“Umm…” Gabby turned it over in her hand. All she could think of was Gwyneth putting a crystal in her vajayjay. Sincerely confused, she leaned across the desk and loud-whispered, “Am I supposed to insert this?”
Aspen leaned across the desk conspiratorially. In a hushed tone, she said, “Feel free to do whatever you want in the honeymoon cottage. Spit, swallow, and put anything up there you want.”
Gabby blinked back.
“Let us know if you need any assistance. The Loves have left instructions to take particularly good care of you.”
Gabby glanced over at their imposing portrait and smiled back numbly. Assistance with what?
Markus placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the room. “Let’s get you to the cottage, shall we?”
Gabby nodded. It was time to collect herself before she said something stupid.
The honeymoon cottage wasn’t a cottage but a beachfront luxury retreat. Small enough to create a sense of intimacy, but large enough to provide everything a person could want. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in an ice bucket on the counter alongside two crystal flutes.
Finally alone, they stupidly stared at each other. Tired from traveling, wired about the mission, and in the midst of a honeymoon fantasy. The silence left space for the awkwardness to bloom.
“Want some champagne?” Gabby asked, shifting the bottle in its bed of ice.
“Not yet, baby,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
What he really meant was “Let’s go pick up the spy stuff at the designated location at the designated time.” They wouldn’t be able to speak freely in the cottage until they swept for listening devices. Markus had arranged a dead drop with their Portuguese liaison at a secluded spot on the beach. All they had to do was casually stroll down the sand until they found a large rattan beach bag filled with countersurveillance equipment, comms, phones, defensive measures, and who knows what else.
“Absolutely. I want to feel the sand in my toes.” She didn’t, but in case anyone was listening, she wanted to make it sound natural. On her last mission, she’d been pinch-hitting. This was her first mission as a proper field agent who threw around phrases like “dead drop” and “countersurveillance” as casually as “laundry” or “damn it, my kids have a science fair tomorrow.”
Gabby wasn’t just playing at this anymore. She was a spy.
Besides the dead drop, which she was trying to be very casual about, they had to familiarize themselves with the layout of the resort. They’d studied aerial photos, but things looked different on the ground. They needed to figure out where all the key players were staying, as well as ingress and egress from all important buildings. Not to mention a PACE plan, which was the stop, drop, and roll of communication. Apparently, they required a primary, alternate, contingent, and emergency communication strategy.
Markus slipped on something that she would describe as “James Bond at the beach,” black shorts and a casual button-down shirt.
“Are you going to button your shirt?”
He looked down at his chiseled core like it was a roast beef sandwich. No, that’s how she was looking at it. “What? This is how you’re supposed to dress on vacation.”
“Is it?” Maybe it was, but he wasn’t supposed to look so good doing it. “It’s like I’m about to go on a walk with you and your abs.” She pantomimed meeting someone. “Hi, this is my fiancé, George, and these”—she gestured like Vanna White showing off aWheel of Fortuneprize package—“are his abs.”
He slipped on a smile to go with his bare chest. “Says the woman dressed like Catwoman.”
“Stop it. You like this outfit?” She was wearing the black exercise onesie that the Disguises department had packed for her. “I thought it highlighted some of my problem areas.”
“Oh, they’re problem areas all right,” he said, blowing out a breath.
“Really?” She looked down at everything below her bust line.
Markus glanced at the clock. “We’d better get going.”
2100 hours, sunset, the beach
The dead drop was a leisurely stroll through paradise. In the Azores, it was the afternoon, and Gabby was on a romantic vacation, but mentally Gabby was in LA, battling to-do lists and traffic. She blinked into the perfect afternoon sun, trying to orient herself.
Markus’s shirt billowed like he was on a photo shoot. He had the audacity to take her hand.
“We have to sell the romance,” he said, “for our cover.”
It was basic spy stuff—a couple draws less attention than a single man, or even a single woman. Especially at a couple’s retreat.
“There it is.” Markus pointed to a boho beach bag under a designated chair. It looked like someone had forgotten it after sunbathing. Per the plan, the liaison had left it there not ten minutes earlier.
