Only the wicked, p.16
Only the Wicked, page 16
part #1 of The Sinful State Series Series
Who the fuck is this guy? He’s attempting to plant a bug on me?
It’s not me he’s after. Obviously, it’s Rhodes.
My instincts kick in before conscious thought can interfere. I snatch the device mid-fall, the motion so fluid it could be mistaken for adjusting my position on the stool. Our eyes meet, and in that fraction of a second, I see his recognition that his game is blown.
Rhodes knows I’m former CIA. I don’t have to play this off.
I lift the slim rectangular device and tilt my head, raising one pointed eyebrow.
“Ian Gregory. Who are you really?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he glances over his shoulder.
Is he here with someone? The gross tan suit?
He reaches into his jacket pocket. I tense, calculating the distance to the exit, mentally mapping the positions of everyone in the room who might be part of his team. We’re in a public spot, but that doesn’t mean this couldn’t go sideways fast.
He removes a black leather badge holder, and opens it, displaying an FBI badge.
My mind races through the implications. Whatever Rhodes is involved in has attracted attention from the very agencies we believed wouldn’t touch ARGUS due to political donations. My fingers hover near my phone, ready to send an alert to Quinn if needed. The game just changed completely.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Rhodes
The driver stops to let me out at Boris Nemtsov Plaza. It’s a beautiful summer day in D.C. and a group of tourists, led by a woman with silver spectacles and a European accent, stop along the wall of the Russian Embassy. A car horn honks farther down the street, and I nod at the automobile with a lit Lyft sign perched in the window before jaywalking in front of his stopped car.
I scan the sidewalk, aware that surveillance cameras are capturing every passerby. When Ms. Victoria Romanovich suggested meeting outside the Russian Embassy, I considered declining. But, the reality is, a meeting with a Russian diplomat will be widely observed and noted. Some might argue it’s publicity for ARGUS. Now, if we met inside the embassy, rumors would spread about who I met with and questions might be asked regarding the secrecy. This way, it’s out in the open. There are no laws against meetings.
A woman in a light gray suit with shoulder length black hair approaches. Her gaze travels from me, along the street, to the sedan I climbed out of that is now driving away.
“Mr. MacMillan,” she says, her smile formal, eyes hidden behind a pair of black framed sunglasses.
“Ms. Romanovich,” I answer, returning her firm grip as we shake hands.
“It’s such a nice day. Thank you for agreeing to meet outside. Are you up for a walk?”
“How’s my hair? Has the wind ruffled it too much?” I point in the general direction of my head, waiting for her to get the joke.
She stills, and I zero in on her thickly applied red lipstick and matching nails.
There’s no reaction. She doesn’t get it.
“You have a photographer somewhere out here, right? I want to be certain I look my best.”
With that, she smiles, revealing a touch of red lipstick on her front tooth.
“Shall we?” she says, gesturing for us to walk away from the embassy.
I let my hands fall to my side and fall in line beside her.
“We might be photographed, but not by our photographers. That’s not why I asked you to meet outdoors.”
“No?” It doesn’t matter what she says. I’ll never trust the Russians. Doesn’t mean I won’t do business with them—with eyes wide open.
“The Forbes Intelligence System.”
Her heels rap a steady stream of clicks on the concrete sidewalk. I expect her to expand, but we arrive at the intersection in silence.
“Is there more to that? Did I miss something?”
“There are interested parties.”
Yes, there are. She’s right. It’s been on and off the metaphorical auction block for years.
“And?”
“Are you bidding?”
Miles wishes to explore an acquisition. It might be something we need to buy through a separate entity to avoid congressional interest.
The pedestrian light flicks white and the two of us proceed.
“I think you should,” she says.
“Why?”
“Would you prefer for it to go to Moscow or Beijing?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Romanovich, but are you not Moscow?”
“We would buy before we allowed adversaries to purchase, but you are our partner.”
Technically, they are a client. But if a client prefers the word partner, I don’t get lost in semantics.
“I’m looking into it,” I say on an inhale.
“We want you to do more than look into it.”
We stop on a section of sidewalk situated between a busy street and shrubbery.
“Let me explain,” she answers in crisp, textbook English with a distinct Russian accent. “If we were to purchase, there would be opposition.”
