex has his objection ready, too. I look back to Alex, and refrain from mentioning my law degree. “You’re allowed to lie to suspects, right?” “Well—” “And it’s not like you’re going in there to collect evidence of espionage.” He exchanges a glance with Luc. A you’ve-got-to-hand-itto-them glance. “I hate lawyers.” I smile. Elliott points at the pavilion. “The slip opposite him is open. Pull up.” 

We cruise in, Alex pulling us past our slip to turn and back up to the pavilion. Right in sight of Kozyrev. Good thing we’re not going for that surprise attack. Elliott and I lay low onboard the CSIS boat and Alex and Luc head over to Kozyrev’s. Across the still water, we can hear Alex call out, “Sir? RCMP. Can we talk to you for a minute?” Kozyrev’s silhouette stands. “Mounties? Problem?” His accent is thicker than Fyodor’s. “No, sir, there’s been a series of robberies on the lake and we wanted to make sure all your valuables are safe.” I raise my binocs to watch Kozyrev. He sets his bottle on the sky lounge deck and steps out of the Jacuzzi, grabbing a towel. The stairs down from the sky lounge are on our side of the boat, and Elliott and I freeze. Kozyrev plods down one step, two. He doesn’t even glance our direction. He continues past the helm and down more stairs to the rear deck. “I am in security,” he assures Alex and Luc. “My valuables are fine.” “We’d like to think they are.” Alex is good at playing conciliatory when he wants to. “But it never hurts to check.” “I will check.” Kozyrev turns toward the door into the cabin. “Would you mind if we came with you?” Luc calls before Kozyrev can trundle inside. “I am in the market for a thirty-sixfooter.” I glance at Elliott, who holds up a dunno palm. If that’s true, it’s never come up before. “She is not for sale.” His tone brooks no bargaining. “Oh, non, non.” Luc holds up a hand. “I am only looking at options. My wife, she is not sure she wants a cruiser.” He’s playing up the Québécois accent, but maybe it’ll be enough to garner Kozyrev’s sympathy. “I can see this is all very custom.” Kozyrev stands in the doorway, still looking back at Alex 

and Luc. We wait in tense silence, too far away to read him well. At last, he flips on the deck lights. “Watch out. It is wet.” Alex and Luc board, but Kozyrev stays in the door to the cabin. “Badges, please.” He examines each one closely. I bite my lip. I don’t know if the Canadian feds have jurisdiction here, and the badges are fake—they’re not really Mounties—but if CSIS operates like the CIA, those badges were made by the RCMP. Will they be good enough for Kozyrev? He doesn’t give a verdict, just returns them and heads in. I try to signal to Alex and Luc to take photos, but I don’t think they see me. I turn my binoculars to the elongated almond-shaped windows, but the curtains remain drawn. Great. No eyes, no ears, no communication. I turn away and settle on the deck. “They’ll get pictures.” Elliott nods like his statement cinches it. I hope he’s right. Images are the best we can hope for right now. We’d feed the pictures into one of our CAD modeling programs and put them in some sort of order, and it’d build a 3-D computer model of the space. It’s almost better than taking a walk-through ourselves. As long as Alex and Luc get pictures. Elliott and I pass the time huddled on the deck, watching from below the cover of the railing and walking through the logistics for tomorrow night. Not a lot to go over from here, but every verbal rehearsal is that much more preparation. Elliott’ll be my main tail, but he won’t be in the restaurant with me. Observation range, yes. Visual contact, no. Will and Robby will run support. I’ll have an earpiece, a microphone and a camera disguised in jewelry. But when it comes to the plans for my appearance, Elliott grins in I’m-obnoxious mode. I don’t care what the plans are or what exactly I wear. I just need to look unbelievable. 

No, better than believable. And as soon as we get through our hour, and an SDR, I’m all Danny’s. When I mention our plans, Elliott’s grin turns to extra obnoxious. Finally, we can hear Alex and Luc. They’re laughing. With Kozyrev. Elliott and I sink down below the side of the CSIS boat. “You’ve been an inspiration,” Luc says. “I hope I have inspired you to save your money!” Kozyrev slaps him on the back. Alex and Luc bid him goodbye. Elliott and I dare to peer over the side of the boat. They’re on their way back. It felt like forever, but could it have been long enough to get what we need? We slip out of sight again. Luc hops aboard first. “Well?” I call softly from the deck. “Well what?” Alex looks at me like he’s clueless. “Did you get pictures?” “Of what?” Alex maintains the same idiotic expression. Luc backhands him in the chest with a c’mon-dude look. Alex tosses me a camera. I scroll through all the pictures—and man. This guy’s boat is nicer than my dad’s newest house. Leather couches, leather benches in the dining area, granite countertops, and in the galley, rosewood cabinetry throughout. Luc sits at the helm. He turns the ignition, but the boat doesn’t start. “Do you have the emergency key?” Alex pulls a yellow lanyard from his pocket and tosses it to Luc. Apparently it takes two to start the boat? Or were they worried we’d sail off without them? Once we’re on the open water, Elliott and I can get up, and Alex joins us on the deck chairs. We pull into the canal, heading for the river. Good thing the locks are open late this week. Alex points at the camera. “The head.” I page through the pictures until I get to the bathroom— head. Whatever. The massive shower, enclosed by a curved 

glass outer wall, has to got to be bigger than my bachelor. (My apartment, not Danny. Well, him too.) “What?” I turn to Alex. “You jealous?” “Um, yeah, but that’s not what I mean.” “In yachts, the head is very small. Like airplanes.” Luc holds up his thumb and index finger an inch apart. Despite the exaggeration, I can see his point: the toilet and sink definitely have more in common with a cramped plane bathroom than my apartment’s. I have a hard time imagining the significance. I guess some people want to bathe in style. I finally ask Alex and Luc as the resident sailing experts, but they aren’t sure either. No matter the reason for a rainwater, jetted, massage, whatever shower on a yacht, I think we have enough to be running virtual walk-throughs on the yacht by tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night, I’ll be touring his boat in my dreams. And no matter how things go with Fyodor, I know where I’m looking next.







EANWHILE, FYODOR SPENDS

THURSDAY NIGHT drinking with Malcolm execs under CSIS’s watchful eye. He doesn’t respond to my message asking to move up the timeline. It’s rude to reschedule again, I know, but I will be there for Danny. I have no other option. But first I have to get through today. And the minute I arrive at work, I can tell it’ll be a long one. The role of a CIA operative might not be what you expect. If you think cocktails with the enemy’s ambassador while we try to blackmail him to spy for us, go fish with the officers at the embassy. I run in a really different circuit. It seems like about 50% of my work is deep in the field, and about 50% of that is, well, weird. To get close to potential agents, I’ve sold street food, broken into circuses, driven a city bus, landed a role as an extra in a soap opera, even scaled buildings (small ones). But I just know of all the days I’ve been with the company, today will be the most unusual when I walk into the reception area Friday. Linda and Marie-Christine, support staff from CSIS though I’m not sure what her title is, are poring 

over French and English fashion magazines. Marie-Christine looks up. “Good, she is here. Now we can start.” Oh yeah. I’m in for it. “I’ve already been out with him once. I think I can manage.” Linda’s laugh tinkles like condescending little cymbals. “You both had to dress for business Wednesday. It will not do for evening.” No, no, no. But the tug in my stomach tells me all I need to know: she’s right. If my life were a movie, here the script would say, “Cut to a montage.” And I wish I could do that in reality, hit the button and my life would fast-forward overdubbed with some catchy pop song, and then I would be gorgeous. But no, my life would have to be more like the poor sap stuck editing all the raw footage of the makeover, frame by excruciating, repetitive frame. I sit by Linda. They’ve ripped out half a dozen pictures of ideas. Pretty much all of them will have to go. “We have to impress Fyodor.” I gather up the clippings. “Not lead him on.” Linda and Marie-Christine exchange a mystified expression, but I can’t explain much more. Linda isn’t supposed to know what we really do and who we really are. (Yes, it’s tricky. The staff scrubbing the CIA seal in the floor of Langley supposedly doesn’t know either.) I try a different tack. “I can’t look French. I can’t pull it off, and it’s not Russian.” “What is the difference?” Marie-Christine asks. “The difference?” I hold out the top photo from my stack, a candid picture of a casually gorgeous woman walking down the street. “French women know they’re beautiful, regardless of what you might think.” I flip through the magazine and stop at the first makeup ad. 

“Russian women don’t want you to be able to think about anything else.” Marie-Christine arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure the male/female ratio in Russia is so bad for women they feel like they have to look that good to get a man. And I’m sure if we want to keep Fyodor’s attention on his last night in the country—” without resorting to anything else— “I have to look at least that good.” Linda and Marie-Christine inspect me. The trepidation in their eyes tells me they don’t know if I’m up to the challenge. Frankly, neither do I. And I haven’t even told them about my wardrobe restrictions. Sleeves, not too low in back or in front, to the knee? They’re going to love that part. Marie-Christine takes my magazine pages. “Chérie, I could make you look like you were from Peru, Pakistan or Pluto. We will make you look good enough to be Russian.” I have to smile at that one. Now, it’s not like I never, ever shop, though after about an hour of making sure all my body image issues are alive and well, I’m usually done. And I guess there isn’t anything that unusual about three coworkers hitting the shops together. But clothes shopping isn’t a normal lunch break when you’re a spy. I get a minor reprieve for virtual run-throughs of Kozyrev’s boat (though that’s looking less and less useful) until ten o’clock rolls around and the boutiques downtown are open. César takes the reception desk and we head in to Lowertown, ByWard Market specifically. I choose to focus on the positive: I’ll look amazing for Danny. I don’t have to worry about Fyodor, about facing off with an enemy spy, about trying to prolong our relationship. I just have to find a pretty dress for Danny. But the choices for that quickly dwindle to basically noth

ing. Fortunately, Linda and Marie-Christine agree we can’t give the wrong impression, so they aren’t bothered by my selectionlimiting modesty rules. I know, it’d probably be okay to wear something for work, for one night, but . . . look, I do a lot of stuff that isn’t strictly okay by the standards of my church (or the ethics of any good person) for the sake of my job and my country. If I get a choice, I like to try to choose the right. By noon, though, it seems like I won’t have a choice until Marie-Christine pulls out this amazing coral red dress. It has a wide band of fabric running from one shoulder under the opposite arm, making the neckline asymmetrical. The sleeve and the dress under the band are both gathered a little into what the saleslady calls “subtle sculptural folds,” wrapping around the back in a graceful sweep of fabric. The skirt’s full enough to float around me and give me mobility just in case. Just in case the worst happens. No. I’m buying a dress to look nice for Danny. Fyodor is incidental. Because nothing will go wrong. I try the dress on, and it fits. And I can move in it. And it’s gorgeous. And ridiculously expensive—I don’t pay triple digits for clothes. Ever. I’m the least glamorous spy on the planet, I know. Can you say “government income”? “C’est ideal.” Marie-Christine’s gushing. I can’t blame her. Linda agrees. “He will love it.” To be honest, I don’t care what Fyodor will think. I can’t wait to see Danny’s jaw drop. Rather than trying to match the dress’s red, Linda insists we should go for gold slingbacks, but Marie-Christine and I get her to agree to some metallic brown shoes with a “reasonable” heel and not too pointy of a toe. I think the ankle straps convinced Linda. I know that and the fact that they’re only slightly less comfortable than flats did it for me, even with the triple

digit price tag again. I have no input on my accessories and I don’t care. They pick out earrings shaped like a pair of parentheses closed together, but decide to let my dress speak for itself. Translation: no necklace, I guess. While Linda pays for the jewelry with my company card, Marie-Christine plucks at my hair and sighs. “I think we need professional help.” Linda glances over with a frown of sad-but-true. Doesn’t exactly make me feel good, but I know they’re right. Marie-Christine grabs Linda’s wrist. “Do you know Amperage?” Linda lights up, but immediately dims. “They will be busy.” “The manager is my neighbor. He will get us in.” I’ve never heard of the place, but considering I go six months between haircuts and trim my bangs myself, it’s not that surprising. “How far is it?” “Oh, it’s in Gatineau.” I.E. across the river. I.E. in Quebec. I.E. I can carry on a conversation in French only if we stay on the topics of the weather and food. I inform them of my francophonic failures, but MarieChristine waves a c’est-pas-grave hand. “Even the unilingual French speak English in Gatineau.” Right. Twenty minutes later, they usher me into the black-andlime, glowing-wall-art, no-straight-lines lobby of Amperage Coiffure + Esthétique. I’m not sure I’m cool enough to inhale their hair chemical fumes, let alone scan the oversized glossy hair books with my makeover team. I pretend not to notice we’re the only people in here speaking English. Even more than that, I’m trying not to relive my personal hall of hair horrors. Ninety-five percent of the exhibit involves salons and some miscommunication with the stylist. Yeah, I’m not setting myself up for disaster. 

The nerves are building up like pressure behind a bullet, but I try to convince myself this will be a success if I walk out of here without purple hair. Marie-Christine flips back to the section of long waves in the “look book.” I’d love to be that glamorous, but it’s neither realistic nor practical for tonight. I guess she’s not in ops. “I can’t have my hair getting in the way,” I remind them. Linda flicks through the album to the updos section. Two pages of French twists and chignons. (Danny won’t recognize me.) “Too formal. She is not going to a wedding.” “No, these are more like she is in the wedding.” MarieChristine runs her fingers through her loose curls. “She needs movement.” I choose to ignore the fact they’re talking about me like I’m not there. At least they’re still using English. “I need my hair to stay where it is.” Linda says nothing, but continues through the book to reveal more hairstyles. This spread is all perfectly formed curls, pinned and shellacked into position so well they wouldn’t move without a jackhammer. “And it needs to look like I could possibly do it myself.” Linda turns the page again. I’m having a hard time picturing any of these on me, between the fashionable sideswept bangs and the perfectly conditioned and highlighted locks. My blunt bangs and plain, dark brown hair are not made for style. Marie-Christine moves on to more pictures and taps a photo on the left. “Oui.” Linda passes the book to me. It’s some kind of updo with a mass of loose curls. Even I’m convinced, as long as it’ll go with my bangs. The model’s long bangs are curled to match the back. But tonight looks aren’t everything. “Will it stay?” “What are you planning to do?” 

I raise my eyebrows and lower my voice. “Fight him off if I have to.” And they have no idea how literal that might be. Linda and Marie-Christine make eye contact, and I hope that look means they realize we’re not playing dress up. Then again, Linda isn’t supposed to know we’re not lawyers. “If we have it higher, at the crown perhaps?” Linda murmurs. Marie-Christine agrees. As soon as we decide, a stylist comes and calls MarieChristine’s name. We follow Joannie to the back. While she brushes, tugs, pulls, curls, pins and nails my hair into place, I browse pictures of Signatures on the Internet (again) with my phone. By the time she finishes, it’s almost four and my battery is getting dangerously low. “Ça y est!” Joannie turns me around with a flourish. I don’t know who that is in the mirror, but it’s definitely not me. My hair is now smooth and shiny. My totally boring bangs are chic. The rest of my hair is piled in loose curls on the back of my head. I shake my head hard, and Joannie jumps back a step. I know, I might destroy all her hard work, but if it doesn’t stay in place, it’ll come out if we run into trouble. I need to stop being so pessimistic. I’m not going to run into trouble. I won’t allow it. In the mirror, my curls have redistributed themselves, but the overall hairdo is intact. Joannie finger-brushes my bangs and beams at my reflection, and I reflect that beam right back. I hope this isn’t another three-digit purchase, though if it is, it’s totally worth it. But there’s a lot of work to do in the next two hours before I head in to Signatures. We’re probably ten kilometers from the office as the spy plane flies, but unfortunately, we have to use roads, and with 

the river between us, the fastest route back to Keeler Tate is twice as far. They seriously need another bridge around here. “Can I charge my phone on the way?” I hold up my cell. Linda shoots me an apologetic frown. “My husband has the car charger.” Marie-Christine directs me into the backseat to work on my makeup. “The natural light is better,” she says, though I’d really prefer not to be moving while she lines my eyelids with a sharp pencil. Forty-five minutes later (thanks, bridge traffic), we pull into our office lot and I commandeer the rearview mirror to see. Now I really don’t know who that is. My skin looks perfect, smooth and sun-kissed. My lips are the same color as my dress, and my hazel eyes totally stand out with the thick black liner, those-cannot-be-real lashes and the green/gold ombré eye shadow. Danny’s jaw won’t hit the table—until I sit with him and he realizes it’s me. Linda examines my eye makeup, too. “Waterproof?” Marie-Christine nods and Linda smiles her approval. “I will take care of your purse and you will be ready for anything. Oh! I have an idea!” She drags us into the bathroom on the first floor of our office building and hands me my dress and shoes. It’s the first test for my clothes: our office. I step into the dress, careful to keep it well away from my hair and makeup, and pull on the shoes. Now I look like I could walk through Rostov-on-Don with my head held high. We take the elevator up to a floor above Keeler Tate, and the stairs back down. I put on my sunglasses before we get to the cameras and the doors, and then we sweep through the reception area and swipe ourselves into the bullpen. I hear the impression I’m making before I see it. The clack 

of computer keys stops. César starts to pull manila folders over his papers, covering his classified documents. The rest of the boys’ club stares in silence. I take off my sunglasses, and there still isn’t a sound. Finally, Elliott stands up and begins to slow-clap. At least half the people in the room turn to him in confusion. “The award for the best disguise ever goes to Talia Reynolds,” he announces. And the rest of the office erupts in applause. I bask in the confidence boost. I’ll need it. Most of the time on an op, my job is to blend into the background, to be completely invisible, to be the person you don’t remember seeing. But every once in a while, a spy can do her work most effectively with every eye in the room on her. Tonight I have to perform in the spotlight, the heat and the pressure. Before I get to show off for Danny, I’ll have to make it through a date with Fyodor. With the enemy.

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

N A SPARE OFFICE,

I stare at the patchy scruff on Elliott’s jawline while he pins a small bejeweled maple leaf brooch to my dress—my mic and camera. When he finishes with the clasp, he hands me the earpiece and I put it in. He steps out for the sound check. “Test, test,” he says. “When’s the last time you shaved? February?” “Hilarious.” Elliott comes back in, pulling a University of Ottawa sweatshirt over his head. A nice touch, since we’ll be down the street from the school’s Sandy Hill campus, even if it’s too hot for sweatshirts. He starts threading his iPod/comms through his collar, but stops to come stand in front of me. “Be careful.” He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then tries again. “This has bad news written all over it.” A sudden flash of nerves makes me edge a few steps to the side. I try to cover it with a joke, but the worry wears through my words. “What, I’m too hot for my own good?” “Maybe.” There’s something strange, almost nostalgic in his 

expression, like he’s remembering the first time he saw me—or afraid tonight will be the last. “You know boys only have one thing on their mind.” I cast my eyes at the ceiling in a oh-please look. “If it’s not aerospace, then no. But thanks for the heads-up, Mom.” “I—I’m serious, though.” “Elliott, I’m going in there to compromise him, not myself.” “Huh? Oh, no, not that.” He leans down to peer into my eyes. “Power. Respect. Prestige. Call it what you want, but that’s what he’s after. That’s why he’s here. Play to his motives.” “He’s a guy. I get it.” Elliott studies my face again for a minute. Either he really doesn’t see me under all this makeup, or he’s really concerned about one little covert op. “What do you have to worry about?” I mean that he’s not the one dating the dark side, but once the words are out, I hear the subconscious double meaning. The message stands between us like a concrete wall. I’m not the one who keeps getting distracted and endangering the rest of my team. The fear crystallizes in the back of my brain, a tiny part of my mind still absolutely terrified he’ll fail again, this time with irreversible consequences. “C’mon.” He slaps on his you-know-I’m-right-and-by-theway-have-you-noticed-how-hot-I-am? smile. “I won’t let you down.” I want to believe him. Of course I do. But I have to ask. “How’s Shanna?” His grin falls away like I smacked it off. He rubs a knuckle over his bottom lip. “Three days overdue. Anxious.” She’s not the only one. That same anxiety mixes with the adrenaline in my veins, pulling the muscles in my back tight. But I just pat his arm. “The first one’s always late.” 

“As long as she holds out until after tonight, I’ll be happy.” I wait until he meets my gaze again. “You’ll make it,” I reassure him. “You will, too.” Elliott lifts a fist as if to chuck me on the chin, but stops mid-chuck and wraps his arms around me instead. He’s hugged me like four times ever, but I think I know what he’s trying to say: thank you for trusting me, thank you for understanding, thank you for the second chance. And good luck. Maybe Will was wrong about being better off alone. I grab the bronze clutch purse Linda has stocked and loaned to me—I’d use mine, but Linda insisted my brown bag was horrible—and drop in the USB drive with James’s manufactured “sensitive secrets.” Now all I have to do is show these to Fyodor in less than an hour without looking suspicious. Right. Will drives me and Elliott into Sandy Hill, south of Lowertown, where we went shopping a few hours ago. I’d try to charge my phone in his car, but Will’s charging his, and he’s coordinating our team and CSIS’s, so he has priority over my personal phone. Robby will provide support as well, but I’m on my own in the ring. We’ve done all the prep, and now anything we say would be redundant, distracting, so suffocating silence fills the car thick with stress. Elliott is the first on his SDR through the U of O campus. I’ve tried to make mine as short as allowable with these heels, even if they’re not terrible. Once Elliott’s underway and I’ve traded my real cell phone for my operational one, Will hooks his arm over the front seat. “Don’t sell the secrets too hard.” “I know.” “Seriously. It’s a nice idea and I like where your head’s at, but they could make this whole thing too easy to blow. Angle 

for the invitation. It’s the bigger fish.” He’s right. I have to make this natural, and the secrets might not be. But an invitation is. With a quick salute to Will, I head out on my SDR. I hit a minimart, sightsee in a Hare Krishna temple, peruse a bookstore and glance around the Laurier House before I’m completely sure I’m not being followed. Right on schedule. I tell my team. “Moving in.” “Break a leg,” Elliott says. “His. But only if you have to. Don’t get mesmerized by The Beard.” “Shouldn’t I tell you that?” I can hear his smirk. “See you.” “Or not.” I take a quick detour through Strathcona Park, across the street from the restaurant. I’ve been to the park once for a church softball game before Danny and I started dating, though we spent half the time flirting. But now, I’m focusing on Fyodor and Signatures, a big, yellow Victorian Franken-castle (I mean house) with bright blue trim. A little weird looking. I don’t think Linda and MarieChristine ever got that operational effectiveness was more important than being fashionably late, but I walk through the door at 6:30 on the dot. The aroma of roasting meat makes my stomach grumble. Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. I guess even oatmeal doesn’t stick with you this long. I scan the dining room for Fyodor. Beyond the vestibule, the creamy yellow walls are topped by wide white molding sculpted with grapevine garlands. Heavy drapes in gold and dusty blue frame the tall windows, and white-clothed tables with simple wood-backed chairs fill the rooms. But Fyodor is nowhere to be seen. I approach the host stand and the man in a black dress shirt. “Hit the charm,” Elliott reminds me. Yeah, thanks for the 

tip. “Hello.” I add a little extra warmth to my tone, but that’s all the charisma cash I can spare for now. “Do you have reservations for Timofeyev?” “Yes.” He runs a finger down the page in the appointment book. “Seven o’clock.” Elliott groans in my ear. “Oh really?” I lean over the desk like I’m checking the reservation to give Elliott a good view of the book. If we can get Fyodor one minute early, canceling someone else’s reservation might make the difference between a date with Danny and nothing. I sigh. “Guess I’m early.” The host directs me to their waiting area. “Is that the best you can do?” comes Elliott’s ever-welcome vote of confidence. I bite back the retort and take a minute to visit the restroom. I almost deadbolt the main door before I see the black orthopedic pumps in the first stall. I’ll have to wait. I linger by the sink and pull up RussCa on my operational phone. My KoketniChat inbox has a message waiting again. Unsurprisingly, it’s from Fyodor. Tasha, Sorry, just got your message. I’ll

be there as soon as I can. I check the timestamp on the message. Ten minutes ago. If he’s staying downtown, he should arrive soon. “He’ll be here any minute,” I murmur as if I’m talking to myself and not Elliott. I put my phone away and rinse my clammy hands. An elderly woman comes to the next sink. Once she’s dried her hands, she pats my shoulder. “Of course he’ll come. Who wouldn’t want to spend the evening with a beautiful young girl like you?” Yeah, that’s not exactly my problem tonight. But I thank her and wait for her to leave. 

“Is he still there?” My voice echoes in the empty bathroom despite my efforts to be quiet. Elliott relays the question and we both wait. “SCENIC left two minutes ago. PINION is heading in now.” That’s CSIS. I check the time on my phone again—6:43— then set a timer to vibrate when we hit the sixty-minute mark. That’s all the time we have tonight to reel him in, pitch him and pass off the secrets, or score an invitation to Shcherbakov. And then I can spend the rest of the evening with Danny and his big plans. I return to the waiting area, listening as Elliott calls to move back two of the reservations ahead of us. As soon as he hangs up the second time, I hide in an alcove and swoop in on my phone to push the last remaining reservation after us. Trying not to pace, I stay in the alcove and watch the door. I want to see Fyodor first. Another couple walks in. Three more minutes pass. How far away is he staying? Why don’t I know? I guess there are a few things CSIS feels we don’t need-to-know, either. Finally, the door swings open again—Fyodor. He talks to the host and the host looks my way. Fyodor does the same, his gaze traveling up the length of my legs first. You can tell the second it registers that it’s me. His eyes flicker to life and he looks a good five years younger. He comes to greet me with a traditional Russian gesture, a kiss on the cheek. I got used to it in Russia, but here, it’s still weird. I mean, Danny and I were together for months before we started kissing hello. Or at all. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sticks to English for starters. “I just got your message.” “That’s okay; I should’ve double checked with you.” “Krasivaya.” You’re beautiful. Yep, total charmer. “Thank you. You look very nice, too.” He does, actually, in a dark pinstriped suit with a deep red shirt and tie. And Elliott’s 

right: I think he did comb his beard. I will myself not to think about what Danny might look like in fifty-five minutes. I have to focus or I’ll never get through those minutes. I expect Fyodor to offer his arm, but instead he presents me with a small box. A jewelry box. Inside is a delicate silver bracelet. My heart starts a heavy, deliberate drumbeat. I need to react. Fyodor could be SVR for all we know—and this might be a trap or a tracker—but with him right here I don’t have a choice. “Oh, thank you. It’s lovely.” I let him help me put the chain on my wrist. I wish I knew Russian dating customs. As a missionary, I wasn’t allowed to date when I lived there. I can’t say whether this is unusual, but people do give a lot of gifts. Could be platonic, right? Oh my goodness. I’m overthinking this like it’s a real date. Can we end this now? Now Fyodor offers his arm and we follow the hostess to our table. Our server comes, and Fyodor orders from the wine list before I ask for water. If I remember right, in Russia it’s rude to drink if your guest is not, but I could be wrong. And I’m pretty used to it anyway, so I let it slide and we turn to our menus. The online reviews say the appetizers are better than the entrees, but I’m not going to sit here more than fifty minutes waiting for my food to come when I could be somewhere else. I need to focus. Get my head in the game. Dive in. I order the thyme and lemon lamb with veggie-date tajine and a burnt lemon meringue, and Fyodor gets the milk-fed veal strip loin blanquette. I’m not sure what half that means, but now $30 a piece sounds like a deal. Once we’ve finished with small talk about the weather and our food arrives (it’s delicious—seriously, this lamb is so tender, 

I can cut it by looking at it), I start in on my ploy. Slowly. “You work in aerospace, right?” “Yes, Shcherbakov Aircraft.” “Do you do much international business?” Sometimes direct questions do work best. Fyodor stabs a piece of veal. “Some. But our competitors are much larger. Years ago, President Putin combined several aerospace manufacturers to create Obyedinyonnaya Aviastroitelʹnaya Korporatsiya. As you can imagine, they control most of the market.” The merger he mentioned Wednesday. I know better than to make a comment about free enterprise here. Russia isn’t communist anymore, but let’s just say they’re still putting the “command” in command economy. “That’s awful.” “It made sense at the time with so many companies in the country, but not being part of OAK hurts us every day.” Fyodor sounds like the competition is actually causing him heartache. “I’m sorry. I know how tough it is when you can’t get ahead.” I choose my words to hint at a rivalry with the Americans, starting in on the secrets, but Fyodor speaks before I can. “That might change soon.” He concentrates on cutting another bite of his veal and coating it with parsnip, apple and almond purée. “Oh?” I ask, a single note not-guilty plea. He said something about this in our KoketniChat IM, I remember. “Did you pick up something good while you were here?” His head snaps up and his fork hits the table. “What do you mean?” Whoa. If he already has something, our fake secrets aren’t nearly the enticement I thought. Our plans have to take a backseat to figuring this out. I clear my throat, signaling Elliott this is important. “Oh, only that you were visiting companies here to learn things.” 

Fyodor’s eyes draw into skeptical slits. I have to do better. I have to do Russian. “Znayeshʹ, ty nabral. Znaniy.” You know, you acquired. The knowledge. “Ah, da. Znaniya.” I switch to English for Elliott’s sake. Robby’s surely somewhere, but the delay will kill operational effectiveness. “So what kind of knowledge did you pick up?” “Do you know much about aerospace?” “Some.” Naiveté is another classic method of elicitation, and for once, it actually works. Fyodor launches into an explanation that takes me through everything Danny covered Tuesday night and then some. And then some more. And then a little more. If Elliott were here, we’d both be making fun of Timofeyev with our eyes. If Danny were here, he’d be eating this up. Maybe I should’ve tried to get them together. Not. But I nod in all the right places—I’m a girl first, and then a spy, so I know how to keep a conversation going even if I’m not into it. Yes, girls do this. We learn how from stupid ’70s sitcom reruns and seventh grade attempts at getting a boy to like us. It’s a skill that comes in handy for the rest of our lives. If pressed, I could reflect back the gist of the conversation: greater efficiency in gas turbines; lighter, faster engines; new lighter composites; cheaper components. None of it sounds particularly illegal, though, and definitely not worthy of Russian intelligence, let alone ours. Typical, professional business dealings: SinclAir is to provide the composites, and Malcolm is consulting on engine designs for a hefty fee. That’s pretty similar to some things NRC Aerospace does, but I don’t know if they consult for foreign companies, and I definitely don’t want to come close to talking about Danny. Fortunately, my primary objective is not to wring the information out of Fyodor myself, and this might give me the 

segue I’ve been waiting for. “You know, I think the Americans were trying to work out a similar deal.” “They were?” The question sounds like innocent curiosity, but he has the eyes of a vulture. “Sorry, I guess nobody likes to hear about the competition.” And nobody likes a tease. (I’m terrible.) He sets down his fork. “Actually, I am very interested in our competition.” “Oh.” I add a note of disappointment to my voice. “I don’t like to talk about the Americans.” “I understand the sentiment. Do you have to deal with them much?” I groan. “Anything is too much.” And then I watch his reaction. I can’t imagine he loves us all that much, but seeing how he receives this is crucial to acing my pitch. He scowls and shakes his head. “You should be coordinating with Russians.” “Believe me, I’d like to.” I push my plate aside and lean over the table. “Maybe there’s something we can do about that.” A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Of course I hope so.” I’ve got him. I let myself return that grin. “Nice.” Elliott’s voice pops into my ear. “Are you sure he’s talking about aerospace?” An unsettling feeling steals down my spine. Can I make sure we’re on topic? I could try to reel in Fyodor by bringing up the secrets now—but that’s what an amateur would do. It looks too prepared, too rehearsed. I want it to seem like it’s just occurring to me. Later. By the time the countdown on my mental clock reaches fifteen minutes, we’re pretty much done with our meals. We could pass the next quarter hour chatting here—in most European cities and most big cities everywhere, I guess, you do a lot of your entertaining in restaurants, and Ottawa follows 

the same rules. I do, too, since I live in a bachelor apartment. In open-kitchen restaurants. I don’t do a lot of entertaining, okay? “FOX,” Elliott pipes up once the waiter has bussed our plates. “Bad news.” My stomach twists around my dinner. As if Fyodor not talking about aerospace wasn’t bad enough. Either I’m in trouble, or I’m about to be.

