Her Spy to Hold (Spy Games Book 2) (3 page)

The peas safely back in the freezer, he retreated to the door leading from the kitchen to the carport. He fished a business card out of his pocket. All it had on it was his name and a phone number. He dropped the card into a ceramic dish on a tall pine stand by the door that held a set of car keys and an airport security pass.

“There’s a good chance someone’s having fun with you,” he said. “Mean fun, granted. Maybe it’s professional jealousy. Even smart people can do stupid things, particularly if their emotions or pride are involved. But if you think of anything else I can do to help, or if anything new happens, feel free to give me a call.”

“Thank you.” Her tone said
when hell freezes over
.

He let himself out. Behind him, he heard the chain slide into place and the deadbolt shoot home. Dr. Irina Glasov, supposedly a well-respected expert on nuclear weapons systems placement design and well aware of her worth, was far too scared for him to dismiss this as someone’s idea of a joke. There was simply very little he could do for her other than file a report.

He walked from the shade of the carport to his van in the driveway. The blazing heat of the late afternoon sun beat through the cotton shirt of his uniform. He looked around him with more interest than he had when he arrived.

The neighborhood where she lived was semi-rural, the subdivision made up of properties segmented by acreage and not postage-stamp-sized lots like the ones on the outskirts of the city. Her nearest neighbor’s house was well back off the road and hidden by trees. If anyone was watching her, or tried to break into her home, it was doubtful they’d be noticed.

As he backed the van out of her driveway, he decided not to sit on her problem. He’d report it asap and let someone else worry about it.

The city was twenty-five minutes away.

When he got to his apartment he changed into gray board shorts and a black T-shirt, stuck a frozen pizza in the oven, and cracked open a beer. He’d call in sick at the courier office in the morning, then tomorrow afternoon, he’d hand them his resignation. After that he was basically logging time until his next CSIS assignment. He planned to do some kite surfing out at Lawrencetown Beach while he waited.

First though, he had a report to phone in. He sank into the padded leather sofa that faced a 55 inch, HD Smart TV and flicked on his cell, punching in a series of numbers with his thumb. “Dan. Hey.”

“Kale. What’s up?”

He filled his team leader in on his day, glossing over the part about getting punched in the face. He had his pride. When he got to the part about Irina Glasov, however, Dan had plenty of rapid-fire questions. What defense contractor was she working for? How many people had she told about this? Did her story ring true?

“It does.” Kale tried not to think of the fear in her eyes she hadn’t been able to hide. If he did, he’d lose sleep. “But from what little she told me, this is more a cybersecurity issue than something for CSIS. CSEC should probably be brought in.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Kale lifted his feet off the coffee table and sat up straight at the change of tone in his team leader’s voice. “It’s like this. We’ve got a bit of a situation here in Ottawa that I can’t really get into right now.”

Politics were a few levels above Kale’s position and normally, he liked it that way. He focused on deciphering the real message his team leader was trying to deliver. Something about CSIS not sharing information with other organizations or government departments until further notice…

He gripped the phone tighter. “Wait. What was that?”

“It turns out a target another officer has been tracking with regard to missing weapons systems parts has friends in very high places. Therefore, all reports having to do with Canadian defense contractors and weapons systems are to go through the director for vetting until further notice,” Dan said. “Nothing gets passed on without his seal of approval.”

Friends in very high places
took on a more ominous tone. CSIS reported directly to the federal ministers of Public Safety, Justice and Defence. If information wasn’t being passed on to other government departments, it meant either the director didn’t want the ministers to know about something so that they wouldn’t be culpable for it, or he was worried about some sort of leak.

Shit had just gotten real.

It also meant the cute weapons systems placement designer wasn’t going to get any help from CSEC unless the director of CSIS approved sharing the information with them, and her problem was currently overridden by national security concerns.