That’s an accurate assessment. It would be easier to list the countries that would support the purchase than to list those that would oppose.
I can’t see her eyes behind those oversized sunglasses, but I sense she’s staring at me, waiting for a response.
“I’ve been looking into it. It’s not clear cut. We do not wish to invite an investigation.”
More than that, I haven’t determined we need to acquire the database. We have a wealth of data. The beauty of our system is the ability to cull massive amounts of data into useful information. While acquiring the Forbes Intelligence System is tempting, I get nervous at the responsibilities that would result in strengthening ARGUS capabilities with such an acquisition.
“We want you to find a way.”
“Thank you for sharing your position.”
We’re approaching Embassy Row, and up ahead I spot my security detail. Brandon, my head of security, insisted his on-call staff, men who work as needed for those visiting D.C., cover my visit.
It’s overkill, but I trust Brandon. Plus, what’s the point of hiring an expert if you’re not going to heed their recommendations?
“I’m afraid you might not understand,” she says.
“What’s that?” I check my watch. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I’m due to meet Evie.
“If you don’t buy it, there are parties that will be forced to expose an unsanctioned deal.”
Saudi Arabia.
Goddamn it.
Those greedy fuckers probably hand-delivered evidence to Russia.
“We trust you will choose wisely. It would not be wise to lose the trust you’ve built with your clients.”
And look at that. Now she’s chosen the correct term.
Click. Click. Click.
The rapid fire of her heels proceeds down the sidewalk in the direction of her embassy. Walk and meeting concluded.
Fuck. This is all Miles’ fault. He wanted the Saudi deal to help fund our expansion. Growth. Profit. I told him it was a bad idea. He argued sanctions would be lifted, and they have been, but it doesn’t change the fact they were in place when the deal closed.
The security detail approaches at a fast pace. I glance behind me, halfway expecting to find someone charging.
The detail reaches me and says, “Mr. MacMillan, your car will be here in two.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, I have an update.”
Excellent. “Let me have it.”
“The FBI approached Ms. Sydney Parker at the hotel.”
“What?”
I spin so I can see his lips when he speaks.
“Yes, sir. We don’t have audio. But she’s with him now.”
“In our suite?”
“No, sir. In the bar.”
“Did it look like they know each other?” She is former CIA and lives in the D.C. area. It’s possible this is nothing. They could be acquaintances.
“He flashed his badge, so I don’t believe so, sir.”
Has an investigation been authorized? Would the FBI approach her simply because she showed up at a hotel with me?
“You’ve got eyes on her?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck.
“At the Round Robin bar?” The hotel bar at the Willard, nicknamed the Oval Office of Bars by Condé Nast, is an iconic Washington location. It’s not surprising Sydney would check it out, but one isn’t generally approached by the FBI when enjoying an afternoon mint julep.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll move my meeting.” Evie might not want a run-in with the FBI. “Tell your guys not to let Sydney out of their sight. If you can overhear anything…”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Sydney
The blue field represents justice, as does the miniature shield with an eagle crest holding a sword and scales, and yet, I don’t trust the badge. There’s something about this pasty white man in a cheap suit that doesn’t sit well with me. Yes, he just came to my defense, but it all feels a little too convenient in this sparsely populated bar.
He withdraws his ID, a smug yes-I’m-a-badass expression on his freshly shaven face.
“Keep it out,” I say, pulling out my phone.
I snap a photo and smile.
“Later on I’ll call your field office.”
His eyes widen, his head jerks, and his fingers shift, all signs he’s surprised. But he’s not shocked, and there’s no worry.
No, his thin lips spread into a semblance of a smile.
“Why would you call my field office?”
“That’s the only way to verify you’re sporting a real badge, right?”
In reality, I will not waste time calling a field office. I’ll be sending this photo straight to Quinn so she can verify and, if true, determine who else within the government is investigating ARGUS. Because Caroline believes Rhodes MacMillan and his AI surveillance company are above the law.
Although, if I’m honest, our intel always felt shaky. It seemed to me that, at a minimum, the NSA would be all over ARGUS, possibly even serving as an invisible partner.
Ian Gregory’s gaze travels around the bar, over my shoulder and up along the ceiling and the inset lighting. He must’ve clocked the small security camera tucked away near a carbon monoxide detector.
