The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

at Demon, who rose in anticipation until Theo interrupted.

“No, wait! Yes, I know of Pavlo. He is my contact in Kyiv for all Bondar transactions, but I have never met him! Only emails. Not even on the phone. He is a stranger. I can’t help you. That is all I know.”

“This is where you are wrong, Theo, my friend.” He slapped his hand down on Theo’s silk pajama-covered shoulders and squeezed his neck. Theo cringed.

“I want to know everything you know about Pavlo. Every. Little. Thing.” Bridger’s hand grew tighter with each word.

Bridger looked out the window. The thin line of light had grown broader and brighter over the eastern Mediterranean. He looked at his watch, his other hand still firmly attached to Theo’s soft neck.

“Then I need you to send him an email, with the document on that USB attached. And after that, I promise I will not ask you another favor.” His fingers dug further into Theo’s neck. His shoulders curled to get away from the pain. He maxed out his grip in the soft flesh, then let go. Theo sighed with relief.

One minute later, the message was sent.

“Excellent, Theo! I do have to admit. I lied. I have one more favor to ask of you. I think this would be a wonderful time for you and Spiros to take a vacation for two weeks. No, make that a month. Starting,” Bridger looked at his watch, “right now.”

“But I—”

Instantly, there was the sound of fist meeting flesh and a high-pitched scream. Theo turned to see Spiros on his knees with his hands covering his face, spouting blood through his fingers onto the carpet. His screams were matched by Theo, who tried to get out of his chair to attend to his companion. A hand on the silk pajamas stopped him.

“The-o?” Bridger said with a malevolent smile.

“We will leave today!” the banker said.

At 5. a.m., on the drive to the airport, Bridger sent a Signal secure email with the attachment of the document picture to Peter.

“Some ammo for the bosses. Prepare to come to Kyiv. I will send the details. It is time for the barbarians to storm the gate.”

He hit send.

“You are on your own from now on,” Bridger said to Beast, who, as usual, was driving.

“Yep. I have my flight and hotel reservation.”

“Okay. The rest are in the Baseinaya Street safe house. We will be at the other site. You know to keep away. Contact the Olegs and spin up the logistics for the remote location. Then you are on your own for the surveillance.”

“No worries.”

But Bridger was worried. They were moving fast, without his typical preparation and control of the variables. He didn’t like it, but his choices were limited.

“Keep your head down and send me your updates as usual.”

“Okay, mommy,” Beast answered.

Then three electronic beeps from his phone filled the car. He knew May had sent a text message. Bridger didn’t want to, but he checked it anyway.

Status?

He didn’t answer.

Then more beeps and a text.

Status?

Bridger turned his phone off and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t in the mood to be nagged. He was in the mood to raise some hell.

33

Plausible Deniability

Great Falls, Virginia

“He isn’t answering,” May said, tossing the phone on the end table next to her couch. She picked up her half-empty second glass of wine and took a sip.

She looked around the library of her home outside Washington, D.C., along the Potomac River. She loved the beautiful view through bullet-proof glass. There was no place else she needed to be. She could do all her work from this room. She had secure communications to the Agency and a security detail patrolling the perimeter of the grounds.

“Are you surprised?” Danforth Chapel replied from the guest chair on the other side of a solid oak coffee table.

“I think he could give me the courtesy of an update. I am his boss.”

“I am not sure Bridger sees it that way all the time. I think he sees you mostly as the interfering elderly mother.”

Her eyes narrowed with real anger.

Call her a senior, and she would retort with the cliché, ‘you are only as old as feel.’ Call her elderly, and only self-control would keep her from playing darts with her perfectly manicured and razor-sharp fingernails into the unsuspecting offender’s eyes.

“Shut up, Danny.”

“It is just an observation, May.”

“If you think that—then leave.” Her voice was ice cold.

“No, I—”

“Shut up, Danny.”

She was looking over Chapel’s shoulder at her signed Norman Rockwell lithograph collection.

May loved Norman Rockwell. He was a New Englander, like May. She appreciated the irony that she had sacrificed her life and her family to protect ideals and people represented in his paintings. Plus, her father liked Rockwell. The memories of being with her father appreciating the covers of The Saturday Evening Post when she was younger were vivid and comforting. She found she needed comforting more often as she got older.

Her eyes focused back on Chapel when he subconsciously ran his hands over his trademark bright tie.

“Where are we with Kirkwood?” she said, glancing back at the wall.

“Mr. Schaeffer is proving to be quite adept at collecting information. He has obtained some materials that, if analyzed correctly, could prove embarrassing to our friends at Kirkwood.” He ran his fingertips along the outside edge of his glass.

“It was Kirkwood who wanted to have one of their people involved for some crazy notion of plausible deniability—god, I hate that Cold War phrase,” she said. “Does anyone know how hard it is to create an operational plan that is successful at plausible deniability? They are reading and watching too much espionage fiction crap. It takes planning and experience. Not an MBA.”

“I have an MBA,” Chapel said in an expressionless voice.

“You are proving my point.”

“You are one of a kind, May. A sexy, cold-hearted—aging—spy.”

She curled her fingers tight around her wine glass.

“Kirkwood wants Schaeffer to be the plausible deniability fallback—if needed?” she asked.

“Yes, and that is in motion, if needed. I am leaving in the