A Covert Affair Read online

  Also by Susan Mann

  THE LIBRARIAN AND THE SPY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Covert Affair

  SUSAN MANN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Susan Mann

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE LIBRARIAN AND THE SPY

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Mann

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4331-7

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4334-8

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4334-4

  To Stanley Wolpert, Professor Emeritus,

  UCLA Department of History,

  whose History of India course

  made a lasting impression

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m blessed to be surrounded by wonderful people on this grand adventure of mine. First and foremost, I’m grateful for the love and support of my husband, Ken, our daughter, Sarah, my parents, and my brothers and their families. Thank you to my marvelous agent, Rena Rossner of the Deborah Harris Agency, for her dedication and hard work on my behalf. My editor, Esi Sogah, is insightful, patient, and brilliant. It’s my privilege to work with her and the entire Kensington Publishing team. Thank you to Ken and Russ for reading and speaking into the early drafts of this story. To my lunch companions, Lisa and Rebecca, thank you for listening when I go on and on about life, librarians, and spies. Added thanks to Rebecca for sharing her social media savvy with me. Friends, both face-to-face and Internet, you are the best. Finally, this long-ago history major would like to thank UCLA Professor Stanley Wolpert for bringing the History of India to life.

  Chapter One

  “Don’t move,” a voice said from directly behind her.

  The library book nearly jumped from Quinn Ellington’s hand. Standing alone in the stacks, she’d been so absorbed in its pages she hadn’t perceived her stalker’s movements. While she chided herself for being caught unawares, she was pacified by the knowledge that had she not immediately recognized the voice, its owner would be doubled over and gasping for air after receiving an elbow to the gut.

  Two arms slid around her waist and held her tight. She smiled and said, “Now, why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

  Chills raced through her when James Anderson kissed her neck and then straightened. “Ready to go?”

  “Almost.” She spun around, gripped his tie, and tugged him into a lingering kiss. She went nearly cross-eyed when she pulled back and looked at him nose to nose. “Now I’m ready.”

  He pinned her against the metal shelf with his body and gave her a kiss that had her knees buckling. He lifted his head and gave her a lopsided smile. “Me too.”

  Once assured her legs wouldn’t give out from under her, she pushed away from the shelves and led him through the stacks to her desk. She set the book down and slipped on the jacket of her pantsuit. She couldn’t wear jeans to work anymore, something she greatly lamented. It was one of the trade-offs when she accepted her grandfather’s offer to work for the CIA.

  James peered down at the book. “Women of the OSS. What are you working on?”

  “I’d tell you—”

  “But then you’d have to kill me. I know,” James finished. “I’m pretty sure you can tell me without getting in trouble.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right, Mr. I Have a Security Clearance and You Don’t,” she teased. “For the record, I’m working on something pretty cool. One of the recruiters who visits college campuses is preparing a presentation that highlights some of the women who worked in intelligence in the past. She asked me to find some interesting stories.”

  “It won’t be long before you’re one of those women with interesting stories.”

  “We’ll see. It’ll be a while, since I haven’t . . .” She was going to say, “Since I haven’t trained at the Farm yet,” but stopped. Other than the head librarian, none of her library coworkers knew the plan for her to become a covert operative. Only a handful of people within the agency did.

  James nodded. “No matter what happens in the future, you already have one good story under your belt.”

  “That’s true.”

  On their way out, Quinn stopped by her boss’s office and knocked lightly on the door. At the muffled “Come in,” she pushed it open and poked her head through the gap.

  Linda Sullivan looked up from her computer. “Hello, Quinn. What can I do for you?” Six weeks before, Linda had told Quinn the information they collected, maintained, and provided to agency directorates was vital to national security and the safety of Americans around the world. By the time she left Linda’s office that first day, Quinn was ready to do anything asked of her.

  “I wanted to remind you I’ll be away from the library for an hour or so,” Quinn said.

  “Thanks for checking in. You have an escort?”

  “James Anderson.” Without her clearance, she wasn’t free to walk unaccompanied around CIA headquarters.

  “Excellent. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Quinn pulled her head back and gently shut the door.

  Quinn and James left the library and, after a short elevator ride, walked down a long corridor to their destination. They stepped into a front office and were met by a young man behind a desk. “Ms. Ellington, Mr. Anderson. Go on in. He’s expecting you.”

  “Thank you,” Quinn said.