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



to signal Elliott I understand and he continues. “PINION is just responding to CASTLETON. They were late getting in because SCENIC switched rooms.” Fyodor switched rooms? The tension crawls into my fidgety fingers. No wonder CSIS is taking so long getting back to us. I need to know the new deadline. I wish there were some way I could tell Danny I’m getting pushed back, or maybe Elliott could tell him. But for now I’ll settle for knowing myself. The waiter returns. “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” Fyodor looks like he’s going to say no, but without knowing how much longer I’ll have to keep him occupied, I need this help. “Yes, please.” I pump extra enthusiasm into my voice. “Working on a new timeline,” Elliott reports. Not helpful, but at least I know he hasn’t left me hanging. Again. The waiter returns with the dessert menu. Fyodor reaches across the table to stroke my arm while we debate. Russians are generally more touch-y than Americans, but this does not feel like the typical, casual, conversational contact. My goose ADJUST MY BROOCH



bumps aren’t from excitement. Fyodor chooses the maple and blueberry crème brûlée with an almond tuile cookie. As good as that sounds, if we split one dessert, it’ll be gone so fast it’d be a $10 waste of time. I spring (well, Russian protocol demands Fyodor pay for whatever I might want) for a second dessert, a baked caramelized apple with green apple sorbet and something called apple snow. If I’m really, really late for Danny, maybe we can catch dessert together. I have an Everest-high sugar tolerance. My borrowed clutch purse vibrates in my lap. My hour is up. And I have no idea when I’ll be out of here. I swallow the inward groan. Oblivious, Fyodor switches from stroking the back of my arm to the inside of my wrist. I swear I can see my pulse pounding in that vein. I can’t wait. I need out now. “Would you excuse me? I need to visit the restroom.” Fyodor places his hand over mine. I’ll take that as goodbye. I head back to the bathroom. One stall’s occupied. I scrub as if that will erase the ominous tingling where he touched me. The stall door remains closed. I end up checking my reflection for a long time while I wait. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror by the time the other woman finishes and leaves the bathroom. Am I keeping Fyodor waiting? Yes. Do I care? No. I shut the main bathroom door and lock the deadbolt. “HAMMER,” I say to the air, “I need a timeline, and I need it to be zero. We’re getting a little too friendly.” Elliott’s answer is delayed a couple seconds. “Sorry. All I’ve got is that they’re in the middle of something and they can’t talk right now.” “‘Something’ had better be the cleanup.” The line goes quiet again. “I don’t think it is. Total radio silence on their end, right up to the top.” 

If the boss at CSIS isn’t talking, you know it’s bad. I want to text Danny, but there are a hundred reasons not to: Danny doesn’t know this number. I have no idea how long I’ll be. Danny might text back while I’m with Fyodor. I’m not letting them get even that close. Back at the table, waiting for our desserts, I manage to limit Fyodor’s contact to holding hands across the table. I committed to this Wednesday, but now? I can’t. Even this feels wrong. Other than the last moment of our first date, it was so much easier to fake this relationship before. Now my foot is bouncing like an over-caffeinated Chihuahua. I quickly uncross my legs, but my shoe skims his shin. I have no idea if there’s a Russian version of footsie. I can. Not. Go sending the wrong message, but before I can apologize, our desserts arrive. I force myself to give Fyodor’s hand a squeeze then let go to accept my plate, grateful for the chance to focus anywhere but Fyodor. The apple snow turns out to be cooked apples mixed with what tastes like a liquid meringue. The combination of chewy and crisp, hot and cold, and apples, sugar and cinnamon is pretty amazing. Even with the tart sorbet, this is almost enough to peg me out on sweets. For maybe twenty minutes. How much longer will I have to keep Fyodor? Finally, Elliott’s back to tell me. “Okay, FOXHUNT, got another report from PINION.” I slow down on the sorbet and wait for the news. Elliott continues. “Not good. They found SCENIC’s room and started, but someone else came into his room.” Someone else? I push the next bite of caramelized apple around on my plate. First at Kozyrev’s house, then Fyodor’s room? Elliott’s right. This isn’t good at all. “Waiting on details, but they need at least twenty more minutes. Thirty’d be better.” 

I grit my teeth and fidget with the maple leaf again to acknowledge and confirm. A little part of me hopes I’m rubbing the microphone loud enough to take out my frustrations on Elliott’s ears. It’s like four minutes to eight right now. I told Danny eight. Half past at the very latest. And travel time with my post-op SDR? I’m so dead. I tap into my sugar savoring and stockpiling skills and attack the rest of the dessert. I have to take my time. I have to give CSIS the chance to get what we need. If I don’t, the whole night, including making Danny reschedule and wait, could be a waste, and I’ve already let CSIS down twice this week. Once Fyodor finishes his crème brûlée—I’m so getting that at Wilfrid’s—I turn the conversation toward reminisces of my ten magical, made up days in Rostov-on-Don over Ivan Kupala Day. (It’s John the Baptist’s saint day, a midsummer’s festival in Russia.) But as soon as I bring it up, I remember the pagan history of Kupala Night, originally a fertility ritual, gives the celebrations overtones of romance. “You were there for Kupala?” Fyodor asks. “Did you have a young man to hold your hand while jumping over the fire?” I focus on my fork. “No.” I watched, though. If you let go midair, you’ll end up separated. “Oh? No one to follow you into the woods?” “No. My visit was too short for that.” Traditionally, the single women go into the forest to hunt for herbs and the mythic fern flower, followed by the young men. Obviously, I didn’t participate, but I had to wonder how many herbs were gathered. “I did float a wreath down the river.” “And what did the river forecast?” Floating the wreaths and interpreting the flow patterns is another prediction method for your love life. And I did participate in that one, at the insistence of some Russian friends. 

They regretted making me join in pretty quickly. “My future held a lot of disappointment.” Fyodor takes my hand, stroking the back with his thumb. “I hope that’s about to change.” In the corner of my mind, I warn myself to tread very, very carefully. I force a smile and hope it doesn’t show my unease. I take back every single second of committing to this. “You’re falling prey to The Beard.” The unsettling tune of Elliott’s voice plays up and down my spine like it’s a xylophone. Fyodor, however, doesn’t seem to read much more into it. The check arrives and he pays. Then he moves on to share his memories of all kinds of celebrations in October Park, and we complain about the miserable, entitled ducks that charge on people for food. (They really are awful.) I have a lot more memories to draw from, but at some point it’s going to stop sounding like a ten-day trip. Fortunately, the recollections of Rostov thread is winding down when Elliott chimes in again. “Correction, the last message was sent while the person was still in SCENIC’s room. He just got out. Add forty more minutes to the timeline. And that’s until SCENIC leaves you, not counting his travel time.” Of course. Of course. Of course. It’s fifteen after. I won’t get there before 9:15, and that’s taking a cab, without SDR stops. I try to come up with a way I can send Danny a text—head to the bathroom again and dictate it to Will via Elliott?—when Fyodor redirects the conversation. “Would you like to take a walk in the park?” “Oh, yes, thank you.” I’m mostly grateful I don’t have to think of a way to prolong this on my own. Contrary to his plan, we don’t cross the street toward Strathcona. Instead, he takes me down the sidewalk on our side of the street first, heading past two large brick houses until the road turns ninety degrees 

to our left, cutting off our route. Fyodor points at the building now in front of us. It looks like an office building with square columns along the façade. Even in the growing shadows of sunset, I recognize it, duh, but I don’t say anything. “The Russian embassy,” he says. “You should get to know it well.” “Oh, cool.” Yeah, over both of our dead bodies, buddy. I’d better not be showing my vibe of get me away from this building. Fyodor offers his arm and escorts me across the street. We follow the sidewalk back to the brown stone Lord Strathcona fountain. We’ve reconned as a precaution, but I’ve only been to Strathcona Park once. I think there’s a sculpture garden, but really I’ve only been to the field where we played softball at the south end of the park. Not enough to keep us occupied as long as CSIS needs. We start down the stairs into the park. I really hope we have a tail. Fyodor and I take turns leading the stroll and the conversation and we meander through the park paths and our genealogy. I’ve memorized my fabricated family history since the beginning of my CIA training, and now I throw in a Russian/Canadian twist. Elliott had better be recording this, in case family comes up if I visit Fyodor. We turn around at the south parking lot and follow the trail by the Rideau River. Fyodor frowns at the rocks and brush poking out of the low water. “This is considered a river here?” “Yeah, you can wade across during the summer, but no one tries with the pollution.” “Is this why you need your canal?” “That, and the waterfalls where the Rideau meets the Ottawa.” And so Canadians can wage war on Americans. (I’m 

not kidding. It was built as a precaution after the War of 1812.) “The Ottawa, that is a river. This makes me miss the Don.” Fyodor segues into a discussion of And Quiet Flows the Don. I try to avoid the book’s themes, but pretty much the entire thing is about tragic lovers separated by circumstances. I don’t know if Elliott’s in range right now, but I do know I owe the CSIS crew in Fyodor’s hotel room another fifteen minutes. The sidewalk loops back around toward the stairs we came in on. But instead of following the path back to the concrete steps, Fyodor pauses in the shadows of some overhanging trees. He brushes my bangs across my forehead. The butterflies in my gut are big enough to sport rear gunners. He leans in to kiss my cheek. Twice. Three times. Ice coats my ribs. His whiskers tickle my skin as he moves toward my lips. When he catches the corner of my mouth, my stomach pitches like we’ve hit a major patch of turbulence. I try to laugh him off and step back. He slides his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I hold my breath, but try not to let him feel me tense. “I think you missed the best part of Kupala Night.” My stomach drops with the plane’s plummet. We didn’t pass any bonfires, so unless he’s hiding a flower garland somewhere, he’s got to mean hunting herbs in the woods. Alone. Or not hunting herbs, as the case might be. Again, I never participated. Though several people reassured me the tradition was totally innocent, I can only imagine at least one person through the years has gotten the wrong idea about midnight gallivanting through the forest with the opposite sex. I glance skyward. The last orange lights of sunset filter through the evergreen needles overhead. Chills shoot down the back of my neck. Fyodor starts walking again, doubling back on our path, his hand lingering on my waist. But when we get to the curve in 

the sidewalk, instead of turning, he continues straight, leading me off the pavement. Into the thick trees. I hesitate and Fyodor looks back to me, one eyebrow lifted as if to say Oh no? Fifteen minutes. They need fifteen minutes. I can stall him for fifteen minutes. I can’t force air into my lungs, but I’m diving in anyway. My heels sink into the soft ground. They’re not made for offroading. But it’s not the terrain or the sweet dessert drawing nausea into my stomach. Within ten feet we lose sight of the path. Fifteen minutes or not, this is too far. Panic closes around my ribs and I stop, my heels piercing the undergrowth. My hand on Fyodor’s arm jerks him to a standstill. But instead of staying there, he lets my weight pull him back. And he pivots. Reaches for me. Catches my neck. Kisses me. I stumble backward. My high heels stay embedded in the dirt, but my toes slip out of my shoes. The straps are still tied to my ankles, and I manage to pull them free to retreat. The ground’s cold and prickly under my feet, every step setting me more and more on edge. Breathe. Think. Stop—no, don’t. I put a hand on his chest, trying to hold him off. I slip into Russian before I realize this is something Elliott needs to understand. “Fyodor, this is too fast.” “I wish we had time to go slow, to do this the right way, but we don’t. I leave tomorrow.” He advances on me again. I retreat, trying to angle for the path, but Fyodor steps to my left and shuts off my escape route. He smiles as if I’m playing the physical version of hard to get. The concept of “unwanted advances” doesn’t exist in Russia. Even if you bring a suit there, judges have ruled that without sexual harassment, there’d be no children, so it’s okay. 

I will not go there. I have to get away. When I turn to back up the hill, I trip over my heels. Fyodor grabs my arm as if to catch me, I think. He falls with me instead. Not with me. On top of me. My head hits the ground, shooting pain through my skull. On the bounce back, my lips slam into his. I taste blood. Mine. His body lands on me, knocking the air from my lungs. I can’t draw another breath. My heart throws itself against my ribs like a wild bird trapped in an airless cage. I can’t move. I can’t think. His mouth is hot on mine, his beard digs into my face, his hands are—everywhere. Threads pop. I try to scream, but I still can’t get a breath. Our eyes meet, and I know mine are shouting “NO.” But his hold such raw hunger that he’ll never understand my fear. I struggle to get air, a foothold, leverage, but my heels only dig furrows in the soft dirt. Think. Think. Think. I can get out of this. I have to wait, let him get overconfident, capitalize on his arrogance. Panic surges right overtop of all my rational thoughts. All I can feel is his weight, his whiskers, the heat of his breath, his hands. And all I can think is I’m about to shed blood.







HROUGH THE BLINDING TERROR,

I feel Fyodor’s fingers graze my knee. Mine close on a fistful of dirt. “Hey!” shouts a familiar voice over my pulse pounding in my ears. Fyodor jerks back. I turn my head and hurl the soil into his face. He coughs and sputters and yells, but doesn’t move. My lungs are still frozen, crushed. Then, all at once, his weight is off me. My rescuer tosses Fyodor aside by the collar. For a split second, I expect Danny. It’s not him. (What would I do if it was?) It’s Elliott. But this is no time to break cover. Elliott helps me to my feet. “Are you all right, miss?” Good. He’s playing it like this, too. “I—I—yes,” I manage. I think I am, anyway. The damage is insignificant. Superficial. Psychological. “This guy’s a bother, eh?” Elliott’s exaggerated Prairie Canadian accent is a little ridiculous, but I’m not in a frame of mind to joke. Fyodor has regained his feet, scrubbing the dirt from his 

beard. Before he can square off against Elliott, I step up. “No harm done. I just want to go home.” No, I just want Danny. Though I can’t explain any of this to him and probably wouldn’t try if I could, I want Danny to hold me and tell me it’s okay and make me feel safe again. I take a slow, shaky breath and try to get my heart rate down. I’m not done here. “Why don’t you take off?” Elliott’s words are innocuous; his tone isn’t. He narrows his eyes to stare Fyodor down. Fyodor takes half a step forward, and every pretense of the friendly Canadian evaporates from Elliott’s face. Even his posture is a silent threat. “Tasha.” Fyodor turns to entreat me, segueing quickly into Russian. “I’m sorry. I thought—Kupala, And Quiet Flows the Don. . . .” He stoops to collect my clutch, but Elliott snatches it away. I scramble to get his bracelet off and hold it out. He accepts it without looking me in the eye and turns. As soon as he’s a couple feet away, Elliott slips into his best Rick Moranis impression. “Ya hoser.” But I’m still not in a joking mood, and we’re still not in the clear. “Thank you.” “Are you sure you’re okay?” Elliott watches Fyodor, now standing at the edge of the path, watching us right back. I sit on the ground, partially not trusting my knees and partially to get my shoes back on. “I’ll be all right.” “You should see yourself, miss. Let me make sure you get home okay.” I don’t have to answer, and I’m grateful, because that’s when the tears hit. I wouldn’t fault anyone else for crying after being assaulted like that, but I’m not anyone else. I’m Talia Reynolds, CIA operative. One of the boys. I’m not supposed to cry. 

Sometimes I really hate being a girl. Elliott carefully helps me to my feet again and starts picking the pine needles and soil bits from my hair. “Sorry it took me so long,” he whispers. “Just glad you got here.” I wipe the tears and will them to stop. Will myself to be strong. Will away the feeling of his wandering hands and whiskers and weight. Elliott brushes off the back of my dress, but after several attempts, he hands me a handkerchief. “Your—um . . .” He points at my butt. Where I hit the dirt. Elliott pours bottled water from his backpack on the handkerchief and I try to gently scrub the dirt streaks off. He riffles through my clutch and pulls out a compact mirror and a travel sewing kit. Oh, that’s bad. I clutch my dress’s neckline to my chest. Elliott pulls off his sweatshirt and wraps it around my shoulders. It’s way too warm for sweatshirts, but I’m really glad I didn’t call him on it earlier. In the streetlight, I think I can see Fyodor striding down the path. The soft ground shifts under my shoes. But when my ankle wobbles with the first step onto the pavement, I can’t use that excuse anymore, and I’m pretty used to heels. The only other explanation is the nerves/numbness pattern attacking my legs. I lean a little heavier on Elliott, using the compact to check my reflection. Other than some dirt smudges, my makeup is intact. I use a clean corner of the bandana to wipe away the stray lipstick and eye shadow. I shake the rest of the dirt from my curls, only semi-crushed. I turn to my dress. The wrap-around band of fabric is torn nearly off the dress at the shoulder, but at least one end is still secured in the other underarm seam. The travel sewing kit has red thread. I silently bless Linda. At the edge of the park, Elliott hails a cab for me. One pulls 

up immediately and I nearly collapse in the backseat. Is it over? I crane my neck to use the rearview. Where’s Fyodor now? Elliott gets in, too. “One minute,” he tells the driver. He studies my eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?” “I will be.” I stop checking the cab’s mirrors. He’s gone. He has to be. Gone. Elliott frowns, scrutinizing me a minute longer before he gives me the second real hug we’ve shared today. It feels good, solid, to be held by someone I trust right now. But I still wish he were Danny. Danny. I pull away and check the clock in the front of the car. 8:55. Elliott calls in to warn CSIS they don’t have the next ten minutes they were depending on. He listens to their report, his expression still grim. But instead of being disappointed with myself, my heart lifts in hope. I’m half an hour past my outside late time. Nearly an hour later than the actual time I wanted to be there, but I’m being optimistic for once. Half an hour. That’s not too bad, right? I turn to ask Elliott, but his mask of concern is gone. “Shanna called.” “Is it time?” “Looks like it.” Elliott flashes the biggest grin I’ve ever seen from him. Elliott and I are best friends and coworkers and we’ve saved one another’s lives. But this is the first time I’ve seen him smile like that—and it hits me: he reminds me of Danny. No matter how well we know one another, Elliott always does the guy thing, trying to play off everything as if he’s too cool, too clever, too cavalier to care. His smiles always have a hint of swagger or superiority or smirking. Until now. This is pure happiness, excitement, joy. And it’s the way Danny has always smiled at me. Because he doesn’t bother with that front. He is who he is all the time, and especially with me. I love it. I envy it. And I 

want to see that smile right now and every minute for the rest of my life. But first, we both have to get there. I clamp down on the emotions boiling in my gut. “Well?” I say to Elliott. “Go to her.” He turns to the driver and orders us to an address, one of his designated SDR stops, I’m sure. After the Queensway and into Old Ottawa East, we stop at a convenience store/fast food restaurant. I maintain my white-knuckle grasp on my composure and we both head in. Once we’ve looked over their twenty-seven kinds of tortilla chips, we exchange a silent signal to leave. Next I hold it together at a New Age-y place. We pick up a brochure and wait long enough that any surveillance would have to come make sure we didn’t go out the back. Once we get back to the cab after the last stop (dry cleaners to inquire after their rates), we’re both sure we’re not being followed. Elliott orders us to the next stop. “Ottawa Hospital.” We’re clear and we know it. We can relax. But as I sink against the ratty upholstery, my grip on my cool slips, too. Fyodor almost—he could have— No. I straighten in my seat. I give Elliott his sweatshirt and turn my attention to sewing up my torn dress and pushing down the flashing memories. But I can’t hold back the heat that keeps rising to my face. Most of all, I’m embarrassed. I can’t say why, but I am. Like it’s somehow something I did? I know it’s not; it’s not anything I did. I know it—but suddenly my casual relationship with the truth comes back to bite me, and even I don’t know whether to believe myself. “Oh, Will sent this.” Elliott hands over my regular cell phone. “He says you can write your post-action report tomorrow.” “How generous.” Did Will really remember I had something important to do tonight? I check my battery. He didn’t charge it 

for me. Great. “I’ll text you with the good news.” The excitement rings in Elliott’s voice, pulling me out of my frustrations. “Of course. Three AM, whenever. Babies love the middle of the night.” The Danny-like grin morphs into something a little sillier now. I love Elliott like a brother, but I’m not going to the hospital, especially not with Danny waiting. I convince Elliott and the driver to let me out at Lees and Main, leaving Elliott’s sweatshirt in the cab. When the taxi pulls away, though, I regret that choice. We’ve done our diligence in detecting surveillance. We’re black, and my dress is mostly put back together, but I’ve never felt more vulnerable, watched, exposed. I know better than to look around, giving myself away. I hail another cab and duck in. But the warm night can’t take away the chill in my spine. Headed to the Château, I finish off my dress repair and double check my hair and makeup. I’d text Danny, but my battery is so low I don’t dare. Major oversight on my part. At least I’m in the clear now. It feels very weird to be without my phone, almost as though my antennae have been clipped. But now I won’t need it to make or receive a call for help. I rub away the goose bumps on the back of my neck. I’m in the clear now. I have to say it again to remind myself Fyodor hasn’t taken anything from me. I’m okay. I’m okay. I. Am. Fine. But I don’t know if I’ll believe it until I hear the words from Danny’s lips. Preferably with his arms around me. And Fyodor out of the country or in custody. Still exposed. Watched. Vulnerable. He seemed sorry, but what if he isn’t? He could be mad. 

Mad enough to follow me? I clutch my stomach like that’ll stop its drop. Right now might be the most dangerous point in the mission. I lean over the driver’s shoulder. “Would you mind taking a detour? I ran into my crazy ex and I don’t want him to follow us.” “Gotta hate that.” I know, it puts a serious crimp in my timeline, but even if I have to disappoint him more, keeping Danny safe is a higher priority. The driver follows my winding route down one-way streets in Centretown and Downtown, crisscrossing the Rideau Canal and stopping by the U of O campus and Ottawa City Hall. I’m black again, but I feel just as unprotected, just as vulnerable. Twenty minutes is short for an SDR, but apparently prolonging it won’t help me feel better, and I’ve already done a full SDR. I tip the driver well once he pulls under the stone awning proclaiming the Fairmont Château Laurier, the cash another of Linda’s brilliant foresights. I’m here. I made it. And I’m about to see Danny. All the banked energy from the night dumps into my system at once. I pass through those gilded revolving doors again. This time, I’m not overwhelmed by the oppressive opulence—no, tonight I belong in this place. I show it by taking off across the marble floors at a run. Yes, I’m running in heels. What do you think CIA training is good for? Now I can finally wash my hands of Fyodor and—I check my hands. Filthy. Okay, that won’t fly. I redirect to the restrooms. When I look up mid-scrub, I get a shock, and not because I don’t recognize myself. The compact mirror in the streetlights was a lot kinder with the damage than the harsh fluorescents are. My eyes are recovering from tears, bleary and bloodshot. My lips and chin 

are scratched from his whiskers, prickled with pink. My hair might be able to pass as fashionably tousled, if you overlook the frizz factor. Danny won’t care how frizzy my hair is. If he’s here, that is. Hoping we’re still on, I address the mirror. You know, my mic. “Hey, Elliott?” “No news yet,” Elliott comes back. “Just getting to the hospital.” I told you these things had an impressive range. “Great. Can you have Will ping Danny’s phone?” Breaking my promise? Fudging. For his sake, really. And tracking him is that easy, and the CIA isn’t watching him because I’m dating him. We don’t collect evidence on US citizens unless we think they’re spying or “making common purpose with the enemy,” but we keep tabs on more or less every American ex-pat, in case they ever do. (We’re counterintel, okay?) Not a major function, but enough to keep an embassy “secretary” busy. “Looks like he’s still in the Château.” I release my relief in a sigh. “Awesome. Thanks.” “T, wait—” “Go to Shanna.” I pull the earpiece out, take off the maple leaf brooch and pop them into my borrowed clutch. I’m all Danny’s. I pat a hand wet with cold water over my scratched chin, then dare to check my dress. A couple repair stitches are visible if you’re looking for them, and the dirt on my backside is pretty much unavoidable. I brush at it with a paper towel. Maybe if they lower the lights for dinner, I can pretend it’s only a shadow. The CIA will probably be able to clean the dress. Yes, we have super secret dry cleaning. Okay, we send it out. I’ve done as much as I can for now. I grab my bag and jog through the lobby to the back corner past the staircase. The 

maître d’ jumps when I slide to a stop at the restaurant door. I hope it’s because of the running and not my appearance. “Where is Danny Fluker sitting?” He hesitates a beat too long. I pull up my favorite picture of Danny on my phone. “Oh.” The maître d’s tone doesn’t sound good, but I hardly have time to worry. “Can you just point me to his table? I want to surprise him.” “I’m sure you will.” The maître d’ points me in the right direction, and I pretend he didn’t give me a little more attitude than I think he’s supposed to give customers. I find the table next to a wall of windows with a beautiful view of the lights on the Peace Tower of Parliament. I don’t need to see the clock up there to know it’s past nine. Before I get close enough for him to spot me, someone steps between us. A black-vested waiter. He speaks to Danny in French. I don’t catch the words, but the tone is either pity or commiseration. Another bad sign. I don’t understand Danny’s reply, either, but the undercurrent of acceptance in his voice is heartbreaking. Like this is just how it is. My girlfriend’s an hour-plus late to the

extra special date she promised she wouldn’t miss, and I’m not surprised. The extra energy in my veins settles into my hands and feet and knees—as nerves. The waiter moves on with a final word of sympathy, and I can finally see Danny sitting in the chair closer to the window. Wearing my favorite suit of his, a gray one with a hint of sheen. The place setting in front of him is gone, leaving only a half-empty glass of water. The rest of the table has been cleared too. Not a good sign. 





’M SO LATE, but I’m so glad to see him I don’t have time for guilt. I slide a hand across his shoulders and go straight in for a kiss. But Danny jerks back, holding me off by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not—” “Danny.” He meets my eyes. “Talia?” His jaw doesn’t hit the table like I’d hoped, but there’s enough surprise in his face to compensate. Unless the surprise is that I’m showing at all. “I am so unbelievably sorry.” He lets me go and I take my seat across from him. A beat passes before I break the silence. “You just ma’amed me.” “You don’t even smell like you.” I settle against the back of the sloped-arm wing chair. “You’re saying I smell?” “No, you have a smell—a scent. It’s not bad.” I can feel my eyebrows knitting together. I have a smell? And what do I smell like tonight? Fyodor, his drink? No, I won’t let things play out this way. I won’t take 

offense. Now that I’m finally here, I will not ruin tonight. I reach across the table for his hand. And he pulls away. Again. My heart drops an inch. Still not giving up. “Have you ordered?” “Oh yeah,” he says. “I’ve ordered. I’ve eaten. Now I’m sitting here looking like a loser.” I wince. The waiter returns with the check. No, the folder he’s setting on the blond wood table has a credit card inside. Danny’s already paid. “Est-là,” the waiter says. My French sucks and Danny knows, but I can understand that much: “Here you are.” He pushes the check at Danny, but I see the little eye-shift toward me. Danny’s smile is nothing like his usual grin: more like a grimace. “Trop peu, trop tard.” I know that one, too: too little, too late. My heart drifts down another inch. “Did you have dessert? It’d be on me, since you’ve already—” “I’ve got it covered, actually.” The waiter switches to perfect English. “Let me bring that out to you.” I know it’s too much to hope he’s ordered something for us both. Suddenly the stress of the whole day—the makeover, trying to get here on time, thinking about Danny, everything with Fyodor—falls on my shoulders. The adrenaline I’ve been running on dissipates, and tears prick to the surface. No, no, no. I won’t cry. Not again. I press a fist against my mouth. But the tears come anyway. “Talia.” Danny sounds like I’m a little kid who’s throwing her fourth tantrum of the night and he’s too exhausted to fight. 

“I’m sorry” is all I can whisper. And I am. I’m sorry I’m late, I’m sorry I’ve let him down yet again, and I’m sorry I’m crying. I know guys think crying is manipulation. I don’t manipulate Danny. I fill my lungs and close my eyes to rein in the tears. “Today was awful.” And in the next second, Danny’s chair is next to mine, his arm around my shoulders. I turn and bury my face against his neck. It’s all I wanted to have Danny hold me. Just sitting here, he’s solid and soothing and safe. I can almost let go of the tension still lacing my back— almost—and then his free hand brushes against my knee. I jolt back. One hand seizes his wrist. Whoa. This is Danny, not Fyodor. After half a heartbeat, I check myself and release him even more abruptly. He stares at me, silent. Saucer-eyed. Scared. I need to fix this. “Sorry. I banged my knee on the way in.” “Ouch.” The wariness hangs in his expression. He offers a handkerchief. I wipe away the tears (again) until the waiter slides a paperboard box onto the table. “Enjoy your evening.” He gives us a slight bow. “Actually, could you bring us a couple forks, please?” Danny’s polite to a fault with people who handle his food. It’s a good habit I try to emulate. (And my paranoid side reminds me you never know what they might put in there.) “Certainly.” The waiter bows again. It takes him less than a minute to deliver our forks. I pull the box closer. “Hope you tipped him well.” “Really well.” Danny opens the box to reveal a gorgeous pecan pie. The sharp, sweet smell of maple hits me. After three years here, I’m pretty much addicted. “Maple Chocolate Chip Pecan Pie,” Danny says. “Chef Ernst’s specialty. Apparently somebody ordered it yesterday, 

but never came to pick it up, and Guillaume felt bad enough for me that he offered me a discount.” Without a thought of etiquette, I dig into the pie so I don’t have to respond. Smooth, creamy filling with chewy nuts, chunks of chocolate, and sweet maple-caramelly goodness? This has to be heaven. I don’t stop except to savor every bite until we’ve eaten a quarter of the pie. I pause for a deep breath, my back muscles slowly unknotting. “This. Is. Bliss.” “Oh?” Danny’s tone is teasing but carries a definite edge. “I thought that was ignorance.” I focus on the pie. He might be joking, but how would he feel if he knew what I was doing an hour ago? Or what happened afterwards? I’m definitely letting him keep his illusions, including the one that all knowledge is good. I slow down when I realize Danny’s watching me. “You look amazing. All this for me?” I shrug one shoulder, as if dropping half a grand on dressing for dinner is nothing to someone so frugal (or miserly). “Don’t tell me getting ready made you late.” “No, I had to wear this to the meeting. Which was terrible.” “Sorry you had a rough day.” He sets his fork down. I am so not done with this pie. “Unbelievable.” I take another bite. “What happened?” “Ugh. Client tried to pick me up.” Danny’s eyes dip to my dress a millisecond and he frowns. “Definitely don’t want that.” “No. Good thing Elliott was there.” I can’t help a smile at the memory of Elliott’s one genuine, Danny-esque grin. “Elliott was there.” It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway. “Well, yeah, he was . . . in and out.” 

