Compromised (6 page)

“Of course I didn't. It's either a marketing call or…” She bit her lip, wondering if Stratigos was testing her.

Sebastian tipped his head to one side and shook it slightly. He looked disappointed in her, but she wasn't ready to tell anyone about her op, because until she had at least a plot or a target to be concerned about, all she had was conjecture. And rookie humiliation.

“Devries Construction. Thank you for holding. How may I direct your call?” He paused and then his eyes met hers again, lips tightening. “Absolutely; let me put you through.” He pressed
HOLD
and said calmly, “Line one for you.”

She picked up her phone and sat back down, swiveling away from Sebastian's look. She put on a bored voice. “Inventory Management, Sadie speaking.”

There was rustling and muffled voices in the background, and then, “Sadie?” It was Platon.

“Platon? Why did you call my work number? If my boss were here, you could have gotten me in trouble,” she half whispered.

Another muffled conversation. “I tried to get you on your cell phone, but you didn't pick up. I had a gap between shifts and wondered if you wanted to grab a beer before I have to go back to the hotel.”

Sadie turned over her cell phone. Five bars of signal and zero missed calls. Stratigos was testing her. He'd dialed and then handed the phone to Platon. She could see them in her mind's eye, Platon's panic about why he was calling, Stratigos giving him the answers and telling him what to say.

Excitement spiked through her. “Sure. I was just leaving work. Shall we meet at the Athinas in the Plaka?” She knew this was walking distance from the hotel he worked at and far enough away from her apartment so he couldn't suggest anything untoward.

“Perfect. I will see you there in twenty minutes.”

“See you!” she replied cheerfully before hanging up.

“Do I want to know?” Sebastian asked as he took his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. She knew he was being supportive, but she also knew that he really
didn't
want to know what her operation was about. Sharing operational information, other than in their report files, was frowned upon. At The Farm, they'd explained that it was an important security measure: If things went south and an officer was captured or interrogated—or worse—then he would only know about his own op and no one else's.

“Not yet. It's early days,” she replied. “Probably nothing.”

“Be careful out there, darling,” he said from inside the kitchen.

S
imon's finance minister had actually been working that day, instead of skipping around town meeting girlfriends and socialites. He was a good-looking man, one who stuck out like a sore thumb in the Russian cabinet. All the other members were gray haired and old, and he was in his late thirties and had a thick head of dark hair.

Minister Stamov was the only one young enough to not remember the “old days” of Mother Russia. Usually the younger generation in Russia came out against the president's reign…but given that any intel from Russia was hard to come by these days, he couldn't be sure about anything.

It wasn't CAG's job to think about the politics behind a mission. Once you tried to overthink it or believed you had information that someone else didn't, you were usually fucked.

Anyway, as far as Simon could tell, Stamov seemed to have enjoyed the day of banking meetings that he'd been attending. He was in the lobby, watching the minister rotate around groups of suited men and women, all clutching cocktails that few seemed to be enjoying.

A man sat down in an armchair opposite Simon. He was tall, Western, early thirties or maybe in his twenties with some miles on his face. The battered cowboy boots didn't tell him much, and his shirt…

“Hey, mate. Dog can't fly without umbrella,” the man said in a British accent, grinning widely.

Simon bristled. What the fuck was he talking about? He sat up and looked around to see if anyone was watching.

“Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist; I was sent by…” He looked to the ceiling and wrinkled his nose as if he was trying to recall. “Ringling? No, Barnum. Is that right? What a name, right? I wonder if his boss ever says, ‘Are you running a circus here, Goddamnit?'” He'd assumed a pretty good American accent for the last bit. But Simon only barely noticed it.

This guy was insane, and he had to get away from him before his cover was blown. He folded his newspaper, but as he put it down and made to leave, the man grinned. “Sit down, mate. Don't be a twat. I'm just messing with you.” Simon hesitated but watched, intrigued, as the man held up his hand and asked a waiter to bring them both scotch and sodas, affecting a really impressive French accent.

“I wanted some kind of ridiculous password to give you, like they do in the movies, but they didn't give me one.” He shrugged. “Your people are no fun, mate.”

“You can stop calling me ‘mate,' for a start.”

“See? No fun.” He turned to receive his drinks from the waiter, tossed a twenty-euro note on his silver tray, and said, “
Merci beaucoup, mon ami.
”

Simon wanted to hit him. He wasn't sure why; he just really wanted to hit him. “So who are you, and keep your fucking voice down this time.”