  Supervising Officer Aldous Meyers, her and James’s Clandestine Services boss, glanced up from scribbling notes in a file. “Thank you, James.”

  “Yes, sir.” He gave Quinn an encouraging smile before he
stepped out and closed the door.

  Meyers indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Quinn sat as directed and waited. The acid roiling in her stomach was about to burn a hole in its lining.

  He dropped his pen, folded his hands in front of him, and looked at Quinn with a penetrating gaze. “I hear from your instructors you’re doing well in your unclassified training.”

  She resisted the urge to slump in relief. “That’s good to know. Thank you.”

  “So well, in fact, I want to see you in action. I have a minor op for you this afternoon.”

  “Oh, okay.” She paused. “Yes, sir.”

  “You sound hesitant,” Meyers said. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that I thought we weren’t allowed to run ops on US soil.”

  Meyers’s lips twitched. “Yes, that’s true. I’ve already cleared this with the appropriate domestic authorities.”

  “Of course.” She could kick herself for questioning him.

  He picked up a folder and handed it to her. “Your task is to follow this man.”

  She flipped it open. The man pictured appeared to be around sixty years of age. His hair was gray, as were his eyes and bushy beard. With his thick-rimmed, black glasses, he was rather monochromatic.

  “His name is Karl Bondarenko, a Ukrainian weapons engineer. Our intel indicates he’s developed an honest-to-God death ray and is in DC today to meet with a potential buyer. We need to know who that buyer is. All we need you to do is follow him and take pictures of whomever he meets with. Once we get photos of a face or two, other officers will take it from there.”

  “That doesn’t sound too difficult. Follow him and take pictures.” She studied the photo. “Will he have the weapon with him?”

  “We believe the meet is only to discuss a deal, not deliver a product. If he does have a working prototype, he most likely has it stashed somewhere.”

  “What if he does have it with him and hands it off to the buyer? What do I do?”

  “Operatives in the field can’t call in every time they’re faced with a decision.”

  That wasn’t a helpful answer. While she was excited to be given the opportunity to stretch her fledgling operative wings, she was also keenly aware how important it was to not screw up. If Bondarenko’s weapon fell into the wrong hands, lives would certainly be at stake. The sudden weight of responsibility felt heavy on her shoulders.

  “Any other questions?” he asked.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s registered at the Elegance Hotel in Georgetown. You’ll start there. Also, do not discuss your task with anyone. Good luck.” He extended his hand.

  She gave him the file and left.

  James rose from his chair in the outer office and gave her a questioning look. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Can you escort me back to the library and then out of the building? I have an errand to run.”

  “Sure.” He opened the door for her, and as they walked toward the elevators, James asked, “Is it something I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks. I got it.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t have much going on today. I can go with you.” He pressed the button to summon an elevator.

  The doors slid open. “That’s nice of you, but like I said, I got it.” They stepped on and rode in silence.

  Back at the library, James waited by the front desk while Quinn popped into Linda’s office to tell her she had something she had to take care of and would be out for the rest of the day. Then she snagged her bag and was out the door again.

  They arrived at the building’s exit security checkpoint. James stopped her just before she was to go through. “Come on, Quinn. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Why was he being so pushy? “I can’t. Let it go, okay?”

  “You know how I worry about you.” His face hung like a scolded puppy’s.

  Her aggravation with him dropped away and her tone softened. “I know you do, but it’s no big deal.”

  “Can you at least tell me if you can still go to dinner with me tonight?”

  She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I’m not sure how long this will take. I’ll call you later and let you know. I promise.”

  “Fine,” he said, still sounding wounded.

  She turned, went through security, and exited the building. As she strode to her truck, she turned James’s odd behavior over in her mind. Her grumbled conclusion was “Men are weird.”

  Chapter Two

  Nervous excitement swirled inside Quinn as she sat in the lobby of the Elegance Hotel with a Brick Cobalt spy novel open in her hands. Of course at that moment, she wasn’t actually reading it. It worked as a great prop while she kept watch for Bondarenko. It paid to always carry a paperback in her purse.

  Adrenaline surged through her when the fancy brass elevator doors glided open, revealing Bondarenko like a prize on a TV game show.

  Her head stayed bent over her book while her eyes tracked her quarry. Bondarenko, briefcase in hand, exited the elevator and walked across the lobby and out the door.

