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ride?
    “What’s the next step?” She’s not quite looking me, but not quite avoiding it, either.
    “Weekend off. Regroup and strategize Monday.”
    She nods, but doesn’t move toward the door handle yet.
    “Big plans this weekend?” I ask. Because I certainly don’t have any. Maybe . . . ?
    “Catching up on casework.”
    Her cover job sucks. I don’t know how she has a life outside the CIA and her 80-hour law firm weeks. I guess she doesn’t have one.
    She might not need one. She meets my gaze, a smile behind her eyes.
    I still don’t know what’s happening here, but it’s steadily becoming something I’m okay with.
    Shanna’s face pops into my mind — but she needs time. So I’m giving it to her. For all I know, she might say “time” but mean “forever.” She might dump me.
    Okay, not super likely, but things are definitely up in the air.
    Talia bails to begin the SDR on her way to her meeting with an asset. I almost head into the office to start on the report — until I remember how much we need to stay away from Congress and off the books.
    Even with a free weekend, I don’t know if I’ll have enough time to figure out the next move before it’s too late, before the next meeting or that reception —
    The reception.
    I don’t bother to hide the grin slipping onto my lips. That might be our ticket out of this mess.
     

     
    Monday afternoon, I’m waiting for Angela’s translation of my weekend tapes when Talia practically bounds into our “law firm,” done putting in her time at her real firm. Could be a little spring in her step, but it’s hard not to notice every time she crosses the office in that skirt, even if it’s not short or tight.
    I’m guessing her weekend case file catch-up went well, since she didn’t answer my texts Saturday afternoon. My weekend was pretty good. If avoiding cosmic justice and a fourth set of guards while flying solo outside the Emirati embassy Saturday night, getting another promising recording of the ambassador and his wife, and sending that to Angela without anyone noticing counts as “pretty good.”
    Hint: it’s better than “pretty good.”
    And Monday’s looking better than pretty good, too, even when I catch myself watching Talia cross the office again.
    Whoa. No. Can’t do that here. Too many eyes.
    She’s playing it much cooler. Already been in half an hour and hasn’t found a reason to talk to me. I turn to my email and luck out with a distraction windfall: Angela’s reply. The subject line alone is enough for me to motion Talia over: you SURE we don’t need approval for this?
    Talia waits until Will is fully engaged with Justin and César in his office to bounce over to my desk.
    “How was your meeting Friday night?” I ask, like I don’t have anything important to share, though the look on my face probably betrays me.
    She purses her lips. “Routine.” Which sounds more like too routine — throwing good money after old facts, old tips, old news. “Figured out our next move?”
    “Almost.” I open the email, and we both lean in to read the monitor.
    Once again, one line in particular jumps out at me: they’ll meet again after the rights reception. Perhaps you can make a good impression there .
    The wife again. How could she know that already?
    Talia repeats my question.
    I shake my head. “I doubt Jamesy even knows they’re meeting again yet.”
    “I don’t like this.”
    Neither do I. The Emiratis might be our friends, but no matter how close we need to keep them to make sure they stay that way, they should not know about every little meeting with our ambassador’s staff. That feeling of something’s really, really wrong here creeps down my neck like a millipede with frostbite.
    “I tracked down James. The Transport Canada guy.” Talia pauses, glancing up, recalling something. “He’s the Assistant Deputy Minister over Policy.”
    “Policy, huh? Like deciding how many Emirati flights to let in–type