Page 52 of Jonesing for a Spy

She’s right.

“Okay, so will you get everything together today for me and put a meeting on my calendar for the two of us to go over the crew, their payrolls for, say, the last six months? Can we meet tomorrow morning about it?”

When she nods, I continue, “And get me the crew’s site location today. I know we won’t have records until later, but I’ll drop in, bring some coffees and waters, and see how their job is going.”

“And tip them off?”

“Nah. A surprise safety check-in will make them think nothing’s coming for a while and gives them some freedom to continue on.”

A smile breaks across her face.

“I’m thankful for all you do here, Margie. For finding this, for looking into it. But stand down for a bit, so we can be strategic and no word gets out. Okay?”

“Fine by me. Sorry for dropping this on you on a Monday morning post vacation. But I was angry and didn’t want to be the only one in the know.” She reaches for the door handle but turns back to me. “By the way, if it’s okay to say, the sun and fresh air did you good.” She doesn’t wait for an answer before she’s through the door and winding her way past the cubicles and to her office.

So that’s how it’s going to be today. I’ll need way more than coffee if this pace continues. And it does.

It’s noon when buzzing in my desk shows a new text message from Charlie.

Charlie

Call me ASAP.

What fresh hell awaits me now?

I stand, close my door, and do what I’ve always done—tackle the hardest task first. I hate it, but putting off the worst of my to-do list only makes that thing bigger over the course of the day. Grabbing my phone, I call Charlie.

He answers with three words. “What. The. Fuck?”

22

double-oh-seven

Mirren

The flight to Taiwan is long, and I do what I can to get some rest. That is after I become an expert on chips, electronics components, tech manufacturing, and the like. I have proper ID and received a new laptop and handbag prior to my flight.

Some women would say it’s the best part of the job. My problem is I’m not one to carry it the way it’s meant to be carried. I’m a phone-in-my-back pocket kind of girl. I’m camping and flip flops.

This thing may be the staple of luxury among women of a certain class, but I don’t qualify to buy it… Not just in cost, but because the company rarely allows anyone without status to buy one without first developing a relationship. I shit you not.

I’m toting around the equivalent of several months’ worth of my salary when I first enlisted. It’s so odd that I watch three videos of heavyweight Hollywood stars carrying it so I’m not swinging it around like a bag from Target. I like a good Target find, mind you, and I’d be way more comfortable. It’s a shame it would blow my cover.

The agency has set up a full fake company, web site and all, along with my credentials, bio, etc. Tanzi is a tech badass, even if it was built on the back of her recently-deceased father. Nepotism isn’t the problem. We needed him dead, because dealing with her wouldn’t be done if her father were alive.

By the time I land in Munich at noon the next day, I’ve become her. I move through the airport as a woman who has money, who is used to being catered to, who accesses the first-class lounges as if it were second nature. After nine hours of flying time, I’m tired, but Miss Shackleford never shows it.

I’ll need to sleep on the next leg. Jet lag sucks, and I want to avoid it, but I also want to be rested enough to be on my game.

We were wheels up long before Strider should’ve received my text. I wish I knew what happened. But, one thing I know about myself, thinking about Strider Anderson would be the fastest way to ruin my focus on the job.

I need him out of my mind for just a few days, or this op will go sideways fast.

Twelve hours after another takeoff—this time I’m in first class—I land in Taipei. While I won’t argue that first class is way better than how I got to the Middle East during my time in the Army, Tanzi deserves a private jet. Daxton will laugh his ass off if I suggest it, but let’s be real, I’m carrying a twenty-thousand-dollar purse and I flew commercial? Yeah, no.

A besuited man meets me at the bottom of the escalator holding an iPad that says Ms. Shackleford, Prime Electronics and whisks me away via limousine. He navigates morning traffic—the likes of which I’ve never seen—and delivers me to my hotel.

“I’ll return in two hours,” he says in crisp, accented English.