  As her training dictated, Quinn didn’t immediately jump up and follow him. She stayed in her chair and watched him through the window. He turned right and started up the sidewalk.

  Careful not to appear too obvious, Quinn deliberately placed her bookmark between the pages, closed the book, and returned it to her purse. Then she slipped on her sunglasses and ambled out onto the sidewalk.

  Bondarenko was half a block ahead. At the next corner, he made a right.

  A few seconds later, Quinn rounded the corner and exhaled a relieved breath when she spotted him. She remained a respectable distance behind him and hoped she blended in with her fellow pedestrians enjoying the warm, early May sunshine.

  The Ukrainian crossed to the other side of the street and entered a pub.

  Quinn did the same.

  The tavern brimmed with historic charm. It was one of those cramped spaces with wood everywhere. Tiffany-style lamps hung from the ceiling and cast circles of light on the bar and tables. Natural light streaming in from the window that fronted the pub helped brighten the room.

  Only a handful of patrons sat scattered throughout the place, so Quinn had no trouble spotting Bondarenko. He sat alone at one of the tables near the bar. She meandered through the maze of tables and chairs and took a seat on one of the wooden barstools. From her vantage point, she could keep an eye on Bondarenko’s table in the mirror behind the bar.

  She ordered a Coke from the bartender and took out her phone, ready to snap pictures when Bondarenko’s contact arrived.

  A few minutes later, a man slid onto the stool next to Quinn. She cringed when he turned to her and said, “So, do you come here often?”

  She glanced at him and gave him a polite smile. Easily twenty years older than her, his mustache was as cheesy as his pickup line. The cocky, smarmy vibe he gave off made her skin crawl.

  Hoping to discourage any attempt at conversation, she looked back down at her phone to convey disinterest. In a bored voice, she answered, “My first time.”

  “Oh, a virgin,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

  Ugh. What a colossal douche. Her teeth were clenched so tight her jaw began to ache.

  Bondarenko stood and made his way toward the men’s room. As he did, he brushed past her in the tight space between her and the chair behind. Quinn picked up her glass and sipped her Coke, not only to hide her face from the man she was following but to swallow down the venom she itched to spew at the ass next to her.

  Smarmy Douche Canoe swiveled toward her and leaned in as she set her drink down. “You know, sweetheart, if you’re new in town, I can show you around.” The stale alcohol on his breath made her nose wrinkle as she tilted away from him. “I can show you a really good time.”

  The muscles in her face twitched while indignation flared hot in her chest. It was all she could do not to slap the smug
bastard’s mug with such force his knocked-out teeth would shoot across the room and embed in the wall.

  She gulped down more Coke and glanced into the mirror. Bondarenko’s table remained empty. “No, thanks. I have my boyfriend for that.”

  “I bet your boyfriend can’t show you as good a time as I can.”

  So help me, if he touches me I’m gonna break his arm. Without looking at him, she said, “Not interested.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that,” he pouted.

  She couldn’t take it anymore. Unless she got away from Smarmy Douche Canoe, she was going to haul off and deck the guy. Not wanting to call attention to herself, she decided escape was her best option. She grabbed her purse and fled to the ladies’ room.

  In the end, it worked out well. She took up a position at the restroom door. Peering through the crack, she kept watch for Bondarenko’s exit from the men’s room.

  Another few minutes passed and the Ukrainian still hadn’t emerged. He was either suffering from some serious intestinal distress—maybe he’d downed some dubious oysters and was paying for it—or something had happened. Worry began to gnaw at her middle.

  When a man exited the men’s room, she popped out from behind the door. “My uncle has been in there a while. Is he okay? Black glasses? Bushy gray beard?”

  “Sorry,” he answered and hiked his thumb at the door behind him. “There was no one else in there.”

  Tingling alarm buzzed through her. “It’s empty?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” The man turned and walked away.

  Quinn pushed open the door, leaned in, and scanned the bathroom. Unless Bondarenko was standing on the toilet in the stall so she couldn’t see his feet, it was as the man said. Empty.

  Her mind flooded with questions as panic rose. How did he get past her without her noticing? Had she been so distracted by Smarmy Douche Canoe she didn’t see Bondarenko leave? Why did he leave before the meet? Maybe the meet had already happened and he simply came to the pub for a drink. The worst question imaginable hit her: What if he was on his way to the meet now and she’d lost him?