Her Spy to Have (Spy Games Book 1) (20 page)

She left her jacket and boots in the back, slipped her shoes on, and grabbed a round brass tray from a shelf on the way to her section. Jack, one of the bartenders, waved to her as she passed by. He was cute, with spiky blond hair and vivid blue eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled, which was often. There was nothing mysterious about him. He studied biology at one of the universities. He’d asked her out three times now, and each time, she’d made an excuse, but it had been almost three months since she’d last seen Garrett.

It was time to move on.

She stopped in her tracks, spun so that the short, pleated kilt flared around her thighs, and went back to the bar. She set her tray on the polished counter. “Hey, Jack.”

“Hey, Isabelle.” His eyes smiled into hers, flirty and hopeful. “What’s up?”

She waited for that little jolt she got in the pit of her stomach whenever Garrett looked at her that way, but it didn’t happen. She felt herself frowning, then the first fingers of panic. She didn’t understand. She liked Jack. He was cute, and friendly, and the other girls who worked here thought she was crazy for turning him down. She
wanted
to give him a chance. She’d made up her mind.
What are you doing Friday night?

All she had to do was ask. But the words simply wouldn’t come out.

He was staring at her now, the smile replaced with a look of concern. “Is something the matter?”

“I forget what I was going to say,” she lied. “The cold must have numbed my brain on the walk to work.”

His lips quirked upward. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but this isn’t cold. Technically, it’s still the middle of fall. Winter’s a month away.”

“Do you kick puppies, too?” she asked. “And tell small children Santa Claus doesn’t really exist?”

A grin crept across his face. “The naughty ones, yes.”

Those icy fingers of panic lost some of their grip.
Go on. Ask him out
, her inner voice—the one with the common sense—urged her.

She couldn’t do it. He was funny and nice. An open book. She had no trouble figuring out what he was thinking. And that was the problem. She wanted someone who challenged her. Who scattered her senses.

She wanted Garrett.

She couldn’t see herself encouraging Jack when her thoughts were with another man—even one who hadn’t spared her a second thought of his own since walking away.

She finished her shift. As she was slipping her arms into the sleeves of her jacket at the end of the night, preparing to leave, the cell phone in one of the pockets started to buzz, vibrating against her ribs. She carried it out of habit. She hadn’t received a call on it since the summer. There was only one person who’d be contacting her now. No one else had the number.

She debated not answering, but in her heart, that was no real solution. She fumbled with the phone, flicking the ON button with a touch of her thumb. “Isabelle Beausejour.”

“Belle, mon petit choux. Comment vas-tu?”

* * *

Garrett had asked to be sent to Amsterdam and been turned down. The director already had an intelligence officer in place.

He’d been sent to India instead.

“There’s a lot more going on than a few missing aircraft parts,” John had said to Garrett. “The RBN is a pain in my ass. Not to mention that other issue.” He was referring to Vanderloord, the friend of the Minister of Defence, who also had a connection to Isabelle’s father. “I want you to find out who in India is moving those weapons systems parts into Pakistan.”

So here he was. He sipped at his champagne and tried his best not to look bored. Tonight, the High Commission of Canada in India was hosting a Christmas reception for ex-pats and business associates at its offices in New Delhi. The ex-pats didn’t interest Garrett as much as a few of the other invitees—in particular, the three officials from the combined provinces of Jammu and Kashmir. The weapons systems parts were being routed through Kashmir into Pakistan. A Canadian ex-pat with connections to Amsterdam had been in Kashmir last month. Another one of those connections was Isabelle’s father, who remained MIA.

His fingers tightened around the stem of the delicate crystal flute. Every day he fought the urge to call her, to see how she was doing. She was still in Nova Scotia, attending university. Peter kept him up to date, but not without disapproval.

“I don’t like her thinking she owes us money,” Peter had said during their last phone conversation. “You paid her tuition, not us.”

“Tell her it’s a gift and that she should pay it forward someday.”

“Not everyone likes handouts, Garrett. She’s not a charity case. She’s young, and having a run of bad luck, and could use some direction—something she’s never had, if I’m guessing correctly.”

Garrett could literally feel the censure seeping through the phone connection. He sighed. “Make arrangements with her to pay it back, but in small increments.”

She’d eventually forget about the money. Her attitude toward it was cavalier at best. He didn’t really believe she’d stay in school for four years either, given her initial lack of enthusiasm for the idea, but he figured his investment would at least keep her occupied until she made some firm decisions about her life. It also gave her the opportunity to cut all ties with her father. Time would tell.

Does she ever ask about me?

He’d wanted to ask Peter that question, but hadn’t. There’d seemed little point. He knew she’d been invited to spend the holidays with them, so he’d made sure he wasn’t able to make it this year.

He finished his champagne and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. He should be concentrating on his job, part of which involved disaster relief. Kashmir had suffered another earthquake recently, and the Canadian High Commissioner had offered India his services. Garrett was hoping to get into Jammu and Kashmir, and from there, Pakistan-controlled Kashmir, so he could follow the trail of those aircraft parts. Once he’d gathered the final pieces of information, if CSIS chose to do so, it would be able to share his intel through Interpol.

What CSIS really wanted were the names of any Canadian connections that had been in discussions with someone in the government in Kashmir.

Sushri Vaid, one of the few female Indian government officials present, approached him. Her department handled healthcare. In her early forties, and wearing a royal blue sari trimmed in gold embroidery over a matching, short-sleeved choli, she was a stunningly beautiful woman. They’d met on a number of occasions and Garrett liked her. More importantly, he trusted her. She was quiet, plain-spoken, and very committed to women’s rights. She offered him her hand, a privilege he knew was also an honor. Women rarely shook hands with men, and when they did, it was only at their initiation.