“May I put it away?” he asks.
“Be my guest.”
“And may I sit?”
If you must is on the tip of my tongue, but confrontation isn’t the best approach when I need information.
“Please.”
He sits down and I search the area for the earlier jerk, wanting to see how he reacts to my welcoming a different man to sit.
He’s nowhere to be found within these olive-green walls.
“What do you want from me?”
The FBI agent’s lips press together in such a way that he hides the muted beige-pink lip color and puffs his pale skin. It’s not a flattering look. He rests an elbow on the edge of the bar, and leans, exposing his dress shirt and a sweat ring below his armpit.
With one elbow on the bar, he clasps his hands together at chest level and crosses one leg over the other. A defensive posture—an odd one—but also one that minimizes any threat I might feel from a stranger. He relaxes his lips and waves the bartender away, declining to order. “Rhodes MacMillan is a person of interest. You’re his guest. Yes?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Now, Sydney Parker, you no longer work for the CIA.”
There’s something about his off-kilter smile that makes my jaw clench.
“Ms. Parker, are you working for anyone right now?”
“At the moment, I’m unemployed.” I look him directly in the eye. I’m not breaking cover for this guy. Not to mention, for all I know, this guy may not be investigating Rhodes, he could be doing Rhodes a favor and verifying me in an off-the-books quid pro quo.
The thought has me straightening, running through what I’ve said, hoping I didn’t slip and expose our operation.
“But you’re…” He pauses and the fingers on my left hand roll into a small fist, “friends with Rhodes MacMillan.”
“I’m not a hired escort if that’s what you’re implying.”
He coughs, covering his mouth with a balled-up fist.
“I did not mean to imply that,” he says, blinking back his apparent surprise at my directness. “Look, I think we got off to a bad start. Since you’re a former CIA analyst, I’m going to be frank with you. We’ve been monitoring MacMillan for months, and when you checked in with him, it piqued our interest. That’s all.”
I sense he’s telling the truth, but I still don’t trust him.
“We met a few days ago. I’m unemployed. You can check that,” I respond.
“After your dismissal, did you file for unemployment?”
“I wasn’t fired.” Asshole. “And no, I haven’t filed for unemployment.” As I say the words, the ramifications play out in my mind. If I follow Rhodes to San Francisco, I’ll need to find employment somewhat quickly or I’ll look suspect. But why does the FBI care? Is this an open investigation?
“I see. If we were to check, we would confirm you have no salary income but have not yet filed for unemployment. And you’re staying for the weekend?”
This guy’s questions are out of line. “Is being friends with Rhodes MacMillan against the law?”
“No.” He emphasizes his answer with a quick shake of his head. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a business card. “Ms. Parker, you clearly know that Rhodes MacMillan isn’t average. As a former CIA officer, you also understand the work we civil servants do to protect our country. If you find yourself in danger,” I raise an eyebrow at his statement, “or you uncover information that puts our citizens in danger, please call.”
“Is the FBI in the business of cultivating assets now?”
“We’re in the business of protecting United States citizens and upholding the law.”
“I see.” I take his card, read it, and slip it into my bag. “Well thank you for all you do.”
He pushes off the stool.
“I’m a friend, Ms. Parker. An ally.”
I give him a short, cordial nod with a curt smile. My expression should convey that he should leave now, and he does.
I watch him walk away, noting a deep crease in his suit coat that lies over his rear. He’s been sitting for a long time today. In an office? Doubtful. In a car parked on the street? Also doubtful given there’s no parking on the streets near here. Perhaps an inconspicuous armchair in the lobby?
The urge to message Quinn is strong, but there are cameras. I can’t send this via message from my phone. I need to access our portal.
I check my watch, questioning if I have time to do so before Rhodes meets with Evie Thompson. I need to be here when he walks in. She’s not here yet.
Twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time. I’ll head to the room, reach out to Quinn, and be back down before the meeting.
I catch the bartender’s eye and finger my napkin and drink.
“I’ll be back. Don’t remove my drink, okay?”
What the hell is going on? Rhodes went to the Russian Embassy this afternoon, and he’s piqued the interest of the FBI. It appears all those rumors are true, and our intel that he’s above reproach and investigation is cocked.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Rhodes
Evie Thompson stands on the sidewalk outside of The Hamilton, holding her phone, glued to the screen. She doesn’t look up once.
