Mr. Nice Spy by Jordan McCollum

to look it over.”
    Great. A minute. Not sure we have that long. “Kind of in a time crunch.”
    Angela doesn’t say anything back. I instinctively hit the record button, then follow the headphone cord until I find the earpieces. I don’t have time to shove one in; I just cup them in front of one ear. Talia and Marcus on one side, Angela on the other. As soon as she speaks up.
    “All the time,” Talia says. I can hear her smile. At least she’s starting off well. I’m always in favor of flirting as distraction.
    But how am I going to get in there to rescue her? Play overprotective big brother? I’m much better at jealous boyfriend.
    “So what do you do for a living?” Talia asks.
    “I work for the American Embassy.” Marcus makes it sound like he’s the Undersecretary of Importitude, not a part-time pencil pusher. He casually leans one elbow on his car roof.
    Talia picks up on the self-importance and hums a little I’m-impressed tune, edging up his driveway toward him. “That sounds major league.”
    Classic CIA head games. Work an Asset 101. Reel. Him. In.
    And oh yeah is it working. Marcus shrugs on one side, like he’s downplaying his promotion to the Majordomo of Majorosity, but from here I can see his smug little smirk.
    “Do you know the ambassador?”
    I have to force myself not to mock gag at the maple syrup–coated awe in her voice.
    “I do, actually. Would you like to meet him?”
    Setting the ambassador’s social schedule to get ahead with a girl? I’m sure Rhodes is totally okay with that. Especially with Lee’s married Emirati girlfriend. Uh huh.
    Talia scoffs, a little more than playful now. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
    “Just the really cute ones.”
    “Oh yeah? Like Leyla al-Fulan?”
    The satisfied smile falls from Marcus’s face, taking all the color from his cheeks with it. “Who?”
    Talia slowly advances up the driveway another two steps. “You know. The Emirati Deputy Ambassador’s wife. Did you introduce her to Ambassador Rhodes?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Alaine Marchant. The pianist from the reception? Where you both were?” She almost fools me with that retreat into an innocent, why-are-you-freaking-out? tone.
    “But — how—” Marcus holds up defensive hands. Talia doesn’t move, but Marcus backs up until he runs into his still-open car door.
    “You there?” Angela’s voice breaks in so suddenly, I almost drop the earphones.
    “Yeah, yeah,” I say in the phone’s general direction. “You got it?”
    Pause. “Yeah, but this doesn’t make any sense. I mean, if this is true, we have to—”
    “If it’s true, we’ve got bigger problems. We planted a message, and I need to know if it got through okay.”
    “Those were the days.” Angela sighs. “What was the message?”
    “You tell me.”
    She thinks for a second, and I have a chance to readjust the earphones. From the way they’re gesturing, I know Talia and Marcus have to be talking, but I can’t hear them.
    Talia pulls out her phone and taps the screen for a minute.
    My heart drops to meet my stomach on its way up my throat. Please, please tell me she’s not doing what I think she’s doing.
    The parabolic picks up exactly what I don’t want to hear — Marcus’s voice. His lips aren’t moving.
    She’s playing back the recording of him returning Leyla’s phone.
    And we don’t have enough to nail him for anything worse than adultery.
    “I’m pretty sure,” Angela starts, but the beat of silence makes it clear she isn’t pretty sure at all. “I think she’s saying the Americans won’t make the call. But without more context—”
    “No, that’s great. That’s exactly what we need to hear.”
    I think. I think we told Kelvin the “ambassador” would finagle things for the Emiratis’ landing rights, and we told Marcus the “ambassador” would rather die.
    Her job done, Angela gets off the phone, and I grab the headset to talk to Talia. “Got the translation — the