“Oh.” There’s something I don’t like in that one little note. I fold my hands in my lap, though I could definitely keep going on the pie. “But now I’m here with you.” Danny doesn’t smile back as broadly as me. He picks up his fork again, but rubs the fancy design on the handle instead of taking another bite. “How does everyone else at work survive?” I flinch, but try to cover it. He can’t possibly mean physical survival. “Hm?” “On this schedule. Is anyone there married?” “Some of them, I think.” César for sure, and Elliott, obviously. Justin chases anything that moves (except me; boys’ club), and I think Will and Robby are both divorced. Maybe I’m the only one who doesn’t keep tabs on these things. If Elliott’s wife wasn’t in labor right now, she’d probably never cross my mind. “How do they stay that way?” “The patience of a saint, I guess.” Danny huffs, and I think that’s a laugh. “I’ll say. That’s going to make any marriage hard.” “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t considered it.” The small talk isn’t enough to distract me from the siren scent of the pie, but I manage to tear my eyes away to find Danny looking at me like I’m speaking Russian (except he doesn’t know I speak Russian). “Never even crosses your mind?” “I don’t really have a reason to think about it,” I say slowly. “You know? Personal stuff stays at home.” And when it doesn’t—like it hasn’t with Elliott lately—it only means trouble. A lot of trouble. But we dodged that bullet tonight, and maybe we’ve turned the corner. Danny watches me a minute, then shifts in his seat to focus on the pie. “Yeah. Sure.” “And anyway, we’ve had a lot of problems with that stuff 

getting in the way of work.” “That stuff?” he repeats. Am I out of my depth here? I’ve had a lot of practice with subtlety, but there’s something else going on, and even sitting face-to-face with Danny isn’t giving me the intel to figure it out. In my lap, my purse vibrates. That’s gotta be Elliott. That was fast. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, the caller ID says Elliott Monteith. And the battery indicator is now flashing red. “Talia.” Danny’s tone carries an edge of warning. “I’m not going to answer.” I hit the button to ignore the call. “Happy?” “A little.” I tuck my phone in my purse. “Almost dead. I know what he wants anyway.” “Probably pretty obvious.” And this time it’s a lot more than an edge in his voice. I turn to him. Is this what he’s been talking about? “What are you trying to say?” “You were working with Elliott tonight, right?” “Yeah, of course. I work with Elliott all the time.” “I know.” He closes the pie box. “You wore that to your meeting?” I glance down at my dress. “It’s not like I’m vamping for the clients.” He’s already started to stand up, but he looks back over his shoulder. “For the clients? Is that why you’re Supermodel Barbie Talia tonight?” “Excuse me?” Danny leans in to level with me. “Tell me the truth: did you dress up for me tonight? Am I the one you’re trying to impress?” My strict personal policy of telling him as much of the 

truth as I can is quickly backfiring. My gaping silence answers for me until my phone chimes to announce a voicemail. “Awesome.” He grabs the pie box and stands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” I push away from the table. Danny buttons his suit jacket. “You wait a minute, Talia. Think about it. You work eighty hours a week with the guy. You come running every time he calls. You call me in to help impress him—” “When have I ever—” “Tuesday night, with the aerospace stuff. To get second chair. To impress Elliott.” He’s keeping his voice low enough to avoid a scene, but vertigo swirls in my head like the floor is tilting, and I’m about to lose my balance and slide away from Danny forever. He turns for the door. I dash after him, struggling to keep pace with his long strides when my heels fare a lot better on hard floors than this thick carpet. We hit the marble tile of the lobby. “Danny, that’s not what it’s like.” “Isn’t it? He calls you away from lunch, asking you about your favorite movie. I don’t know your favorite movie.” “I have seven and you do know them all. And it was my boss who made me leave.” We pass the boutique shops along the side galleries and then the reception desk, finally reaching the main vestibule. The echo of my heels is muffled by the rest of the foot traffic. I wait until we’re out front to try again. “Danny, you’re taking this the wrong way.” He marches over the Plaza Bridge. I run along, trying to keep up with him. “Can we please talk about this?” “Talk about what? Why Elliott’s at your apartment before eight AM? Why you’ve stood me up for him like four times this 

week alone?” He shakes his head. As soon as the sculpted concrete railing next to him ends, he turns—down the stairs Fyodor and I used after the changing of the guard. Down to the locks. I don’t know why Danny’s going there now, but I’m not letting him get away. I should’ve seen this sooner, but he’s never—“Since when are you jealous, Danny Fluker?” He stops at the bottom of the stairs and wheels back to me. “Since I realized how much time you spend with him. Since he started coming up in every conversation. Since he started interrupting all those conversations.” His shoulders slump. “Since I saw you in the hall together.” My brain flashes on the wrong moment in the wrong hall. Elliott, closing the distance between us too quickly. Me, paralyzed with shock and fear. Unable to stop him before he does something really, really stupid. No. Danny doesn’t know about that incident. It was before we were dating. An accident. A cover. Not my fault. Danny breaks into my thoughts. “That’s what I figured.” “No. Hey, I saw you walking out with Ariane the other day and I’m not freaking out.” An alarm goes off in his eyes. “What? You were . . . spying on me?” “I do not spy on you.” And then I remember: I had them ping his phone. For the first time, I really did spy on him tonight. Danny sees my hesitation. He turns on his heel and heads down the sidewalk by the canal. I stand there, stunned, for a moment, but I’m not giving up that easily. I hurry to catch up. “Elliott isn’t like that to me. At all. Ever. I swear.” In the shadows of the streetlight, I think I see him roll his eyes. “It’s just become painfully clear over the last week.” He jogs down a flight of stairs to the next lock and I follow, 

catching him again on the straightaway. “What has?” As if he thinks he can avoid the conversation if he gets away from me, he pivots and starts across the walkway on top of a set of lock gates. I don’t think he knows where he’s going— there’s no sidewalk connecting the flights of stairs between the locks on the other side of the canal—but I pursue. “You have to believe me. Elliott isn’t—” “Elliott isn’t the issue.” Halfway across, he turns back to me, pain written in every detail of his expression. “The issue is obviously I’m way more into this than you are.” “No, Danny, I swear—” He holds up his free hand. “Is this relationship worth it to you?” I can only gape at him. “But—” “No, you know, you don’t have to say anything.” His words aren’t sarcastic—they’re sad. Resigned. Heartbroken. “You’ve already given me your answer. You fight for what you want, Talia. I’m just trying to figure out when you stopped fighting for us.” He shoves the pie into my open, apologizing hands and finishes crossing the lock gates. And this time, I can’t follow him. My equilibrium tilts. I’m not sure gravity’s working right anymore—or my ears or my eyes or my heart. All I can see is Danny disappearing into the bridge’s shadows. My mind spins off its axis and I grab the hip-height railing to keep myself upright. It feels like hours before someone calls, “Sorry, miss?” I turn, not even bothering to hope it’s Danny. It’s a lockstation worker. “We need to open the gates. Excuse us.” Still numb, I somehow make my way off the doors. Up the stairs. Onto the bus. Danny broke up with me. Danny’s gone. 





REVERT TO AUTOMATIC PILOT,

taking the bus to basically anywhere, then transferring to another route until I find one that stops near my place. On each ride, I slump into the seats, the pie box on my lap. I don’t even know why he gave it to me. The conversation with Danny keeps replaying, as if somehow in retrospect I can see where it went off the rails and fix it now. And then my mind circles back on every time we’ve talked over the last week, reviewing the horrible highlights. Suddenly I see with perfect clarity what Danny means about Elliott. I mean, no, I don’t have those kinds of feelings for him, but he’s practically omnipresent in my life. My mental replay reaches Saturday at the aviation museum, Danny in the middle of the dramatic tragedy of the Avro Arrow fighter jet in front of a prototype’s nose. Pointing out the blackened torch marks where they cut the plane in pieces. Now I know exactly how that feels. I can’t see how I’ll survive the searing pain threatening to slice me apart. The bus passes my stop. A security measure. 

Right. I stare up at the chain, gathering the will and energy to finally pull it and stand two stops after mine. If I thought being without my phone made me feel disconnected, I don’t know how to describe this. I’m not attached to my body anymore. It walks down the street to my building, up the stairs to my bachelor. My hands set the pie box on the floor. My feet carry me to the hinge side of the door. I unlock the door and throw it open, hard. Nobody jumps or cries out from behind it, like always. My back to the wall, I trudge through the apartment, halfheartedly checking the pantry and kitchenette and closet. Under the beds, in the shower. Et cetera. First I get felt up by Fyodor, and then dumped by Danny? This is worst night of my life. I finish my search and my cell vibrates in my purse. I pull it out, hoping it’s Danny, but the dire LOW BATTERY warning blocks most of the screen. At the top, though, I see the name on the incoming text before the phone gives up the ghost: Elliott Monteith. I.E. not Danny. I retrieve the pie from outside the door and finally close and lock it. And then it really hits me. Danny is gone. Gone. Over. And he’s right. I haven’t been fighting hard enough. In the space formerly occupied by my heart, embers flare to life. The tears start, but I know no amount of water will put out this fire. There’s only one thing to do now. Scrub away the tears and eat. I grab a fork from the kitchen, sink onto my bed, and dig into the pie again. Somehow, it doesn’t taste nearly as heavenly eating alone in the dark. But as a Mormon, I don’t do alcohol, tobacco or drugs, which leaves me chocolate and sugar for selfmedicating. I chew slowly, waiting for that undercurrent that’s fol

lowed every breakup of my adult life: relief. Relief that I got out before it got serious. Relief that I’m single. Relief that I’m free. It doesn’t come. After another two slices, I start to feel sick. More sugar. Some chocolate syrup from my extreme emergency stash ups the ante and I keep plowing through the pie. When I opened the box, I had no intention of eating the whole thing. But suddenly there’s only a quarter of it left and my blood has thickened to the consistency of the pecan pie filling. And that barely scratches the surface of the pain now threatening my chest with a level-three burnout. Eating isn’t helping. I stuff the pie into my fridge. I’ll make a food-storing exception, just this once. I’ll probably need it for the next rough patch. Like when I wake up in the morning. An entire day—an entire life—without Danny looks like a Russian winter. Barren. Blinding. Bleak. I can’t even consider that. My fingers undo my shoes’ ankle straps, but that’s as much as I have the will to undress. I throw myself facedown on top of the sheets to wait for the tears. Instead there’s a knock at my door. But I know it’s not Danny. It’s not Elliott. It’s not worth getting up and pretending like everything’s okay. It’s not. By the time the person at the door gives up, the tears come, but not like I expect, as if I’ll open the gates with forty feet of water waiting. Just in a steady stream. And I’ll let them run onto the pillow until finally my eyes are either so puffy or tired that it’s no use trying to keep them open any longer. The best I can hope for now is to sink into numb nothingness. Until the window shatters. Hot ice courses through my veins. The blink of an eye is the difference between the Talia who can’t imagine facing tomorrow and the Talia who will go hand-to-hand with anyone 

who tries to stand between me and the next sunrise. I try to clamp down on the fight-or-flight reaction. Think. Fast. I slide off the bed and crouch by the wall. The would-be burglar clears out the glass from the frame. The lights are off, and I have the terrain advantage. Burglar? It could be anyone. My neighborhood’s recovering from a couple sordid decades, and some blocks are improving faster than others. This guy might not know who I am, what I do. He might’ve been the one knocking, making sure no one was home. He might be going after an easy, empty target. Sure. “Gde zhe ona?” comes a voice. Russian. Where is she? Definitely not just anyone. My system takes another hit of adrenaline. This is the exact reason I made sure my apartment had two accessible exits: when one is cut off, I can use the other. The shadow—no, shadows, there’s more than one of them—fall across my bed. I duck and crawl to the corner. Think. I can run or hide. But they’re searching. They’ll find me if I hide. No choice: run. To get out, ten steps and undo the lock, I tell myself. Then freedom. Grab my go bag? No, I can’t afford that much time. Just run. My breath comes in short, silent gasps. The Russians scan the room, but don’t see me in the shadows. One slips into the bathroom, the other into my closet. My chance. Energy rushes into every muscle and I launch myself toward the front door. The shout behind me says they notice right away. Still in the lead, I rip the chain out of the lock, flip the deadbolt and throw open the door. Blocked. Someone’s standing in the doorway. I power 

through the pan-flash of panic and deliver a right cross to the guy’s neck. I drop to my knees to pull his ankles out from under him. Before I can leap over him into the hall, one of the guys behind me grabs me, one arm over my shoulder, the other around my waist. I fire an elbow up into his face. It connects with his nose. He releases me and I shoot out of the apartment. Right into another man. A short, fat Russian. Mikhail Kozyrev. My heart jumps into my throat and I can’t hear anything but my rapid-fire pulse until he speaks. “Zhzhyonova.” It takes a second to figure out he means me—my cover’s last name. Trouble. “You know this man?” He holds out his phone. The screen shows a picture of me and Danny crossing the Plaza Bridge, mid-argument. Kozyrev changes to the next photo, us on the lock gate, Danny handing me the pie box. No. No. No. He scrolls to the next picture: Danny getting out of his car. At his house. “You want him hurt?” Fear crawls down my back like an ice cube running its slow, cold course. The wound is fresh, but I would still protect Danny with my life. And that’s exactly what they’re asking. “You will come with us.” And this time, I know it’s not a question, or a choice.

In the car, I stare straight ahead for the short ride to Dow’s Lake. I don’t know how Kozyrev or the men wedged beside me did it, but obviously something has gone very wrong. Fyodor must know, too, though no one has mentioned him. Of course, two of the henchmen are too busy to talk, nursing their 

wounds and eyeing me with heavy suspicion. It’s less than ten minutes from my place to the round pavilion where Kozyrev docks. The lackey with a bloody nose only has one hand to pull me out of the car. It’d be so easy to take him out, or the one rubbing his purpling neck. Even the one leering at me with the yellowed teeth of a lifetime smoker couldn’t be that hard to escape. I could make a break for it at any opportunity. But that’s not worth Danny’s life. Kozyrev’s lackeys march me onto his boat, then into the cabin. Our 3-D modeling is accurate, but the pictures didn’t do the cabin justice. Leather banquette seating for at least eight, with a wedge-shaped rosewood table in the dining area. Curved countertops, solid granite, with custom cabinetry and a fridge to match. Are they going to have me sit here and bask in their wealth and secondhand smoke? Right. The henchmen parade me past the kitchen area to the bedroom. My stomach seizes. Anything but that. But they don’t pause, taking me straight to the head. To the massive shower. Not exactly more reassuring compared to the bed. One lackey opens the glass door. “In,” Kozyrev says from behind me. I glance back; he holds up the last picture again. I can’t see Danny’s face—his back’s to the camera—but the angle of his shoulders is thoroughly depressed. Surely they can tell we were arguing, that the evening didn’t end well. Surely they’ll leave him alone if they know we’re not together anymore. “He doesn’t want to see me again.” “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.” I’m not sure what that threat is supposed to mean, that they won’t go and get him, or that they’ll kill me or keep me here indefinitely? 

No, I remind myself. They don’t know who I am. I’m some Russian-Canadian chick who two-timed a friend. And could fight pretty well. But if that’s the case, why bother with this? Kozyrev gives up on the waiting game and shoves me into the shower. Inside, I turn around. “You know this isn’t the safest place to keep me. What happens if I break the glass?” Kozyrev slams the door between us. I jump. The door bounces back, reverberating from the impact. Totally intact. The modifications. Security measures. Who reinforces a shower? I can feel my options slipping through my fingers. “Shatterproof. Bulletproof.” As if that reminds him, Kozyrev turns to a henchman and orders him to frisk me. I set my jaw and fix my eyes on the wall, but the search is mercifully brief. I don’t even have shoes to check, and it’s not like I stuffed a gun under my dress. Satisfied, he shuts me in the shower. His henchman hands him a heavy chain. Kozyrev runs the chain through the door handle and a fancy exterior water pipe, then padlocks the links together. He tests the door. It moves only a fraction of an inch. “Enjoy your stay with us.” Kozyrev leads his men out, all of them grinning like demented jack-o’-lanterns. I’m alone. Again. For five long seconds, I teeter on the edge of despair, the ache in my heart slowly gaining strength. I’ve already given into the grief once tonight—deservedly, I think— but the stakes have changed now. If I slump down and sob myself into a stupor, there are a lot more serious things that could happen than waking up congested and puffy. If I wake up at all. Obviously their primary goal isn’t to take me out; they could’ve done that through the window at my place. But what they do hope to accomplish by kidnapping me? I don’t intend to stick around to find out, if I can help it. 

According to our 3-D model, I’m in the least accessible place in the boat, right behind the front deck. No windows, only one door, and no other escapes. I have to think my way out. I have to save myself, alert the rest of my team, cover my . . . Danny. Just Danny. No title. No “my.” No. I need to focus, not rub salt on my broken heart. I’m in a shower. What can I use to my advantage here? I look up. A handheld sprayer would make a good weapon, but no, Kozyrev had to opt for the expensive “rain” style head recessed into the ceiling. Using my few resources, I angle the wide, flat showerhead toward the door. If he’s got a good water heater, I might be able to hurt someone. If they line up and try to come through the door one at a time. Yeah. Great. There are at least four of them above deck, and possibly more on shore. Could they have someone sitting on Danny’s house? How did they find us in the first place? Did I do something wrong? I didn’t watch Fyodor leaving Strathcona Park, but I did go all over downtown to detect any tails. Of course, I did the same thing on my way home, and obviously I was a little distracted. I have to focus. Get out. Not get bogged down in my thoughts. Does it matter how I was compromised right this second? No. Time to take stock of what I’ve got. I’m in a shower. The floor-to-ceiling door, the one Kozyrev slammed to show off the solid glass, has a seal around the edge. The smooth white fiberglass half of the shower has a low wraparound bench (definitely not sitting there, shudder), and there’s a chromed out control panel on one wall. It must take a manual the size of War and Peace to figure out all these buttons. Steam. There’s a button for steam. And it has to come out 

somewhere, right? Without circulation to the outside, the whole shower would fill up with steam. Which might also make a good cover, if I had the terrain advantage. I don’t. I try to get a visual on the ventilation, but nothing looks like an air return, and I know those pretty well now. I turn back to the control panel and push the steam button. Within a minute or two, a hot cloud billows up from a chrome cylinder near where the glass and fiberglass meet, a foot above the floor. The steam gathers at the top of the shower stall, the scent of lavender wafting to me. Perfect. That smell drives me nuts. Gives me a headache every time. The hot cloudbank begins to creep down to reach me. Not venting out. I sit on the floor and keep an eye on the encroaching steam level. Of course. It’s a steam shower. It’s designed to hold steam as long as it holds you. I groan. I guess I get the appeal, but to me, that doesn’t seem luxurious. Despite my Finnish language background, I’ve never gotten saunas. It all just sounds sweaty. There must be ventilation somewhere else in the bathroom. I stand to push the button again and the steam stream peters out. To release the lavender-scented cloud, I wriggle my fingers between the seal and the door. I can push it open half an inch before the chain yanks it to a halt. The steam is hard to follow against the white walls, but it wafts upward. And collects along the ceiling. And goes nowhere. I wipe a bead of sweat from behind my bangs. That’s one idea down. How many more will this place eat before they tell me why they’ve got me here? Something jerks in the pit of my stomach, and it isn’t fear or nausea or three quarters of a pie. No, we’re accelerating. We’re going somewhere. We’re leaving. That’s bad. That’s really bad. There’s some chance the CIA 

might be able to trace me here, but the further we get from the pavilion, the harder it’ll be to find me. And no, we don’t implant GPS trackers in operatives (yet). Now I’m definitely going to have to swim for it. But from where? The door swings open. One of Kozyrev’s goons walks in. The steam billows into the bedroom until the door closes again. The lackey starts undoing his belt. The hairs at the back of my neck jump to attention. I am not going there, and I don’t care what happens to my cover. I’d die first. I would. I try to read this guy’s expression, but he doesn’t look at me. He hardly looks up at all. Crap. Is he trying to avoid my eyes, making sure he doesn’t see me as a person, only a victim? He doesn’t approach the lock or the shower door. He turns away—and opens the toilet? And pulls out a newspaper? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. The little knots of tension gathering in my lower back release, and I turn away to take a seat on the floor, my back to the guy. Seriously. You’ve got to be kidding me.







KOZYREV HAS NO KIDS or he expected his henchmen to be responsible and visit the toilet before we left, but no. After we get underway, I spend an hour—an hour—trapped in the only bathroom aboard the boat, and I’m not alone. You don’t want me to go into more detail than that, but my two minor consolations are turning my back on the rest of the bathroom, and that the shower is somewhat airtight. I do wish the soundproofing extended to the shower itself, but I have to settle for covering my ears and humming every song that comes to mind, all the way back to childhood. I know I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel when I get to “Porsaita Äidin Oomme Kaikki,” “We are all mother’s little pigs” sung to a Finnish Christmas tune. I’m completely out of songs by the time the third henchman’s washing up—yes, an hour for three guys. And I thought it was bad growing up with four brothers. I turn my head slightly to watch the henchman in the mirror. He’s loosely tied an icepack on his throat with a splotchy handkerchief. Average height, dark hair, brown eyes, scar over ITHER



left eyebrow. If nothing else, we’ll get their descriptions in our databases when I get back. When. No ifs. The henchman dries his hands until the boat slows to a stop. Could we be as far as the locks? An hour and a half to get down, and then we hit the river. An hour and a half until we become a lot harder to find. And I don’t know if anyone realizes I’m missing. The henchman walks out, and I’m alone. Just like I have for the two minute reprieves between “guests,” I jump to my feet and into my personal inventory again. The only other things I’ve managed to accomplish are to turn the shower temperature up to 50° Celsius (that’s over 120° Fahrenheit, though it’s not on right now), and rule out taking apart the shower door hinges (they’re recessed in the floor and ceiling and I’m not getting them out without tools). Now I turn to what I’ve got on me. My bedazzled pointed hoop earrings might double as brass knuckles, though they only fit over three fingers. I pull a couple bobby pins from my hair, but I’m pretty sure they’re not going to do much good with the hinges. Really wish I’d gone for utility over appearance tonight. By the time the door to the bathroom swings open again, it’s been ten minutes, and I’m pretty much done with the inventory and the hinges. With one bare foot, I sweep the pins I’ve gathered against the glass wall, where Kozyrev and co. won’t see the evidence. Kozyrev and another guy step in. Did I do something that convinced them I’d be this easy to handle? Because I turned my back? Who wants to watch people use the bathroom?! “Hello.” Kozyrev’s greeting is pleasant, as if we’re meeting in Gorky Park instead of on opposite sides of a glass prison. He resembles a shorter, younger Boris Yeltsin (except in real life, Boris Yeltsin was more like Ben Affleck as a young man, and Kozyrev does not look like Ben Affleck in ten years). 

I cut to the chase. “What do you want from me?” “Can I be honest?” I school my features to say Can I stop you? “I don’t know yet.” He places a hand on the glass where my arm rests. I jerk away from the indirect contact. “Then why bring me here? What difference does it make to you?” Kozyrev steps back from the shower, business again. “I owe my good friend very much. You know him? Fyodor Timofeyev?” I feign surprise, splaying my fingers at the neckline of my dress. “This is about Fyodor? Seriously?” He explains to his henchman, “Poigralasʹ i brosila.” The Russian equivalent of She played him. Does he not know I speak Russian? He turns back to me. “You cannot treat a man that way, you know.” “I guess I’m supposed to force him to the ground in a public park and assault him. That’s the right way to act, isn’t it?” A mix of confusion and disbelief darts across Kozyrev’s face, and he glances at his henchman to confer again. Big surprise Fyodor didn’t brag about his failed conquest. But Kozyrev shakes off any seeds of doubt. “Clearly, you do not understand your situation.” “Um, duh. I asked you why I’m here.” “I will ask the questions now. Perhaps you will understand then. If you can keep up.” I fold my arms and square up to the glass. “Try me.” “How do you know this man?” He holds up the phone, showing the picture of Danny and me on the locks. Exactly how I want to remember him. “Casual acquaintance. I barely know the guy. Obviously things didn’t work out.” Flat-out lies, but at this point, I hardly think it matters if he catches me. 

“Casual acquaintance,” Kozyrev repeats. He scrolls back to the shot of us arguing—well, I’m doing the arguing—on the Plaza Bridge. “This is how you act with casual acquaintances?” “When they’re being totally unreasonable. Like a couple other people I’ve met recently.” “And you protect casual acquaintances with your life?” He lifts an eyebrow to take in my current accommodations. I smirk. “Call it a savior complex.” He doesn’t get the joke. “I do not believe you.” “I don’t care.” Am I acting cavalier? Of course. If I can downplay how much their target means to me, maybe they’ll forget him, leave him alone. But I’ve already undermined that tactic by coming along with his safety as ransom. “So, Fluker is a casual acquaintance.” I can’t breathe for a second. Following him home is one thing. But how did they get Danny’s name? This could be worse than I anticipated, and Danny could be more of a mark than I imagined. The only weapon I’ve got at my disposal right now is information. Or, rather, dezinformatsiya: disinformation. “It’s not Fluker. It’s Anderson.” Kozyrev examines the picture on his phone again. “Is that so?” “Or maybe it’s Jones. I have such a hard time keeping up with all my acquaintances.” “Did you meet Fluker through your work?” My work? What was my cover again? House of Commons Standing Committee on Industry, Science and Technology. “Maybe. One meets so many people these days. Hard to keep track of them all.” “You do not recall where he works?” 

“Parliament?” Confusion flits over Kozyrev. Now I’m getting somewhere. But he tries again. “What were you doing together tonight?” I hope my makeup is intact enough to pull off the sultry effect. “What can I say? I’m a heartbreaker.” “Ya uveren.” Kozyrev curls his top lip. I’m sure. “I will ask one more time: what were you doing together tonight?” “He asked me out last week.” He pulls up the picture of us on the bridge yet again. “And this?” “I didn’t feel the same way. Didn’t end well. I’m sure your friend Fyodor can relate.” The corners of his mouth pull down almost imperceptibly. “Though I’ve gotta say, that guy—” I angle my head at Kozyrev’s cell— “was a lot better about it than your friend. He didn’t attack me because I’m not interested.” Kozyrev lifts his phone again, then taps on the screen. After a minute, he holds it to his ear. He speaks in Russian, as if it’s some mystic code I couldn’t possibly understand. “Are you sure about what you saw?” he begins. I strain to hear the other end of the conversation, but it’s no use with the sealed glass door. Even if I lean on it to force it that half inch open, the phone’s sound won’t carry. The acoustics in this little bathroom aren’t quite good enough. And then I remember the soundproofing. I’m not getting out of here even if I scream. “She says she doesn’t know him well. I don’t know. Her attitude makes it hard to gauge.” Well, at least that much is working. I pretend to be bored, my gaze wandering around the bathroom while I try to catch a glimpse of the bedroom through the open door. Where are the rest of the henchmen? “Well, what do you want me to do?” Kozyrev asks. 

I force myself not to perk up, but I can’t resist leaning against the shower door, although it’s pointless. “Fine.” Kozyrev’s edging on huffy now. “I will decide.” He hangs up and glares at me. “Soon you will be more inclined to talk.” “Oh, I’d love to talk. Let’s talk about why you’ve got me here and when you’ll let me go and who’s pulling your strings. I can talk all night.” The man doesn’t even crack a smile. “Glad you are so eager.” And he turns and marches out, followed by his henchman. I slump harder against the glass, and the chain holding the door shut chinks. I give it a closer look: not that heavyweight. My sparkly earrings aren’t set with diamonds (no need to quadruple our budget when imitation bling does just as well), but the edges might be rough enough to help. Three fingers in the middle of the pointed hoops, I can barely reach the chain through the crack in the door. Pointless? Maybe. But it’s something. I start sawing. Soundproofing cuts two ways. I hope.

Fifteen minutes and one earring wasted sawing. And we’re moving again. Into the locks. Or maybe into the second lock, if the first was open when we pulled up. Odds are against it, but pardon me for being a pessimist. I refocus on my sawing. Pressing my knuckles against the door jamb to get to the chain is rubbing my fingers raw, but I still don’t have a better strategy. I try not to think about how I’ll exact my revenge on Fyodor. Aside from the whole best-served-cold thing, in the CIA, it’s usually served by someone else and we’re lucky to hear. For now I’ll keep my mind off the monotonous sawing 

with formulating a contingency plan. I know there are at least four guys on deck, including Kozyrev. Winning a four-on-one fight looks awesome and almost easy on television, but let me tell you: I’ve never seen it happen in real life. Maybe if I can outmaneuver the guards in the cabin, I’ll be able to make it on deck. Once I’m there, I can make a leap for the water. If I can get to the railing in one piece. After five more minutes, the bathroom door swings open. The chain is only scratched. I drop my tools behind my back before Kozyrev saunters in. “Whatever you are doing,” he says as a greeting, “you will stop.” I look around as if asking an imaginary audience what the guy’s talking about. “You will not escape, so there is no point in trying.” I toss off a suuure face. “Are you ready to talk now?” “I told you, I was ready to talk before. You start. Why am I here?” Kozyrev’s eyebrow twitches higher. “You do not learn well? I told you, you cannot treat a man as you have my friend.” “Remind me, is that Fyodor or Jones? Fluker, whatever you call him. Davy.” “I believe his name is Daniel.” He says it the Russian way, Dan-EEL. It’s actually not: Danny is his full name. But I’m obviously not about to volunteer that information. “Whatever. So he’s your friend?” Kozyrev just smiles, and there’s something I really don’t like about that. The hairs at the back of my neck prick up again. I resist the urge to rub them down. I can’t afford weakness. 