Her dark hair with grown-out highlights is split down the middle, tucked tightly behind her ears. The charcoal suit she’s wearing is no nonsense, as are her short, natural nails.
Her father is a secretive hedge fund manager, born in Egypt, and he maintains ties throughout the Middle East. As one of my first investors, I owe his daughter this meeting. I would’ve met with her anyway.
Evie could’ve gone the route of spoiled, entitled rich kid, but she didn’t. She’s worked her ass off. Top of her class at Harvard Law, and she chose the public servant route. Probably an easy choice for someone with what has to be a sizeable trust fund, but she could be spending her days traveling the world and chasing hard-to-get handbags, and she’s not. Therefore, she intrigues me.
I stand in front of her as she types away on her screen. She continues typing, fingers flying, clueless that if I wanted, I could read the email response she’s tapping out.
I clear my throat and large brown eyes flash.
“Just a minute,” she snips.
Alright then.
“I’ll go inside and get our table.”
By the time the hostess has gathered two menus, Evie’s at my side.
“I’m not going to eat,” she rushes. “Why’d you change the location?”
“A precaution,” I admit.
I should probably warn her to be more cautious. She’s climbing in the ranks and there are those who might be interested in her work.
“What’re you doing these days?” I ask as we slide into a window booth.
Before she can answer, I say to the hostess, “We’re only having drinks. Do you have a cocktail menu?”
“On the back,” she says with a smile. “Our smoked salmon appetizer is the best, if you decide you want something to snack on.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The restaurant is basically void of people this time of day but before long the after-five crowd will hit. However, at this time of day on a summer Friday, the patrons may be tourists. The D.C. power players are likely long gone for the summer weekend.
Evie taps on her phone and then with a sigh, sets it down on the table and flips it over so she can’t see the screen.
“Done?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not certain if she’s Gen Z, but she’s definitely self-absorbed.
“Sorry.” She picks up a glass of water and sips. Those eyes of hers are so large her portrait could be mistaken for AI. They make her look young, probably younger than she is.
“You wanted to meet?” I prompt.
“If I gave you a list of names, could you get me information on them?”
It’s not me he’s after. Obviously, it’s Rhodes.
My instincts kick in before conscious thought can interfere. I snatch the device mid-fall, the motion so fluid it could be mistaken for adjusting my position on the stool. Our eyes meet, and in that fraction of a second, I see his recognition that his game is blown.
Rhodes knows I’m former CIA. I don’t have to play this off.
I lift the slim rectangular device and tilt my head, raising one pointed eyebrow.
“Ian Gregory. Who are you really?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he glances over his shoulder.
Is he here with someone? The gross tan suit?
He reaches into his jacket pocket. I tense, calculating the distance to the exit, mentally mapping the positions of everyone in the room who might be part of his team. We’re in a public spot, but that doesn’t mean this couldn’t go sideways fast.
He removes a black leather badge holder, and opens it, displaying an FBI badge.
My mind races through the implications. Whatever Rhodes is involved in has attracted attention from the very agencies we believed wouldn’t touch ARGUS due to political donations. My fingers hover near my phone, ready to send an alert to Quinn if needed. The game just changed completely.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Rhodes
The driver stops to let me out at Boris Nemtsov Plaza. It’s a beautiful summer day in D.C. and a group of tourists, led by a woman with silver spectacles and a European accent, stop along the wall of the Russian Embassy. A car horn honks farther down the street, and I nod at the automobile with a lit Lyft sign perched in the window before jaywalking in front of his stopped car.
I scan the sidewalk, aware that surveillance cameras are capturing every passerby. When Ms. Victoria Romanovich suggested meeting outside the Russian Embassy, I considered declining. But, the reality is, a meeting with a Russian diplomat will be widely observed and noted. Some might argue it’s publicity for ARGUS. Now, if we met inside the embassy, rumors would spread about who I met with and questions might be asked regarding the secrecy. This way, it’s out in the open. There are no laws against meetings.
A woman in a light gray suit with shoulder length black hair approaches. Her gaze travels from me, along the street, to the sedan I climbed out of that is now driving away.
“Mr. MacMillan,” she says, her smile formal, eyes hidden behind a pair of black framed sunglasses.
