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“Technically, you did some work over the weekend,” Viktor replied while taking a sip of coffee. “You’re allowed some leeway. Don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re the boss. I’m just a grunt.”
“Are you fishing for compliments, Ms. Cole?”
“Of course not!” she replied indignantly. “When are we talking to Matsuda?”
“Christ, you’re like a dog with a bone,” Viktor muttered.
“Well?”
“We can’t contact him directly. Too risky.”
“I’ve got any number of people who can approach him. Just give me the go ahead.”
“I’m not about to let a stranger tell him that the United States government is about to fuck up his life again.”
“We just need information, Viktor. We’re not dragging him into an op.”
“That’s what we told him before all hell broke loose and Daliyah kidnapped his wife and daughter.”
Marissa held her tongue because Viktor speared her with a “shut up and let me think” look. She diverted her impatience by drinking more coffee.
“When do you want to meet?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Ain’t it always?” Viktor said. “Her husband’s probably going to kill me this time.”
“Umm. I don’t understand?”
Shooting her an annoyed look, he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contact list and hit “Call.”
When his contact came on the line, he said, “Sophie?”
8
Sophie had never liedto Derek. Ever. At least, not that she could recall and never after they had gotten married. Okay, maybe she would tell a little white lie every now and then, or omit some information from their conversation. After all, her husband was an unreasonably jealous and possessive man, and it was better to fib about the attentions she was getting from male acquaintances than retrieving her husband from jail for assault. But she had never blatantly lied about her whereabouts.
Damn Viktor Baran. This was the second time he had lassoed her into his “brilliant” plans. The first time, she was excited because it involved using technology she had developed. She had officially become AGS’s advanced boutique weapons designer if there was such a title.
However, on this second go round, she was supposed to act like a spy, relay information and set up the meeting. Did they not learn from her debacle in South Africa? Not a day on the field yet, and she got made. Obviously, Viktor’s faith in her was stronger than her faith in herself.
Jiro Matsuda was her sensei and kendo instructor. After her classes last Monday, she informed him that Viktor Baranwanted to set up a meeting. An operative with the CIA would be present. Her sensei had not acted surprised—he almost looked resigned, as though he had expected something like this to happen.
So here she was at the Japanese cultural center’s main dining room on a Wednesday evening. After their class ended at 7:00 p.m., Jiro and another classmate, David, left with Sophie for the cultural center. That wasn’t the plan. David was not supposed to tag along. This was bad for two reasons.
One, the meeting was in regards to highly classified information. Sophie wasn’t sure how a seemingly genial man like Sensei Jiro could be mixed up with someone like Viktor. But they appeared to trust each other. Sophie discreetly texted Viktor about the slight chink in the plans. His response?
“Fuck!”
Which brings about the second reason. David used to have a thing for her, and judging from his actions, past and present, he still did. Sophie wasn’t naive. Every opportunity he had, he’d whine that she should have given him a chance. If she didn’t love her kendo classes so much, she’d stop attending. And now she was alone in the dining room with him.
Right after their main course, and before dessert, Viktor walked into the restaurant. Hardly acknowledging Sophie, he proceeded down the hallway to another exit that led to several tea houses scattered throughout the center. After five minutes, Sensei Jiro excused himself and said he had to talk to the cultural center manager about the upcoming cherry blossom festival.
Sophie smiled. That was months away.
“So how’s married life?” David asked with a hint of sarcasm. Sophie frowned. She wasn’t in the mood for this.
