9. Jungle Gym in the Air, Turbulence on the Ground
CHAPTER 9
JUNGLE GYM IN THE AIR, TURBULENCE ON THE GROUND
LEDGER
S ometimes , intelligence operatives get invited to nice events at nice places. And by “invited,” I mean we forge invitations or get assets to hook us up. Except for my brother, Miles . He seems to get legitimate invites to the fancy events all on his own.
Most of the time, though, we stay in sketchy hotels and meet people in alleyways and abandoned buildings. Sometimes , we fly by helicopter, on government aircraft, or on diplomatic flights. But usually, we fly on commercial flights because it’s the most inconspicuous way to travel. Especially when we’ve got impeccable false IDs and a good cover story.
And because intelligence almost always has to be acted on quickly, flights are often nearly full, and the only available seats are the middle seats in coach.
I’m a tall guy. I’ve got broad shoulders, too, and sometimes that causes an issue, but it’s my legs that are the bigger problem— they don’t exactly fit within the confines of the middle seat.
Usually , I try to fold my legs up against the seat in front of me. Then , I make friends with the person in the aisle seat, and within five minutes, they offer to swap seats with me out of pity. On this flight, though, the guy in the aisle seat, a man with a broad forehead yet narrow-set eyes, doesn’t want to chat. And doesn’t offer to swap seats. He mostly just seems annoyed and keeps muttering something in Serbian that I am pretty sure means, “ Maybe you should’ve booked your flight sooner if you didn’t want a middle seat.”
Which , fair enough. He probably booked his early to make sure he got that aisle seat. So I just sit with my knees folded like an origami crane against the seat in front of me, praying that the person sitting there wouldn’t lean their seat back. I angle my shoulders so I wouldn’t hit the annoyed man in the aisle seat or the man in the window seat who apparently can fall asleep in four seconds flat.
Zoe is in a seat somewhere closer to the front of the plane. She’s probably between two yoga instructors who take up no space, whisper motivational quotes during the flight, and offer to share the extra lavender-scented neck pillows they brought.
Ten minutes after takeoff, I’m wondering how I’m ever possibly going make it through a five-hour flight when someone in the aisle seat one row up, on the opposite side of the aisle, gets up to head to the restroom. We make eye contact, and I give her a big smile. As soon as she sees my predicament, she offers to trade seats. I thank her profusely and swap.
What she failed to mention before swapping is that her seat is next to a toddler with an unrelenting runny nose and a mom in the window seat who is fast asleep. The toddler is either hopped up on sugar or secretly downed his mom’s coffee, and for four hours and fifty minutes, I get to be his jungle gym. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the runny nose and the kid’s Goldfish cracker obsession, which he never stops attempting to hook me on.
But at least my knees can be in the aisle. Where they beg to be hit by the drink cart. And sometimes the flight attendants. And every passenger heading to the restroom. One flight attendant seems personally offended that my legs are the length they are and is targeting them. I consider asking if she is single so I can hook her up with Annoyed Guy a row back. I think they’ll get along well.
The longer the flight goes on, the more tiredness settles on me. It’s after midnight my time, and with the rough night of sleep on the flight to Ireland , I am exhausted. I manage to fall asleep and get in a solid ninety seconds before the toddler tries to push a sticky Goldfish cracker up my nose.
We finally land, and I hobble off the plane to find that Zoe is looking bright-eyed, beautiful, and refreshed. Of course, she is.
Luckily , we have an English -speaking, Serbian -native CIA operative, Damjan Petrovi? , pick us up so we don’t have to get a rental car. For being a covert intelligence operative, the man has no problem giving us all the information about himself that intelligence operatives normally hold tight to.
Within the first five minutes of the drive toward our hotel, we learn that he grew up in a suburb of Belgrade , went to the U.S . for college, has a photographic memory, was recruited by the CIA , and has been stationed in Belgrade ever since graduating. He’s got three sisters, two of which are married to guys who are “buldala”s, which I’m pretty sure means idiots. The other sister is married to a guy who’s been his best friend for years. Oh , and his favorite color is olive, like the long-sleeved polo he is wearing, and he’s obsessed with retro video games.
All in five minutes. The guy is an open book. I could probably even ask him for his passwords and he’ll give them to me. I wonder how he’s survived as a covert operative.