“You do like to talk,” Kozyrev says. “I’m a good listener, too.” “Who are you working for?” Right. Like I’m giving in this easily. “Parliament.” His grin veers closer to a smirk. He waves for someone behind him to come in. “I feel you will be more inclined to speak when you see what we have.” That sounds good. I wipe a sweaty palm on my dress. They could have a hundred things, from Danny (I quickly pray not) to something incriminating, if they somehow discovered the outlet slick in my apartment and my emergency escape papers. But I’m definitely not expecting what they bring in—and now I know I’m in real trouble. I pitch sideways, but catch myself before I realize my balance issues are because we’re moving again, and not the new prisoner. His short dark hair is still fashionably tousled, though I hadn’t noticed how weary his patchy five o’clock shadow made him look earlier. Elliott. I have to play this off. I shake my head with a little frown, like a shrug of the lips. “Sorry, I don’t know this guy.” A glower flickers across Kozyrev’s face, but he recoups quickly. “Then you will get to know him now. Step back from the door.” “And if I don’t?” “We will take care of him.” I sigh as if moving two feet to save a stranger’s life is a major inconvenience and go lean against the fiberglass wall. With one finger on the shower button. Maximum strength, maximum heat. The adrenaline curls up in my stomach like a cobra poised to strike. Kozyrev undoes the padlock and chain. The door swings open. I hit the button. 

A stream shoots out of the showerhead straight for Kozyrev. The steaming water hits him full in the chest. He shouts and falters back a step. Elliott’s no idiot. The second the stream starts, he seizes the opportunity of the distraction, turning on the guy behind him. I skirt the edge of the spray into the already overcrowded bathroom. I can’t see what Elliott’s doing in the chaos, but I hear a pop and a scream. Kozyrev is recovering from the surprise, but my kick to the side of his knee brings him down with another cry. He catches himself on the sink. Elliott grabs my arm and we start for the door back to the bedroom. But we make it one step before I jerk back, a hot jolt of pain shooting through my scalp. Kozyrev’s got a handful of my hair. I slip on the slick tile and fall on my hip, pulling Elliott backward. He carries his momentum into a punch to Kozyrev’s face, and the screeching pain through my hair stops. I scramble up, but a hand in my back pushes me toward the shower again. My wet feet can’t get traction and I plow into Elliott. He only stumbles a second, but with the showerhead still streaming onto the floor, that’s enough. We hit the standing water and a final shove throws us both through the scalding flow and into the shower. I slide as far as the fiberglass wall before I can regain my balance. I slam the button to cut off the shower and rush the door. Reading my mind, Elliott does the same, running after me. But we’re half a second too late. The lock hasp clicks into place right before I skid to a stop at the door. Elliott crashes into me, flattening me against the glass. He knocks the wind out of me and I can’t even groan. Elliott pushes off. “Sorry.” He’s sorry? I blow my cover and I get him dragged into it, 

the one night he needs to be with his wife, and he’s sorry? I finally draw in a breath and turn to Kozyrev. “Come on. You don’t have to involve this guy. I’ll talk.” Though I have no idea what they want me to talk about beyond where I work. (Not happening.) “Yes, let us talk now.” Kozyrev leans his weight against the sink. I hope he’s hurt. I slap the glass a foot from his head. He doesn’t flinch. “Let him go first.” “How do you know him?” “He saved me in the park today when your little friend tackled me.” Kozyrev laughs. He cackles. I don’t like the sound of that. “Oh, Natalia, what is it about you that so captivates every man you meet?” I snort in derision, trying to push aside the sinking feeling in my stomach. “What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you’re falling for me, too.” “I do appreciate your attitude, but no. This one has.” He nods at Elliott. “He followed you all over the city. Did you not?” Yeah, I really don’t like the sound of that. Elliott levels him with a blank stare. “I told you, I only wanted to use the pool. I’m pretty sure you’re not the hotel police.” “No. We are not.” Kozyrev’s demented jack-o’-lantern look is back. I’d love to smack it off his face. I try not to glance at Elliott. Kozyrev or whoever spotted us has us dead to rights, and I won’t try to deny that. But neither of us are going to admit it, either. “So.” Kozyrev shifts more of his weight onto the sink. I’m shocked it supports him. “Let us get to know one another then. What is your name?” he asks Elliott. 

“Noah Albertson.” His cover had a name? I didn’t even know. Which is appropriate, since we might not have exchanged names if our scene at the park was real. “Noah, how long have you known Natalia?” Elliott folds his arms across his white T-shirt spattered with water and slumps into the corner at a defiant angle. “I dunno. What time is it?” Again, Kozyrev doesn’t get the joke. “Time to tell the truth.” “Yeah, you seem very well acquainted with that concept.” Elliott doesn’t hold back on the sarcasm. The Russian examines his nails. Apparently two can play at the I’m-nonchalanter-than-you game. “Whatever, guy.” Elliott maintains the same tone. “Believe what you want.” Kozyrev plasters on another I-can-do-this-all-night smile. I’m beginning to hate those smiles. I want him out of here, now. I want time to regroup with Elliott, to figure out how we got here in the first place. “I want food,” I demand. “What?” “I’m hungry. Your cheap little friend wouldn’t buy me a full dinner. He made me share his.” Again, I don’t care if Kozyrev could easily disprove the lie. I just need him to leave to do it. And if he believes it for a split second, it’s another little seed of dissention. No good Russian man would treat a woman that way. “I’m not talking until I eat.” Kozyrev eases himself to his feet. (Good, I did hurt him.) “Fine. I’m sure we have something for you.” And he saunters out of the room with only a slight limp. I didn’t have room to get a good shot in, but I wish I’d kicked harder. A lot harder.

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



E DOESN’T SHUT THE DOOR ALL THE WAY,

and the sounds of a Russian movie filter through. I pitch my voice for anyone sitting in the bedroom and address Elliott. “Sorry about this, dude.” “What’s even going on?” He matches my volume and widens his eyes to add for real. “I have no idea.” I hold out my arms and shake my head in an exaggerated I don’t know to reemphasize the point. A grunt comes from the bedroom. We both turn to watch the door. It swings shut the rest of the way. There’s still a chance they’re listening somehow, so we have to be careful. Elliott slams a fist against the glass. Yep. Careful. “Bulletproof.” I pick my way across the wet floor to the corner where Elliott stands. It’s a little more challenging as the boat cruises forward for a minute, then stops. I lean my back against the glass and drop to the barest whisper. “So really, how’d you get here?” He pulls a hand down over his mouth, then brings his volume down to the same as mine again. “Did you hear anything I 

said?” “When?” “Over the earpiece, after you had us ping Danny’s phone. Which I thought you don’t do.” “I made an exception.” My shoulders fall. “A mistake.” It’s not a big deal he used Danny’s name, since they obviously know it, but we have to be watch what else we say. “OPSEC,” I remind him. Elliott pauses half a beat before he presses on. “Anyway, when CASTLETON got me his location,” (that’s Will’s code name—hooray, operational security) “it took him ten seconds to figure out it was you requesting it, and then he told me Timofeyev is staying at the Château.” That ice cube is trickling down my spine again, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “How did we not know this?” “Need-to-know. PINION took the room raid. CASTLETON didn’t know until tonight.” Right, because PINION—CSIS—got all the good jobs, and we got stuck with this. Could Fyodor have made it back to the Château before I did? Before, after, it doesn’t matter. He’d just have to be in the lobby to see me and Danny arguing on our way out. That doesn’t explain how they know so much about Danny. Unless—unless someone told them. The goose bumps spread across my back. I turn to Elliott. “What have you said?” “Nothing. Noah Albertson. U of O student.” “What about Danny?” I step closer, backing Elliott into a corner of the shower. “Did you tell them his name? Where he lives?” He gives me a come-on expression. “Don’t tell me he’s involved.” “They’ve got pictures at his place and they know his name, first and last.” 

Desperation flashes in his eyes, searching the fiberglass floor. “What else do they know?” He grabs my shoulders. “Is she safe?” I don’t have to ask who he means with that kind of urgency. “Hey, hey.” I hold up my hands to help with talking him down. “If they knew about her, they would’ve already threatened her.” He lets me go to rake his fingers through his hair, stare at the floor, pace. Every step falls on my heart. “I need to be there.” He doubles back on his short path. “What am I going to do?” “You’re going to keep it together.” I tip his chin up to force him to look at me. “Focus. I need you here.” The little signs of panic flash over Elliott’s face, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, lips tight. “Don’t make me turn on the cold water.” The joke doesn’t work. “It’s the only way we’ll get out alive. Please.” The last word ekes out, too much of a plea. He huffs out two quick breaths, then sucks in a deeper one. His eyes lock on mine. The tension in his lips shifts toward determination. “I’m with you.” Relief spills into my chest. But I need him focused on us. “How’d they get you?” “Why didn’t you answer my call?” His voice strains, and I don’t think it’s just because he’s trying to be quiet. “A couple minutes after I took out my earpiece?” “Yeah. I called to warn you and you didn’t answer.” “I promised Danny. No work.” And I was already more than an hour late. “Yeah, kinda backfired.” Tears threaten my throat with emergency closures. Elliott has no idea how badly everything backfired tonight. 

I muscle through the emotion. “I thought you were calling about—you know, and you could leave a message. Or text.” “I did both.” He’s not mad, but there’s more than enough quiet accusation in his voice: this is my fault. I stuck my neck out for Elliott to keep him in the field, and he was trying to repay the favor. And look where it got him. I try to push that thought away. Things are bad enough as it is. I look at Elliott slumped in the corner, both of us disheveled and speckled with water spray. This is depressing. I restart the conversation. “So how did they find you?” “Well, you weren’t answering, so I thought I’d have to go in to get you.” I gape up at him. “You left her now, to warn me?” “No offense, but if I had it to do over again, I don’t think I would.” It’s not funny, really. The one thing Elliott’s done wrong lately is to let us down at a critical moment because he’s so worried about Shanna. Now he’s tried to save my life, and in the process, he’s letting Shanna down at probably the most crucial time of hers. “These things take time.” I pat his shoulder. “Especially the first one.” “Yeah.” “Seriously. My sister-in-law? Like twenty-four hours after she got to the hospital with her first.” Then she had an emergency C-section, but I omit that part for OPSEC, and Elliott’s sake. He turns a grim expression on me. “Are we going to be out of here that fast?” “Of course. If both of us are missing, they’ll have to know something’s up, right?” “If they know we’re both missing.” 

Yeah, he’s right, but again, omitting that part for his sake. “It’s not like we’re helpless—” I was going to say infants. I don’t need to pour salt on his wounds, either. But maybe we’re not helpless. Maybe Elliott has something we can use. “Did they search you?” “Yeah, at the hotel. Took everything.” At least his gear looks pretty innocuous, his iPod as a cover for his comms equipment, etc. I didn’t have anything on me either, but they also didn’t bother with the less obvious tools: my earrings, my hairpins. But Elliott doesn’t have any—wait. I turn to the door again. The padlock. “Have you ever picked a lock with bobby pins?” “Uh, no. I’m a lot better with a pick gun.” So am I, but there’s a good reason we trained to do it manually, too. I couldn’t before because I had no way of keeping the lock close and stationary, but Elliott—I check his shoes. Sneakers. “Take out your shoelaces.” I’m already kneeling to attack one shoe. Once the laces are free, we kneel in the last puddles by the shower door. Elliott leans on the door to open it that one little centimeter. We pass the first shoelace through the lock’s hasp, using one of my earrings like a threader to pull the lace back into the shower. I pull another pair of bobby pins out of my hair. I have to gnaw off the plastic coatings at the end, and I’m not going there with the pins on the shower floor. I strip the plastic off. Elliott’s got the other shoelace through the lock, holding the ends. Now, if we can get the lock close enough to the door, we can hold it there with enough leverage to pick it. Yes, you absolutely can pick a lock with bobby pins, but it’s not like on TV. I hand Elliott one of the pins. “Make a torsion wrench.” He shifts the laces to one hand, takes the pin and bends it 

with his teeth. I flex mine, working it into one long pick, but the crimped metal doesn’t want to uncrimp. Elliott’s pin slips and his teeth clack together. He swears under his breath, but tries again. Finally, he has the ends bent together at a 90° angle. “I think I chipped a tooth.” “Your charming grin will never be the same.” I take the pin/wrench. Elliott leans on the door and positions the padlock with the keyhole at the gap. He pulls the laces to get it as close as we can and keep it still. While Elliott holds the shoelaces out to the sides, I thread my arms over and between his. I start with the creased end of the bobby pin to turn the tumbler, but the keyhole and lock are so small it doesn’t fit. The end Elliott bent doesn’t fare much better, slipping on my first three attempts. Now I feel like swearing. I try switching it up, using the long feeler pick I created to somehow leverage the tumbler. But this end of the bobby pin is too narrow. It spins inside the lock without catching on anything. Even as a lever to pit the tumbler against itself, it just doesn’t have the force required to pick a lock. From behind me, Elliott hooks his chin over my shoulder, half on my dress, half straggly whiskers poking my neck, to get a better view. “Do you want to give this a shot?” I murmur. “Not really. Can’t do much better than you with these tools.” I hold up our bobby pin picks. “Think I could use one to shim the lock?” “No.” Like that’s patently obvious. “The metal’s too thick. Unless you’re hiding a hammer and anvil under your skirt.” “Yeah, and a life raft.” I glance around the stark shower. “Oh, wait, those are in my other red dress.” I lean in and start back to work on the lock. Elliott holds the tension on the shoelaces, but I still can’t 

get any torsion in the keyhole. I maneuver between his arms to get a better angle on the padlock. The yacht cruises forward into another lock. What is this? Four? Five? “Your night went downhill from when I left you,” Elliott says once the boat stops again. “Obviously.” “What happened?” I don’t answer. “They showed me the pictures. You guys on the bridge and the lock.” The pick gives and my hands slip. I groan. Elliott gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze with his chin, his whiskers digging into my shoulder where my dress doesn’t cover. But that’s not what’s so frustrating. “You should’ve let them take me. Pretended you didn’t know me.” “I know.” As cold and mercenary as it sounds, all of us, including the Agency, would’ve been better off if Elliott had chosen to protect himself. Would I have come if Elliott was the one in the photos? Probably, but I wouldn’t have agreed as quickly as I did with Danny. Almost, though. I pull the torsion wrench out and reposition the bent ends so they’re side by side, not overlapping. This time, I get some purchase on the torque. Elliott tightens up on the shoelaces and I move in with the pick again, trying not to think about what I’m about to say. “It was worse than it looks. He dumped me.” “Seriously?” “Yeah.” I try to keep the summary brief—and merciful, since Danny did spend like half the argument on the side issue of me and Elliott. As if there were a “me and Elliott.” I skip that for both of their sakes, but by the time I finish, I’ve somehow twisted the tumbler so hard I can’t move the pins at all now. “Too much pressure on the torsion wrench.” Elliott nods at 

the lock. I try to let up, but the pins are still stuck. Like a couple other people I know. I reset the tension wrench and start over. This time I get a good solid grip, and flip the lock right out of its positioning with the makeshift rope stabilizers. Elliott’s shoulders sag against my back. “Well,” I sigh, “let’s keep at it.” He reaches around me and through the narrow crack to right the padlock, but before he gets it into place, the doorknob rattles. We both jump. I jam the hairpins into my curls and Elliott yanks the shoelaces free of the lock. We freeze, not daring to move from this too-intimate-for-strangers position. If we dart away, we’ll look even more suspicious. Kozyrev walks into sight, the limp a little more noticeable until he stops in the doorway. “Oh.” The layer of surprise in his tone is too thick to be real. “I thought you’d never met?” I level a glare at him. “We’re getting to know each other pretty well by now.” “Excellent. I will want to talk to you about that.” “I’m really good at talking.” Not for the first time. Kozyrev smiles. Again. “I’m sure you’re about to get better.” “Oh? Did you bring our food?” “We negotiate only on our terms. I have brought something . . . better.” He steps into the bathroom and pulls someone in after him. Once again, something clicks in my brain. I know the guy standing, head bowed, in the doorway, with his dark longish hair and gray suit and bound wrists, but he’s so out of context— or maybe my brain is instinctively hoping that if I don’t admit it, it can’t be him. But half a second later, his name registers through the rising panic. Danny. I can’t react, can’t breathe, frozen between Elliott and the 

door. The hope he’d be okay shrivels and dies in my chest. When he sees me, or recognizes me through the black eye makeup that I’m sure is all over my face now, Danny glowers at Kozyrev. “What’s she doing here? You said—” Kozyrev laughs, a single discordant bark. “I lied.” His grin in my direction looks more like a leer. “You will move away from the door now.” “Yeah, we’re not exactly eager to obey in here. Cramped enough as it is.” Good thing Elliott can talk, because I sure can’t. Danny turns on Elliott. “Wouldn’t be so crowded if you weren’t all over her.” Oh, perfect. I jolt into action, awkwardly elbowing Elliott off me and climbing to my feet. I shoot my most threatening glower at Kozyrev. “Let him go.” “What do you want me to do? Dump him in the lock?” I glance at Danny, trying to act like I barely know him. “You can swim, right?” He glances heavenward, less a prayer for help and more a Seriously, Dude? “I really didn’t think this night could get worse.” “Enough!” Kozyrev motions to someone behind Danny. He reaches for something out of sight and pulls back—a gun. A bolt of cold lightning shoots down my spine. Yeah, he’s escalating. “I thought this glass was supposed to be bulletproof,” Elliott snaps. “It is. However, I believe he is not.” Kozyrev shoves the gun against Danny’s temple. Danny flinches and closes his eyes, but there’s something about his reaction that’s . . . tired. Is this not the first time they’ve threatened him at gunpoint? Heat gathers in my chest. They can’t do this. They can’t do this to my—to Danny. 

I fight back the anger. “I am way too nice to you people.” I try to recover the bluff I’ve been working on this whole time. “Ya by ne tak vyrazilsya,” Kozyrev mutters. I wouldn’t express it that way. I step to the fiberglass wall and grumble, “Your mother.” Elliott follows. “Away from the controls.” Kozyrev’s voice says he’s too old to fall for that trick again. I slump in a corner. Elliott takes the opposite end. There’s barely room in the middle for Danny. Kozyrev pushes Danny in front of the glass. In front of me. I didn’t plan to face him again so soon—I haven’t thought about facing him at all yet; I’ve been a little distracted—but now there’s something between us a heck of a lot more solid than bulletproof glass. Danny stares into my eyes, but I can’t hold his gaze. I watch Kozyrev. He keeps the gun on Danny, but turns back to the bedroom door. “Iskali yego?” he calls. I can barely hear the “Nyet” reply. I look back to Danny. “They’re going to search you.” “Talia, I am so sorry—” Now? His timing sucks, but the prospect of us getting back together sparks up the dry kindling of my heart. “—to drag you into this.” Wait, wait, wait. How could this be his fault? “Drag me into . . . ?” “I told them to leave you out of it.”







OU—YOU TOLD THEM—”

How could he tell them anything?

Unless he—and they— No. Nonono. The surprise of seeing Danny had begun to subside, but now panic claws its way up my throat. He’s betrayed our country—countries? He’s working with Kozyrev, and Fyodor? The flicker of hope roars into a blaze of mettle-melting fear. Anyone else. I could’ve taken it from anyone else: Robby, Will, even Elliott. But Danny? I cover my burning cheeks with shaking hands. I’m going to be sick. The boat rocks forward and my mouth fills with warm saliva. I’m going to throw up. I force myself to swallow, and my tongue is left dry. The evasiveness, hiding something, something he wasn’t telling me. Not this. Anything but this. “What?” My voice betrays me in a hoarse whisper. “What did you do?” Before he can answer, Kozyrev jerks him back by the collar. 

“Can we not do this here?” Danny’s tone is weary, and I don’t think it’s just because of what he and I went through earlier. How long has he been with them? How long has he worked with them? Before tonight? Kozyrev ignores Danny’s protest and starts the search. He comes up empty until he reaches Danny’s suit pants pocket. For a second, I think it must be his Swiss Army knife. The hope and the disappointment lace through me together, water with gall. He has something to help us, but they’re taking it. Kozyrev pulls out his find. It’s the same dark red color, but it’s not the pocketknife I’m expecting. It’s a box. A mahogany box. A ring box. The cold prickles are back and my eyes jump to Danny’s. This time he’s the one who can’t meet my gaze. That’s what this week has been about? The date I had to promise to come to? Wilfrid’s, Signatures—even the bike ride along the river? Half a dozen little moments flash through my mind, the pieces falling into place: Danny hiding something in the trunk before we went biking, Danny musing about Friday night, Danny talking about Campbell’s and my coworkers’ marriages. And I said I don’t buy marriage, don’t think about marriage. Their marriages. I would’ve said yes. Of course I would’ve said yes. I know it as certainly and as surely as I thought I knew Danny. Because I know what it’s like to lose him. Now? Now I don’t know the man on the other side of the glass. And I don’t know which of those things scares me more. Until Danny walked through that door, I haven’t been afraid. Annoyed, worried, anxious, yes. But curl-up-in-thecorner, can’t-think-can’t-blink-can’t-breathe, total-shut-down terror now revs its engines in my brain and lungs and heart. This is all my fault. 

“Casual acquaintance.” Kozyrev’s mocking words barely reach my ears. He sets the box on the sink’s molded soap dish. Suddenly there’s someone in front of me, hands on my shoulders. Fear flashes through me again and I shrink into the corner. But I can’t push myself half an inch farther away. “T,” he whispers. Elliott. It’s Elliott. “Pull it together.” I nod, but the shock is still running rampant. I can’t move. I can’t deal. I can’t do this. “Don’t make me turn on the cold water.” I realize I’m gaping and snap my mouth closed. Behind Elliott, the lock pops open and the chains grate over the bars. “Stay back or I will kill you.” Kozyrev waves the gun. “Starting with Fluker.” Elliott turns around to shield me, like Kozyrev’s going to open fire if we stay still. I wish he’d jump into action—we both know how to disarm the guy—but I don’t think either of us can risk hurting Danny. Or can we? He’s with them. Though something must have gone wrong for them to tie him up and throw him in their brig. Like that’s any consolation. A henchman hooks the padlock back up. They’ve given up their trump card by sticking Danny in here, so I feel safe playing one of my own. “You watch your back, Mikhail Kozyrev.” He’s never given me his name. I pronounce it slowly and carefully and watch his reaction. His eyebrows waver a millimeter. But he says nothing and strides out. The bathroom door closes, leaving us alone again. That has to be a trick. They have to be listening. But Danny speaks before I can warn him. “Let me guess: Elliott, right?” He shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised?” So much for pretending the three of us hardly know one another. 

And Danny’s not done. “As if getting tied up and marched down here at gunpoint isn’t bad enough, I find you two all snuggled up together, nice and cozy in the shower?” “Shut up,” Elliott hisses. “They’re listening.” I can’t see Danny from behind Elliott, but for once this week, I don’t need any help understanding. Still, I climb onto the bench to peer over Elliott’s head at Danny. I grab Elliott’s sleeve to lift his arm. He glances back at me. “Hey?” I ignore him, pulling on his forearm and finally holding up his hand. His left. With his wedding ring. Once I’m sure Danny’s seen it—the furrow in his brow confirms it—I drop Elliott. “The least you could do is untie me.” Danny holds up his wrists. “Are you kidding?” I fire back. “What are you doing, working with them?” “No, I’m not. What are you talking about?” “Right.” I want to believe him, but I can’t afford to rely on my battered emotions right now. Obviously my intuition has been way off when it comes to Danny. He keeps talking. “I’ve never seen these guys before, and I just met Timofeyev Wednesday—” “You know Timofeyev?” Elliott asks at the same time I say, “You know Fyodor?” Danny looks around the shower slowly, borrowing my imaginary audience. “Uh, yeah?” “How?” I demand. “He toured NRC Aerospace this week. Wednesday. Right after I came to see you. How do you guys know him?” The corporate bigwig he had to run off to see was Fyodor? Why didn’t we know—we lost Fyodor Wednesday. Elliott lost him. I backhand his back and glare down at Elliott. “You 

should’ve stayed on him.” “Yes, that’s what we need, to harp on the past.” The past. Tonight replays in my mind in reverse, running backward through the park to Signatures. Where Danny had tried to take me earlier this week. Fyodor said a friend recommended it. I lean over Elliott, my hands on his shoulders, to address Danny. “You told him to go to Signatures, didn’t you?” Danny squints up at me like he’s not following, and how could he? “Yeah, he said he met someone and wanted to take her somewhere special. How did you know?” “You answer my questions first. Prove to me you’re not working with the Russians.” “Hello?” He shakes his bound wrists. “They just marched me down here at gunpoint.” That’s no guarantee. I’m pretty sure he’s in here to make a statement to me. But were they always going to drag him in, regardless of what I did? “How long have you been on the boat?” “An hour and a half, maybe two. Since Dow’s Lake.” The whole time. He was here the whole time. Oh, those liars are going to answer for this. But first, I have to deal with Danny. “Swear to me you’re not working with them.” “The Cold War ended before I can remember. It’s not the big bad Soviets versus all that’s right and good in the world anymore.” That’s not a denial—and that’s a very, very bad sign. “Tell. Me.” I know a heck of a lot more about Russians than Danny would, enough to love the people and the language, and enough to know our aerospace and tech secrets do not belong in their hands. Danny’s seriously? flashes over his face, but he angles his wrists to raise one hand like he’s taking an oath. “I’m not working with the Russians. I gave Timofeyev a tour of my corner of 

NRC. I spent an hour with the guy. That’s it.” There’s the denial. Direct, upfront, devoid of qualifiers, convincing statements, unnatural pauses and other deceptive cues. Still, I jump into observational overdrive. Though they’re not 100% reliable for lie detection, I watch his eyes. I should know him well enough to tell when he’s lying. No unnatural eye contact, like he’s trying too hard to hold or avoid my gaze. Pupils normal. Blinking normal. No change in his expression. No hand-to-face activity. His feet, his anchor points—he shifts his weight when he’s bluffing. Not now. From my perch on the bench, I glance down at Elliott in front of me to double check my assessment. He gives a tiny nod, almost a twitch. He’s not lying. I could kiss Danny now. And then a swift shock of sorrow in my heart reminds me of the fundamental shift in our relationship. “He showed up at my place right after I got home.” Danny barely acknowledges Elliott untying the ropes. “I mean, after I . . . made it inside. I didn’t even get to the living room first.” “Let me guess, he had pictures of me and said he’d hurt me if you didn’t come along.” Danny shoves his shirt cuffs back to rub his wrists, his eyes averted. “How could I not? I mean, I still—” He stops abruptly. They’d played us all the same way, using someone we care about against us. The fact they hadn’t tracked down Shanna (we hope) was at least a minor consolation. I look down. “That’s how they got us, too.” “What, with pictures of one another?” I fold my arms above Elliott’s head. “No, he showed me pictures of you.” I bite back the “you jerk” I want to add at the end. I think my tone has that covered. “But how do you know Timofeyev?” 

The last drops of my relief at Danny’s innocence evaporate. I’m going to have to answer that question with a lot more of the truth than I’ve ever planned to give Danny. No. I can’t. My mouth goes dry at the thought, like it can’t either. Elliott glances over his shoulder. “Tell him.” “Tell me what?” I glower down at Elliott again. If they’re monitoring us, I’m certainly not going to be the one to give something away. Not like that. “If you’d stayed on him, we would’ve been able to work around this mess.” He bats those stupid baby blues up at me. “You know you can’t blame this face.” “I want to do a lot more than blame to that face.” “I’m right here,” Danny interjects. Elliott drops the pretense as smoothly as if he never used it. “You need to tell him.” “Tell me what?” That saucer-eyed and scared look from earlier resurfaces in Danny’s eyes. The tables have turned now: I know I can trust him again, but now he’s wondering the same thing about me. “He’s practically read himself into the case file.” Elliott, ever helpful. I punch him in the shoulder blade. “I will decide when and how I tell him.” And the official rules say we can’t tell until we’re engaged. Which we would be, maybe, if I hadn’t screwed this night up so badly. Danny’s saucer eyes travel from me to Elliott, and I can just see he’s getting the wrong idea all over again. “Don’t tell me he’s married to you. I’d rather not know.” “Yeah, no.” I shake my head and Danny puffs out a breath. Elliott’s right, I have to tell him something, but the truth isn’t 

much better than the lie. Suddenly the irony of our positioning hits me: for all the times Elliott’s come between us this week, now he’s actually, physically between us. We can’t have this conversation this way. I hop off the bench and try to push Elliott aside. “Move it.” He turns so I can edge past. Elliott backs himself into my corner and I cross the distance between me and Danny. Okay, it’s only like a foot, but it’s very awkward to be this close to him after . . . tonight. Especially with what I’m about to tell him. “Maybe you should sit.” I point to the wrap-around bench behind him. His eyes still round and wary, Danny sinks onto the bench. I follow, but our knees touch, and somehow that feels too close—and I can’t stop picturing Kozyrev in here, his naked butt—shudder. I jump back to my feet. “Can I make sure I have this all straight first?” I ask. “You met Fyodor on Wednesday to give him a tour of NRC Aerospace, right?” “Right.” I can’t help the caution that creeps into my voice. “And it came up that he met someone here and wanted to take her out for a special evening, so you suggested Signatures, right?” “He said they’d already been to Wilfrid’s.” “And since then, you haven’t seen or heard from Fyodor Timofeyev until you walked in your house tonight, right?” “Sounds like you get what’s going on here. Now can I?” I don’t know where to start. I glance back to Elliott’s corner. He holds out a hand in a gesture of you go right ahead. Yeah, thanks. Danny stands. “Look, if this is about the two of you, consider me informed, okay?” “It’s not about him.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Elliott is 

married and we are leaving his wife out of everything tonight. It’s bad enough you’re here.” Danny furrows his brow. “Wait, what? Are you saying I’m here because of you?” “Uh . . .” I check Elliott’s reaction. This time he offers that dunno palm again. “Why else would you be here?” Danny turns his head to regard me at a skeptical angle. “Which one of us has the information Timofeyev wants? You? Elliott?” “D,” Elliott says, and I think he’s given Danny a nickname until he adds, “all of the above.” “What would Timofeyev want with either of you?” Danny asks. Fyodor has no idea what he could really get from us, and that’s not why we’re here. I touch Danny’s arm, but I still can’t meet his gaze. I try to ease him back down to the shower bench, but think better of it again. Finally, I look up. “The girl you were helping Fyodor romance tonight?” His eyes lock on mine and we can all hear him swallow hard. “Yeah?” I can’t say this; I can’t break his heart and mine all over again. My throat starts to ache with tears and protest. But I have to say it. “It’s me.” I expect Danny to get mad, to yell, to throw things. (I’ve rarely seen him yell and never throw things, though it seems appropriate right now.) But his gaze drifts downward until he’s looking at the floor and our feet. “I’m an idiot.” He says it like it’s a deep thought occurring to him for the first time. That or already insanely obvious. “No, it isn’t like that—” “It’s not like that?” He laughs with one humorless breath, then turns on the attack. “How many other guys do you have to date before it’s ‘like that’?” 

