Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sydney
The strain of violins greets us past the gold-roped embassy entrance, strings vibrating with what sounds like Tchaikovsky—a calculated cultural choice.
Two security officers disguised as attendants stand in the east corner.
Cameras are positioned discreetly in brass light fixtures.
The diplomatic security team strikes me as more muscular than diplomatic.
Rhodes expected a private reception but based on the uniformed staff at the entrance and the gold posts with engraved signs in Russian and English, this is a larger event. More people mean more eyes, but also more cover. The crowd may make it easier for me to step away unnoticed.
I maintain a relaxed smile while studying the marble-veined floors, mapping potential exit routes as Rhodes speaks to the young man reviewing the guest list. The man’s posture suggests FSB training rather than simple hospitality staff—the Russians don’t take chances.
When Quinn signaled I needed to call in privately, I didn’t expect to learn Rhodes had slipped out and visited the Russian embassy earlier this afternoon while I was getting my hair done. The revelation sent a cold ripple down my spine.
Why wouldn’t he mention his visit? If not to me, why not mention it to the team when we were discussing plans for this evening? Why hide it?
Trust in this business is measured in disclosed information—what someone withholds often reveals more than what they share.
Part of me wants to believe there’s an innocent explanation, that Rhodes is simply being thorough, protecting me.
The other part—the part trained at Langley to see patterns of deception—whispers that I’m being played.
Yet here I am, wearing his mother’s diamonds, walking into a Russian embassy on his arm. The professional in me catalogs this as a potentially compromised operation. The woman in me still feels the ghost of his touch. Both sides know ambivalence is not an option.
Rhodes offers his hand with a formality befitting eighteenth century royalty. He’s missing the white gloves, but he’s a chameleon. Gone is the laid-back man I met on a hike. There’s no sign of the intense entrepreneur. No, he’s graceful and attentive. An erudite gentleman.
“Ms. Victoria Romanovich,” Rhodes says, addressing an elegant brunette in a floor-length sequin gown that catches the light like liquid mercury. His voice carries a warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes. “May I have the pleasure of introducing Sydney Parker.”
The woman turns, and I instantly recognize the calculating assessment behind her smile. Her gaze flicks over me with practiced casualness, but I catch the momentary pause on my face, my hands, the bracelet. She’s comparing me to intel photos, confirming my identity.
“So pleased that both of you could join us this evening.” Her smile is cordial and professional, with the polished artifice that only comes from diplomatic training. Her English is flawless but deliberately accented—a tactical choice many intelligence operatives make to seem less threatening.
“Ms. Romanovich works in the Russian embassy as a diplomat,” Rhodes explains, his hand at the small of my back, the pressure slightly firmer than necessary. A warning? Reassurance? “I am fortunate to call her friend.”
“And what do you do, Ms. Parker?” Her gaze drops deliberately to our joined hands, lingering on the diamond bracelet. “Or excuse me. My mistake.” The apology is delivered with the swift precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. “You are here as Mr. MacMillan’s guest and not as a colleague.”
“That’s quite right,” Rhodes says. “Sydney is my date.”
“Lovely. Do you live in the area?”
With that one question, I am certain the Russians have already pulled a background report on me and know that I do, in fact, live in the area.
“I do. Rhodes and I recently met, and he asked me to join him.” My smile mirrors Ms. Romanovich’s.
Another couple enters and approaches the young man with the invitation list.
“I hope you enjoy yourselves. If you follow the golden rope out to the courtyard, you’ll find drinks and light hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be greeting guests, but I hope to see you later.”
“Thank you, Victoria.”
As we stroll along the carpet lining the stone corridor, Rhodes leans into me, his warm breath caressing my ear.
“She’s the one who communicated the threat.
I debated telling her you’re my girlfriend, but even if I had, she’d still see you as CIA.
There’s little chance she’s unaware of your background. ”
And what part of that does my body react to with warmth and girly emotion? The girlfriend word. Ridiculous. This isn’t the time or place.
With our fingers linked, we follow the long corridor, passing two rooms with closed doors on our right, then round the corner to an open archway into an opulent room with three violinists, tables draped in burgundy, and elegantly dressed couples milling about with champagne flutes.
