Timony slowed her breathing. If she breathed too deeply, it might give away their position, tucked behind a cubicle on the other side of the office. Slade seemed to be doing the same. The two of them looked at each other, and all the tension and conflict suddenly evaporated.
To two spies, the only thing that mattered was the work.
And surviving long enough to keep doing it.
This was one of the first lessons Timony had imparted to Slade, and she was glad to see her protégé still remembered.
This wasn’t a friendly visit. You don’t cut the lights and walk around with flashlights if you’re looking for someone to grab lunch with. The Russians stalking through the Bazaar’s corridors were most certainly armed, and they probably thought the floor was clear. This was not the moment to startle them.
The other option was to fight fire with fire. But they didn’t have much fire. Besides the knife in her boot, Timony was unarmed, and she could tell from the lay of Slade’s skin-hugging outfit that the woman wasn’t carrying a blaster.
Timony held her hands in fists, palms facing up, and spread out her fingers, communicating her question—How many?—in American Sign Language. Timony had insisted that Slade learn ASL, for moments exactly like this.
Slade cocked her ear. Then she alternated holding up three and four fingers.
Okay, three or four. Slade and Timony were outnumbered, but only if the Russians sent their A-team.
Timony briefly wondered what the ASL sign for “I told you so” was, but now was not the time. She spelled out A-P-T with her hand. Slade nodded, and understood: apartment.
The Russians were coming in from the other side of the building, which should give Timony and Slade a clear pathway to the apartment—which the Russians shouldn’t know about. Only the Americans knew about it: a crack in the veneer of the peace and harmony the Bazaar was supposed to stand for. If these outside agents knew about it, that meant Bazaar intel was being shared outside the org—violating the idea behind what the Bazaar was. That was the macro. The micro was the pathway, and Timony hoped these Russian agents didn’t know about it.
The two women dropped to their hands and knees and crawled toward the other side of the office, cutting through the maze of cubicles, the errant beam of a flashlight occasionally dancing around them, but never landing. Timony strained to listen to their conversations—like any good agent, she understood some Russian—but she could only catch stray words. They were talking in hushed whispers. Something about the Mosaic. And a murder, a betrayal. She thought she heard a reference to the wire but couldn’t be sure.
At the end of a row Slade froze and put her hand up in a closed fist.
Stop.
Timony froze, and heard soft steps on carpet. Slade dropped to the ground with the grace of a cat and rolled into the cubicle next to her. Timony followed her with slightly less grace, but managed to do so without making a sound.
The two women did their best to cram themselves under the desk, which wasn’t easy—whoever usually sat there must have been a hoarder, and there were piles of paper threatening to fall over. But they got in far enough that when two pairs of shoes stopped outside the desk, neither seemed suspicious.
There was a decidedly unpleasant smell that accompanied the two pairs of feet, like one of them stepped in something on the way in. Timony ignored the odor and strained to listen to the conversation the two men closest to them were having.
We don’t have long.
We can’t leave yet. Not until we find what we came for.
Did you see the message from the Mosaic? They made contact.
And it went as well as we expected. Better China than us.
Has the girl said anything?
Not yet.
Keep her safe. She works for Tobin. She hears what he hears.
The girl who works for Tobin.
Oneida?
Did the Russians have her?
Fuck.
Did it have anything to do with their meeting the other night?
Timony was playing the odds in her head when one of the pairs of shoes turned toward them. She held her breath, and glanced over at Slade, who had clamped her hand over her mouth.
They waited. Timony scanned the space for something that might be useful as a weapon, but found nothing but piles of paper. A tightly rolled magazine could work in a pinch, but if one of the Russians had a blaster, she could end up dead before she was halfway done rolling a thick stack of TPS reports.
Because they wouldn’t be sneaking around if they were okay with witnesses.
Instead of what she expected—one of the men to peer down and see them—one of them whisper-shouted: “Fyodor.”
A voice called out from the other side of the room: “What?”
“The window is closing. Let’s go.”
The feet disappeared.
Timony knew to wait, in case this was a trick to draw them out. Slade knew to do the same. Timony counted in her head, something to distract from the fear roiling in her gut, and when she got to three hundred—five minutes—she waved for Slade to move out.
The lights flickered back on just as they exited the cubicle, still on their hands and knees, and they stayed that way until they got to the janitor’s closet. They slipped in quickly, then through the false wall. When they got through and into the apartment next door, Slade breathed so deeply that Timony wondered if she was holding her breath that entire time.
The two of them sprawled out on the floor, exhausted from the mental stress. Timony stared at the popcorn ceiling, willing her heart to get down to a normal speed.
Finally, Slade said, “What the fuck was that smell?”
“Dog shit, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Slade said. “How much of that did you catch?”
“You mean outside of the conversation that happened right next to us? Not much.”
“Something about a girl who works for Tobin . . .”
“Oneida. His chief of staff,” Timony said.
“What do you think they want with her?”
Timony considered telling her about her meeting with Oneida, but despite the shared peril and the momentary laying down of arms, she still didn’t trust Slade completely. “Not sure. But if they’ve taken the chief of staff of a sitting senator, that is a really bad sign.”
“And that thing about the Mosaic . . . making contact?”
“Yeah. That is . . .”
“Yeah,” Slade said.
Making contact could mean a lot of things in the spy world, but when it came to people on a spaceship checking out a planet in a different solar system, it took on a very different meaning. The enormity of what they were dealing with sat firmly on Timony’s chest.
“What’s the play?” Slade asked.
Timony raised an eyebrow. This felt good. Comfortable. Just two spies doing their thing. She rolled onto her side and caught Slade’s eye. Gone was the steely reserve the woman had displayed in the past two days, replaced by that wide-eyed wonder that had painted Slade’s face on her first day on the job.
She’d looked so innocent in a frumpy white sweater and no makeup, and her hair had been a little less kempt. Sandwyn had led her over to Timony’s desk, said, “New recruit,” and then departed, like he was disposing of an annoying party guest. Timony didn’t even bother to contain the eye roll. She had enough on her plate, and the last thing she wanted was someone she had to teach to tie their shoes.
But the girl just stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, until Timony asked, “Do I have something on my face?”
“You’re her,” she had said.
“I’m who?”
“Corin Timony. I think half the case studies at the academy were about you.”
The swell of pride pushed away any feelings of frustration, and over the coming weeks and months Timony soon learned that the girl was a quick study. As Slade’s skills grew, so did her confidence. She began to carry herself and dress differently. Soon Timony understood: Slade didn’t want to be as good as her mentor. She wanted to be better. And despite Timony’s competitiveness, this didn’t bother her. She wanted the girl to succeed. She needed her to be better, because that made Timony better, too.
Timony sometimes wondered if that’s what it felt like to be a parent.
Now she saw that same wide-eyed girl in that moment, on the floor of the apartment. Felt that same swell of pride.
She didn’t want to respond: Fuck if I know.
“Remember what I used to say?” Timony asked.
“Always know when happy hour starts?”
Timony laughed, and Slade did, too.
“Pick the next right action, however small it is, and do that,” Slade said, reciting from memory. “The next step after that will reveal itself.”
“Nice work,” Timony said. “So the next step is: We cool our jets here for another twenty minutes in case they have someone watching the building. We want to make sure they’re gone and no one is connecting us to this. Then we figure out the next step after that.”
Slade nodded, stood, and offered her hand to Timony.
Timony took it and allowed Slade to pull her to standing.
She felt good—better than she had in a long time—now that someone was willing to put their trust in her.
She hoped she wouldn’t blow it.