“Ms. Romanovich,” I answer, returning her firm grip as we shake hands.
“It’s such a nice day. Thank you for agreeing to meet outside. Are you up for a walk?”
“How’s my hair? Has the wind ruffled it too much?” I point in the general direction of my head, waiting for her to get the joke.
She stills, and I zero in on her thickly applied red lipstick and matching nails.
There’s no reaction. She doesn’t get it.
“You have a photographer somewhere out here, right? I want to be certain I look my best.”
With that, she smiles, revealing a touch of red lipstick on her front tooth.
“Shall we?” she says, gesturing for us to walk away from the embassy.
I let my hands fall to my side and fall in line beside her.
“We might be photographed, but not by our photographers. That’s not why I asked you to meet outdoors.”
“No?” It doesn’t matter what she says. I’ll never trust the Russians. Doesn’t mean I won’t do business with them—with eyes wide open.
“The Forbes Intelligence System.”
Her heels rap a steady stream of clicks on the concrete sidewalk. I expect her to expand, but we arrive at the intersection in silence.
“Is there more to that? Did I miss something?”
“There are interested parties.”
Yes, there are. She’s right. It’s been on and off the metaphorical auction block for years.
“And?”
“Are you bidding?”
Miles wishes to explore an acquisition. It might be something we need to buy through a separate entity to avoid congressional interest.
The pedestrian light flicks white and the two of us proceed.
“I think you should,” she says.
“Why?”
“Would you prefer for it to go to Moscow or Beijing?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Romanovich, but are you not Moscow?”
“We would buy before we allowed adversaries to purchase, but you are our partner.”
Technically, they are a client. But if a client prefers the word partner, I don’t get lost in semantics.
“I’m looking into it,” I say on an inhale.
“We want you to do more than look into it.”
We stop on a section of sidewalk situated between a busy street and shrubbery.
“Let me explain,” she answers in crisp, textbook English with a distinct Russian accent. “If we were to purchase, there would be opposition.”
That’s an accurate assessment. It would be easier to list the countries that would support the purchase than to list those that would oppose.
I can’t see her eyes behind those oversized sunglasses, but I sense she’s staring at me, waiting for a response.
“I’ve been looking into it. It’s not clear cut. We do not wish to invite an investigation.”
More than that, I haven’t determined we need to acquire the database. We have a wealth of data. The beauty of our system is the ability to cull massive amounts of data into useful information. While acquiring the Forbes Intelligence System is tempting, I get nervous at the responsibilities that would result in strengthening ARGUS capabilities with such an acquisition.
“We want you to find a way.”
“Thank you for sharing your position.”
We’re approaching Embassy Row, and up ahead I spot my security detail. Brandon, my head of security, insisted his on-call staff, men who work as needed for those visiting D.C., cover my visit.
It’s overkill, but I trust Brandon. Plus, what’s the point of hiring an expert if you’re not going to heed their recommendations?
“I’m afraid you might not understand,” she says.
“What’s that?” I check my watch. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I’m due to meet Evie.
“If you don’t buy it, there are parties that will be forced to expose an unsanctioned deal.”
Saudi Arabia.
Goddamn it.
Those greedy fuckers probably hand-delivered evidence to Russia.
“We trust you will choose wisely. It would not be wise to lose the trust you’ve built with your clients.”
And look at that. Now she’s chosen the correct term.
Click. Click. Click.
The rapid fire of her heels proceeds down the sidewalk in the direction of her embassy. Walk and meeting concluded.
Fuck. This is all Miles’ fault. He wanted the Saudi deal to help fund our expansion. Growth. Profit. I told him it was a bad idea. He argued sanctions would be lifted, and they have been, but it doesn’t change the fact they were in place when the deal closed.
The security detail approaches at a fast pace. I glance behind me, halfway expecting to find someone charging.
The detail reaches me and says, “Mr. MacMillan, your car will be here in two.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, I have an update.”
Excellent. “Let me have it.”
“The FBI approached Ms. Sydney Parker at the hotel.”
“What?”
I spin so I can see his lips when he speaks.
“Yes, sir. We don’t have audio. But she’s with him now.”
“In our suite?”
“No, sir. In the bar.”