He’s also terrible at driving, which he doesn’t need to tell us, since we’ve figured that one out all on our own. He’ll suddenly turn onto a street when all clues point to him going straight, announcing that he’s taking a shortcut. Either “shortcut” doesn’t mean the same thing here, or it’s his way of avoiding surveillance. I’m hoping it’s the latter.
The back seat is small, so Zoe and I aren’t sitting very far apart. But still, when Damjan suddenly turns right very unexpectedly, the momentum sends Zoe hurling in my direction. With the grace of a startled cat, her arms fly out to stop herself, and her elbow finds a highly uncomfortable landing spot in my ribs. I wish she wouldn’t have tried stopping herself because I could’ve handled her falling into me just fine. Then I remember I’m trying to divert my mind from thoughts like that.
She’s opening her mouth, possibly to apologize, possibly to tell me that it’s payback for comparing her to the woman in the painting at the gallery, when Damjan takes a quick left, sending me toward Zoe . I manage to put one hand on the back window and the other on the front seat, keeping me from falling into Zoe . In my head, I’m putting a win tally mark in my column for that one.
Zoe and I share a look. It’s like Damjan learned how to drive inside a pinball machine.
“ And here’s your hotel,” Damjan says as he screeches to a stop in front of a building with sand-colored stone, windows framed in dark wood, and a broad archway leading to the front doors. “ I told you I’d get you here in one piece.” He looks at his watch. “ And before ten p.m., just like I promised. Here’s the spare set of keys. I’ll get the car parked in the garage so it’ll be waiting for you in the morning. Keep me updated— I’m here to help with whatever you need.”
We grab our bags and get out of the car. As we are walking into the building, Zoe looks at me with wide eyes and an expression that says she was left a little traumatized and a bit nauseous by that drive. I just grin. “ It’s all part of the adventure, right?”
“ Like riding a roller coaster.” Then she adds, “ The day before they condemn it and tear it down.”
I laugh as we head into the lobby. It’s pretty big. There’s a café that takes up a good portion of the space, and it looks like they serve coffee and pastries, with plenty of round tables to sit at. Even though it’s late, there are still a few guests chatting over drinks. Traditional Serbian textiles and artwork— maybe even by local artists— are displayed on the walls. And all of the signage is not just in Serbian , it’s also in English and German .
We walk up to the counter to check in before it occurs to me that maybe we should’ve asked Damjan to come translate for us. Serbian is a teeny bit like Russian , which I can speak fine, but it’s not close enough for me to know actual words. The guy behind the counter has a long nose, dark hair peppered with gray, and is wearing a tailored suit and an air of confidence. He says something, and I open Google translate and fumble over the words, “ Morato de se prijavimo,” which I don’t even get remotely right, based on the guy’s expression.
I turn to Zoe . “ I can speak Arabic , Farsi , French , and Russian , but not Serbian . What have you got?”
“ Arabic , Farsi , Mandarin , Czech , and Hindi .”
Of course, she can speak five. She always has to win.
The guy hears us speaking to each other, though, and says, “ You speak English ? I speak English .”
I let out a relieved breath and tell him that we need to check in. I get out the words, “ It should be under the name…” before it hits me that I didn’t read this part of the mission briefing to know whether it’s under my name or not.
Zoe cuts in and says, “ Kaila Sonnenschein .”
I raise an eyebrow at her and she just shrugs in a way that makes me imagine her saying, “ What ? I like the name Kaila . Sometimes I just want to be Kaila .” At least Sonnenschein starts with an S , just like Zoe’s actual last name.
Based on how things don’t seem to be where the guy checking us in thinks they should be and the way his eyes rove around as if he’s trying to keep track of everything going on in the hotel, I’m guessing he’s the manager and doesn’t usually check guests in. Our cover story is that we are in Belgrade on business for our restaurant chain, so I start up a conversation with him, commiserating over employees calling in sick or just not even showing up. Or , worst of all, quitting over text. And how it leaves all their work to be covered by the manager.
It must be a sore spot for the man and he was in desperate need of an understanding ear because he fires right up. And then he says he’s giving us a great room. We chat for a bit, and he asks what we are in town for. I tell him that Kaila and I are scouting restaurant locations.
“ Oh , what is your restaurant chain called?”
“ Bite Nite Burgers ,” I tell him. It’s a cover business I’ve used often— it has come in very handy over the years. It’s verifiable, too, complete with pocket litter. “ It’s a vampire-themed burger joint.”
As the man activates our room key cards, he says, “ Please tell me that you serve your burgers with a big toothpick in the top, like a stake in the heart.”