“Danny—” “The client who picked up on you. Him?” “Sort of.” He scoffs in utter disbelief. “You’re out there playing me and I’m sitting in Wilfrid’s planning to—and you—” “Please, let me explain.” Elliott snorts. “You’re doing a great job so far.” I whirl on him. “Will you shut up?” “Well, I hope you and Timofeyev are very happy together.” Danny holds up his hands and backs away two steps. I want to follow, but he hits the corner and I won’t pin him down. I want to let him get away from me. Because I know I’m a terrible person. “Danny.” I keep my voice soft, like that will retroactively soften the blow. “There are a thousand reasons I could never be with Timofeyev. Fyodor doesn’t know who I really am.” “I guess that makes two of us,” Danny spits out. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stand there, stunned, and he brushes past me to stand in front of the shower door, bracing himself when the boat moves forward. It’s not easy to avoid one another in these cramped quarters, but he manages not to touch me at all. “That went well.” Elliott’s muttered sarcasm really makes me want to believe him. Not. “Next time, try—” “Seriously, Elliott—” “You need to tell him the rest.” Danny cuts in. “Pretty sure I’ve heard more than enough.” Before I can figure out how to say it—any of it—the bathroom door swings open. And Fyodor Timofeyev makes his entrance. The first time I’ve seen him since the park. The trickle of ice water fear runs down my spine again, and the nausea returns full force. Could this turn into a reprise? 





OU KNOW,”

Fyodor begins in English, “this whole evening, perhaps I have it backward.” I cut him off. “I’ll say. Think kidnapping’s the best way to apologize?” Elliott edges forward, placing one shoulder between me and Fyodor. Danny doesn’t look at me, but steps up at my other side. As if the bulletproof glass weren’t protection enough. (I do feel better to have them there.) “Oh, Natalia.” Fyodor’s voice drips with derision and pity. “Natushka.” The pet version of my cover’s name. “Natushenka.” “Cute, but you’re a couple years too young to be my dad.” His lips twist. He clasps his hands behind his back to pace the three-step-wide space between the sink and the toilet. “I might have been wrong tonight.” “You think?” “You are very brave from behind your gentlemen friends.” He flips the ring box opens and smirks at whatever’s inside. I maneuver around Danny and his attempt to block me. “I’d be happy to talk face to face. Yesli ty nastoyashchiy 

muzhchina.” I toss aside my eavesdropping on Kozyrev’s Russian card with a lift of my chin. If you’re a real man. He calls me a name I know, but won’t translate. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I fire back in Russian. “Oh, let me guess, she’s the only one who’ll let you.” “Will you not shut up?” I switch back to English. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted me to talk. I can see how I’d be confused, though, since usually when you want something from me, ty menya nasiluyeshʹ.” Which basically means you take it from me by violence, but the primary meaning in Russian is a lot closer to you violate me. Fyodor snaps the ring box shut, tosses it into the sink and strides from the bathroom. “You speak Russian?” Danny asks. I meet his eyes, but can’t hold his gaze (again). “Yeah, well, when I said I served my mission in a bunch of small towns on the border of Georgia . . . I didn’t mean the state.” He just shakes his head, like he can’t believe he fell for yet another of my lies. My heart tumbles down two steps. I try to console myself that at least he’s not reaching out to Timofeyev to build on their common ground of Talia the traitor. Fyodor marches back into the room, this time with a gun. My heart wedges itself back into its now-too-small place. “Are you done talking?” Back to English. “It’s bulletproof glass, you idiot.” “Willing to bet his life on it?” He aims at Elliott. “Or his?” He swings to Danny, sweeping me in the process. Does he know what he’s doing with that weapon? I seal my lips. As thick as the glass (well, plastic composite) is, I don’t have a guarantee it’ll stop a bullet beyond Kozyrev’s word. Not exactly the greatest confidence builder. “Now that you are listening.” He holds the gun on Danny, and I don’t dare take my eyes off Fyodor. “When I saw you two 

together, I thought Fluker was coming after me, through you.” “Why would he do that?” I risk a glance at Danny, but all I read in a second is tension. Fyodor is staring at Danny, too. “He knows. He knows exactly why I went to a great deal of trouble to have you both tracked home.” Elliott interrupts with a sighs as if he’s already bored with the monologuing. Fyodor steps closer to the glass. “At the most, I thought you had cheated on me. But then, once I had the two of you taken care of, I turn around and find another familiar face waiting. I get back to my hotel and your savior from the park just happens to appear?” “I barely know this guy.” I jerk a thumb at Elliott. “Pure coincidence. Ottawa’s not even as big as Rostov.” Fyodor cocks an eyebrow. At least it’s not the gun. It’s a double action, so he wouldn’t need to cock it, but still. “And you have only one swimming pool?” he asks. “One good one.” Elliott’s playing his cover to the end. Fyodor ignores him. “And then it was so obvious. Fluker is not the center of the whole thing. It is you.” He swoops the gun back to me. “Da?” There’s no right answer to that question. I’m not sure there’s an answer that won’t get someone killed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I try my best this-is-ridiculous pose. “I don’t know what any of this is about, and I don’t know what you want.” “Who do you work for?” When I don’t answer, he holds the gun higher, aiming for Danny’s head. The back of my neck breaks out in a cold sweat. I have to play my cover harder, too. “Parliament.” Fyodor leans even closer, until his nose is almost against the door. “Parliament has no interest in me, and I do not believe 

they have the means to organize you and him.” He nods to Elliott. “Or him.” Danny. “Oh, honey. Nobody has the means to organize that poor guy.” “Hey,” Elliott and Danny protest together, though I don’t mean either of them. “Much as I am enjoying your comedy hour, I do not believe you will keep it up for long.” I hold up a hand to cut off another humor salvo from Elliott. “Fyodor, it doesn’t matter if you believe me. You’ve kidnapped a government official. If you don’t let every one of us go, the consequences will be a lot more than you can handle.” “Oh, Zhzhyonova, I can handle more than you know.” Now they can’t even get my cover name right? I can feel Danny’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back. “Let me out and we’ll see how much you can handle.” He tosses back a classic example of Russian mat, obscenity so profane it’s actually illegal. I jerk my chin at him. Danny and Elliott each place a hand on my shoulder, like they’d hold me back if I wanted to rip Fyodor’s face off. (You know, them and the inch-thick glass.) “Sexy when provoked.” Fyodor turns to Danny. “You agree, da?” Danny just glares back. I’ve never seen him look at anything with that much hate. Fyodor laughs, then launches into a complicated insult that . . . well, let’s leave it by saying if Elliott and Danny spoke the language, I’d be the one holding them back. Or not. But now that I know he’s messing with me for his own twisted pleasure, it’s easier to ignore his mental jabs. “Your little boyfriend promised us something to eat. Where is it?” He flinches and blinks. The basic demand seems to have shattered his train of thought. The boat lurches forward. I’ve 

lost count, but we must be nearing the bottom of the locks. Have I really been trapped in this shower for over two hours? “And what are you going to do when we have to go to the bathroom?” I pick up the mental assault on Fyodor. “I’m thirsty.” Elliott barely suppresses a grin. “Tell me you have bottled water.” Danny folds his arms. “Are we there yet?” Fyodor blinks slowly. “If you think this will work, you are mistaken.” “You know what I think?” Elliott pushes off the corner and levels Fyodor with a cool scowl. “I think you guys didn’t think this through very well.” Fyodor steps closer to the glass—but not in front of Elliott. In front of me. Fyodor leans in, the menace all over his face. “You are the ones who did not think this through very well. Or you would not have ended up here, da?” I can’t really argue with his logic. “Who do you work for?” He punctuates each syllable of his dangerous growl by tapping the shower door with the gun barrel. “Parliament,” I grind out. “I do not believe you.” “Your loss.” He presses the gun against the glass level with Danny’s chest. That doesn’t seem safe for anybody. The air in this tiny room grows thicker. Fyodor’s voice oozes with immaculate patience. “We’ll try this one last time. Who do you work for?” “If I tell you, will you let us go? At least him?” I point to Danny with my eyes. “He’s not involved.” That’s so true that saying it almost burns. Danny holds up a hand to object, but I keep my eyes on the Russian. 

“That is all you ask?” Fyodor steps back and raises his eyebrows to look down his nose at us. “If only you knew what is really going on.” The realization pours over me and my heart hits the accelerator. There is something more going on here, and if we can find it—and better yet, stop it—this wouldn’t all be a waste. “Okay, here’s an idea. How about an information exchange? You tell us what’s really going on, and we’ll tell you what you want to know.” He thinks about it a little longer than I’d like. “You will tell me everything I want to know?” I nod solemnly, hoping my silent “yeah right” stays that way. “If you let him go.” “We may discuss terms after you have answered my questions.” Fyodor approaches the shower door again. “Tell me this: did you ever have feelings for me, or was that all an act?” Seriously? That’s his first question? Man, now I feel bad. But not quite bad enough to spare his pride. I shrug with an expression of you already know the answer and you do not want to hear it. “Then why?” Yeah, I was hoping he wouldn’t go there. “Isn’t it obvious?” Elliott pipes up. I think we’re all very interested to hear his answer. “She’s a player.” I cannot look at Danny. I can’t feel his presence behind me anymore and I don’t dare turn to look for him. I just can’t. Painting on puppy-like penance like pancake makeup, I turn to Fyodor. “Are you going to believe this guy?” “I’m starting to.” Danny’s murmur cuts deeper than anything Fyodor could say. “See?” Elliott does a better job playing it off than I do. “This is all a ploy. She likes stringing you along, and that’s it.” “Oh, like you know me that well.” I hope Elliott gets the 

subtext: you’re not helping! He doesn’t. “Are you kidding? I was your first victim.” A chill creeps over my scalp. He can’t mean what I think he means. That night I’ve spent a year trying to forget, that hallway my panicked brain leaps to for the second time tonight, that idiot Elliott leaning in— He promised me. He promised me it didn’t mean anything. He promised me it was a cover, that kiss. I flick my eyes to his. He’s not even looking at me, smirking at Fyodor through the glass. It’s a cover. Only a cover. And I’ll play mine, too. “Fyodor, I was really hoping there would be some chemistry between us.” I dip my chin and widen my eyes in what I hope Danny can (and Fyodor can’t) tell is a blatant ploy of innocence. “That’s the truth,” I lie. He stares back for a long time, but I hold my expression. “I do not like competition.” His voice is low, menacing. “And I will eliminate it.” I barely flick my eyes to Danny and try to keep my face neutral. “Who, this guy? It doesn’t have anything to do with him.” Fyodor scrutinizes me a minute longer. “Come on.” I slip into classic hostage negotiation and a pouty-flirty-coaxing girl voice that Danny and Elliott have never heard from me before. I’m not sure I’ve ever used it, so I hope I’m doing it right. “Look. I know you got carried away earlier tonight. That’s all that’s going on here, too. We’re a little keyed up, but you can stop this insanity now. Just let us off and this can all be over.” Fyodor’s eyes slide to the side, like he’s considering it. He folds his shooting arm across his chest, propping up his free hand to stroke his beard. (I manage not to look at Elliott. It’s not time for laughter.) “You would not involve the authorities?” 

A little late for that. “Of course not.” Not until we can find a person with a cell phone or a police constable, that is. “A little misunderstanding.” “Then who do you work for?” If it means we might get out of here, especially if Danny will be safe, I have to give him something. I have to do this. I have to say it. My gaze falters and falls. This is what it feels like to give up. I sigh, letting the pain show. “We work for NRC.”







DON’T DARE TURN TO

DANNY, praying he can hide his surprise or skepticism. Fyodor doesn’t look away from me, lifting his chin. “Now we are getting somewhere. What do you do?” “We’re in a special security division. We vet visiting officials.” “‘We’?” I glance toward Elliott. “Tak i znal,” Fyodor breathes, flushed with triumph. I knew it. “And Fluker is with you, or is he really an aerospace engineeer?” “He’s not involved with us. At all.” “So this attempt to seduce me is all part of the plot to . . . make sure I am who I am?” Attempt to seduce him? Yeah, no. But I roll with it, slipping into Russian to minimize what Danny has to hear. “I was supposed to get back to your hotel so I could make sure you weren’t foreign intelligence or stealing any classified info.” I keep my eyes on the shower floor, but sneak a look at 

Elliott. He gives me an almost invisible shrug, mostly with his eyebrows. Neither of us knows if they found anything in his room, but at our last report, the results didn’t sound so good. The silence stretches on too long and I dare to look up. Fyodor levels me with a cool stare. “If that was your goal, why did you object in the park?” “Um, it wasn’t your room?” I say it like that’s obvious. He looks at Elliott. “And why did he intrude?” I groan. “What can I say? I work with a bunch of chauvinists who don’t know how to let a woman do her job.” I think that concept might have sailed over Fyodor’s head, but that’s not why I can’t take a full breath. English again. “Now, can we discuss terms?” Fyodor doesn’t answer directly, his face guarded. “Who is Fluker to you?” “I just know him from work.” Could be my imagination, but I swear Danny steps up behind me, close enough to sense, but not touching. Don’t know if that’s for Fyodor or me, but I try not to read too much into it. Then again, I hardly have the extra processing capacity to handle any more Danny-related input with the mental gymnastics I’m doing to trick Fyodor while being honest with Danny, or at least so blatantly dishonest Danny knows everything I’m telling Fyodor is a front. Fyodor’s intent gaze hasn’t softened a bit. He’s not buying the act. “We used to date, okay? It didn’t work out.” And that time, it does burn. “Someone has changed his mind.” Fyodor gestures to the sink. “Believe me, a lot bigger surprise for me.” And Danny takes a step away, if he was there. “If you chase two rabbits, you won’t catch either.” 

I pin him with a look of thanks a lot. “Enough? That’s what you want to know, right?” Fyodor runs his tongue over his teeth and I have to fight back a wave of memories and revulsion. I shoot for a levelwith-me tone. “Now you tell me something. What’s got you gloating about how we’re missing something big?” His eyebrows jump. Yeah, it’s a gamble to go for the big question, but we have a history—and I want to put it behind me, fast. He sucks his teeth. “No, I cannot tell you.” Cannot? Is that a lost in translation thing, or is something keeping him from telling me? I choose my next verb more carefully. “Well, then, will you let them go? At least Danny?” Fyodor taps his fingers on his mouth, still contemplating. “Sorry, no,” he says abruptly. “I hope you all feel very comfortable here. It is quite a while to international waters.” “What?” we all shout together. There is no way this little boat—okay, medium-sized boat— could make it all the way to Russia. Right? The cramped little room turns chill. Fyodor leaves us with triumph in his eyes. I dig through my hair with one hand and hold out the other to Elliott. “Shoelaces.” Danny steps between us to cut off the exchange. “NRC?” He’s smart enough to keep his voice down, but the stakes are too high. I fix him with a serious look and make a cutting motion across my throat. “And he said you know why he wants us.” “No idea what he’s talking about.” “Great.” I’m not sure whether to believe him. Fyodor could’ve been bluffing. No time to debate now. I backhand Danny’s arm. Danny scoffs but moves so Elliott and I can trade tools. Before we huddle down to work on the padlock again, 

though, I can’t treat Danny like that. I have to say one thing, regardless of any monitoring. I turn to Danny. “I’m not playing you. I mean, I wasn’t.” “And I really don’t know why we’re here.” The truth for the truth. Danny leans against the glass wall. Elliott, kneeling in position by the door already, tugs on the hem of my dress, and I join him on the floor. “Danny?” I glance over my shoulder. “Can this boat really get us to Russia?” He takes a minute, but whether he’s thinking about the question or the situation between us, I don’t know. “Not without refueling, I’m guessing. If it were a plane, I’d know for sure. Mind telling me what’s going on?” I lean forward like holding the shoelaces takes a lot of concentration. “If I knew.” “You know you could tell him.” I know Elliott’s undertone doesn’t mean striking up a conversation about whatever Fyodor’s cooking up. “You could’ve told him a long time ago.” That’s not what the rules say. The rules we live and die by. “No, I couldn’t. I got this far as the world’s most paranoid—” I stop myself before spy, stumbling onto “non-agoraphobe.” The torsion wrench bobby pin moves. For a split second, we both think it’s open, but the too-narrow bobby pin only slipped. Elliott grunts. “Yeah, locked in a shower. That’s working out really well for you.” “Right, and telling him now is a better plan.” I point to the wall and tug my ear. Danny’s shadow falls over us. “What are—are you picking the lock?” “Trying to.” Elliott adjusts the bobby pin, offsetting the bent ends to make it wider. “You’re in our light.” “They teach you this in law school?” His sarcasm shows his disbelief. I focus on the lock. 

“They had some really progressive thoughts on the discovery process.” I shoot an elbow and a be-nice expression at Elliott. He returns a why-should-I? raised eyebrow, and I answer with a capital-L Look every woman knows: because I said so. Our silent conversation is cut short when Elliott pitches sideways, away from me. I fall with him until the chain jerks us all to a stop, lying instead of leaning against the door. Outside the shower? “Whoa.” Danny’s halfway out through the doorway, holding up . . . the door? With one hand. Have I entered the Twilight Zone? “Wait, what?” Elliott jumps up to hold the door for Danny, who drops to his knees and pops the bottom hinge loose from the floor. Danny taps on the spring-loaded pin, now free. “Telescoping pivot hinges.” He pauses like he’s about to say more, then realizes it’s totally lost on us. (Thanks.) I grab his hand and flip it over. His Swiss Army knife. “Where did you get that?” “Put it in my shoe in the car. You think I trust Timofeyev?” I can’t stop my smile, and for half a second, he starts to smile back. Sitting in a glass prison he’s just freed us from, holding onto his hand, I feel like there might be a chance I could get Danny back. And then he pulls away, smile gone, to help Elliott swing the door free. We’re out, but it’s not quite as sweet as it felt three seconds ago. “Man, I wish you’d gotten here sooner.” I step out of the shower and try another smile. But he gives me a look I can’t decipher, and I’m not sure I should’ve said it. I try to brush it off. “Here I thought the most useful tool on your knife was the USB drive.” 

“Yeah, pretty glad I left that at work.” “We need a plan,” Elliott whispers, pulling us back to the topic. And he’s right. I hold up five fingers. Five guys out there, Fyodor, Kozyrev and at least three others. Elliott holds up three fingers, representing us, but glances at Danny. Though I try not to follow his eyes, I can’t help but read Elliott’s expression: more like two and a half. “Cut it out.” I try a patented I’m-serious face, but it doesn’t faze him. “Tell him.” Danny sighs through his teeth, and I’m pretty sure that’s disgust I hear. “Just tell me.” “Fine.” I look him in the eyes, and I can’t help but think of everything I love about him, most of all his smile. His genuine, unreserved, he-is-who-he-is-all-the-time smile. And I’m not. I can’t tell him. He’ll think—he’ll know everything I’ve ever said is a lie. I open my mouth, but only come up with “Stay behind me.” “Great plan.” Thanks a lot, Elliott. But before we get any further in our plotting, we all sway the same direction, my stomach taking a minute to catch up. The yacht’s speeding up. A lot. The river. We’re in trouble. Deep. We’re hundreds of miles from the ocean or whatever the Ottawa River empties into, and hours from a point where our captors can feel safe, but every inch we get farther from where we’re supposed to be, the harder it will be to find us. Maybe we should recommend those GPS implants. “Inventory,” I say, trying to keep us focused. Danny props the shower door up in place. Elliott and I go to the sink and the mirrored medicine cabinet with a hinge in the middle. We each pry open a side. As the halves swings open, I catch a glimpse of 

myself in the mirrors. I expect to look crazy, and to some extent I do: hair half tumbled down, eye shadow gone and lipstick smeared, but the black eyeliner and mascara are still firmly shellacked in place. It’ll probably take turpentine to get that stuff off. Okay, alcohol, since shellac isn’t turpentine-soluble. “VapoRub.” Elliott pockets the mentholated petroleum jelly. I point to the door and more importantly, the hum of voices beyond. The unspoken message is clear: keep it down. “Cigarettes. No lighter.” Danny reaches around Elliott to snag the ring box. I pretend not to notice. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about that anyway. Elliott scrutinizes Danny in my side of the mirror. “Hope you kept the receipt.” “Whose side are you on?” I hiss to Elliott. He closes his side of the cabinet. “We’re all on the same side. Right?” He shoots Danny a pointed look. Danny dips his chin in a single nod. They look to me. “Duh.” Elliott moves on, holding up his other find. “Tweezers.” “Awesome. We’ll hold them at bay with tiny little puncture wounds.” But it’s better than all I have: Q-tips. I shut the medicine cabinet and catch a glimpse of Danny over our shoulders, eyeing us warily. I hate to feel like I’m excluding him, but let’s face it: he’s not an operative, and even if he were, I have no idea how to treat him right now. He has no training, no info—wait. He’s spent the most time above deck. I turn around. “How many men did you see onboard?” “Fyodor, his friend, and . . .” His eyes move back and forth as if he’s searching his memory. “Four other guys. Six total.” I’ve only seen five. For the second time, I’m actually glad to 

have Danny here. “One of them has a broken finger,” Elliott supplies. “I got one in the throat and one in the nose. And Kozyrev’s left knee is hurt.” I claim the tweezers and we turn to the bedroom door. I take a second to psych myself up, and Elliott’s whispered advice to Danny picks up on the rhythm of my rising pulse. “If we’re outnumbered, yell as loud as you can. Make them think you are crazy and you’re more likely to walk away from this fight. It might not stop them, but at least you’ll make them think twice.” “Got it.” There’s something off in Danny’s tone. I mean, he is taking fistfight tips from a “lawyer,” about to burst into hostile territory for the first time, and . . . you know, the whole thing with me. But we don’t have time for doubt. I look to Danny. “Keep a good hold on your knife. And promise you’ll stay behind me.” “We’ll see” is all he says. Great. But I can’t press him harder now. They could be back any minute, and unless our objective is to hold the bathroom, surprise is our only advantage. Three deep breaths. Focus on the low murmur of conversation from the next room. Five fingers to count down to the attack. Four. Three. The adrenaline in my arteries ramps up with each heartbeat. Two. One. Go. Elliott yanks the door open and rushes into the bedroom. I barely manage to maneuver in front of Danny, ready to yell, ready to scream, ready to fight with every ounce of my strength. Ready for battle.







E RUSH INTO THE ROOM.

At first, what I see doesn’t register, my heart’s sprinting so fast. And then I don’t believe it. There’s nobody there. The door to the galley and dining area is closed, and we are completely, embarrassingly alone. I drop out of my attack posture, trying to shake off the excess adrenaline and refocus. This isn’t a setback; it’s a second chance. There’s got to be something in here that can help. “All right.” I keep my voice to the same whisper. “Inventory.” I have no idea if the wall between the bedroom and kitchen is soundproofed, but at least the portable DVD player on the bed cranked to full volume will mask a little of our noise. Two overhead storage compartments made of rosewood flank the bedroom ceiling, and Danny and Elliott start the raid. I would help, but both of them have a better vantage point. I.E. they’re taller than me. I drop to the floor to check under the bed skirt. The bed frame is solid. Unless they stow an extra 2×4 under here, this isn’t going to do us a whole lot of good. I rock back to my knees. 

And then I see the shadow under the door. My stomach drops, leaving a cold void in its place. “Incoming!” I whispershout, then shove Elliott’s and Danny’s haul out of sight. Elliott dives around the bed. I jump up and herd Danny behind the door, behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, tensed, ready, one small gesture of protection. Maybe—? No. No time to think about that. We fall silent except for my pulse. And then I hear the whistling: one of the songs I was humming earlier. The Finnish one. The door swings open, heading for us. I push backward, keeping us clear, trapping Danny against the wall. The door stops half an inch from my face. The henchman walks in. My heartbeat skyrockets. He hasn’t seen us. Yet. My ribs freeze. We’re not even hiding. But he keeps his head bowed over the icepack on his neck, a man on a mission. Before he reaches the middle of the room, I lunge at him. My tackle catches him in the middle of the back, and he falls face first onto the bed. Elliott’s there in a heartbeat, dragging him to the floor. The icepack slips to the ground. Elliott clamps a hand over his lips, I kneel on his thighs and we have the guy pinned. “Um, whoa?” Danny’s whisper barely carries to me. I turn to him but before I can tell him to close the door, he does. The lackey isn’t fighting. I make sure my skirt isn’t hiked up, then signal Elliott to uncover his mouth. “Outs.” The guy groans. Outs? What—and then I get it. Not outs. Auts. Ouch. And that’s not Russian. I scrutinize him. “Sinä ja . . . ?” I fill in the last lines of the Finnish song he was just whistling. “Minä.” Me. You and me. Could be a lucky guess. I switch to Russian. “Say ‘steamroller.’” If I’m right, he’ll understand what I’m asking. 

His eyes narrow for a second—I’ve given away that Russian card again—but he answers with the nearly-impossible-fornon-natives-to-pronounce shibboleth. “Höyryjyrä.” I can’t believe this. This guy speaks my this-will-nevercome-in-handy-in-the-real-world, obscure first language. Natively, or nearly so. But I have to check. “How do you know Finnish?” “My grandparents raised me. Finnish Karelians.” I eye him, and he frowns at me and Elliott holding him against the carpet. He’s still not resisting. “What do you want?” I demand. “Your help. I want Mikhail Kozyrev dead.” I lean closer, daring him to answer. “Why?” “I work for him to pay off a debt. He’s holding my family over my head.” Just like he’s doing with us. Elliott is watching me, I know, waiting for the intel, but I can’t read this guy. He’s leveling me with a very calm, even gaze, but let me tell you, if you don’t know Russian criminals, you don’t know criminals. There’s nothing they won’t do, nothing they won’t say and no one they won’t destroy. The old Russian thieves’ code required them to answer truthfully, without shame, if they were ever asked directly about their crimes. I fumble for the key question they use in their secret language. “Who are you for life?” “Ivan Pavlovich Morozov.” His eyes don’t leave mine. He’s supposed to say Vor, thief. But I ask again: “Are you a Vor?” “Nyet.” What’s the other question they use? There’s an untouchable caste in the prison system where Russian criminals feel they belong, and they’re supposed to identify themselves by a special phrase. 

Then it comes to me. “Do you have problems in this life?” “Not that kind. They are threatening my children.” I watch his whole body. I don’t know him as well as I do Danny and we’re kind of restraining his body language, but I’m inclined to believe him. I gesture with my eyes for Elliott to get off. He stretches his neck like he didn’t hear me right. “Let him up.” “What?” Danny leans over the bed, his whisper urgent and incredulous. “No.” Elliott barely acknowledges his protest. “You’re going to give your boyfriend trust issues.” “Yeah, like that’s his biggest problem now.” “Still here,” Danny reminds us. We glance at him and turn back to our conversation. I jerk my head for Elliott to get off Ivan again. “He’s not a criminal; he’s working off a debt. They’re threatening his family.” “You believe him?” I shrug one shoulder. With that, Elliott moves. “Seriously?” Danny says. “Trust issues.” Elliott, again with the helpful commentary. I silence him with a sharp glare and look to Danny. “Roll with us here, okay? Stand look out. Watch for a shadow under the door.” To his credit, he takes a knee by the door and doesn’t grumble about the nothing job beyond a little headshake. This is really, truly bizarre. But I turn back to Elliott like we always work this way. We conduct a superfast conference to figure out our intel priorities, and then I relay the questions. Ivan verifies Danny’s info. There are six men including Ivan. He lists the others off: Volkov, asleep at the dining table, Smirnov and Sergeyev on the sky lounge, and Kozyrev and “what’s-his-name” drinking on the bridge. 

Which wasn’t on our walk-through. “Where’s that?” Ivan points at the door, sending a brief bolt of panic down my spine. Elliott and I whirl around, but there’s no one there. He’s only giving directions. He traces a route in the air: out of the cabin and up a flight of stairs. Oh great. They’ll be able to hear and maybe even watch us coming the whole time. Exactly the kind of approach I want when we’re already outmanned and outgunned. “Is there another way up there?” “No.” Elliott and I silently confer again. We both know we don’t have a choice. We have to go in. So we’ll get what we can from him now. “Is anyone weak or hurt?” “Volkov’s nose and finger, and Kozyrev has a limp he did not have before.” That much we knew. “Any vulnerabilities?” “It is dark” is the best he’s got. With killer instincts like these, it’s little wonder they haven’t armed him. Our strategic advantage is quickly disappearing. I check with Elliott one more time. “Weapons?” “Guns. Three, perhaps more. He wouldn’t have me carry one.” Of course not. “How about Volkov?” Ivan scowls like I’m stupid. “He has a broken finger. Why would they give him a gun?” Right. When would it ever be that easy? “Give us something to work with.” “I have given you all I have.” “All right, come on.” I have Ivan follow me in the bathroom. Elliott gets what I’m going for. Danny—I don’t check. Ivan watches us with round eyes. “What are we doing?” “Giving you plausible deniability. Just in case we don’t come out on top.” 

In the bathroom, the words form an ominous echo. I said it, the thing we’ve all worried and haven’t dared to even think. We might not come back this time. Ivan keeps wringing his hands. “Who did you say you work for?” I huff out one syllable of a laugh. “Buddy, right now we work for Let’s Not Die, Inc.” Worry still etches lines around his eyes, but he nods. Elliott and Ivan put the door hinges back in place, trapping him. He maintains his stoic concern, and we return to the bedroom. At the very least, we won’t have him on our consciences. “What the heck?” Danny points at the bathroom door. “Kozyrev’s using him. Consider him neutralized.” “Neutralized? He’s not even going to help us?” I don’t think the guy’s lying, but I’m not about to trust him that far. “We depend on one another.” I check our triangle. “Right?” Danny avoids my gaze, but nods. I pretend to not notice the annoyance radiating from every tensed muscle in his face, and I riffle through the finds on the bedspread. Two extra sets of bed linens and a couple life vests. Was that all we had? Elliott checks his compartment one more time and produces a thick hank of nylon rope. That’s a little better. I toss it to Danny at the door. He catches it without a sound—but something in the kitchen bump-thumps. We all jump. The air’s too heavy to breathe for half a second. But nothing else happens. I signal for Danny to cut (finger scissors) two (two fingers) three-foot lengths (hold up my hands that far apart). He pulls out his knife. Elliott moves to finish the interrupted sweep of Danny’s compartment and comes up with three pairs of foam earplugs, which may or may not be used, and a set of Sharpie markers. The tiniest inkling of a plan begins to tickle my mind, and I 

turn to Danny. “Any change in there?” I eye the galley. “No,” he mouths. I use the Sharpies to motion for Elliott to follow me and we both join Danny by the door. “I have an idea. Kind of a stopgap, but it’s something.” Danny leans forward, closing our circle, but there’s something more in the gesture, something more behind his fierce focus. I’m involving him, and he’s grateful not to be excluded. And like an idiot, I turn to Elliott first. “Which finger did you break?” He wiggles his right index finger. Good. Won’t have to touch it for the Kubotan grip. “Okay, well, that guy is asleep at the table. You haven’t heard anybody in there, right?” Danny shakes his head. “Good. Can you give Elliott the pieces of rope and cut a longer one?” He obeys, jaw set. I wish I could explain why I keep depending on Elliott and not him for the real work, why I need Danny to stay back, why we aren’t running or swimming for our lives. But I don’t know how to say it. At least skulking around in here has one advantage: it really precludes conversation. Careful to keep quiet, I open the package of Sharpies and hook two on the collar of my dress. Anything can be a weapon. Once Danny’s done cutting the rope, I signal for him to give me the knife, and he does without hesitation. He’s suddenly taking this situation well. I go back to the bed and cut a slit in the edge of an extra sheet, then rip it, again keeping it quiet. I slice the long strip in half, give those to Elliott, and return Danny’s knife. “Ready?” I ask. 