“Did it look like they know each other?” She is former CIA and lives in the D.C. area. It’s possible this is nothing. They could be acquaintances.
“He flashed his badge, so I don’t believe so, sir.”
Has an investigation been authorized? Would the FBI approach her simply because she showed up at a hotel with me?
“You’ve got eyes on her?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck.
“At the Round Robin bar?” The hotel bar at the Willard, nicknamed the Oval Office of Bars by Condé Nast, is an iconic Washington location. It’s not surprising Sydney would check it out, but one isn’t generally approached by the FBI when enjoying an afternoon mint julep.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll move my meeting.” Evie might not want a run-in with the FBI. “Tell your guys not to let Sydney out of their sight. If you can overhear anything…”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Sydney
The blue field represents justice, as does the miniature shield with an eagle crest holding a sword and scales, and yet, I don’t trust the badge. There’s something about this pasty white man in a cheap suit that doesn’t sit well with me. Yes, he just came to my defense, but it all feels a little too convenient in this sparsely populated bar.
He withdraws his ID, a smug yes-I’m-a-badass expression on his freshly shaven face.
“Keep it out,” I say, pulling out my phone.
I snap a photo and smile.
“Later on I’ll call your field office.”
His eyes widen, his head jerks, and his fingers shift, all signs he’s surprised. But he’s not shocked, and there’s no worry.
No, his thin lips spread into a semblance of a smile.
“Why would you call my field office?”
“That’s the only way to verify you’re sporting a real badge, right?”
In reality, I will not waste time calling a field office. I’ll be sending this photo straight to Quinn so she can verify and, if true, determine who else within the government is investigating ARGUS. Because Caroline believes Rhodes MacMillan and his AI surveillance company are above the law.
Although, if I’m honest, our intel always felt shaky. It seemed to me that, at a minimum, the NSA would be all over ARGUS, possibly even serving as an invisible partner.
Ian Gregory’s gaze travels around the bar, over my shoulder and up along the ceiling and the inset lighting. He must’ve clocked the small security camera tucked away near a carbon monoxide detector.
“May I put it away?” he asks.
“Be my guest.”
“And may I sit?”
If you must is on the tip of my tongue, but confrontation isn’t the best approach when I need information.
“Please.”
He sits down and I search the area for the earlier jerk, wanting to see how he reacts to my welcoming a different man to sit.
He’s nowhere to be found within these olive-green walls.
“What do you want from me?”
The FBI agent’s lips press together in such a way that he hides the muted beige-pink lip color and puffs his pale skin. It’s not a flattering look. He rests an elbow on the edge of the bar, and leans, exposing his dress shirt and a sweat ring below his armpit.
With one elbow on the bar, he clasps his hands together at chest level and crosses one leg over the other. A defensive posture—an odd one—but also one that minimizes any threat I might feel from a stranger. He relaxes his lips and waves the bartender away, declining to order. “Rhodes MacMillan is a person of interest. You’re his guest. Yes?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Now, Sydney Parker, you no longer work for the CIA.”
There’s something about his off-kilter smile that makes my jaw clench.
“Ms. Parker, are you working for anyone right now?”
“At the moment, I’m unemployed.” I look him directly in the eye. I’m not breaking cover for this guy. Not to mention, for all I know, this guy may not be investigating Rhodes, he could be doing Rhodes a favor and verifying me in an off-the-books quid pro quo.
The thought has me straightening, running through what I’ve said, hoping I didn’t slip and expose our operation.
“But you’re…” He pauses and the fingers on my left hand roll into a small fist, “friends with Rhodes MacMillan.”
“I’m not a hired escort if that’s what you’re implying.”
He coughs, covering his mouth with a balled-up fist.
“I did not mean to imply that,” he says, blinking back his apparent surprise at my directness. “Look, I think we got off to a bad start. Since you’re a former CIA analyst, I’m going to be frank with you. We’ve been monitoring MacMillan for months, and when you checked in with him, it piqued our interest. That’s all.”
I sense he’s telling the truth, but I still don’t trust him.
“We met a few days ago. I’m unemployed. You can check that,” I respond.
“After your dismissal, did you file for unemployment?”
