KC had held back from her, too, beyond what she’d had to do to keep her cover intact. Yardley had been truthful when she’d said she’d never been completely sure that she was what KC wanted. But what reason had she given KC to be vulnerable when nothing she’d done had communicated whatshereally wanted?
No reason at all. Probably because Yardley had been telling herself all along that it didn’t matter. She couldn’t have it.
“Oh, damn,” Yardley whispered. “Excuse my mouth, but I don’t know how to fix this, Nan.” How was she supposed to manage loving someone the way she wanted to love KC? Inherlife?
Her nan laughed. “God help you. But you are no shrinking violet, as much as your mama’s always tried so hard to get you to act like one. I think you’re up to it. And if you’re not, well, KC will have no problem finding someone to mend her up. She’s a firecracker and an affecting flirt.”
“Nan!”
“Just a warning to keep you motivated, my dear. I’m guessing you better go.”
“I’d better. Thank you. I love you the whole ocean.”
“And I love you every fish in it. Be careful.”
Yardley set the receiver in the cradle. It was still dark, but the city was moving from its preoccupied nighttime hum to the energy of a new day. She didn’t have much time to get what she and KC needed and return to the safe house.
Something to make this mission successful and, Yardley hoped, to get to the bottom of what KC was hiding.
She took the alley behind the building with the market, then walked briskly off the main roads until she was on a small road parallel to Strändvagen that had a pedestrian tunnel underneath the busy street and would spit her out within a block of the Hotel Diplomat.
None of the bellhops and valets under its red awning paid her any attention as she strode into the lobby and straight to the women’s restroom. At this time of the morning it was serenely quiet, with not even a faucet dripping in the marble-clad, cavernous space. She locked the hydraulic hinge on the door, then counted the oversized pink-and-black marble tiles on the wall until she found the ninth one, three up.
She pulled out her pocketknife and rammed its blade along the gap in the grout. The tile eased out. She grabbed the metal case inside and pulled it down onto one of the vanities, wheeling the number combo lock around until it clicked open. From it, she took a comm set, a laptop in a Hello Kitty shell with a cross-body strap, and a signal kit, then locked up the case, shoved it back in the hole behind the tile, and replaced the marble.
Yardley had hides like this all over the world, but this was one of her favorites because the Diplomat’s bathroom always had a dish of tiny Marabou chocolate mints. Yardley grabbed six, unlocked the door, and slipped out, putting the sparkly strap of the case over her shoulder and unwrapping a chocolate as she waved at the valets.
The fifteen-minute walk back to the safe house took forty-five due to Yardley’s various evasive maneuvers. By the time she was approaching the flat, she knew there was no way everyonewouldn’t be awake and angry with her, despite the box of pastries she balanced by its string on her finger.
She’d altered her typical posture-perfect stride to mimic the antisocial scuttles of the black-clad Swedes heading into work. She took the main pedestrian walkways instead of skulking in the alleys—skulking attracted attention this early in the morning—and blended with the purposeful crowd.
All of this meant that as she approached the safe house, she immediately noticed the man standing in the street.
He wore expensive-looking wired headphones. She might have dismissed him as an urban music lover pausing to adjust the sound mix on the player cradled in his hand if it weren’t for his utter stillness.
When the man reached up to adjust his headphones, Yardley caught the quick twisting motion of his wrist as he flipped open the dish of a disguised parabolic microphone.
Spy.
Dang it. The pastries in the box were still warm.
She hadn’t worn a comm set because the one provided by the agency was hidden in a hole in the box spring of the bed KC and Flynn were sleeping on, and she hadn’t wanted them to wake up. The comm she’d just retrieved from the hotel would have to be set up before it could connect. She couldn’t signal for backup. Or warn them.
Yardley wove backward through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible, mentally setting her view above the man so she could anticipate where his associates might be.
In front of her, leaning against a set of building stairs, she spotted a woman stopping to smoke a cigarette whose lips were moving between every fake puff.
Yardley marked the silhouette of a sniper’s stand on top of a bakery on the corner.
Headphones was crossing the street now, and Cigarette had stubbed out her cover and started toward the apartment building.
Absolute focus sparked at the base of her skull, slowing her heart rate and sharpening her vision. She approached Cigarette at the steady, purposeful pace of the crowd until she could clearly see her face.
Yardley didn’t know her.
Cigarette briefly made eye contact with Yardley.
Cigarette didn’t know her, either.
