Valentina told her to shut up with one stern look.
The businesses nearby were also closed, except for a Thai take-out place that Gabby would definitely be trying and a Total Wine at the end of the block. The only thing keeping those businesses alive must be Instacart and Grubhub. There was no foot traffic in this neighborhood anymore.
The outside of the building hadn’t changed. It had always been plain concrete. The cheerful red sign for International Rug still hung on the front, the final “g” dangling at an angle.
“Why didn’t they call it International Rugs? That would have made more sense,” Gabby wondered aloud.
Matter-of-factly, Valentina said, “It was run by a faction of the Russian mob. Oleg, the guy who started it, wasn’t super great at English.
“When the EOD took down his business, we confiscated his assets, including this building.”
Gabby’s jaw dropped imagining herself pushing a stroller down the aisles with zero clue she was at a mob business. And now she was working here.
Valentina explained, “The higher-ups just decided to go with the abandoned look. It’s working so far. No one seems to notice us.”
Gabby had once heard that the best spies could be easily overlooked—average height, average weight, plain clothes. Valentina applied a coat of gloss to her lips with one hand on the steering wheel. Gabby had never seen anyone less average than Valentina. That might not be a criterion.
Valentina pulled into a parking garage, at which point things became much more than average. There was a series of biometricscreenings to get into the building. Gabby remembered all the movies where someone killed a man and stole his eyeballs or a finger to gain access to a place like this. And now she, Gabby Greene, was working here, a place where her eyeballs might be stolen.
Even she had to admit that the risk of stolen eyeballs seemed pretty low. More of a Hollywood trick than a real strategy. With the soul gone, the eyes were windows to nothing, just balls of jelly. Last year, Gabby saw her grandfather die. In life, he’d been the sweet to her grandma’s spicy. When Gabby was a child, he would sneak treats to the kids before dinner when her grandma wasn’t watching. With soft brown eyes, crinkled at the edges from smiling, he’d always looked like he was about to tell a quiet joke, the kind you might miss if you weren’t listening.
“I’ll send you down to security later so that you can get in and out of the building.”
The inside of what used to be International Rug looked like a Best Buy these days, a windowless room filled with screens and gadgets. Thankfully, there were still some rugs. Intricately patterned Persian rugs gave the EOD a much-needed pop of color, and Gabby could still detect a hint of eucalyptus in the air.
Agent Strong was waiting for them in what used to be the candle section, looking stern, her hair freshly buzzed.
“Morning, Ms. Greene. I’m glad you made it.”
“If you’d told me you were at International Rug, I could have driven myself. I loved this store!”
Agent Strong gave her a perfunctory head nod and said, “I’m glad you like the office,” which wasn’t what Gabby had said at all. She had much preferred International Rug the import store to International Rug the off-the-books CIA office.
Agent Strong ushered her into the briefing room, which was 180-degrees opposite of her kitchen. No dishes or piles of paper, no kids’ backpacks. “The room has been cleared.”
“Of what?”
“Bugs. We can never be too careful.”
Gabby tried to wrap her head around that and couldn’t. Were there counterspies in the EOD?
“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Greene. Time is of the essence in this mission. It is essential that we get you up to speed ASAP.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what is happening. What was Darcy doing?” Gabby asked.
“Agent Dagger.” Alice emphasized her title in a way that made Gabby’s breathing constrict. She would feel more comfortable if they could just call Agent Dagger by her first name. She could replace a Darcy, not an Agent Dagger, though.
“Agent Dagger,” Alice continued, “was working undercover as Camille Walker, the personal assistant to the CEO of eStocks Enterprises. That is the role you will be taking over.”
Personal assistant—Gabby had that covered at least. She’d been an assistant to so many different men, including Phil. She could do that job in her sleep.
“The CEO, George Kramer, is a puppet for the Russian mob boss Sergei Orlov. Any questions so far?”
She had nothing but questions. Agent Strong might as well have been explaining calculus, but Gabby answered, “Nope. I got it.” She would rather do anything than disappoint Alice. Disappointing people was her nightmare.
Alice pulled out pictures of Sergei Orlov and George Kramer and slid them across the desk for Gabby. “We need evidence proving that Kramer is Orlov’s puppet.”
“What kind of evidence?” Gabby congratulated herself on asking a logical question.