Danny noiselessly clambers to his feet. This time, I take point. I think Elliott knows where I’m going with this, but it’s my plan. The visualizations run through my mind in fastforward, each repetition picking up the pace of my pulse. Before I start the final mental countdown, I turn back to Danny one last time. “We’re going in silent. Our target is asleep and we’d like to keep him that way until the last second.” He nods again, his eyes forward. I turn around and ease the door open. My ears hum with my heartbeat. A lone figure hunches over the table, asleep on one bent arm. His other arm’s in front of him, a pack of ice on the broken bone. I look beyond him to the door out of the cabin. Open, but for now, we’ll want it shut. “Danny,” I barely breathe. He leans down to listen, close enough my mental run-throughs switch to leaning those last few inches and kissing him like we have so many times. But the corners of his lips turn down at my silence. Focus, I tell myself. And then I tell Danny, “Lock the door and tie it shut.” I expect him to hop on board like he has for the last few minutes, but his eyebrows leap up an inch. “What? Why don’t we make a swim for it? They’ll never find us in the dark.” What do I say? How can I tell him we have more work to do here, when Fyodor has already threatened to “eliminate the competition”? The competition. Fyodor has something up his sleeve that has to do with aerospace, and it isn’t the business agreements he outlined over dinner tonight. After his gloating that we don’t know what’s really going on here, I have to assume it’s something a lot more sinister. “You can make a run for it—swim, whatever. But Elliott and I have to finish this.” 

Danny sets his jaw and keeps his eyes on me. “Then I’m with you.” The worry steals in so fast I almost don’t notice the undercurrent of relief. But we have work to do now. I creep into the kitchen, rolling my bare feet exaggeratedly, and hoping Danny takes the hint. He does, following quietly. Elliott’s similarly silent. Once we reach the table, I let Danny pass me. I ready my Sharpies, holding one across my palm by my thumb and pinky, and the other in a stabbing grip. Danny slides the glass door shut and starts to tie the handle to a wall-mounted handrail. Volkov stirs slightly at the noise. I look to Elliott to sync a silent countdown once again. Three. Two. My lungs shut down. I slip my thumb and pinky under Volkov’s on his injured right, avoiding the icepack to leverage the Sharpie across the back of his swollen hand. He starts a sharp gasp. Before he sits up, I pin him down, jamming the other Sharpie against his neck vertebrae. Volkov opens his mouth wider to scream, but Elliott stuffs in a wad of the sheet first. I lean down to whisper in his ear. “Dobroye utro, dorogaya.” Good morning, darling. He reaches for me with his other hand, but Elliott’s there to grab his arm. I hold my Kubotan grip (okay, I tighten it a bit) and wrench his arm behind his back. Elliott lashes his wrists together, then moves to get his ankles, too. I release Volkov’s neck long enough for Elliott to tie the other sheet strip around his face. Once he’s good and gagged, I sheath my Sharpies in my asymmetric collar. Volkov’s still protesting, but it’s fairly muffled. I don’t see why he’s complaining. Neither of us touched his broken finger or bruised nose. We’re not cruel. We check the guy’s suit pockets, but he doesn’t have any

thing useful: a wallet (Volkov is apparently his real name), cigarettes (without a lighter again), tissues. We toss the meager finds on the table next to the discarded bag of ice. Danny’s suddenly at my shoulder again. By an unspoken signal, Elliott and Danny lift Volkov—who’s not a small guy, by the way—and haul him into the bedroom. Two down, four to go. Like it’s that simple. No, it’s a lot more complex than that, because two of those four have guns, and at least one of them has information we need. A kettle on the stove starts up a billow of steam. I’ve definitely had enough of that. I cross the room to turn the tiny glass stove burner down a notch. Who’s expecting this tea? I check; the curtain is open. I stride back to the door to give us that one bit of shielding, and hit the rear deck lights. There. Now we’ll be able to see them coming. I glance at the handle to make sure it’s secure. The rope is a tangle that hardly looks sturdy. Geez—the guy is an Eagle Scout. It’s been a while, but I thought he’d be able to manage a simple square knot. Elliott and Danny return and unload the stuff from the bedroom on the table. “Danny, what the heck kind of knot is that?” I ask. “A weaver’s knot?” I can’t stop my little head-jut of disbelief. “It’s better. Stronger.” Well, I guess he’s the Eagle Scout. I’ll take his word for it. I look from Elliott to Danny, and this time I don’t have to say it. We all turn for separate corners and start raiding every cabinet we can find. Inventory. Within three minutes, our total haul includes the rest of the rope, some snacks, more life vests (hooray, we can lash to

gether our own raft. Not.), a roll of duct tape (nice), enough paper goods to host half of CSIS (working on the invitations), two single-use safety flares (almost zero weapons potential in real life) and a good array of cutlery (so we can all bring knives to a gunfight). Despite what I told Fyodor and Kozyrev, I’m not hungry, but I open the pretzels anyway. Violating my food rules is worth it to settle my stomach and my nerves. Elliott asks the question we’re all thinking, but none of us can answer. “How long do we have before they get down here?” Well, I can answer: no matter how much time we have before they check on us, it’s not long enough unless we can conjure up a weapon.







PISODES OF

MYTHBUSTERS NOTWITHSTANDING, duct tape does

not make a great weapon, aside from a bludgeon. And even then, it’s only moderately good. I stand between Elliott and Danny and we survey our less-than-stellar haul. “So.” Elliott claps once. “Four on three, huh?” “Can I suggest something?” Danny asks. I turn to him. If it’s swimming for safety again—the course of action for any sane, reasonable person with no greater responsibility than the average citizen—I really don’t know what to say. “There might be a remote shut-off system.” Now that’s something we can work with. “Like what?” “Well, my parents have this Internet and cell phone system on their boat—” “Your parents have a boat?” Elliott interrupts. “Not like this, but yeah. Their system monitors the boat, and it can control a couple things. Like the kill switch.” Perfect. If we can shut down the engine, we’ll buy ourselves time to figure out what Fyodor and Kozyrev are trying to 

pull here, and stop them—and be able to get home. “How do we access the system?” The hope falls from Danny’s face. “Well, in this case, we’d need the cell phone.” “If we had a cell phone, we could do a lot more than turn off the boat,” Elliott points out. “You got a better idea?” Danny’s shoulders square in his suit jacket to make the subtle challenge. And yeah, it’s just a little sexy. I look away. I do not need to think about how hot he looks right now. “So what can we do then?” “We could trip one of the sensors. It’s like a security system: motion sensors, fire, theft, battery, high water.” “High water? How about hell?” Elliott mutters. Yeah, that’s the kind of sensor we need. It’d be tripping all over the place. But without it, we can wreak a good amount of havoc. “Do any of those automatically shut off the engines?” An impatient little flash of why did you think I wanted it? crosses Danny’s face. “Yeah, if we can find the server on the boat, we might be able to short it out from there.” Elliott and I exchange a glance, and I’m pretty sure my expression matches his: ohhh yeah. “Where would they put the server?” We wheel around the room, scanning. Would we have found it in our inventory? Elliott snaps. “Might’ve seen it.” He strides to the galley and throws open a rosewood cabinet between the microwave and the wall-mounted LCD TV. Danny and I follow. Inside is a narrow black box with two antennae. Jackpot. Almost. Danny pulls out the server, careful not to yank its cords, and turns it over. “What on earth . . . ?” I lean over to see what he means. The labels in marker along the back edge are in Russian. Worse, the Russian doesn’t 

make sense, more of a personal shorthand in Cyrillic. “ВЗ1” through “ВЗ3,” “ВД,” “КС,” “ДД” . . . And the list of letters doesn’t correspond to any wires, fuses or switches. I try to think how you’d say engine shut off. Vyklyucheniye dvigatelya? “I think we want B funky-letter.” “But what are we going to do with that?” He turns it around to look at the back. There are little green lights that occasionally flicker next to each label. Still not helpful. Man, if I had my favorite waist packs, we’d have that thing open in no time. But a knife would work in a pinch. I dash to the table and grab one with a thin blade. By the time I get back to the counter where Danny’s standing, though, he’s already using his Swiss Army knife on the screws holding it together. “Any idea what to do once you get it open?” “Do I look like a Double-E?” “A what?” Danny starts on the next screw. “An electrical engineer.” “You know you smart people all look the same to me.” I slide the knife over the granite. “Smart? Seems like you think I’m pretty stupid.” He’s concentrating pretty hard on that last screw. A lot harder than he needs to. “It’s not like that.” He doesn’t respond, but I can’t complain, since I don’t know what else to say. On his other side, the kettle’s still boiling, and I reach around to turn down the stove again. Danny eyes me a second, his brand new ex-girlfriend sidling up to him. I jerk back. Ugh. His ex-girlfriend. I push the thought away. Stay in the present. Stop the boat before we get any farther away from the people who’ll notice we’re missing. Danny uses the dull knife I brought over to pry the case open. The top lifts off and a thin packet of papers plops onto 

the circuit boards of the base. The instructions? Danny opens the envelope and pulls a sheet out halfway. “Russian.” He slides the paper back in and hands it to me. He turns back to focus on the server unit. “Somehow, I don’t think yanking the wire will do it,” Danny says, mostly to himself, I think. Elliott catches my attention and mouths, You should tell him. No. I can’t. The time is wrong. The place is wrong. It’s all wrong. But what if I don’t get another chance? He needs to know, right? “Danny.” My voice quavers. He doesn’t look up from examining the guts of the server. Elliott gives me a go-on nod. “We’re going to have to talk about all this.” He fixes me with an expression I’ve never seen from him before, piercing, intense, controlled. “Believe me, we will. But let’s live through it first, okay?” “Okay,” I echo. “I might be able to short the wires to trick it into shutting down. Can you check those?” He pushes the instructions my way. I empty the envelope. It takes all of three seconds to process that these aren’t instructions at all. They’re something bigger. A lot bigger. The second sheet has a mugshot-quality photo attached. Kozyrev, probably fifteen years ago. Right under the words Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. Chills steal over my scalp on spiders’ legs. No. This doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t keep these papers here. Would he? This is so much worse than the Russian mafia. I look at Elliott, and he must recognize the horror on my face. “What?” The worry in his voice speaks almost louder than 

the words. “Kozyrev is GRU.” Elliott’s on his feet before I get the last letter out. Danny turns to us, instantly wary. “What, what’s GRU?” Elliott takes the papers and my place at the counter. “Russian military intelligence.” Danny does a double take. “He’s a Russian spy?” “Oh, don’t worry, dude.” Elliott claps him on the shoulder. “The Cold War’s over.” Danny ignores Elliott. Always a good call. “Well, now are we going to swim for it?” My mind hurtles to come up with the perfect phrasing. If Kozyrev thinks his boat is this secure, there might be a lot more to find. We need to figure out if Kozyrev is taking anything back to his superiors. We need to search again. We need to tear this boat apart. “It just got a whole lot more complicated. This guy’s been living in Ottawa for four years. Fyodor’s only the latest installment. Who knows what else he might have picked up?” Danny and Elliott both turn away from me, Danny to the server again, his protest written in the set of his jaw. Elliott shuffles through the rest of the papers. Time to search. But before I can say that or move to start, something drops in front of my face and closes on my throat in one swift motion. The cord around my neck jerks me back until I hit someone standing behind me, and panic screams in my ears. I clamp onto the fear, focus my breathing, fight for control. I can get through this. They haven’t killed me yet. “Stay back or she gets shot.” Thick accent. The voice isn’t close enough to be my attacker. “Tell us who you really are.” Two of them. Two of them. I kick myself one more time. Ivan and Volkov—two of them. 

I never should have trusted Ivan. I drive an elbow into the fleshy middle of the guy behind me, but his grunt’s bigger than his flinch. He yanks the cord over my throat tighter. “Whoa.” Elliott holds up hands like the people who have me are spooked horses and not spooks. (That’s spy for spies.) My attackers back up, following the perimeter of the room away from Danny and Elliott, and of course I have to follow. The rope or whatever it is across my throat is starting to cut off the blood flow. If somebody doesn’t come up with a plan pretty quick here (Hint, hint, Elliott!), I won’t be conscious to help. We edge toward the door and on the far side of the room, Elliott tracks with us. “Hey, hey, we don’t have to do this the hard way. Give her back and we’ll get you what you want.” “We will take both,” comes the reply, and there’s another yank on my neck. “Kozyrev does not believe you. Who do you work for?” My pulse hammers against the cord. No more waiting. I throw my head back, hoping to catch the guy in the nose or the jaw. Whatever I hit has a lot of give— nose, probably—and then the cord around my throat goes slack. I grab the cord to make sure they can’t trap me again. Within a second, Elliott and Danny both rush in. Danny tosses the rope from my neck over my head. I turn around in time to see him push the guy off balance. Ivan. How did I trust him? Was I really that off tonight, and was I wrong to trust Danny, too? Oh, come on. My bordering-on-unhealthy paranoia has officially crossed over. The guy is currently fighting for my life. I jump into the fray with an ankle shot aimed to bring Ivan down. I did not think the soundproofing in this yacht would work in our favor like this. Elliott delivers a good, hard knee to Volkov’s stomach and I take Ivan down the rest of the way with a strike to the neck. 

Danny secures him with the cord he was using on me: speaker wire. My heart rate returns to normal, and the fear in my bloodstream hardens to anger. I’d love to smack them around, especially Ivan—he’s probably GRU, too—but it’s not productive. I have to rechannel that anger, and besides, physical torture in interrogations is like performing dental surgery with . . . I don’t know, an ice skate. It might work in a pinch, but it’s not the best way to do things. And you’re likely to damage something important that way. Like the truth. “Get him into the bathroom.” I grab the last pieces of rope. Sure enough, the shower door is open again, the lock and chain on the floor. I direct Danny to march Ivan into the shower and Elliott to hold onto Volkov in the bedroom. With the extra rope, I pull Ivan’s arms up behind him, looping the rope over the high shower handle. Once they get above his waist, Ivan sucks in a breath. Torture isn’t effective, but it might be a little deserved. I only pull a little bit more. “Did you know Kozyrev was GRU?” He doesn’t answer at first; I yank the rope. He grunts. I try again in Russian, but he hesitates again. I give the rope a sharper jerk. “You know I cannot answer.” “I know you’re going to.” Tug tug. “We’ll never make it to Russia.” Tug. Ivan looks down. “I am not GRU. Private contractor.” “How long have you worked with Kozyrev?” “A week. My company gets the contract to help him. We come.” I cast a glance at Danny like he understands the Russian. “How many is ‘we’?” “Four, the four on the boat. We watch Kozyrev’s friend’s hotel room, we prepare for the trip. Kozyrev is finished with his mission, and we are here to clean up.” 

Clean up indeed. I start to tie the rope there, but Danny takes it from my hands. He lets it slip half an inch before he ties his weaver’s knot. He’s too nice, but obviously I didn’t fall for his bloodlust. I gag Ivan and Danny ties his ankles together. Elliott drags Volkov in and ties him to the pipes under the sink. We trudge back to the dining room table and add the chain, key and lock. Yeah, this is a lot deeper than I thought.







LTHOUGH I’M REELING A LITTLE at

the idea that we’ve had the wrong bad guy all along, that Kozyrev has never crossed our radar before, ops continue as if nothing has changed. And in a way, not much has: we’re still trapped on a boat, we still have to figure out what’s going on, and we still need to stop it. Danny gets back to work on the security server and Elliott and I start looking for all the odd places you could hide information. Considering we could be searching for something as small as a flash drive—or smaller, microdots were invented between the World Wars—this is a little daunting. After a couple minutes of testing the very well-glued carpet and very secure moldings, I come back to look over Kozyrev’s credentials again. His GRU ID. A map of Ottawa with red Xs. (Not on Keeler Tate, thank goodness, but I think one is the American embassy. Like Google couldn’t find that for you.) A list of aerospace manufacturers in the area, including NRC Aerospace. Is he involved with Fyodor’s plan, or is Fyodor a GRU pawn? Elliott joins me, adding more papers and a USB drive to the 

pile, all he got from the laptop and desk. But apparently the ceiling above us is more interesting than his finds. I follow his gaze, like we can watch the people up there through the tiles and aluminum/fiberglass overhead. We can’t hear anything. Soundproofing does cut two ways. This doesn’t feel right. “It’s been too long.” “We need more time,” Elliott concludes. “Maybe I can buy us a little.” He picks up three life vests and a flare, and goes to the door. Once he peeks out the window to clear the rear deck, he turns back to us. “How do you undo this thing?” Danny sets down the data collector to go untie the weaver’s knot and open the door for him as quietly as possible. I come to watch Elliott slip up the steps and out to the rear deck in silence. What’s he doing? I don’t think any of us can breathe, staring up at the sky lounge above him. Where two of our captors are supposed to be. Who might have guns. I bite my lip. Elliott checks over his shoulder and edges to his right, keeping close to the door. When he reaches the port side of the boat, he’s moving so slowly he’s got to be within sight of the yacht’s upper level, and if somebody up there turns back, they’ll see him. Danny grips my shoulder. My rib cage goes rigid. Elliott eases the life vests over the side of the boat and releases them. I think the engine noise and wake mostly cover the soft splash. Even my lungs wait for him to return to the cabin. His plan might work; it might distract them or make them think we’re overboard and then they’ll spend their time circling those vests. Or it might backfire, like if they flip out and come running to make sure we’re safely locked in the shower. I’m probably being paranoid—I’m good at it, what can I say?—but 

part of me believes option B is a lot more likely for anybody with half a brain. I want Elliott to report any noise from the helm and the lounge above his head and get back in here. But he doesn’t look back. He crosses the open doorway and leans against the nonsliding part of the glass door. We can only see his silhouette on the curtain. He waves us off. I know better than to say anything, but my protest is screaming through my brain. No way am I letting him stay out there alone. I pull away from Danny and quick-march up the four steps. I’m so keyed up my footsteps sound unnaturally loud on the carpeted stairs. As soon as I reach the top, hands clamp on either side of my waist. “Cut it out, Danny.” I decline to seriously hurt him, so I can’t stop him from lifting me off the steps. He lets me go before my feet hit the floor. Lucky for him, I manage to catch myself. Meanwhile, he turns to shut the sliding door. “No,” I whisper-shout. “Elliott is coming back.” Danny ignores me and starts on the lashing. He’s smiling. Smiling. “Please tell me you’re not this happy about potentially offing Elliott.” “Huh?” He secures the knot. “Oh, no. Come here.” He drops to his knees next to the steps, pointing for me to get on the other side. He reaches behind the stairs. They skim a couple inches over the carpet. Wait, what? I jump to help. We pull the short staircase from its place below the door, revealing a rectangular hatch. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.” Danny undoes the latch and, shielding me from the hatch, swings it open. A mechanical cacophony fills the room and I try not to pull back. He hits a button just inside the new room, and lights flicker to life. 

The acrid smell of fuel and oil hits us in a thick wave. Engines. Danny casts me a sidelong smile and slides his feet through the hole. “Wait.” I grab his shoulder before the rest of him can follow. “What now?” “Emergency shut down button. You want to stop, right?” No choice. I nod and Danny disappears into the engine compartment. Now we really have to be ready to fight. In a dress. Great. I tap a warning knock on the sliding door behind Elliott, then turn back to the table to sort through our finds. We’ve got enough knives, and maybe I can catch them off guard. If I crouch under the dining table? Behind the kitchen cabinets? (Hello, there. Mind if I slice that Achilles tendon?) My hands hit the papers Elliott found and they slide to the floor. I slap them back on the pile. The printouts show a sketch of a box, labeled with numbers and some notes in Cyrillic. Not helpful now. I turn back to the knives for the best option. Full tang, right size, good maneuverability. I find a wooden-handled candidate and grab it just before an alarm screeches. The vibrating of the boat that I’ve gotten used to and the motor’s hum vanish. We’re still moving, still in the current, but the engines are dead. Yeah, they won’t notice that. Right. The deck settles and the angle of the floor, sloping back toward the rear of the boat, shifts to level. The supply pile shifts, too, again sending Elliott’s papers cascading to the carpet. I look back to the doors. Elliott’s shadow is gone. Danny’s out again, slamming the hatch shut. I motion for Danny to open the curtain. He turns around in time to catch a flash of bright light through the curtain. He yanks it aside. “A flare.” Elliott fired one of the flares? The distraction. Now that 

we’re far enough from the life jackets that you can’t tell there are no people in them, he shoots a flare to alert the folks upstairs of our “escape.” Smart, until they come to check on us. I’m pretty sure Elliott can take care of himself on the rear deck, maybe hide. And we should do the same. “Take cover.” Danny starts toward me, but stops when he sees the papers on the floor. “What’s this?” “Papers Elliott found. Deal with it later.” I try to wave it away for now. “They’re going to come check on their engines.” And hopefully we’ll be able to defend the cabin. I try to tow Danny under the dining table, since he’s right by it, but he stands frozen. “This isn’t possible.” “Danny, we have to hide, or we’re going to lose our biggest advantage.” He points to one of the notes on the page. “What does this mean?” This. Must. Wait. But I look to Danny, and whatever’s haunting his eyes tells me Danny needs this now. I examine the Russian. The abbreviations and jargon don’t make any sense. “Something about no cooling? Coolant?” Danny sucks in a breath. He flips through more of the pages, ending with a low groan. My stomach huddles in a distant corner. “What?” “These are mine.” “Yours yours?” I’m not making sense, but I can’t—I don’t— “Are you sure?” He points to the box at the bottom of the page. Design lead: D. Fluker. “What are they doing here? Did you give them to him?” Danny turns to the table. He grabs the USB drive: his USB drive. “When I got back to my office, he was waiting there. But this was locked in my desk—” He stops short to give me a look, as if the fact I was picking 

a lock ten minutes ago makes me the guilty party here. “If it’s so important, why’d you put it on a USB drive?” “I had to. They made us back everything up after the security breach Saturday. It was encrypted.” Fyodor’s crack-and-hack program. I crane my neck to see the papers again. “What’s the damage?” “Only a joint project with DRDC. Just a hyperspectral imaging system for an unmanned airborne vehicle.” He’s downplaying it, but that’s sarcasm. Whatever that means, it’s bad. “A drone?” “That’s the idea.” He points to the first sheet. “This is a camera that takes pictures in multiple bands of the spectrum at the same time. You know, like, reds, blues, UV, this one even has infrared. And then it layers them all together.” I have no idea what that means. Weaponry more sophisticated than guns and C-4 is obviously not my specialty. I think he sees it in my face. “It can do underground imaging, see where things have been, distinguish between clouds of gasses— I mean, it practically gives you X-ray vision and time travel. And this one? It’s the best hyperspectral imaging hardware and software out there right now: no external light source necessary, no cooling system, and we’re supposed to be taking it to the next-next level.” He flips to a drone schematic. “This is the UAV we’re customizing for it. We’ve doubled the data storage capacity, upped the speed, altitude, self-guiding compensation features. I thought we were getting really close. But if they get this into production then we’re—” He scoffs at himself. “Like the race to market’s the biggest problem.” “Then what’s the biggest problem?” “Do you know DRDC?” Alphabet Soup Agencies was always my worst subject, 

even the American ones. I hedge my bets and turn over a dunno hand. “Defense Research and Development Canada. This is military.” The finality in his tone is enough to chill me. “Your security clearance,” I breathe. Danny turns to me. “Wait, who did you say you work for?” “Focus. Military surveillance?” “We were working on it for defense, but they used hyperspectral imaging to make sure bin Laden was in his compound. This is the cutting edge of the technology. There are hundreds of ways the Russians could use it for offense.” None of them pretty. And not just Russia. Shcherbakov would sell this weapon to the highest bidder: Libya, Afghanistan, Iran. My stomach staggers back into my belly to turn sour. Was this all part of the GRU’s plan, from getting Fyodor in at NRC Aerospace to now? (Well, I’m sure the plan didn’t include taking three prisoners.) This is it. This is what’s got Fyodor so excited, so secretive. And even if we take this, who knows how many more soft copies the guy could have around, on more USB drives, more computers? We definitely can’t swim for safety now. A sharp rap sounds against the sliding door and we both look up, ready to untie the door for our third. But it’s not Elliott. It’s Fyodor. Furious. Fuming. He’s seen everything.







FREEZE,

the ice reaching right down to my heart. If Fyodor’s at the door, then Elliott— Oh no. No. Danny leaps into action before I can. Folding his schematics, he strides to the stove and the hot kettle. He slaps the blueprints onto the glass burner, slams the kettle down and cranks the knob to high. A lighter would be way more effective, but obviously our choices are limited. How long do we have to hold Fyodor off before those burst into flames? He pounds on the door for a second time. With the butt of a gun. My blood temperature drops into the Ottawa-in-October range. Now he’s got a gun. Yeah, if he wants in, all the ropes in the world aren’t going to stop him. My pulse kick starts again. “We have to stall him until those are burning.” Duh. Danny nods and starts back for the table. I jump up and grab him by the elbow, pulling him down to crouch behind the 

counter outcropping. “The guy has a gun.” As if on cue, the guy uses that gun. Though it doesn’t seem like he’s aiming at us, my heart skips a beat with each shot. When the firing stops, I dare to peek around the cabinets. Fyodor’s no longer in sight. Now one of the henchman, one I haven’t seen before, is wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. The bullet holes in the door are clustered by the handle. Decent grouping, but considering he had to be like four feet away max, it’s probably not enough to tell if he’s a trained operative. The lackey punches the weak spot in the safety glass. They’re coming. I brace myself against the tension tugging my back muscles taut. Yes, Danny’s in danger, but this isn’t the time to panic. This is my chance. I hand my knife to Danny. He grabs the handle in his fist. I move his thumb to rest on top of his index finger, locking in his grip, then haul myself onto the kitchen counter shielding us. Right behind the dining table where the rest of our supplies are. I hop on the bench to get at the knife stock again. I find my second choice and follow the curved bench around to the door just before the henchman breaks through the glass by the handle, spraying the cabin with a shower of shards. And I’m barefoot. Crap. I grab the nearest thing—the bed sheet—off the table, wad it up and toss it on the broken glass. The lackey is struggling with Danny’s knot by the time I reach him and drive my knife into his forearm. He screams in pain, but continues working at the rope. Unless I slice some tendons, he’s going to keep coming. I draw back to strike again, but he catches a break and the knot comes loose. He still has to undo the rope. I slash at his fingers and grab a fistful of the rope to hold it in place. But my next hack cuts the rope and it falls away. I seize the guy’s sleeve to pin him 

there. He slips out of his suit jacket and the hole in the glass. This does not bode well. I expect Fyodor to take the lead for the entry, but it’s not him at the door when it slides open. No, why would he get big and brave now? Grabbing the guy by the injured arm, I yank him into the room. He tries to take the invisible stairs, and falls from the doorway. I stomp on the side of his knee and there’s a nauseating pop under my foot. A mix of sickness and satisfaction surges in my stomach. Now, do I stay and defend Danny or go after the bigger fish? I glance back. The papers on the stove are just starting to send up a smoke plume, and Danny actually looks ready, standing firm, clutching the knife in a death grasp. “Ease up on the grip and stay loose!” I hope he hears the words I can’t say: Don’t get killed; I love you. I grab the door handle with one hand and vault through the door, leading with my knife. Fyodor isn’t waiting there. A kick to my thigh knocks me sideways, but I jump with the momentum and manage to keep my feet. I turn back in time to see a figure dash through the door, abandoning me on the rear deck with only the last henchman. Danny and Fyodor are in there together, and Fyodor’s got a gun. But I can’t turn my back on this lackey to go in after them. I rush at the guy and he bares the teeth of a lifelong smoker, standing his ground. Until I’m one step away. Then Smokey Robinson scrambles around to cut off my route back to the cabin. Now he’s on the offensive, closing in. I only have one escape, backward up the molded stairs. I know that’s bad. I know zero about the layout of the flybridge and the helm. I know Kozyrev and the other gun have 

to be up there. I know it’s most likely a trap. Smokey swings at my head with a massive fist. I barely duck in time. My pulse roars in my ears like a jet engine and my mind tries to race through the options. Fyodor’s going after Danny and I need to be there, but this guy isn’t going to step aside because I ask nicely. And unless Elliott jumped overboard (we aren’t paid to run away), he’s upstairs and might need my help, especially with Smokey trying to come to Kozyrev’s rescue. The movies make group fights look effortless. All the bad guys take turns throwing a punch or a kick at the hero’s blocks. In real life, it’s never that clean or that easy. It’s dirty. It’s chaotic. It’s grappling with whatever comes closest or daring to wait for a better opportunity. And as a hundred stars on the memorial wall in Langley can attest, the hero doesn’t always win. I’ll take care of this guy and get back to Danny. I turn and dash up the stairs. On the third step, I jump to the top as a precaution. The swish of air behind me says I did right. The henchman charges up after me. I try to misdirect him and he follows my feint. I dash behind him and start back down the stairs. The tactic doesn’t work. On the second step, his arm slams across my back, pinning my chest against the edge of the sky lounge. The Sharpies on my dress dig between my ribs through the fabric. I squirm to turn around and I get a lungful of his stale cigarette breath. I have a split second to take in the upper level of the boat. Further down, I can see Elliott’s in the cockpit. He’s backing up. Retreat. Defensive. Bad. But I’m not in a position to help yet. I reevaluate my attacker. The frame of the boat is protecting his knees, and I 

can’t get a kick there. So I switch the knife to a stabbing grip in my left to jab him in the ribs, the best I can do from this angle. Smokey shouts and grabs a handful of my dress. He pulls, threads snapping, and flings me up the steps. I manage to catch myself, stumbling over the cool fiberglass floor until I can stand. If I run back down, he’ll chase or grab me again, and now I’ve made him mad. I have to end this. Though the guy probably has a hundred pounds on me, and obviously has a least a little skill in a fight, I tap into the adrenaline streaming through my veins and go for intimidation. I let out a single syllable of a cocky laugh and toss the knife to my better hand. Then I lower my chin to stare him down, allowing a slow smile to creep in. A smile of not only am I

going to kick your butt, but I’m going to enjoy it. And, okay, a part of me will. As long as I don’t lose. I feign a lunge and Smokey stumbles back another step, buying me time to get the lay of the land. In front of me, on top of the cabin we were just in, there’s a little living room area, benches and the like. To my left, the pool and the sky lounge are half a level above us. To my right, I can see the captain’s chair and the wheel in the flybridge. And Elliott. And Kozyrev. And the other gun. Smokey comes at me again. I assume a defensive stance, weapon forward. I’m not about to go so far with my overconfidence as to taunt the guy again. I’m almost as likely as he is to get cut in a knife fight. He swipes at my head again and I duck, raising the knife to block. I pop up and lunge, but Smokey sidesteps. I sweep my arm back to try to catch him again, but he bends his body so my arm swings through the air. Smokey grabs the cushion off the bench to use as a shield. 