I smile. “ That we do.”
“ And do you have one with a garlic aioli sauce?” he asks, looking hopeful and more than a bit excited. “ You know, to keep the vampires away.”
“ The Count Chuck -ula Burger . ”
He claps his hands. “ And do you serve it with fang-tastic fries and ketchup?”
“ We just call them fries.” I turn to Zoe . “ We should suggest a change, don’t you think?”
She looks like she’s annoyed that we are just standing here, chatting, but she nods. Then the man says to her, “ What is your favorite menu item?”
“ It has to be the Nosfera - Tots ,” Zoe says. “ They’re bite-sized potato tots that are delicious.” Okay , I’m impressed that she came up with that on the spot. The woman is definitely quick on her feet.
“ Oh ! Because Nosferatu slept in dirt, and potatoes grow in the dirt! Brilliant ! Maybe you can put one of your restaurants across the street. The grill there is awful . They always overcook their meat because they’re too busy bickering over who chooses the best music. For the record: it’s none of them. They’re all just as bad at choosing music as they are at grilling.”
I tell him that we’ll check it out, and I give him my business card, which has one of my cover names, Lincoln Lombardi , on it, along with the Bite Nite Burgers logo, website, and a phone number that redirects to Kella . Then he gives us our keys and tells us where our room is.
As we step into the elevator with our luggage and the doors start to close, Zoe hisses, “ That legendary friendliness of yours? You’re supposed to use it to turn assets. When checking into a hotel, you want to not be memorable. Not get the manager of the place to weave you a friendship bracelet. Do you know nothing about being a covert operative?”
I glance over at her. She looks mad, like I just compromised our mission or something. But I shake my head. “ I disagree. It’s good to have friends everywhere. You never know when it’ll make a difference.” And sometimes, it’s enough if that “difference” is simply the amusement of connecting with someone six time zones away from home over vampire-themed burgers and flaky employees after a really long, very tiring day.
The elevator doors open, and Zoe leaves first, apparently not too tired to angrily speed walk down the hall with her bag over her shoulder. “ The room’s this way,” I say, trying to hide the smile in my voice, and she stops in her tracks. I see her shoulders rise and fall from her deep breath before she turns and heads back toward me. I open the door to our suite and she goes inside.
The place is nice. It has a large living room with a couch and a couple of padded chairs, a coffee table, end tables, two desks, a kitchenette area with a mini fridge and microwave, and a small table. There are doors on opposite sides of the room that presumably lead to each of our bedrooms.
It’s a little strange to share a common area like this with Zoe . Except for the one mission a year and a half ago where we spent the bulk of the time staking out an abandoned building, our missions that crossover usually go something like this: I work hard on gathering intel, find a lead on a piece of information I need, and go on a mission to get it. Then , either I get there first and grab it before Zoe shows up and I flaunt that I got it first, or she gets there first and flaunts that she has it .
But staying in a place like this that resembles a home? It’s just so domestic . And we don’t do domestic. I don’t know how to be in this space with her. How do I act? How do I feel? I have no idea. But with the arm not holding my bag, I motion to the room. “ See what making friends gets you?”
Zoe drops her bag. “ We don’t need nice rooms; we need a successful mission.”
“ We’ll get the successful mission.” Because I’m not about to be unsuccessful on a mission, and I know Zoe isn’t, either. “ Tomorrow , you’ll dress up as Eliza …” I can see the last name Cholmondeley in my head, but I can’t remember how it’s pronounced. “ Chumley ” comes to mind, but surely, it’s not that. So I skip it and go for her code name instead “…‘ Mona Liza ’ in nice rooms instead of a hovel, and we’ll place the tracker like the pros that we are.”
I’ve barely finished saying the sentence when my secure phone rings. It’s my mom. Even before I press to answer it, I pull my RF detector from my bag as Zoe is pulling an NLJD from hers and we both start sweeping for bugs with the equipment and with well-trained eyes. I press answer. “ Hello ?”
“ Hi . Did your flight go well?”
“ Well enough. But hold on because we just got to the room and haven’t finished sweeping it yet…” I glance at my watch. It’s about 4:30 p.m. for her. “ Okay , the sweep is done. We’re all clear.”
My mom’s voice had initially been chatty, but with the “all clear” news, she instantly switches into CSA Director mode, and her voice matches the role. “ I’ve got mission news, so if Zoe is there with you and you’re alone, you can put me on speaker.”
