“Dilya?”
“Uh-huh.” A voice said from close behind her.
Abby twisted around enough to spot Dilya peeking between her and Derek’s seats from the next row behind them.
Emily waved her to circle around to join them. “Don’t underestimate Dilya based on her age or appearance. She’s as highly trained in clandestine services as you two are in military ones.”
“Except I started learning those skills when I was eleven and never stopped.” Dilya didn’t bother to blush or shrug as she sat cross-legged in the aisle beside Emily. Zackie climbed into her lap, licked Dilya’s face, then settled.
“She’s also thoroughly annoying. Never assume a conversation is private if she’s around—even if you think she isn’t.”
Dilya simply smiled at Emily’s scowl. “Or if Zackie’s around. I haven’t fitted her with a microphone but—” Dilya covered the dog’s ears “—for a Sheltie—” she uncovered them “—she’s plenty skilled.”
“Explosives or people?” Derek asked. “Or a bit of both?”
“People.”
Abby wondered just how expert the fluffy little dog needed to be to belong in this crowd.
“What Emily said about Miss Watson is a bit of an understatement. She carries the history of every major spy or spy ring, on any side, in her brain. All their techniques, most of what they knew, and much of what they learned. She’s as close to an encyclopedia of international spycraft as there is. At least we hope so. They took her by force: one dead, one casualty.” She looked down at Zackie long enough to dig her hands deep into the dog’s fur before continuing in a tight voice. “What were they after that they couldn’t just ask? All I know is that we need to get her back.”
Emily nodded. “At any cost.”
“Oh…wonderful.” Abby wondered if it was too late to sign aboard Ricky’s lobster boat for a quick career change.
39
Kentucky to England was a long eight hours. Once Beale and Dilya had stopped asking all of their hard questions, they’d left the two of them alone.
Abby wanted to talk to Ethan and Sam but both her copilot and her crew chief were crashed out. Almost everyone was. They’d been rousted before noon, the middle of their night, and done three hours of hard work in the bitter cold.
She and Derek moved a row farther away from the chill rising along the folded stairs but remained well clear of the others.
“Talk about something. Anything.” She couldn’t sleep. Abby knew she should but couldn’t. There were too many unanswered questions on every front—both professional and personal. She was worn out by thinking about the former with too little information and didn’t exactly want to jump into the latter, also with too little information.
“Well, let me see.” It was nice of Derek to not ask about what. “The first girl I ever kissed?—”
“That’s where you start?”
“If we’re going to get to know each other, there are probably stories worth telling, leastwise that’s how I figure it.”
Abby leaned her head back against the worn seat and closed her eyes. It’s not as if the cabin had any windows to distract her except for the tiny circular inspection port in the door. She flapped a hand to indicate her submission to his lack of logic.
“—was a total fiasco. Her papa caught me at it and whupped my behind good enough you can probably still see the handprints on my behind.”
“On your— How old were you?”
“I was seven if I was a day. The saucy minx who’d enticed me out behind the shed was six and cute as a newborn calf.”
“You grew up on a farm?”
“Nah, I grew up in town. Tight squeeze getting behind the garden shed. We probably shouldn’t have giggled so loud as her papa was just inside working on a broken lawn mower. What was yours?”
Abby was surprised to notice that she’d rested her hand on his forearm in sympathy. Even through the warm coat and thick shirt, she could feel the shape of his muscles. Derek had a very solid feel to him.
“Well, I’ve bared my deepest darkest secret. Your turn to give, girl from Downeast.”
“My cousin Ricky. On a lobster boat. We were both nine, I think.”