The ceiling height is twenty feet, easily, and glass doors open into a courtyard. On the far end, two doors lead out.
I scan the crowd, searching for recognizable faces, stopping when I spot Dristol, Crawford’s chief of staff, speaking with a woman I recognize as embassy personnel.
She’s an assistant to an assistant, if I recall correctly from our intel.
Her outfit supports my conclusion, as in lieu of a gown, she’s wearing a dark purple business skirt suit.
A man offers us champagne and we accept, but as if by mutual decision, we hold it without partaking.
“Do you know anyone here?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t spend my days mingling in embassies.” In a lower voice he adds, “Or memorizing the names and faces of those who do.”
Analysts are paid to not only know the players, but those who circle the players, including but not limited to gardeners and nannies.
He’s not an analyst, he runs a company. Now, the company he runs is an intel goldmine, some might even call ARGUS a potent weapon, but owning ARGUS only means he has access to data, not that it’s populated in his head.
Two couples, both in their fifties or sixties, slowly dance in the decadent setting.
“Would you care to dance?” he asks.
“Certainly.” The action will quiet the worry and give us something to do other than hold a glass of liquid we’re not drinking.
He sets our glasses down on the tray of a passing waiter, and takes my hand, leading me within a few feet of the violinists. All the violinists are older men, and it’s impossible to discern from appearance if they are Russian or American.
We sway to the music, my hand resting on his shoulder, his palm warm against my lower back. In this moment, we appear as any other couple—intimate, connected—but the history of deception makes this simple touch complex.
With the violinists providing acoustic cover from potential listening devices, I lean close, my lips nearly touching his ear. “You came here earlier.” The accusation is soft but unmistakable.
Still in his arms, I lean back slightly to study his reaction—the slight dilation of his pupils, the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes.
His dark brown eyes reflect not guilt but amusement, as does the quirk of his lip. He pulls me closer, our bodies moving as one with the music.
“I wanted to ensure your safety. Pre-scan the location. Back-up points.” The explanation is logical, reasonable—exactly what I might have done myself. He leans in and brushes his lips across mine, the contact brief but electric. In my ear, he adds, “Don’t doubt me, Syd.”
The nickname vibrates through me—intimate, personal.
I feel caught between my instincts that warn against emotional attachment and the undeniable pull I feel toward him.
In this world of shadows and half-truths, his touch feels like the only solid thing I can hold onto. And that alone is terrifying.
“Excuse me, sir.” A gentleman in a black traditional tuxedo says. “I was wondering if I might have the next dance.”
Both Rhodes and I take in the stranger. If I were to guess, the tall man with gray wisps and wire-rimmed spectacles is German, but he could easily be Russian. There’s a notable accent, but it’s difficult to decipher origination.
“If you’re amenable, Ms. Romanovich would like to meet with you in the library,” the man says to Rhodes.
“Are you?—”
“I’m fine,” I assure Rhodes, cutting him off.
As he departs, presumably knowing the direction of the library, I face the interloper.
“There aren’t many dancing,” I murmur with a wistful glance at the bar.
“I concur.” He smiles. “Might I interest you in a drink?”
“I’m Sydney,” I say, this time offering my hand for a professional exchange.
“Archibald,” he says, taking my hand in his with a light grip. It’s the handshake of the timid.
A waiter with a tray of smoked salmon passes, and Archibald speaks in Russian to the young woman, telling her to refill her tray once it’s mostly empty. He doesn’t hide his concern for her performance as his gaze trails the woman who apparently reports to him.
“Go on,” I urge him. “I’m going to go to the restroom.”
“Do you know where it is? Just head straight out and it’s the first door on your left.”
“Thank you,” I say and smile as he heads off to follow the staff member.
In the hall, I pass the restrooms and see a small placard with the word LIbrARY in both Russian and English and an arrow. This building is a working building, so the directions are not surprising.
I pass the double doors that apparently lead into the room.
There are no sounds emitting through the thick wooden doors.
I press a button on my earpiece, turning it on, enabling me to hear the device transmitting from Rhodes, a small device tucked away in his trouser pocket that we tested back in the hotel suite.
I continue down the corridor as Rhodes’ voice enters my earpiece.