Page 132 of Only the Wicked
I coded the tracking device myself, but the real surveillance tech is simpler: I’m watching someone choose to trust me while asking me to trust her in return. Some algorithms can predict human behavior with 94 percent accuracy. But trust isn’t about probability—it’s about choosing to believe in the 6 percent chance that someone might surprise you.
Tonight, we’re entering a digital panopticon where every surveillance trick will be leveraged and likely used against us. If Sydney and I can’t establish genuine trust now, we won’t succeed.
Trust goes both ways. I stare at the closed bathroom door and make my decision. When she emerges, we’ll face tonight together—whatever that means for both of us.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Sydney
The strain of violins greets us past the gold-roped embassy entrance, strings vibrating with what sounds like Tchaikovsky—a calculated cultural choice. Two security officers disguised as attendants stand in the east corner. Cameras are positioned discreetly in brass light fixtures. The diplomatic security team strikes me as more muscular than diplomatic.
Rhodes expected a private reception but based on the uniformed staff at the entrance and the gold posts with engraved signs in Russian and English, this is a larger event. More people mean more eyes, but also more cover. The crowd may make it easier for me to step away unnoticed.
I maintain a relaxed smile while studying the marble-veined floors, mapping potential exit routes as Rhodes speaks to the young man reviewing the guest list. The man’s posture suggests FSB training rather than simple hospitality staff—the Russians don’t take chances.
When Quinn signaled I needed to call in privately, I didn’t expect to learn Rhodes had slipped out and visited the Russian embassy earlier this afternoon while I was getting my hair done. The revelation sent a cold ripple down my spine.
Why wouldn’t he mention his visit? If not to me, why not mention it to the team when we were discussing plans for this evening? Why hide it?
Trust in this business is measured in disclosed information—what someone withholds often reveals more than what they share. Part of me wants to believe there’s an innocent explanation, that Rhodes is simply being thorough, protecting me. The other part—the part trained at Langley to see patterns of deception—whispers that I’m being played.
Yet here I am, wearing his mother’s diamonds, walking into a Russian embassy on his arm. The professional in me catalogs this as a potentially compromised operation. The woman in me still feels the ghost of his touch. Both sides know ambivalence is not an option.
Rhodes offers his hand with a formality befitting eighteenth century royalty. He’s missing the white gloves, but he’s a chameleon. Gone is the laid-back man I met on a hike. There’s no sign of the intense entrepreneur. No, he’s graceful and attentive. An erudite gentleman.
“Ms. Victoria Romanovich,” Rhodes says, addressing an elegant brunette in a floor-length sequin gown that catches the light like liquid mercury. His voice carries a warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes. “May I have the pleasure of introducing Sydney Parker.”
The woman turns, and I instantly recognize the calculating assessment behind her smile. Her gaze flicks over me with practiced casualness, but I catch the momentary pause on my face, my hands, the bracelet. She’s comparing me to intel photos, confirming my identity.
“So pleased that both of you could join us this evening.” Her smile is cordial and professional, with the polished artifice that only comes from diplomatic training. Her English is flawless but deliberately accented—a tactical choice many intelligence operatives make to seem less threatening.
“Ms. Romanovich works in the Russian embassy as a diplomat,” Rhodes explains, his hand at the small of my back, the pressure slightly firmer than necessary. A warning? Reassurance? “I am fortunate to call her friend.”
“And what do you do, Ms. Parker?” Her gaze drops deliberately to our joined hands, lingering on the diamond bracelet. “Or excuse me. My mistake.” The apology is delivered with the swift precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. “You are here as Mr. MacMillan’s guest and not as a colleague.”
“That’s quite right,” Rhodes says. “Sydney is my date.”
“Lovely. Do you live in the area?”
With that one question, I am certain the Russians have already pulled a background report on me and know that I do, in fact, live in the area.
“I do. Rhodes and I recently met, and he asked me to join him.” My smile mirrors Ms. Romanovich’s.
Another couple enters and approaches the young man with the invitation list.
“I hope you enjoy yourselves. If you follow the golden rope out to the courtyard, you’ll find drinks and light hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be greeting guests, but I hope to see you later.”
“Thank you, Victoria.”
As we stroll along the carpet lining the stone corridor, Rhodes leans into me, his warm breath caressing my ear. “She’s the one who communicated the threat. I debated telling her you’re my girlfriend, but even if I had, she’d still see you as CIA. There’s little chance she’s unaware of your background.”
And what part of that does my body react to with warmth and girly emotion? The girlfriend word. Ridiculous. This isn’t the time or place.
With our fingers linked, we follow the long corridor, passing two rooms with closed doors on our right, then round the corner to an open archway into an opulent room with three violinists, tables draped in burgundy, and elegantly dressed couples milling about with champagne flutes. The ceiling height is twenty feet, easily, and glass doors open into a courtyard. On the far end, two doors lead out.
I scan the crowd, searching for recognizable faces, stopping when I spot Dristol, Crawford’s chief of staff, speaking with a woman I recognize as embassy personnel. She’s an assistant to an assistant, if I recall correctly from our intel. Her outfit supports my conclusion, as in lieu of a gown, she’s wearing a dark purple business skirt suit.