“I wasn’t fired.” Asshole. “And no, I haven’t filed for unemployment.” As I say the words, the ramifications play out in my mind. If I follow Rhodes to San Francisco, I’ll need to find employment somewhat quickly or I’ll look suspect. But why does the FBI care? Is this an open investigation?
“I see. If we were to check, we would confirm you have no salary income but have not yet filed for unemployment. And you’re staying for the weekend?”
This guy’s questions are out of line. “Is being friends with Rhodes MacMillan against the law?”
“No.” He emphasizes his answer with a quick shake of his head. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a business card. “Ms. Parker, you clearly know that Rhodes MacMillan isn’t average. As a former CIA officer, you also understand the work we civil servants do to protect our country. If you find yourself in danger,” I raise an eyebrow at his statement, “or you uncover information that puts our citizens in danger, please call.”
“Is the FBI in the business of cultivating assets now?”
“We’re in the business of protecting United States citizens and upholding the law.”
“I see.” I take his card, read it, and slip it into my bag. “Well thank you for all you do.”
He pushes off the stool.
“I’m a friend, Ms. Parker. An ally.”
I give him a short, cordial nod with a curt smile. My expression should convey that he should leave now, and he does.
I watch him walk away, noting a deep crease in his suit coat that lies over his rear. He’s been sitting for a long time today. In an office? Doubtful. In a car parked on the street? Also doubtful given there’s no parking on the streets near here. Perhaps an inconspicuous armchair in the lobby?
The urge to message Quinn is strong, but there are cameras. I can’t send this via message from my phone. I need to access our portal.
I check my watch, questioning if I have time to do so before Rhodes meets with Evie Thompson. I need to be here when he walks in. She’s not here yet.
Twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time. I’ll head to the room, reach out to Quinn, and be back down before the meeting.
I catch the bartender’s eye and finger my napkin and drink.
“I’ll be back. Don’t remove my drink, okay?”
What the hell is going on? Rhodes went to the Russian Embassy this afternoon, and he’s piqued the interest of the FBI. It appears all those rumors are true, and our intel that he’s above reproach and investigation is cocked.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Rhodes
Evie Thompson stands on the sidewalk outside of The Hamilton, holding her phone, glued to the screen. She doesn’t look up once.
Her dark hair with grown-out highlights is split down the middle, tucked tightly behind her ears. The charcoal suit she’s wearing is no nonsense, as are her short, natural nails.
Her father is a secretive hedge fund manager, born in Egypt, and he maintains ties throughout the Middle East. As one of my first investors, I owe his daughter this meeting. I would’ve met with her anyway.
Evie could’ve gone the route of spoiled, entitled rich kid, but she didn’t. She’s worked her ass off. Top of her class at Harvard Law, and she chose the public servant route. Probably an easy choice for someone with what has to be a sizeable trust fund, but she could be spending her days traveling the world and chasing hard-to-get handbags, and she’s not. Therefore, she intrigues me.
I stand in front of her as she types away on her screen. She continues typing, fingers flying, clueless that if I wanted, I could read the email response she’s tapping out.
I clear my throat and large brown eyes flash.
“Just a minute,” she snips.
Alright then.
“I’ll go inside and get our table.”
By the time the hostess has gathered two menus, Evie’s at my side.
“I’m not going to eat,” she rushes. “Why’d you change the location?”
“A precaution,” I admit.
I should probably warn her to be more cautious. She’s climbing in the ranks and there are those who might be interested in her work.
“What’re you doing these days?” I ask as we slide into a window booth.
Before she can answer, I say to the hostess, “We’re only having drinks. Do you have a cocktail menu?”
“On the back,” she says with a smile. “Our smoked salmon appetizer is the best, if you decide you want something to snack on.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The restaurant is basically void of people this time of day but before long the after-five crowd will hit. However, at this time of day on a summer Friday, the patrons may be tourists. The D.C. power players are likely long gone for the summer weekend.
Evie taps on her phone and then with a sigh, sets it down on the table and flips it over so she can’t see the screen.
“Done?” I can’t help but ask. I’m not certain if she’s Gen Z, but she’s definitely self-absorbed.
“Sorry.” She picks up a glass of water and sips. Those eyes of hers are so large her portrait could be mistaken for AI. They make her look young, probably younger than she is.
“You wanted to meet?” I prompt.
“If I gave you a list of names, could you get me information on them?”