It’s so long he has to hold it with both hands to keep it from flopping everywhere. I love it when they defeat themselves. I drive at him, faking toward his shield, then trying jabs above and below. And he steps around the next thrust and uses the cushion to whap me on the head. Then he backhands me in the face. The insult and flash of pain just fuel the fire, the heat gathering behind my ribs. Like I need the extra motivation to thrash him. I advance until Smokey backs out of the little sitting area and onto the walkway by the opposite railing. Here are the stairs up to the sky lounge, and another way around to the bow. I can hear Elliott’s voice now. I spare him a glance. He’s got the radio handset, and he’s working the dial. If he can find the CSIS frequency, we can get help. Though it can’t come soon enough to help us out of these fights. A couple feet from Elliott, Kozyrev looks around with empty hands. Where’s his gun? But before I can start to help Elliott, Smokey forces me back into the sitting room. I act like I’m going to stab at him, and when he reroutes to avoid me, I throw myself at his ankles. He goes down. I recover first to shove my knife blade into the back of his knee. He screams so loudly, both Elliott and Kozyrev stop to look. I yank the blade out. Smokey screams again, his arms flailing at me. I shift around to pin him with a knee in his back, pull one wrist up to keep him down, and turn to Elliott again. He’s given up on the radio. Now he’s got something that looks like a fluorescent yellow walkie-talkie. An emergency radio? The gun is nowhere in sight. Kozyrev runs at him, grabbing for the walkie-talkie, but Elliott slaps him across the face. Kozyrev holds his eyes, screaming. Elliott pulls out a little blue bottle. The VapoRub. He scoops out more. Kozyrev charges blind, swinging for Elliott. He hops on the 

copilot’s chair to avoid him. Elliott’s foot slips, though, his shoe flying. His shoelaces—that’s my fault. An invisible fist seizes my heart and I find myself twisting Smokey’s arm harder. Elliott manages to jump onto the boat’s console, but Kozyrev’s still coming. Elliott backs up and his socked foot slips into a sink. Kozyrev vaults up on the dash, too. Elliott stands his ground though he’s obviously trying to regain his balance. The fist squeezes. And so do I. Kozyrev isn’t giving in, either. He charges Elliott, grabbing him by the shoulders. Their momentum flings them both backward. Time stops, and all I see is their legs disappearing over the boat’s windshield. “No!” (Stupid, but it’s what you really do.) I jump to my feet. Before I make it two steps, Smokey’s hand closes on my ankle. I fall, nearly clipping my forehead on the boat’s railing. I throw out my hands and catch myself on the lower bar. My knife flies over the side. I kick Smokey’s hand away and pull myself to stand. He’s struggled to his feet, too, and now limp-runs at me. I wait until he’s almost on me before I drop to one knee on the deck. I think he expects it, but I change up the technique this time. I’m ending this fight. Smokey starts to jump over me, but that only helps. I wrap my arms around his knees and stand, hoisting his weight up with my legs. He arcs in a flailing swan dive into the water. No time for relief. I turn for the bow again, but again I don’t take a single step before another sound registers over the river noise: a motor. A small one, maybe outboard? Could this be our rescuers? Coming in a boat like that—the Agency couldn’t scramble our paramilitaries that fast, could they? Hope sends up a flare in my chest. I dash up the three stairs to my left, to the sky lounge, the highest point of the boat. But there’s no one approaching. In 

the light from the rear deck, I can barely make out a little boat, an inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor, sailing away. With two figures aboard. Fyodor and Danny. My brain, my lungs, my heart—everything stops. I almost wish I could tell you my thought process goes through the complicated calculus of weighing out Elliott’s training and strength, Kozyrev’s experience, the position of weapons, and my country or Danny. But that would be a lie. My thought process goes exactly like this: Danny. I slap a hand on the sky lounge railing and vault into the blackness.







for the second time in five days. Once I’ve cleared the deck, of course, that’s when it fully hits me: even with the current, I have almost no chance of catching up with a motorboat. I am not Michael Phelps. The training I thought I’d never use kicks in. I pull my arms in tight to my sides, pinning my skirt to my legs. Press my ankles together. Point my toes. The impact delivers a swift, hard shock, but I don’t feel any specific injuries. I swim as far as I can underwater, then fight to the surface for a breath. I break through to the air, and the first sound that registers is the last thing I want to hear echoing across the water: an explosion. I swipe my bangs out of my eyes. I’m in a section of the river that doesn’t have buildings on either side, but there’s a pink light reflecting off the water. From behind me. I stroke forward and glance back—fireworks. Past the graceful swoop of the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge behind us. The Canal Festival. Not gunfire. But I don’t have time for relief, only a split second for gratiFLY OFF A BOAT



tude that I can make out the low silhouette ahead. With the darkened parks flanking the wide river here, it feels like I’m leaving the last bastion of civilization for the wilderness. It’s not true: there’s lots more left of the National Capital Region on both sides, but it still feels isolated. Especially knowing help isn’t coming any time soon. If ever. I focus on pushing the water behind me with every kick and stroke. Scoop and push, scoop and push. If I get close enough, maybe I can distract Fyodor, and Danny can make a move. Scoop and push. Between the flashes of red and purple and green, I can’t tell if I’m getting any closer. My trained internal stopwatch ticks through the seconds, then minutes of my slow progress. My arms are starting to burn, but I try to power through. Danny. I have to get to Danny. I might be the difference between life and death for him. Scoop and push. Ahead, the pitch of the motor’s hum drops an octave, and I can hear fragments of a shout carry over the river’s sound. “What . . . do?” Fyodor. Angry. A new surge of energy rushes into my veins and I swim even faster. Scoop, push, scoop, push. Between strokes, I can hear them both shouting the word “crazy.” The motor cuts out altogether. Danny’s voice carries and I keep my head above water long enough to hear most of what he says: “Rather take my chances with the river.” That’s my Danny. Another small explosion echoes over the river. But no flare of color. This time the sound comes from in front of me, along with a little burst of light. Muzzle flash. I fight against the NO screaming through every synapse and sinew and push myself to swim faster. 

The splash I’m expecting reaches my ears between firework explosions. Danny in the water. Hit. This time, instead of freezing, I leap into hyperspeed. He’s a lot more visible sitting in a boat versus his head sticking out of the water, especially in the dark. Now how will I find him before—? I can’t go there. I have no choice. Clandestine or not, I have to find him. “Danny!” A directed sort of splashing approaches. The freestyle stroke? Paddling a little motorboat? Very disorienting to try to decipher in the dark. As long as it isn’t Fyodor, the hard part of the night might be over. And the harder part would begin. There’s no bargaining with or punching or tying up the river. There’s only the current versus your muscles. Facing it alone? Even more dangerous. Facing it with a gunshot wound? Death. Just death. Danny still hasn’t shouted back. The splashing has stopped. My heartbeat throbs in every aching muscle of my arms and legs. I tread water, scanning the river ahead with each firework. Every second takes us further from the show, and the less chance I have to see, to find him. The river will turn and there will be city lights again in a few minutes, but if we get separated now, if Danny’s already under— My rib cage turns into a vise. I rein in the panic and think. “Marco!” I command myself not to count the seconds after my shout. But I can’t obey. Three. Four. Five. “Polo.” It’s Danny—I doubt Fyodor knows how to answer— and he’s close. And his voice is strong. And I can breathe. A yellow firework reflects across the river’s ripples and I find him. We both swim to close the gap before the light fades 

again. I grab his suit jacket and pull myself in to hug him quickly. You can’t tread water and hug for very long without somebody getting hurt. He presses his cheek against my forehead, and a final phantom of worry dissipates: no beard. Not Fyodor tricking us. But he’s still out there. I’m the first to ask the question we both want answered: “Are you all right? Are you hit?” “No.” I grip his shoulder a little tighter. “No, you’re not all right?” He pries my fingers from his jacket but keeps hold of my hand. “No, I’m not hit. Just cut. What about you?” “Fine. Everybody should try the high dive. Where are you cut?” “Hand.” It’s hard to tell when we’re both concentrating on staying afloat, but he sounds frustrated. I have his left hand, and that seems okay. The water splashes into my mouth with a taste of dirt and I kick harder. “You get him?” “Yeah, like that helps.” I pull my hand free to squeeze his shoulder. “Everybody gets cut in a real knife fight.” I lucked out tonight. In more ways than one. A red firework bursts behind us and I scan for Fyodor. His engine is still off, but he’s moving toward the middle of the river. We can’t let him get away that easily. Until the motor growls to life. In the dark between pyrotechnics, without the city lights behind him, all I can tell is the engine sound’s moving away, much faster than we could swim. “He won’t make it far. I slashed part of the boat,” Danny calls from my left. I didn’t realize I’d let him go. “Nice. With what?” It’s still dark, so he presses something smooth and solid 

into my hand. I take it—his Swiss Army knife. I could kiss him right now (except for, you know, everything else about right now). Maybe my fear at seeing Fyodor take off with him was a little premature, even if the sabotage attempt hasn’t sunk him yet. I can’t make out much detail, but I can see him flailing—or is he bailing?—with two hands. I wait for the next burst of light to watch more closely. No sign of a gun. I want to swim after Fyodor and finish what Danny started, but now that Danny’s safe, I don’t dare put him back in harm’s way. Fyodor won’t make it much longer. And even working with the current, swimming this long is catching up to me. (I told you I’m no Michael Phelps.) I’ve got Danny. He’s alive and safe, and I can finally let go of the controlled panic that’s fueled me since I leapt off the yacht. And suddenly, I’m so drained I don’t know if I can swim anymore. Again it hits me how much danger we’re in. If worse comes to worst, we can’t fight the river current. I can just make out the lights ahead. Perfect. If I die tonight, it will be in the middle of this city, in the middle of these people I’ve sacrificed so much to defend. The faceless masses, here and in the States, will never know what I did, what I gave up, what I became for them. I’ll get an anonymous star in a building no one’s allowed to visit. I pledged my life for them and they don’t know. They don’t care. They can’t. This? This is what I’ve been fighting so hard for? To save people I’ll never meet and sacrifice the ones I love? Somewhere at the back of my mind, I realize how easy it would be to stop fighting, to stop constantly kicking, and I almost—almost— think about letting myself go. “Danny,” I gasp. Now’s not a good time to talk things out, 

but it might be our last chance. He doesn’t turn around, just swims harder. I try to keep up, but my muscles can’t obey. He’s pulling away from me. On purpose? Or does he not know I’m falling behind? After another minute or two of trying to swim and barely treading water, I can’t keep this up. It’s taking more strength than I have to accomplish nothing. With a final kick, I roll onto my back, point my chin at the sky and try to float. I know, most people don’t have to try to float, but I have terrible buoyancy. My feet never make it to the surface, and within a minute, my body drifts downward, too. The water pressure closes on my chest. Even breathing is too hard. Just when my thoughts hit the slippery slope to that desperate place we all hope doesn’t lurk in the corners of our minds, a hand catches my wrist. Danny. “Stay close,” he says. “We’ll find somewhere to get out.” In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a weak little girl. But now, I have never been more relieved to have someone else to lean on. Will was wrong. You’re never better off alone. Unless we both end up dying. Danny suddenly stops. A white firework illuminates his serious-as-aeronautic-design-flaws face. “I’m sorry.” “We can talk—” “I shouldn’t have called you Supermodel Barbie Talia.” Seriously? That’s the thing that’s bugging him most? “Oh, good. Now my soul will rest easy.” I’d splash him if I had the energy. I let Danny tow me for a few seconds, but I can’t drag him down. I do what little I can to kick and keep up. I have to live— because I will not be deadweight. I will not hurt Danny. The minute I make that promise to myself, I see it, the light approaching. A boat. Fairly small, fast, but most of all, a hope 

for rescue. I tug on Danny’s arm and he stops. “We have to get clear,” he insists. “No, signal!” I try to say, but a swell slaps me in the face. I sputter for breath before I remember I have the knife. It’s got a flashlight. Man, I would feel really stupid about the mental eyebrowraise I gave the first half dozen times I saw this knife, if I weren’t so focused on not dying. I find the button, lift the knife above the water and signal SOS. The boat lights are getting closer. Oh, if they hit us— I signal again, and this time the light flashes back. The engines cut out. I shouldn’t be surprised at who I see aboard when the boat glides past. “Alex!” I shout. “Luc!” “Talia?” Luc kneels at the transom and reaches for me. “We got a garbled message from Elliott.” “He’s upstream. Kozyrev’s boat.” I tuck the closed knife in my bra and take his hands. Luc lifts me out of the water and over the transom. He sets me on my feet, but my legs forget what to do and I collapse to the deck. And I lay there. I’m out of the water. I lived. I hear the slurping splash of them rescuing Danny. He hits the floor, the vibrations traveling through the fiberglass to me. His hand lands on top of mine. If I had any voluntary control over my breathing right now, I would hold my breath until he moves. It’s a good thing I don’t. He doesn’t move. Then, at last, he wraps his fingers around mine. There may be a little hope for us yet. But the night is young. And that may not be a good thing for Elliott. 





COULD LAY HERE RECOVERING ALL NIGHT,

but I know I really can’t. Alex helps me and Danny to sitting and gives us each a Coke. Canadian Coke is mostly the same as American, despite rumors to the contrary. Caffeine and I do not mix, and not in the Mormons-aren’t“supposed”-to-drink-cola way. In the I’ll-have-a-headache-andnot-be-able-to-function-for-thirty-six-hours way. But I need the sugar (well, fructose/glucose, as they use in Canada) and, yes, the caffeine. I chug the whole drink, stopping only once for air, and promptly belch. Danny, Alex and Luc stare back with the same half-haha, half-huh? expression. “I’m guessing you’re not out on patrol?” I toss the can in the garbage. “They scrambled the squadron after you people dropped the ball on babysitting Timofeyev.” Oh, sure. When things go well, with Alex we’re a “we,” but when something goes wrong, all of a sudden we become “you people.” I don’t bother to rein in my defensive tone. “I didn’t drop the ball. I had to be exfiltrated after he tackled and groped 

me.” Danny’s head snaps to me. “He did what?” I hold up a hand. “I’ll live.” I turn back to Alex and Luc. “Timofeyev is out there, but I don’t think he’ll make it far. We need to get to Elliott. I had to leave him with Kozyrev.” Alex and Luc exchange a glance. A doesn’t-she-know? glance. A should-we-tell-her? glance. They can’t have reached Kozyrev’s boat already. They were coming from the opposite direction and last I knew, the engines were out on the cabin cruiser. But they definitely know something they’re not telling me. Something bad. I can’t even look. “What?” Luc meets my gaze. “After Elliott’s message, the Ottawa Police received an emergency radio locator beacon signal. Automatic activation.” I shake my head, sure I look as uncomprehending as I feel. What does that mean? He holds up a neon yellow walkie-talkie. Just like the one I saw in Elliott’s hands. “They activate automatically under fifteen feet of water.” Luc doesn’t have to say the rest: when you sink. “No,” I insist automatically. “He can’t be. He’s still on the yacht.” Then I remember Alex and Luc don’t know being onboard might be worse than being in the water. “Kozyrev’s GRU.” Grim horror creeps over their faces and they both look upstream. It’s something really bad. I pull myself above the side of the boat and follow their line of sight. All I can see is a circle of bright yellow glowing on top of the water. I squint and lean closer, like that will make a difference with the distance and the dark. But then I make out a misty arc hitting the glowing shape. 

Water. A fireboat. My heart attacks my ribs. The papers on the burner. My fault. Again. “Go! Go! Go!” Alex and Luc don’t have to be told twice (let alone three times). They jump back to the helm and the copilot’s seat and hit the throttle. I almost forget to grab onto something before we accelerate. I knew I made the right choice going after Danny. I knew it. Until this second. I left Elliott. Left him grappling with an enemy spy. Left him to be trapped by a fire, a fire he didn’t know about. Left him when he was hours away from becoming, or might already be, a father. When he left her to rescue me—I left him. Even the wind against my wet skin and clothes can’t chill me as much as what I’ve done. It’s only a minute to the boat. We approach and the firefighters warn us not to come too close until Luc whoops our siren. Like Don’t worry, we’re spies. We’re fireproof. Yeah, we’re not. Unfortunately for Elliott. The firefighters flash lights and sirens right back, shouting, waving their arms from the deck. Like that could stop me from going after Elliott. Alex and Luc pull close enough we can feel the waves of heat oscillating with the movement of the flames. Close enough to jump. Alex cuts the engines. Luc leaps from the railing of our boat onto the very back edge of Kozyrev’s. The rear deck isn’t on fire, but smoke pours from the sliding door to the cabin. Alex makes the jump next, and I move to follow them. Danny grabs my arm. “Talia, we need to leave this to the authorities.” 

I can’t decide what kind of look to give him. He’s a smart guy—again, more A’s than the first volume of the encyclopedia—and it takes him approximately 0.7 seconds to figure it out. He lets me go. “Be careful.” I give him a single nod, climb on the railing and jump. Again. I honestly couldn’t imagine ever using this when we practiced leaping off a boat at the Farm, but now I’m glad this is part of the CIA standard curriculum. Sort of. (Even if we didn’t practice in dresses.) One foot lands on the edge of the deck and I totter. My balance shifts and my stomach plunges. I grab a chromed-out support strut for the sky lounge to keep from pitching into the water. The gate to the rear deck is already open. But I’m not following Luc and Alex any farther than that. There’s no one down in the cabin—no one except Ivan and Volkov. I stop at the cabin door. “There are two lackeys tied up in the bathroom!” I can only hope they heard. I run up the molded stairs to the second level of the boat. No Kozyrev. No Elliott. Nothing but flames. And there’s no way I can get through to the bow. Fire blocks the path on this side. I dash through the sitting room where I fought with Smokey the henchman. The walkway’s slick with water from the fireboat. The hose is moving toward the bow, and I follow the arc of the spray. But they’re going too slow. It’s their job to be thorough. It’s my job to be there for Elliott. I can’t let him down again. I won’t. Maybe Will was half right. Elliott was better off alone. I grab the railing, hold tight and plunge into the spray. I’ll be honest: it hurts. The sting feels like shards of glass slicing my skin. But it can only last a few seconds, so I push through. The 

glass pieces turn to dust and then to nothing, and I dare to open my eyes. If this were a movie, Elliott would be sitting on a hog-tied and long-defeated Kozyrev, grinning amid the flames and asking what took me so long. In case you haven’t noticed, my life isn’t that kind of movie. Five feet in front of me, Elliott is hanging in the air. Kicking. Kozyrev’s on the flybridge, leaning over the windshield, suspending Elliott by a metal chain around his neck. I can’t move. I have to. Kozyrev jerks the chain and Elliott strangles out a hoarse gag. He’s got ahold of the links, but that’s all he can do. His shoes can’t get traction, sliding over the slick wet fiberglass, inches above the bench sculpted into the bow. That’s what I need to do. I run to grab Elliott’s feet and push, stepping onto the bench. His back slides up the boat’s front. I can feel when he hits the metal trim on the windshield. Elliott turns, grabs the windshield and hauls himself over the top. Grateful for the nonslip stippling on the walkway, I skid back through the spray of glass-water and back to the pass-through to the helm. The firefighters’ hose has done some good, because where before I could see only flames and shimmering heat, all that’s left now is steam. Crossing that smoldering rubble is the second stupidest thing I could do now, but the stupidest is abandoning Elliott yet again. The blackened wreckage stretches between us, a route I never tried before it was reduced to steam and ash and embers. I don’t know what’s safe or what’s solid. I suck in the hot, thick air and move steadily, rolling my feet like a firewalker. After what feels like ages, I part the billowing steam curtain and step onto cool, solid, not-at-all-shifting ground again. 

I’m through. I can take a breath away from the clinging humidity, but I won’t breathe easy until Elliott and I are off this deathtrap. On the bridge a few feet away, Kozyrev swings the chain at Elliott’s head, and Elliott dodges. He looks like he’s caught the links with his face once or twice, and they’re both flagging. We’ve been gone at least twenty minutes. Have they fought that entire time? Dread isn’t the only thing making my feet drag. The caffeine hasn’t exactly delivered on its promise, but my presence alone can tip the scales. I look for something to throw. Nothing. Then there’s plan B. “Hey, Kozyrev! Ty menya dostal, ty neprigodnyi kozyol!” It’s not much of an insult: you got me up to here or I’m fed up with you, you useless billy goat. (Okay, in Russian, it’s a little more offensive.) But has the intended effect: still whirling the chain, he hesitates a fraction of a second and his eyes shift to me. Ducking, Elliott grabs Kozyrev’s wrist and pushes it toward his head. The chain whips around to catch Kozyrev. The blow startles him long enough for Elliott to wrench the links from his fingers. With the chain around his hand, Elliott punches him in the mouth. Kozyrev spits blood in Elliott’s face, but Elliott doesn’t stop his advance, forcing Kozyrev back until he’s pinned against the bridge’s glass railing. And Elliott keeps pushing, bending him backward over the railing. I’ve only seen the inferno in Elliott’s eyes once in the years we’ve worked together. I run over and pull what’s quickly becoming my favorite trick of the night: I kick Kozyrev’s knees out from under him, bend down, and lift. Elliott drops the chain and hoists him by two handfuls of his shirt. Kozyrev flips heels over head, twisting in the air like a cat, 

grasping for the bridge railing. But he misses, and lands on his back on the lower deck railing with a wet, hollow crack. Nausea rises in my stomach. His feet dangle in space, and slowly, slowly, his weight tips until he slides into the black water. Instantly, the last bit of energy is sucked out of me, leaving me both jittering with the caffeine and exhausted. I sag against the glass railing. “Now how do you feel about that beard?” “Timofeyev can keep it.” I draw in a breath. Despite the smoke and steam in the air, it smells like satisfaction. “We did it.” I look to Elliott. “You did it. You were here. All the way.” He rubs a smear of blood off his jaw and doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s finally done the one thing he’s failed at for weeks, and I want him to know I know it. “You just shut it out of your mind.” “No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t. I thought about Shanna and the baby every second.” “But you were . . . focused.” “For them. I was fighting to get back to them.” He heads away from the smoldering wreckage toward the still-sort-ofpristine helm. I follow, and it finally clicks. I felt that way swimming for Danny, that controlled panic. I know I’ve been an idiot tonight, but I didn’t know I was this wrong. For weeks—months—ever?—I’ve listed Shanna under Elliott’s “Liabilities” column. Someone could get to him through her. Even by herself (okay, well, her and the baby), she’s become a danger. And somewhere inside, I promised myself I would never make the same mistake. Because on that personal level, I thought I was better off alone. But that was the bigger mistake. And Will could not have been more wrong. Elliott cranes his neck over the boat’s windshield, like he’s 

looking for a way to get down. Or avoiding my eyes. “I know I’ve sucked it up lately.” His voice drops further. “Sorry.” “You made up for it tonight. Did better than me.” “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” That isn’t strictly true. “I called you Ellie a few times.” I think he knows what I mean: I joined in the office joke. I wasn’t just making fun of him, I was undermining him. In some emotional way, I had already betrayed him. And maybe that was why I fought so hard to keep him here. “Look.” Elliott takes a deep breath. “I deserved everything I got. No, more. I know, I screwed up. You’re a big reason, or maybe the only reason, I’m here.” But he isn’t the only person to make mistakes. I focus on the console sink. “I shouldn’t have left you. I should’ve been there for you, too, and I almost—” I swallow around a lump in my throat that I can’t blame on the river water. “I’m sorry. I hope this doesn’t change things between us.” “There are things between us?” He raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if that expression is playing or pulling the pin on a charm-grenade. “Whoa, no, I mean at work, things at work—” I falter to a stop. Elliott flashes a gotcha smile. “I know what you mean. You made the right choice. If it’d been Shanna out there . . .” The tension in my back dissipates. He understands. And he’s right. I think. Elliott pats my shoulder. “It’s over.” I hope he’s right on every level: this case, his focus problem, this hellish night. I arch my back to stretch. “Yeah,” I say, “until the fuel tanks explode.” I laugh, because that’s what you do after a joke, right? Apparently Elliott’s worst injury was to his sense of humor. He grabs my wrist and drags me behind him on top of the con

sole. He doesn’t let go as he slides down the front of the boat on one hip, Dukes of Hazzard style, and I manage to do the same. And I follow when he hits the deck at a run and vaults over the railing into the river. I wasn’t expecting to go into the drink again, and I do not want to. But Elliott isn’t letting go and at the risk of hurting us both, I guess that’s the better alternative. Fortunately, the fall is shorter than from the sky lounge, so I don’t have time or need to brace for impact. I burst through the surface yet again, and it’s like my muscles are sighing in resignation: we’re back in the water. Elliott pops up next to me, shaking the water from his hair, and I whack his arm. “You idiot! Gas doesn’t explode. Gas fumes, or a BLEVE.” And conditions are clearly wrong for a boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion. I’m so annoyed to be in the river again that I splash him, too. “Sorry.” Elliott pulls his hands above the surface for an exaggerated so-sue-me shrug. “Erring on the side of caution.” I hold back the “idiot” rising to my lips and we start for the port side of the boat, since the fireboat has moved on to the starboard side. Either way we’ll get to Danny. It doesn’t take long to see we’re not alone in the water. Kozyrev bobs a few feet in front of us, making a lot of effort with his arms. Somewhere inside, I’m glad he’s not dead. But when I check with Elliott, I purse my lips. He gives me the same look back, and we know exactly what we have to do. We change course to head for Kozyrev. We each hook an arm around one of his and tow him, ignoring his screams that he can’t feel his legs. When the shouting turns to protests against our intervention, I try to explain in Russian, but I don’t think the problem is a language barrier. The problem is the guy doesn’t 

have the vocabulary of human decency. He won’t get what he deserves, but maybe CSIS will get what they need. We approach the CSIS boat, and I spot Danny, now sitting in the captain’s chair (Luc and Alex will love that), his back to us. I call to him. “Little help?” He doesn’t hear me. Elliott, Kozyrev and I reach the side of the boat, and Elliott tries again. “Hey, Danny, little help?” “No, don’t!” Before Danny finishes his protest—does he not want us to help Kozyrev?—Alex or Luc reaches over the side. They’re back already? I raise a hand to signal him to wait while we get Kozyrev ready, but the hands grab my wrist and hold. Those are not Alex or Luc’s hands. I try to yank free, but I’ve got nothing left. The hands haul me out of the water and into the boat, my skirt sucking around my legs. And I’m once again face to face with Fyodor Timofeyev.







I HIT THE DECK, Fyodor pulls his gun and aims at Danny. Danny turns the key and opens the throttle. I slide back toward the corner of the transom. We swing a tight circle between Elliott and Kozyrev, the cabin cruiser and the fireboat, leaving them all bobbing in the wake of the nautical equivalent of peeling out. How did Fyodor get back to the boat? We leave behind the blaze, and the sounds and lights of the fireworks begin to register again. They’re still going? How long has it been? With the noise as a cover, I could bail again so easily. Like Danny, I’d rather take my chances with the river. But I’ve fought way too hard protecting Danny to ditch him now. Trying not to draw Fyodor’s attention, I move onto my fingers and toes, ready to make my move. I’d go for him right now if he didn’t have a gun on Danny. The throttle is fully open and we’re flying over the water toward the dark section of the river again. This is bad. Really bad. My stomach feels like it’s dragging the river bottom. HE SECOND



I have to do something now. I shift my weight to spring into action, but something hard digs into my ribs. Danny’s knife. I have literally brought a knife to a gunfight. Better than nothing. But before I can reach for it, Fyodor turns to me. Over the bang of a purple firework, he shouts in Russian. “This is all your fault!” “Da,” I agree. “And I bet yelling at me helps.” “No, but killing you both will.” Fyodor smiles, and it looks like he’s been taking jack-o’-lantern lessons from Kozyrev in the gold light of the next firework. “Starting with him.” “Not. Happening.” At least I think I say it out loud, though I don’t know what to do. But I will stop him, or I will die trying. Once again, not hyperbole. I will fight until the last drop of blood leaves my body to keep him from hurting Danny. “Oh, Zhzhyonova, this is out of your hands now.” A red firework explodes behind us—they’re coming faster now—but it’s not the lighting that makes Fyodor look sinister. “You thought you were so much better than me. So much smarter. Do you feel smart now?” If he wants to take his frustration out on me, great. Keep him talking, and he’ll talk through his anger and forget about shooting Danny. I hope. “You do not look as smug anymore.” Fyodor readjusts his grip on the gun. Is he wavering? I know of one potential nerve where I can strike at him on the same personal level where he’s attacking me now. I scramble through my memories until I hit on the name I need: his ex’s. “Is this how it went with Olga?” Fyodor blinks with a visible flinch in the orange light. “How do you know about her?” If I were three feet closer, I’d make a run for him now. Especially if I had the knife out. But I’m not and I don’t. So I continue with the attack I do 

have. “Was she smarter than you? Was she smug? She never let you forget anything. She always had to be right.” “What do you know about it?” A lot less than I plan to tell him. But I’m running out of generic guesses. “What happened? Didn’t she want you anymore? Wouldn’t she take you back?” I can see his Adam’s apple bob above his blood red collar. I’m getting to him. But then he sets his jaw and puts his finger on the trigger. I suck in a breath before he strikes back verbally. “Is that how it happened for you two tonight?” My mind hits a patch of black ice and goes spinning back to the scene on the locks. Regardless of what happened there, I’ve made my choice, and it’s a lot bigger commitment than Fyodor’s vodka-fueled Facebook message to his ex. I’m with Danny no matter what. “Unless rings are casual gifts in Canada?” Fyodor taunts over a volley of firework pops. “They come with a slightly different expectation than bracelets, at least.” His lips tighten, but before I can come up with a better tack, the roar of the engines abruptly ends. My stomach shifts with the deck. Fyodor whirls on Danny and goes back to English. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” Danny throws up defensive don’t-shoot hands. “It just cut out!” I start to reach for my knife, but Fyodor swings the gun back to me. I slide my hand up like I’m holding my neck. Yeah, that’s less suspicious. “Get the boat moving again or I shoot her.” “Wait.” Danny jumps to his feet, pacing across the deck. “Wait, I think—” Fyodor switches targets again when Danny gets closer to 

him, but Danny changes direction. Fyodor hesitates. The pyrotechnics pause. I get a second of distraction and dark to pull the knife, but Fyodor glances at me before I can open it. I wish Danny carried a switchblade. (Okay, not really; that’s creepy, but it’d help now.) Fyodor strides to the helm to try the keys. Nothing. Not even a rev. “Fix it or she dies!” His threat is a little hollow since he’s promised to kill us anyway. Fyodor pursues Danny across the deck. Danny turns on his heel, and Fyodor’s right behind him. They both jump in surprise. Danny recovers first. “I have an idea.” He pauses again, like he’s still thinking. Fyodor edges closer. I sink my thumbnail into the blade groove and pull. My mind does a super-speed mental run-through of my tactic and target: the muscles in his forearm, hand with the weapon. “Get it running.” Fyodor shoves the gun in Danny’s face. “Whoa, whoa.” Danny backs up a step. “I need your help.” He beckons Fyodor closer. Fyodor lowers his weapon and leans in. And Danny punches Fyodor so hard his head snaps back. Even I feel the impact, as if a shockwave hits my skeleton. Holy. Crap. “Don’t you ever touch her again!” I jerk out of the shock and sprint toward them. Fyodor stumbles backward, blood streaming from his face. I cross the last two steps toward him, ready to go for my backup plan: knife against his throat. But Danny isn’t done. He moves for Fyodor too. Danny lands a kick to the back of Fyodor’s knee. Fyodor falls forward. And I’m right there. Time hits the brakes. He’ll land on me. I can see it all, like I’m there and twenty feet away at the same time. Fyodor falling toward me. Lifting 

my hands to catch him. My fist clenching the knife. The knife blade up, the last second before impact. And I don’t move. I can’t. I can’t try. You have to understand: in my four years with the CIA, I have never had to take a life. My job is to save lives, and on the one occasion where I captured someone, I handed him off to experts and washed my hands. But at this second, I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The fireworks crescendo in a finale filling my ears, all explosions, and the light shifts to deep red. His weight lands on my arms and I know—I know it’s done. The knife handle hits my stomach. The blade crunches against his ribs. The jolt shocks through the knife and my arm and my body. Then the blade grates deeper, past the bone. His face is inches from mine and he’s screaming and he’s screaming and we fall. My back hits the hard fiberglass. The knife handle jabs my stomach. Fyodor slams on top of me and I flash back to the park. Revulsion and fear churn in my gut. But this isn’t the park. This is totally different. He’s not giving up. I let go of the knife handle and he scrambles away. Fyodor flips onto his back, laying across my deck chair, gaping. Now he’s not screaming. I can’t—I did this—I can’t just let him— I throw myself after him, grabbing for the knife now between his ribs like I can take it all back. My right hand is slick with river water or sweat or blood, and slips off the handle. My heart freezes. The shock in his eyes shifts through horror and straight into hate. Fyodor lifts his hand. I hesitate—will he pull the knife out? I can reach—should I—? But his hand is already full. The gun. My heart hurtles double-time. I brace my right on his ribs and grab the knife with my left. Fyodor winces and cries out but takes aim at 

Danny. I have to stop him. I have to stop him. I have to stop him. I have no choice, and only one way to strike holding the knife like this. I plunge the blade into his neck. Still holding the handle, I use my arm for leverage to break his grip on the gun. Fyodor hacks and the sound scrapes and burbles out. I withdraw the knife and rock back onto the deck. The knife and gun clattering to the fiberglass behind me barely register. I can’t take my eyes off him, choking, writhing, bleeding. Minutes. It takes minutes to die this way. Under normal circumstances, that sounds like a very quick way to die, but to watch, to listen, to live it feels like hours. Days. Decades. Shock screeches in my ears. I don’t hear the fireworks bursting behind us, immersing us in red light again. After too long, I remember I have to act. He’s not armed. He’s not a threat anymore. He’s not going to make it if I don’t do something. I slap a hand over the wound. It’s not enough. Every heartbeat pounds under my palm. I add my other hand, but the blood keeps spurting. Danny covers my hands with one of his, the other on Fyodor’s ribs. We both push until I worry about Fyodor’s breathing. The fireworks pound on, blazing red on the boat’s white fiberglass until the deck is stained black with blood. A warm tide of nausea thaws my ice-coated stomach. I have to keep him with us. “Are you GRU? SVR?” Terrible timing, but I have to know, and maybe if I get him talking— Fyodor just shakes his head. “What about Kozyrev? Did you know he’s GRU?” Confusion veils his eyes, but that might be from blood loss. He coughs, making my hands slip, spraying us with blood. “Proshchai,” he gasps. It means “farewell.” It means “we’ll never meet again.” It means “forgive me.” 