“Mal Garrett. My friends call me Mal; you can call me Garrett.” He paused to give Simon an insincere smile. “I work private. But my boss used to serve with yours and blah, blah, blah. Long story short, he sent me to pick up your slack. There's been a problem getting your boys in country. I'm just filling in until they do. So I guess I'm your temp.” He took a healthy swig of his drink and sat back in the armchair and looked around at the lobby. “Jesus, I can't believe I'm back here again. I was here a couple of weeks ago, sent out on a babysitting mission, and now I'm dragged back here for a few days. Eh, at least the booze is good.”

Jesus Christ, did the dude ever stop talking? But then again, it was becoming difficult watching and following Stamov alone, not to mention keeping an eye on Sadie and her new boyfriend. “Come upstairs; I have his schedule and his car license plate and…”

“No need, Tennant. I already have my brief.” He threw a cell phone at Simon, who caught it without taking his eyes off Garrett's. “You can get me on that if you need me. I'm going to unpack and then I'll be all over Stamov like a rash. No sweat.” His eyes flickered over Simon's shoulder. “Or maybe you can just take the evening off.”

At that second, he stood up as the finance minister held out his hand. “Franḉois! I didn't know you would be here.”

Simon backed away fast as Garrett scoffed at the minister's proffered hand and instead brought Stamov into a Gallic embrace. “It is so good to see you, my friend. I only agreed to come because of the fine cellar of wine they keep at the hotel here. You must join me to take advantage of it,
oui
?”

“But of course, comrade. Already you have made this visit more pleasurable. Come. Let us leave this party and”—his voice rose in excitement—“make our own party!” Some of the minister's hangers-on applauded and cheered.

Simon had seen nothing like it in his life. Garrett must have been on the job for a long time to achieve that level of comfort with a Russian cabinet member. What the hell was his background that he could seamlessly switch between characters? He wondered if he was even English.

Anyway, as soon as he could get upstairs and check out Garrett's story, Simon knew exactly how he was going to spend his unexpectedly free evening.

It took three minutes on the phone to Barnum to confirm his new “partner” was legit. His boss promised to send the unredacted parts of Garrett's file if he could get his hands on it but assured him that he was the best available backup.

Simon was worried, however, that his team was having issues getting into Greece, but his boss told him it was need to know, and he didn't. Business as usual at CAG. He signed off and pulled up the phone app that let him find Sadie. He'd stuck a microscopic chip into her purse when she'd gone to the bathroom. It was done on pure instinct. He always kept at least ten of the trackers in his wallet because you never knew when you were going to lose a mark. If one went into a busy subway station, by far the best bet at continuing surveillance was to tag the mark and then just wait for him to materialize again. He just hadn't gotten close enough to put one on the minister yet, but since Garrett and he were such good friends, maybe he'd delegate that job.

Since he'd sneaked it into her bag, he'd justified it a million times in his head by telling himself that it was for her safety. He owed her at least safety while he was in the city. It was a gift that she wouldn't know she'd received.

It sounded weak even to him.

Sadie managed to snag their favorite table outside the Athinas bar and café. It was important for Platon to feel comfortable whenever he was with her, and these little things built up trust, whether he knew it or not.

And of course he never would.

She ordered a coffee so that she could order them both a beer when he arrived without overdoing it. As she looked around for him, she took out a notepad and pen to scribble down a shopping list. Again, totally nonthreatening. Something that a mom would do. Her whole time with Platon was built around these layers of security and comfort. Every time she met him she was careful to give him absolutely nothing to question later. She even tucked her cell phone out of sight so he didn't suspect she was recording him. If she was 100 percent right about him, his paranoia would slowly be growing.

Also, she really needed to get some groceries. Milk, coffee, bread. She tapped the pen against her teeth as she watched people walk by. Salad, carrots, soda. The chair next to her scraped out and she looked up with a big smile that stayed on her face for less than a second.

“Simon. What the fuck?” She looked around to see if anyone was watching them. “You have to go. I'm expecting someone.” Goddamn him. She swore if the waiter had left the silverware that had been wrapped in a napkin on the table, she'd be holding the knife to his jugular.