I do, and Zoe steps closer so I don’t have to turn the volume up any higher than needed. There’s a buzz between us that’s always there when we are close, and it does something to my chest. So , like I always do, I divert my thoughts to the mission, which is pretty easy to do with the director on the phone talking about it.
“ We got word tonight that… Mona Liza didn’t get on her flight.” The way my mom paused before saying the code name for the appraiser tells me she’s not entirely comfortable with the name “ Mona Liza .” I’m now one hundred percent convinced that Charlie must’ve given the appraiser that nickname early on and it stuck. “ She was supposed to travel on the red-eye from England to Belgrade , and we were going to delay her in customs until you completed your mission in the morning.”
I turn to face Zoe , and we both just look at each other, knowing that the plan we’d had for this mission as we walked into the room is no longer going to be the plan.
“ Both Emerson’s and Kenneth’s teams have been searching online chatter and they’ve caught wind of a by-invitation-only auction in Belgrade , and we think it’s at the same mansion that the Trust art piece is at. Mona Liza was previously in Austria , so we believe that instead of heading home to the UK for a few days before flying to Belgrade , she just took an overnight train straight from Austria to Belgrade to give her extra time to prepare for the auction. ”
“ So no more impersonating Mona Liza ,” Zoe says.
“ No . We were relying on Zoran Savovi? , the owner of the mansion, having not met Mona Liza in person, but we believe she arrived at his place three days ago, so you no longer will look similar enough to pull off the impersonation.”
I ask, “ When is the auction?”
“ In five days.”
Zoe nods. “ That might be when the team trying to steal the art pieces will act. So we’ll need to come up with a new plan to get to the art piece and plant the tracker before then.”
“ Yes ,” the director says. “ There is word that the collectors who they invited can request a private viewing before the auction. But the only way to get a private viewing is to be on the guest list.”
“ So we need to get our names on that guest list,” I say.
“ Agreed . But I know you’ve both had a long day and likely have jet lag, so I’ll let you head to bed. Keep me updated.”
As soon as I end the call, Zoe says, “ All right, so we should brainstorm a plan to get us on that list.”
“ In the morning,” I say, picking up my bag and walking toward the door on the right since it’s closer.
“ No , tonight .”
I turn to face her. “ You slept on the plane, didn’t you?”
She stretches like she just woke up. “ Yes , and it was glorious. So restful. Now let’s plan.”
I actually can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. She would’ve claimed the win for a restful flight even if she hadn’t slept a wink. “ You can never stop working, can you?”
“ Hello . We are on a mission. It’s kind of how these things work. We have to always be on top of our game.”
“ Which we will be only if we get sleep,” I tell her. It’s been a long day in a different time zone. “ We’ll come up with a better plan in the morning when we’ve got fresh minds than we ever could tonight. How about we get together right after my run?” I know that adding in a run is going to frustrate her, but I can’t help it. It’s just too easy. Plus , I really like starting the day with a run.
“ You are infuriating! I care about the success of this mission.”
“ Oh , I know you do.” If nothing else, I admire her passion. The way she can get so fired up about things is actually very impressive. And , okay, she’s really good at being an operative. She’s also unbelievably attractive. I could write an entire sonnet just about her looks. Me . The guy who came this close to taking a C in English Lit my sophomore year, nearly destroying my perfect GPA , because I refused to write one.
Even standing there in her soft pants and matching tee, underhandedly accusing me of not caring about this mission, I have to admire her ability to achieve her objectives, even if I don’t admire the lengths she will go to do it. But I will never let her know how much I admire her ever again.
Nope . Now , if I’m forced to work with her, I just have to find joy in needling her.
“ What is that supposed to mean?” she asks .
“ That you’ll succeed at any cost.”
“ And that’s a bad thing?”
Bag still in hand, I cross my arms. “ It depends on the cost.” She succeeded at the cost of me once. She probably doesn’t even have a line she won’t cross. No cost is too high for her.
“ Meanwhile , you only care about succeeding if it seems fun. Or if it doesn’t interrupt your ability to have fun. Do you even care about completing this mission?”
My eyes narrow at Zoe . I care about winning a lot . Just like I didn’t take that C in English Lit back then, I don’t settle for mediocre now. I want a win in my column every single time . But I do have a line I won’t cross. And I could argue my points all night. But , instead of saying something I might regret in the morning, I just say, “ Goodnight , Zoe .”
Then I turn and walk into my room.