Kale hung up the phone with a tight knot in his stomach. He tried not to think about Irina, with her green eyes and freckles, messy hair, and the pretty pink tank top she obviously hadn’t realized showed off her nipples in such specific detail. She didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who flaunted her wares, as his grandma used to say. She didn’t seem like the type to overreact either.

And yet, she’d been scared.

He ate his pizza, then prowled around the apartment, restless and in need of a distraction. There was nothing on TV that he wanted to watch. Heading to a bar for the evening was out of the question. There was always some drunken jackass wanting to fight, and a black eye screamed,
“Pick me. Pick me.”

But he was bored. Concerned. And fresh out of distractions.

He could always drive back to Irina’s and sit in his car for the night. No one would recognize it. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. There’d be no harm in it.

As he was gathering his car keys, however, his cell rang.

“Here’s the deal,” Dan said, getting right down to business. “It turns out Dr. Glasov really is working on a project that’s of interest to CSIS. The problem is that the director doesn’t want anyone to know there’s a problem. If you catch my meaning.”

He did. “What do you want me to do?”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to keep an eye on Dr. Glasov. Unofficially, for now. We’re going to put this on your vacation time and transfer the hours later. That gives you five weeks. There are bigger stakes in this for Canada than the designs she’s working on. Mind you,” Dan admitted, “those are important too. She’s got quite a reputation.
Really
impressive.”

The fine hairs on Kale’s arms prickled. “Just so we’re clear. You want me to spy on her?”

That so wasn’t cool. While there were always exceptions, the CSIS Act clearly stated that it only spied on Canadians if a threat of terrorism was somehow involved. Of course, anything involving weapons and weapons systems could be considered a threat. It all depended on how the director planned to spin any reports. Or if he even planned to make them.

“She’s not under investigation. We’re trying to find out what’s going on and how she’s connected to it. Why don’t we call it ‘establishing friendly and mutually beneficial relations’ instead?” Dan suggested. “How you approach her is up to you.”

Whatever they wanted to call it, it meant Kale could phone Irina first before he camped out in her yard. He felt better about that. She’d feel better knowing CSIS was taking action too. He’d keep the unofficial part of it to himself.

As for what was happening in Ottawa, he’d leave that up to his superiors. He had no interest in politics.

* * *

The call from Kale Martin surprised her. Irina hung up the phone, uncertain what to think. What emotion to feel. On one hand she was glad to have a CSIS officer watching her house.

On the other, his presence confirmed she had a real reason to be concerned.

Now that CSIS was involved, however, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. This was no longer solely her problem. Someone else was in charge. So, as far as her choice of emotion, she went with relief. Plus, he’d sounded so reassuring on the phone.

“I don’t want you to be alarmed if you notice a strange car in the neighborhood tonight,” he’d said. “I drive a blue, four-door Toyota Camry. And I’m going to be following you for a few days, just to find out if anyone else is too.” There’d been a brief pause. “I don’t suppose you’d make me a pot of coffee?”

The unexpectedness of the request, as well as the little-boy hopefulness in his tone, had broken the last bit of the tension inside her. She wasn’t certain if he’d been entirely serious about the coffee or making a joke. All the same, this was her chance to make up for her ridiculous jumpiness around him earlier.

The jumpiness, if she were honest, was only partly thanks to those photos. The rest had to do with him. Although the jury was still out on the link between human pheromones and sexual attraction, the amount of testosterone Kale Martin exuded left her feeling awkward around him. She didn’t like the sensation.

She’d already showered and donned her pajamas, and been working on an upcoming presentation for a conference in France when he’d called. She considered getting dressed, then decided it wasn’t necessary. He was only coming to the door for a minute, and her bathrobe and slippers were conservative. Nothing said sexy like wet hair and flannel.

She turned on the coffeemaker and rummaged through the cupboard for a thermos. He’d said he was a half hour away. That gave her time to make sandwiches too.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, she watched headlights approach through the trees on the dirt lane leading into the subdivision. The lights slowed at the end of her driveway, continued on past, then a few minutes later, returned. As the car passed beneath a street light, she saw it was a blue, four-door sedan. Whether or not it was a Camry, she couldn’t be sure.