I’m not giving up this easily. We put pressure on the wound again, but it’s not helping. The last red lights from the fireworks fade to black and Fyodor’s hacking slows. And stops. The only pulse I feel in my hands is mine, too strong and swift. I’m alive. And I killed him. The shock shutdown starts with my brain. I’m frozen. He’s dead and it’s my fault. He was threatening Danny, but did I have another choice? Danny wraps his arms around me, drags me back to my feet, to the present. There are tears on my cheeks. And for once, I don’t care. He tows me to the side of the boat. Finds a water bottle. Washes our hands. As if that will erase the memories. It doesn’t even take care of all the blood on me, I’m sure, though I don’t look for any other spatter. We clear the dark section of the river, and the city lights and reflections offer a little more visibility. Like I want to see Fyodor laying there, his eyes flat and dead. I turn away. “Are you all right?” When I don’t answer, Danny walks around to face me. I pull my eyebrows together and he adds, “Physically.” I manage a nod. “You?” “Yeah,” he says, but I catch the quick gaze-drop down at his hands. I take his right wrist. There’s a clean cut below his first two fingers on the palm side. He turns it over to reveal the back of those fingers with a dashed line of fresh gashes. “Teeth.” I show him a matching white scar that I’ve never explained to him on my right knuckles, two dashes, souvenirs of the one and only time I’ve had to resort to a fistfight. (Pure luck. The guy never landed a punch. It could be worse: a friend from the Farm got hit trying to break up a fight on her first 

mission; crushed her eye socket.) We have to get back. We have to take Fyodor’s body back. I look up the river, but we’ve rounded a bend and can’t see Kozyrev’s boat. “Should I try to radio for help?” “Hm?” “The boat? The engines?” “Nothing’s wrong.” Danny pulls a key on a yellow lanyard from his pocket. “Emergency shut off.” That same key Alex tossed to Luc when the boat wouldn’t start last night. I can’t decide whether stalling the boat or the sucker punch is Danny’s pièce de résistance. But for once, my first thought of reward or celebration or whatever isn’t a kiss. We broke up, and after all this, we’re not exactly talking reconciliation. We killed someone. I want this night to end. Following Danny’s instructions, I replace the emergency overboard shut off key, turn the main ignition and steer us back up the river. Now it’s all over.







EMORIES AND NIGHTMARES TANGLE TOGETHER.

Swimming against the current. Slipping under the surface. Cleaning Danny’s cuts and closing them with the medical equivalent of super glue. Blood on his hands, on mine. Blood that won’t wash away. A hand on my shoulder drags me back into the waking world, and my first impulse is to check my palms. I don’t understand. They’re clean. Okay, Lady Macbeth. Now I’m not just professionally paranoid. I’m completely, certifiably crazy. Then the pain hits: I feel like I’ve been broadsided by a truck. A truck that can also break your heart. I look up from the empty CSIS desk I’ve borrowed for my post-paperwork nap. The windows are still dark. Luc’s standing over me. “Elliott called for you.” “What?” My voice is thick with sleep and the aftereffects of the river. “He made it. They named her Celine Talia Monteith.” My bruised heart melts a little. He never told me they were 

thinking—or maybe they weren’t thinking of it before tonight. But still: pretty much the best thank you ever. “Are you ready to go home?” Luc interrupts my thoughts. “Waiting for Danny.” As a civilian, he has to endure very different processing. Nothing like what Kozyrev and his four goons are going through, but not where you want to be after the worst night of your life. Luc points across the room. Danny’s halfway to the door. Did he walk past me already? I jump to my feet (and one’s asleep and I was so tired I didn’t think about, you know, finding a pair of actual shoes to borrow) and half-limp after him. Fortunately, Alex, who’s escorting Danny, sees me and stops him. I don’t know if Alex knows who Danny is, unless that came out during the interview, but I hope at the very least he’ll get the hint of me waiting here for hours. Alex holds out a hand to Danny, now dressed in a CSIS polo shirt, and he hesitates, but finally fishes the USB drive from his suit pants pocket. I’m a little surprised he still has it, but then again, it’s not like it would have floated away. Alex nods a thank you to Danny and turns to me, eyeing the matching CSIS polo they let me buy from the store downstairs to throw over my thrashed dress. “You know you’re not supposed to wear those out and about.” I glare my answer. “So . . . need a ride?” Alex’s tone is as much of an apology as I’ll get. And I’ll take it. “Sure,” I say, like it’s all casual, like I’m not practically running after them. But with Danny and Alex? A single drop of dread sinks in my stomach. Why couldn’t they shunt me off with some agent without a name or face or ears, so I can talk to Danny without Alex for an audience? But I don’t have that choice. “Let’s go.” 

Danny and I both sit in the back of the car, but the fifteen minute drive isn’t exactly the best time to define the relationship (slash beg him to take me back), and it’s really not a spectator sport. We pull up to my building. And sit there. Time to go. Danny’s staring at his hands. I check mine, again surprised to find them clean. Is he thinking about the blood? “Can I come in?” he says. He says it. I want to say yes. Of course I do. Somehow my heart musters a spark of hope, but after a night like that? We’re both too vulnerable to trust ourselves to be alone, especially in my apartment, where practically the only place to sit is my bed. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea.” “Well, can we talk?” His eyes stay on his hands. Here? With Alex? Yay. “Hey, Alex, know anywhere good for an early breakfast?” “Um, sure.” “Great. Go on, driver.” I tap the back of his headrest. “You people,” Alex mutters. But he pulls back into traffic. Okay, it’s not 5 AM yet. There’s no traffic. He drives us past the Château, but I can’t bear to look up. Alex spots me a couple toonies and lets us out a few blocks further at a Tim Hortons. Yeah, I don’t think they’re going to seat us in Wilfrid’s wearing polos over eau de la rivière des Outaouais (that’s eau de Ottawa River) and . . . yeah. We, or at least I, look rough. But no comment on how we’re dressed among the morning’s first customers in Tim Hortons. While we stand in line, Danny doesn’t say anything. While we wait for our food, Danny doesn’t say anything. While we eat our oatmeal, Danny doesn’t say anything, staring out the window with his chin in his hand. I guess I’m glad not to be alone, too, but this wasn’t what I was hoping for when he didn’t want me to leave. 

I can’t help but point that out. “You’re very quiet for someone who wants to talk.” “Guess I’m kind of shaken up by all this.” I’ve pushed myself further than I’ve ever gone tonight, and my bravery is completely worn out. I have nothing left to dare ask what “all this” entails, because it could be anything. Breaking up with me seems like a lame thing to be this upset over when you saw a man die. “Sorry.” He straightens in his chair. “I’m sure I look totally awesome right now, since this is all a day’s work for you.” “Are you kidding? That was like a week’s work in one night. After a week and a half’s worth packed into the last four days.” “Long week for me too” is all he says. Yeah, let’s see: planning and working up the courage necessary for three proposals to a girl who never wants to get married, and failing every single time? A very different kind of stress, but not one I envy. Danny shakes his head slowly, stirring his oatmeal. “And seeing someone die, being glad someone’s dead—obviously I’m new at this.” I seriously consider reaching across the table for his hand, but I’m not sure we want to reunite over PTSD. I turn to the window before I speak. “My first.” He doesn’t respond until I look back. “I’m sorry.” I bow my head. I think we both understand: we did what we had to. As much as it sucks and we wish it could’ve been different, it was necessary. Now we just have to deal. And I guess that same line of thought applies to more than one of tonight’s many low points. Danny did what he had to, too. And now I have to deal. Maybe I put too much sugar on my oatmeal, but now I don’t want it. By silent accord, we give up on our half-eaten 

breakfasts and leave. I try to figure out how to call a cab; Danny starts down the street. Yes, I’m still barefoot (though I doubt Danny’s feet are any more comfortable in wet shoes), but I follow him anyway. I think he wants me to, at least. He doesn’t turn when I catch up to him, but he doesn’t seem to object. He finally stops on the Plaza Bridge, past the Château. He folds his arms on the chest-high concrete railing, staring down the locks to the river. After last night, I don’t know if any of this will look the same again. Especially not to Danny. Will he ever see me the same? I’ll never know if he doesn’t say anything. I can be very patient when I have to be—waiting is often the best way to get someone to fill the silence—but this time it’s not working. “So, was that all we need to talk about?” “Yes.” He sighs. “No.” “Look. I know last night was rough.” He laughs, and I try to gauge his emotional state. I can’t tell if he’s only laughing because nothing makes sense anymore, but he almost looks happy. Really, he doesn’t look like he’s coming off the worst night of his life. I mean, even his hair has actually dried flipping out in all the right places. I’m sure my bangs are everywhere and my hair is more of a matted mess than it was in the CSIS bathroom. Danny’s laughter dies and his eyes fall to the full locks below us. “Can I ask you something?” “Yes?” I hate the anxiety in my voice that curls my answer into a question. “Was I ever a target?” I jerk back. I was not expecting that one. “Seriously, Danny? What, do you think I’ve spent the last year trying to bed you to get into NRC Aerospace?” “Note: if you were, you’re doing a bad job.” 

“I know, right?” I mimic his posture leaning on the railing. “You’ve only invited me half a dozen times. To NRC,” I rush to clarify. Nice. Insult him, too. I drop my forehead on my arms. “Would you tell me if you were working me?” “I’d want to.” I do not have the mental capacity for what-ifs and hypotheticals right now. Suddenly that can of caffeine catches up with me and the pain and pressure collect behind my eyes. I put two fingers to my temple. “Can we stick to reality?” “I don’t know.” He doesn’t add the “can we?” at the end, but I hear it in his tone. “I want to know the truth, but—” “But you don’t know if you want to know,” I finish for him. “Because ignorance is bliss.” Okay, I’ll admit that last one is aimed to bug him. He casts me a sidelong glare and doesn’t say anything else. But maybe now he’ll believe there are some things you’re better off, or at least safer, not knowing. Like I can keep the truth from him now. Like not knowing protected him tonight. And like Elliott said, Danny’s read himself in. Maybe, finally, I can trust him. I glance at the streets behind us. Some foot traffic, but it’s pretty quiet. I move closer to Danny, and watch his reaction. Nothing. “Might as well have the truth, right? Can’t be any worse.” “Oh, I’m pretty sure it can.” My broken heart stutters. Is this how we’re going to end it? I can’t. “Danny, I think this isn’t as bad as it looks right now.” “I’d love to believe that.” Great. The truth might not make a difference, but I have to try. “So I’m not a lawyer. Professionally.” “Oh, really?” There’s no teasing, just edge in his tone. “Are you CSIS?” 

And this is the second I’ve been looking forward to and dreading and trying not to think about for a year. I breathe through the fear or excitement pounding in my veins. “CIA.” Only his eyebrows flinch, like he doesn’t quite believe what he hears. “Are you joking?” “No. I’m an operations officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.” “In . . . Canada.” As if his expression weren’t enough, his tone is even more incredulous. “Minimal operations, coordinating with CSIS, only on cases with US interests.” He blinks and shakes his head and blinks. And shakes his head. “For the past year, I’ve been dating a CIA agent?” “Operations officer.” “Uh huh.” “Oh, come on, this is the most surprising thing that’s happened in the last twelve hours?” The shock in Danny’s eyes turns to I-don’t-appreciateyour-sarcasm sarcasm, and I don’t have to ask what he’s thinking about. We both watched a man die. “CIA.” He turns to the locks again. “Yes, but could we keep it down?” “Yeah.” It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk much, but I have to try. “So, I’m sorry I’ve stood you up so much this week.” “You had to save the world.” Even my half-smile is a weak apology. “Basically.” I want to ask him how he feels about this, but I don’t know if it makes any difference. If we’re not “us,” then does it matter how he feels about it? Danny’s gaze stays fixed forward when he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?” “Shoot.” 

“Did you guys kill the Arrow?” “Are you kidding?” A little I-can’t-believe-you laugh tumbles out of my mouth. “I have no idea. Don’t want to know. Ignorance, bliss . . .” “Yeah, thanks.” He draws in a breath, holds it, sighs at the sky. “Is there anything you can tell me?” “About the Arrow?” He meets my gaze. “About you.” And for the first time, I really see the hurt in his eyes. He’s trusted me with everything, and I lied. Even if I had to do it, it was a lie. No, I told him the truth when I could. “You already know everything, other than my job.” “Other than your job?” He scoffs. “You’re pretty deep in your own deception, huh?” What does he mean? I back away a step before I ask. “Um, how about your mission? South Carolina is a far cry from Russia. And I’m guessing you didn’t go to the University of Ottawa Law School, either.” I check the sidewalk around us though Danny hasn’t raised his voice. Foot traffic is already getting heavier in the pre-dawn light, but only half a dozen people are in sight. “Actually, I worked my butt off—” “So what, exactly, is true about you? I mean, is Talia your real name?” “Hello? You spent a week with my family. What else do you want? My birth certificate?” “I’m pretty sure you could fake that.” I back away two more steps. While he’s right about the documents, I’m trying to come clean here. I’m not going to be able to prove anything if that’s how he’ll take it. “Okay. Fine.” As if he’s reading my mind, and doesn’t like the direction I’ve veered, Danny pushes off the railing. He shoves his hands in his pockets, staring at the soft silver patch of river between 

the black trees of Parliament Hill and Major’s Hill Park, still clinging to the night’s shadows. He’s done. We’re done. The oatmeal settles in my stomach like . . . you know what? Like oatmeal. It’s just oatmeal. It’s time to call things for what they are. Though it’s the hardest thing I’ve done in—okay, well, hours—I know what I have to do now. I walk away. I get as far as the gap in the railing where the stairs lead down to the locks before I realize I can’t leave it like this. I just can’t. I turn back, and Danny is two steps behind me. He continues past me to the top of the stairs and looks over his shoulder, a question written in his eyebrows, like You coming? Why, so we can continue to rehash what a terrible person I am? I am a glutton for punishment. But I can’t deny the little sunrise of hope in my heart. Stupid, stupid hope. We retrace the route we took last night, down the stairs to the locks. They’re not running this early, so each lock is full, water tumbling down the giant staircase to the river. Danny settles under a streetlight on the cement curb of a lock, feet dangling over the side. Posture resigned and probably also exhausted. Eyes closed. “So remind me what’s true again?” he calls over the rushing water. I tentatively join him. “Well, so far we’re up to everything but where I served my mission, what I do for a living and a couple other things. All of which you know now.” “No, I don’t. Where did you go to college?” “U of O, for real. Undergrad, BYU–Idaho. Political Science, Foreign Affairs emphasis. Russian minor.” Other than the minor, I’ve told him that before, and I hope he realizes it’s one little thing I could’ve lied to him about, but didn’t. He doesn’t even acknowledge my tiny scrap of honesty. My bravery had better be ready for another round. He 

wants the truth. He wants out of the bliss—no, the hell that is ignorance. He wants the real me. I hope. I focus somewhere above his eyes. “I don’t like kitchens with open restaurants because I like to watch people cook. It’s so I can monitor my food. Same reason I don’t store ingredients or save leftovers. Every time I go in my apartment, or your house, I search for signs of an intruder. I don’t go to movies because there aren’t enough escapes and I don’t trust people in the dark. I don’t have a bad sense of direction—every time I drive, I have to check for surveillance.” A combination of horror and shock sneaks into his expression, like he’s really seeing me for the first time, and he’s not happy. This is exactly why I didn’t tell him any of this sooner. He’d think I’m insane, and his deepest, darkest fear is falling for another psycho. I hurry to clarify. “I’m careful, not crazy.” “I’ll take your word that there’s a difference.” “Thank you. I understand why you’re upset, and why you were last night.” Especially now that I know what he was planning. “When?” “When you broke up with me?” I gesture at the second lock down, where he shoved the pie into my hands and marched out of my life. “Oh, right. That was last night.” Silence. “I did that.” I can’t tell whether that’s regret or wonder that it’s only been like eight hours. And if I’m brutally honest, I was kind of hoping he’d tell me I misinterpreted the whole thing, that it was only an argument, not a breakup. But he doesn’t. Because I deserved it. Yeah, I was rushing off to save the 

world and yeah, I had to be there, but . . . I don’t even know what. I should have done more? Been more? Let him in more. It wasn’t just my job that kept pulling me away. I kept letting it because I was afraid. Afraid of letting myself love Danny as much as I want to—as much as I do— because falling that hard could mean changing my mind about marriage. But that’s not what I’m afraid of anymore. I dust off my courage and grab hold. He’s already dumped me, after all. I don’t have anything left to lose. “I’ve been thinking,” I say over the water’s roar. “You know, in the vast amounts of free time I’ve had to lay around and stew.” “Oh yeah, it’s been so boring.” “It was awful.” I smile, but I can’t hold on to it. “I’ve been thinking about everything we said last night, and I have to tell you the truth.” The look on his face, the wide, searching eyes, the tension around his lips, is pure fear. Not what I want to see. “The truth is that you were right.” His gaze falters and falls, but I press on. “I wasn’t fighting for us like I should’ve. I wasn’t making us enough of a priority.” Danny borrows Will’s eyebrow-nod. “But I have to tell you why.” I take a deep breath and plunge ahead. “I was scared.” “Scared? What are CIA agents scared of?” “Officers,” I correct again. I get this a lot, or I’m sure I would, if I ever told anyone where I work. “You know the stuff with my mom and dad—I mean, they couldn’t see each other without shouting until I was in college. Not to mention my mom’s marriages. And didn’t I tell you ‘never’ when it came marriage?” 

“Not in so many words.” No, I made that very clear from the beginning. “Huh?” “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you use the word marriage. Not talking about yourself.” “Oh. Well. Firsts for everything tonight. Today.” “Anyway.” Danny extends a go-on hand. And I go on. “In the last couple months, I’ve seen people do stupid stuff because of their families and get other people in trouble, and I think I was afraid to become that risk.” He turns to the river. “Okay.” The cascading water can’t conceal the I have no idea what you’re trying to say in his voice. “Elliott.” Danny turns to me with anxiety in his eyes. I rush to add, “Elliott was doing dumb things. Because his wife was having a baby. Last night.” “Oh.” Surprise registers in his voice. One tiny victory for OPSEC: even Danny didn’t know. Yeah, because keeping things from him counts as “victory” now. “I got to see those dumb things firsthand,” I continue. “I mean, sometimes I was the one put in danger. I couldn’t do that to the rest of my team.” His gaze drops back to the water. “Yeah. Danger.” My stomach feels like we’re starting the climb after takeoff. I’m not doing this right. I have to keep trying. “But tonight— last night.” I glance at the sunrise. “I . . . I don’t know. We were out there in the water, risking our lives for people who’ll never know, and it just didn’t seem worth it anymore. Not if I had to put you in danger.” “So, what, you’re quitting?” His tone holds no uptick of optimism. “No. I mean, that hadn’t occurred to me. I hate to bring up 

Elliott again, but that was one problem he didn’t have last night. All this time, I’ve thought Shanna—Elliott’s wife—was a liability. But if I’d ever bothered to ask Elliott, I think he would have listed her at the top of his assets. She’s a daily reminder of the reason we’re all operating out here: for freedom and country and family. She keeps him focused. She was what kept him going.” He still doesn’t look at me, but Danny nods extra slowly. Like I’m not making sense. Of course I’m not. I’m trying to talk about this in the vaguest terms so I don’t have to put too much of myself out there, I don’t have to take one more risk. One little snippet of my time with Fyodor comes ringing back. Isn’t love worth the risk? It’s time—time for me to make the biggest leap of my life. A breeze makes me feel like I’m flying off a boat yet again, and I throw my nerve into the wind. “I guess my point is . . . I’m an idiot. I thought it was a disadvantage, and I was better than that. But I’m not, and loving someone isn’t weakness.” His head snaps up so fast he might give himself whiplash. “What?” I can’t tell whether that alarm is good or bad. The zero gravity bottoms out and I take the plunge. “Danny, I can speak four languages—” He raises an eyebrow, but I don’t stop— “scale ventilation shafts, and take out foreign intelligence officers. But I don’t know if all the skills in the world are enough without something—someone—to keep me going.” “What are you saying?” This time, I think the little lift in his voice is hope. “Well . . . Shanna doesn’t know exactly what Elliott does on any given day, but she knows what he’s doing, and he can come home every day and see her face and know what he’s doing is worth it. Anyone who has that knows what it is to 

fight, because they’ve got something worth fighting for.” And Will could not have been more wrong. I rush on, picking up speed into the dive, before the three Gs in my stomach can stop me. “And tonight it hit me that I almost had that, and I’m not ready to give it up.” Danny turns his head half an inch away to regard me from the corner of his eye with caution. “Then why didn’t you tell me before? Or anytime tonight?” “Well, a.) I’m just putting this together now, but also b.) I was afraid to because . . . Danny, you are who you are all the time, and I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be, while I’m with the CIA.” “What do you mean, I am who I am? Who else would I be?” Duh, this has never crossed his mind. Someone that genuine would never have to think about it. “I mean . . . you don’t care about putting up a front for other people. You’re just you, all the time. I see it in every smile and—” The streetlight behind us flickers off and I falter. I haven’t made the final leap yet. My gaze falls to the locks beyond Danny, but I readjust my grip on my gravity-flattened stomach and my courage. “I want to see those smiles every day, for the rest of forever. I do love you, and maybe it hasn’t been enough in the past—but please give me another chance to fight.” Once I dare to look back at him, a smile dawns on his face, creeping in as subtly as the gold shades reflecting off the water. “Really?” And I’m finally done with lies. “Yes. Really. I can’t promise it won’t suck like this week has—sometimes—but I’ll tell you when it’ll be like that. And I will fight for us.” His smile leaps from a flicker of hope to Danny’s trademark, full-blown, eye-crinkling, Talia-melting grin, and I can’t help but mirror it. Then he holds up a hand like a warning. “I don’t have a big musical number planned, so I probably 

won’t be able to top that speech.” Okay, I guess it was pretty good, but it’s not a competition. Before I can say that, Danny shifts and pulls out the nowslightly dingy mahogany ring box. I didn’t think I could smile more, but my cheek muscles tremble with the strain of my sustained grin (or maybe it’s the tears). “Wanna get married?” Seriously? “Danny.” My tone conveys the you gotta do better than that. He laughs, but quickly composes himself like he’s about to give a serious speech. “I know marriage freaks you out, but I couldn’t imagine my life without you. And then I didn’t have to imagine it, and it was like knowing the Earth was about to stop spinning. The sun wouldn’t rise, and we’d all go flying sideways at sixteen hundred kilometers an hour, and the massive deceleration forces would rip the planet apart—” I raise a caution-flag eyebrow and he refocuses on the topic. “I couldn’t see how a life without you could be possible. Losing you was cataclysmic.” “Yeah, that about sums it up.” “I hate to bring this up now, but you were wrong.” Um, yeah, so far my speech was a lot better than his. “Excuse me?” “Ignorance sucks, because as long as you kept me in the dark, I didn’t know you. And that’s not bliss.” He gets down (or up, really) on one knee on our cement ledge and takes both my hands in one of his. “Talia, obviously, there’s a lot we have to figure out, but I think that’s what marriage is about. And I would love to spend the rest of forever getting to know you. Or trying to understand you.” I laugh a little, and the tears make a comeback. Yes, a couple tears spill over. 

“You are the most amazing person I’ve ever known. You’re a fighter, and you’re an awesome woman, and oh yeah, you saved my life more than once tonight, even after what I put you through.” “Ditto.” “And it doesn’t hurt that you’re so beautiful I can hardly believe it.” Normally I’m the one who can hardly believe it when he says that, and I brace for the little catch in my heart, the mental voice that always whispers in the doubts. But it doesn’t come. Because now I do believe him. He opens the box, but please excuse me if my focus isn’t on the ring right now. “Talia Rosalie Reynolds—” Danny bows his head closer to whisper, “What’s your job title again?” “Operations officer.” He straightens and starts over, squeezing my hands a little tighter. “Talia Rosalie Reynolds—” He leans in to add my job title— “CIA operations officer, will you marry me?” Like I told Danny, I speak four languages, but none of them contain a word emphatic enough for my answer. So I settle for “Yes!”

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COMING SOON FROM JORDAN MCCOLLUM

  Canada is probably the last place you’d expect to find an American spy. CIA operative Elliott Monteith has made it work, just like he’s made things work with his longtime fiancée, Shanna. Until Shanna lays out an ultimatum: move forward or move on. Meanwhile, Elliott and his best friend and fellow operative, Talia Reynolds, try to track an elusive leak at the American embassy. But something changes between Elliott and Talia as they close in on the man selling out his country. Professional and personal lines blur and Elliott has to choose—his fiancée or his best friend.

  Canada is probably the last place you’d expect to find an American spy. And it was the last place CIA operative Talia Reynolds expected to run into her fellow operative Brand Copley. AKA her ex-boyfriend. AKA her new boss. After he steals Talia’s latest case and newest agent, Brand assigns her to spy on her old boss—her old boss who’s suddenly giving her every reason not to trust him. With only weeks until her wedding, planning falls by the wayside as she goes into damage control mode. But when Talia discovers Brand’s real motives, fighting him is the only option, no matter what the personal and professional cost. 

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LTHOUGH WRITING CAN BE VERY SOLITARY,

no writer produces a book all by herself. I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people who supported me during the writing and publication process, most of all my patient husband, Ryan, who listened to everything from the crazy idea I started with to the opening paragraphs to the plot conundrums. Thank you, also, to my children, Hayden, Rebecca and Rachel, who endured the demanding drafting process, and Hazel, who came along just before this book did. My first editors, my parents, Ben and Diana Franklin, have taught me to love reading and writing from a young age, and along with my sisters Jaime, Brooke and Jasmine, they have believed in and encouraged me. My friends Sarah Anderson, Kim Tran and Erin Brown have also supported my writing for more than a decade. For the text of this book, I have had so much hands-on help from so many people. Thank you to my beta readers, Sarah 

Anderson and Benjamin Franklin (AKA Dad), for plot guidance, fact-checking and engineering knowhow, and most of all, for being the first people to love this book who weren’t me. (And oh yeah, thanks for taking me to Ottawa, Dad.) Next, my critique partners, Julie Coulter Bellon and Emily Gray Clawson. Talia, Danny, Elliott, and I owe you a whole heck of a lot, and none of us would be quite the same without you! Margie Lawson, and the generous members of our Deep Editing class, gave in depth fine-tuning and insight. My editors, Angela Eschler and Heidi Brockbank, further polished the prose. Austin Anderson helped my French, while Angela Millsap, Dasha Ivanova and Christian Ehrisman perfected my Russian and the transliteration. My review readers: Michelle Davidson Argyle, Deana Barnhart, Stephanie Black, Jami Gold, Cindy M. Hogan, and Donna K. Weaver gave me their time, their feedback and their kind praise. My proofreader, Diana Franklin (AKA Mom), did her best to make sure the manuscript was as free of typos as possible. If there be errors here, they be the mistakes of the printers. And of course, you, my reader, for making my characters come to life for more than just me.

Thank you!

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PHOTO BY JAREN WILKEY

AN AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR, JORDAN MCCOLLUM can’t resist a story where good defeats evil and true love conquers all. In her day job, she coerces people to do things they don’t want to, elicits information and generally manipulates the people she loves most—she’s a mom. Jordan holds a degree in American Studies and Linguistics from Brigham Young University. When she catches a spare minute, her hobbies include reading, knitting and music. She lives with her husband and four children in Utah. 