Page 13 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Kella sits across from me, notebook open, pen ready, wearing the expression of someone trying very hard not to look excited about her first time being included in a disaster as a field operative. My sister, Charlie, sits a few seats farther down, unusually still, which is how I know she’s worried.

The director taps something on her laptop, then clicks a remote, and a photograph taken tonight fills the monitor behind her. It’s Gianna. Not the Gianna who usually shows up at headquarters looking like she just saved a diplomat, stole a getaway car, and still has time to insult me or one of my brothers before lunch.

This Gianna is propped up in a hospital bed, bruises darkening one side of her face. A white bandage is wrapped around her forearm, and medical tape holds gauze near her temple. It looks like someone has cleaned blood from her hair, but not all of it.

The room goes completely silent. We’ve all been injured before, but this feels different. The director lets us all absorb the image before saying, “Gianna’s final field assignment before transitioning to the role of Operations Planning Specialist began thirty-six hours ago. Radomir contacted her through an emergency channel and requested an in-person meeting in Prague. He said he had reason to believe intelligence connected to a joint operation he’d been supporting had been compromised.”

Her final mission. The one that’s supposed to be easy. One last box checked before she moved behind the planning table. I think that’s what makes this feel so different.

“Elliot is with Gianna in the hospital, and he’s gotten a secure connection set up for her. She’s agreed to a debrief.”

The director switches the photo on the screen for live video feed. Gianna’s tech op, Elliot, is in front of the camera, looking like a man who has spent the last several hours listening through an earpiece to someone he was responsible for almost die. His hair is a mess, and the circles under his eyes are dark.

Once Elliot steps out of the frame so we can see Gianna, the director says, “We’re ready for you, if you’re up for it.”

Gianna gives one small nod. Every breath she takes is careful enough to tell me her ribs didn’t make it through her mission unscathed, either. Her voice is rougher than usual, but steady. “The meeting took place exactly where and when we planned. Radomir arrived first.”

“He’s been an asset for seven years,” my mom says. “Radomir is the kind of person an operative can build entire operations around because he has proven, again and again, that his word means something.”

Gianna continues. “Radomir told me someone was selling the identities of seven assets. I asked him whose assets, and he said, ‘Ours.’”

Something cold settles low in my stomach.

“We were making the brush pass when Radomir’s eyes shifted to look past me. I knew something was wrong before he said anything. He shoved me behind a concrete planter just as three shots were fired.” Her voice cracks a little, and she swallows. “Radomir took all three. He saved my life.”

No one says anything for a moment. Then my mom quietly takes over. “Radomir died at the scene, but Gianna got the package out.”

The next image is security footage. “There is no usable facial recognition on the shooters,” the director says. “And at this point, determining who ordered Radomir’s death is secondary to what he died getting to us.”

My mom changes the screen again. This time, seven narrow boxes appear in a row. Six contain blurred photographs and redacted identifying information. The seventh is Radomir’s. Across the top of the slide are the words International Security Intelligence Directorate.

The ISID is a multinational organization that coordinates intelligence sharing and joint operations between allied nations’ intelligence agencies. When an operation crosses enough borders and involves enough agencies, somebody has to make sure everyone is working from the same version of reality. That’s their job.

“These seven people are confidential non-employee CSA assets,” Director Lancaster says. “All seven have provided intelligence to the same joint international operation coordinated through ISID.”

Jace’s eyes stay fixed on the screen. “And someone accessed all seven names.”

“Yes.” She taps the remote, and one of the boxes turns red. Radomir’s. “He was one of them.”

No one moves. There is something different about seeing one red square among six others. It turns a security breach into a countdown.

“Are the other six safe?” I ask.

“Teams are moving them now,” my mom says. “But temporary relocation doesn’t solve this. The stolen file contains enough identifying information that if it reaches the wrong buyer, those people will spend the rest of their lives in danger.” She looks at each of us in turn. “Radomir is the first confirmed casualty. We are going to make sure he is the last.”

Ledger leans forward, forearms on the table. “How did Radomir know about the breach?”

“Because he obtained a copy of a solicitation that began circulating among a very small number of vetted criminal clients. It offers access to what it describes as a restricted intelligence package containing the identities of seven confidential human sources connected to a multinational operation, including a date connected to the joint operation. Radomir recognized himself.”

Charlie exhales quietly.

“He started digging,” the director continues, “and he confirmed who was facilitating the sale.”

A photograph fills the screen. It’s of a man in his early fifties, standing beside a glass wall overlooking a city, wearing a dark suit with the kind of relaxed confidence money can buy but not teach. There’s nothing outwardly threatening about him. Beneath the photograph is a name and company.

Julian Rooke

Founder & CEO, Rooke Strategic Services