The car stopped and pulled over to the shoulder as if parking for the night, well out of range of the patchy street lighting. Based on the angle of the photos she’d seen, he’d chosen a spot farther along the lane from where they would have been taken. She had no idea what happened next, or what to do with the coffee and sandwiches. She’d assumed he would come to the door. Should she take them down to his car instead?

Not a chance. It was dark outside and she hadn’t gotten over all of her fear. If he wanted his coffee, he could come and get it himself.

Ten minutes later, just as she was thinking he hadn’t been serious and she should go to bed because she had to work in the morning, she heard a soft knock at her kitchen door, followed by a quiet voice.

“Irina? It’s Kale. Can you let me in?”

Her heartrate accelerated. It seemed they were now on a first name basis. She checked before opening the door to make sure it really was him, then slid the chain free.

He crowded into her kitchen, forcing her to back up a few steps, and locked the door behind him. He scrubbed at his head with both hands and swatted his clothes. “Wow, the mosquitoes are aggressive tonight. I think I lost a pint of blood walking up your driveway.”

She couldn’t smother a smile. Despite his size and the bruised face, and the fact he was prettier than she was, his friendly manner was definitely disarming. She could appreciate it more now that she wasn’t so panicked.

He’d changed from the courier uniform into board shorts, boat shoes, and a navy sweatshirt, and looked more like a surfer tonight, although the tiny pair of binoculars dangling from the strap around his neck seemed a touch out of place. She still found it difficult to believe he was CSIS, but that was probably the point. If he’d arrived wearing a dark suit and glasses, with wires sticking out of a breast pocket, it might look suspicious.

“Thank you so much for coming. I made sandwiches to go with your coffee,” she added, then winced inside. She sounded like his mother. Or a spinster aunt. She had no idea how old he was. At a guess she’d say late twenties, possibly thirty, only a few years younger than her thirty-two.

“So you’re smart, beautiful, and a good cook, as well as thoughtful. Did you get all the luck and talent in your family too?” he asked.

Definitely charming.

“I’m an only child. And your assumption that I’m a good cook might be premature.”

“You are.” He grinned, all confidence. “You have a professional set of knives and a whole lot of kitchen gadgets, including a food processor. One of your sinks is used for prepping vegetables. There’s a small-appliance garage in that corner of your cupboard. Your cutting board is made of maple and it’s well used. Your freezer is full and everything’s labeled and dated. The wooden spoons by the stove are stained. If I didn’t already know you’re a computer scientist, I’d think you were a professional chef.”

She was speechless. He’d noticed a lot when he was here earlier, yet she could have sworn he’d been indifferent to his surroundings and would have preferred to be elsewhere. “I’m impressed.”

“I am pretty impressive,” he agreed, nodding cheerfully. “Wait until you get to know me better. I’m full of great surprises.” He glanced at the neatly wrapped stack of sandwiches on the counter with undisguised lust in his eyes. “Can I have one of those now? Because from here it looks like they’re Montreal smoked meat on rye. And if that’s gourmet Dijon mustard you used, then I think I’m in love.”

His sense of humor, combined with the random shifts in conversation, made her head spin. She wasn’t sure what sort of response he expected from her, so she went with the safest. “Your coffee’s in a thermos. Did you want to eat here or take everything with you?”

“Yeah. About that…” He cleared his throat. “It’s going to look odd for a stranger to be sitting in a car outside your house all night. The neighbors will call the police. I considered hiding in the trees instead, but the mosquitoes have pretty much nixed that idea. I’ve already made my personal donation to their blood bank on the walk up your driveway. I thought I might set up shop in your living room. If you don’t mind, that is.” He waggled the binoculars at her. In his massive hand, they looked like a toy. “These are night vision, by the way. Very high tech. We aren’t Canada’s
numero uno
spy agency for nothing.”