“Good evening, Mrs. Vaid,” he said. It was considered impolite to immediately launch into a business discussion, particularly at a social event. “How are your children? The last time we spoke, your oldest had begun lessons in Sanskrit.”

Her lovely, kohl-lined eyes lit with pleasure as they exchanged stories about her family and his nieces and nephew. No one paid any attention to them as they spoke. Sushri was a woman and he was a low-level bureaucrat. Their lack of importance suited them both.

“I can make the introduction to the deputy secretary you’d asked me about whenever you’d like,” she finally said to him, keeping her voice soft so that it wouldn’t carry.

Garrett had been waiting all evening to meet him. This particular gentleman was well known to have dubious connections and empty pockets.

He followed Sushri through the crowd to a group of men standing somewhat apart from the rest of the room. She singled out one of the men, greeting him with
Namaste
, pressing her palms together and offering a polite nod of her head.

“Alok Badal.” She lowered her eyes in deference. “I would like for you to meet Mr. Garrett Downing of the High Commission. Mr. Downing is a relief worker from Ottawa who’ll be spending time in Jammu and Kashmir, organizing deliveries of supplies. I was just telling him that you see very few Canadians in Srinagar.”

Garrett inclined his head in acknowledgment of the introduction. Deputy Secretary Badal was a stocky man with two chins and a poor attitude toward women. Technically, Sushri Vaid outranked him. That appeared to have escaped his notice.

“On the contrary, I personally have met two Canadians in the past year,” he said to Garrett.

Sushri had given Garrett the perfect neutral topic to broach first. It allowed him to ask numerous questions about travel, and the many different types of people who might pass through the region in the run of a year. The conversation continued with Sushri dropping two or three careful observations—all of which Badal felt the need to dispute. Within ten minutes, Garrett had the names he needed and the places the Canadians had stayed while in the Kashmir Valley.

After five minutes more, and having learned everything necessary about the province’s shortages and the supplies Canada could provide, Sushri quietly interrupted.

“Mr. Downing, I have a few other people anxious to make your acquaintance.”

Garrett excused himself and allowed Sushri to lead him away. When they were safely out of earshot, and in a relatively private corner of the large room, he stopped to thank her for her help. “That was well done, Mrs. Vaid.”

Her cheeks dimpled. “Remember this if RAW ever comes to the High Commission for assistance.”

It took him a second to process that this lovely, kind woman had manipulated him. RAW was the acronym for India’s Research and Analysis Wing, which specialized in foreign intelligence gathering and counter terrorism. They were also tasked with protecting India’s nuclear program.

He shouldn’t be so surprised. Sushri was exactly the type of person intelligence services looked for—smart, circumspect, well educated, and not at all what she seemed. He’d entrusted her with what had appeared on the surface to be nothing more than a small favor, and now she, too, had the information he’d been seeking.

He was reminded, suddenly and painfully, with the ripping open of a thinly-scabbed wound, of Isabelle. He missed her. He missed her quiet humor and gentle smiles. He missed never knowing what she was thinking. Even the way she manipulated him. His chest constricted. Especially that. He regretted all the things that had been implied between them but never said. Some things needed to be spelled out with perfect clarity, no matter if the understanding was already there. He’d never told her he loved her.

It was just as well. She’d have used it against him. He’d have done the same.

He dragged his attention back to Sushri Vaid. He harbored nothing but admiration for her. She’d no doubt gathered a great deal of intel from the deputy secretary that he’d missed, all because he’d underestimated her and hadn’t picked up on what she was doing. He’d have to replay the conversation later to see if he could figure out what it might be.

“I’ll remember this very well,” he assured Sushri, but with an inflection of rueful humor to show there were no hard feelings. She had her job to do. He had his. Besides, she’d gotten him what he needed. He could hardly begrudge her if she’d gotten the same.

Sushri excused herself. Absently, Garrett followed the path of her striking blue-and-gold sari with his eyes as she worked her way through the throng of drab business suits. Here and there, a few other guests also wore colorful traditional dress, but for the most part, she stood out. And yet she was also invisible.

That was why she reminded him so much of Isabelle.

Suddenly, the gaudy decorations in the room made him tired and he was ready to call it a night, although his thoughts were guaranteed to keep him awake until the early hours of the morning. He exited the reception and stepped out onto Shanti Path, the street on which Canada’s High Commission offices were located, and where his driver was waiting. He’d decided early on that the city’s traffic was a bigger challenge than he was willing to embrace.

It was winter in New Delhi. The air cooled considerably once the sun went down, and he shrugged into the overcoat he carried. He’d opened the car door and was easing into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather cushions, when his cell phone rang inside his suit jacket. He fumbled for it, checking the number as he answered, and saw a Canadian area code.

It was his RCMP friend in Ottawa.

“Hey, Garrett,” his friend said, with no hint of urgency, and Garrett relaxed. Whatever was happening, it was nothing earth-shattering. “That passport you wanted me to keep an eye on. It showed up at the airport in Halifax, checking in for a midnight flight to Amsterdam.”

Or maybe it was.

He stared out the dark-tinted window of the car, lost in thought. This late at night, traffic wasn’t as great an ordeal. The drive to his flat took twenty minutes. By the time he got there, he’d made up his mind. He had to go to Jammu and Kashmir, yes. He had obligations to the High Commission and relief work couldn’t wait. But many of the preliminary arrangements for supplies could be handled by phone. He’d delegate the rest.

First, he was going to Amsterdam.

Chapter Thirteen

Isabelle checked in at the small boutique hotel on Hooftstraat her father had booked for her, not far from the Rijksmuseum. It was where they usually stayed when he had the money to pay for it.