“What's the matter? You think your boyfriend won't want to see me? Won't want to know what we did last night?” He looked around, as if searching for a waiter to order a drink.

She decided on a play. Not perfect, but it would do the job for now. She lowered her voice. “Look, please go. He's a sweet boy, but he's going to get super jealous if he sees you.” She cast her eyes down slowly as if she couldn't bear to meet his eyes. “I know I did a”—pause, swallow—“terrible thing last night, and I'm really sorry. But please don't get me in trouble with my boyfriend.” She slid her gaze back up to his.

Concern was etched on his face, and his eyes searched hers for the truth, but he obviously found no reason to disbelieve her.

Inside she celebrated. Outside, she bit her lip and frowned very lightly.

“I'll leave now if you promise to meet me later,” he said, getting up.

“Anything. Absolutely,” she replied, relief gushing through her.

“This restaurant at eight.” He handed her the type of card you pick up at a hotel from one of those wooden dispensers near the elevators.

“Eight. Okay. It's a—” She hesitated.

He swooped down, blocking out the sun, and kissed her. Heat rose inside. It was over before it had begun, but his lips seared her skin. “Yeah. It is,” he said as he left.

She watched as he wove between the tables and away from the restaurant. Her heartbeat steadied, and she looked again for Platon. No sign of him. She went back to her shopping list but didn't even see the words. That had been terrifying. But the kiss…She shook that out of her mind and concentrated on the important outrage. Weeks of work could have been flushed down the toilet, not to mention the fact that there was a chance that she was mere steps away from cracking an awful scheme. She steadied her breath and counted the number of taps she made on the paper with her pen. Counting was soothing for her.

Eventually she added eggs to the list, just as Platon arrived. He'd obviously been running. She smiled.

“I am so sorry to be late,” he said in his charming English.

“I forgive you,” she said, grinning and turning up her face so he could kiss her. His kiss smelled of sun and fresh air. Why wasn't he just an ordinary, fun guy who could help her take her mind—and anger—away from Simon?

He sat and made some special Greek sign for beers. Maybe they just knew him. The one time she'd tried it, the waiter had brought her a menu instead of a beer. “What are you doing,
koukla mou
?” he asked as he laid an arm along the back of his chair.

“Just making a shopping list. My apartment is virtually empty of food!” she said. “I think I have a tomato and an old piece of cheese.”

He laughed, as she'd meant him to. “I can't believe I still haven't seen your apartment after all this time,” he said with a lazy smile that anyone would interpret as a come-on.

“You'll get to see it…eventually.” She winked at him and he laughed again.

“You are lucky I have so many things to do all the time or I'm sure I'd follow you home and make you show me,” he said.

The waiter arrived with their tall glasses of heavily frothed, cold beer. She hoped that was just an expression and that he didn't make a habit of following girls home and forcing his way into their homes. She took a sip to cover the expression that could have flickered across her face if she hadn't been on guard. Maybe it was just…nope; she couldn't believe someone would say that without knowing exactly what he was inferring. He was getting more confident, or at least pushier, and she wondered why. Thank goodness she wasn't just an average girl on the street. She could certainly handle him if push came to shove, but she needed to postpone that moment as long as possible.

“You know I'm not…you know. I like to take my time…” She closed her eyes as if she were embarrassed, and laughed awkwardly.

“You are beautiful and innocent. A perfect combination.”

She sat up straight as if pleased with his compliment and giggled into her drink. She moved the conversation on to his family and his work at the hotel and kept it light. He wasn't bad company when they were just chitchatting.

But while they sat in the sun, her mind flickered to dinner with Simon. She couldn't just not show up and just hope that she didn't run into him again. He'd just track her down again, and her luck might not hold out next time.

When Platon got up to return to work, she kissed him, hoping to find that anyone could arouse the kind of heat Simon had raised in her. But no. She felt nothing.
Damn Simon
.

Damn Simon. Damn him all to hell. She checked her watch as she was walking back to her apartment. She had an hour to get ready. An hour-ish. She didn't really care if she was late—let him sit there and fret about whether she was coming or not.

She felt sticky, and she could still smell Platon's aftershave on her. She'd just shower and change clothes.

And put on some fresh makeup and a little perfume. And remind Simon of what he'd refused to fight for.

Shit
. Why did she even care what he thought? She refused to answer that question as she stepped into her apartment and got in the shower to wash the day away.