Page 78 of Only the Wicked
“Say no more.” He’s probably a lowlife who seals the deal with drunken nights out, and if friendly doesn’t work, gathers compromising photographs of his client’s escapades.
“I’m Ian Gregory. Iowa State congressional representative.”
I shake his hand, assessing. His title fits. He’s wearing a professional suit, but it’s not too nice. There’s no noticeable accent, which fits for the Midwest. And he naturally assumed the position of protecting the little lady sitting by herself at the bar. One glance at the gold band on his finger, and I sense his wife would be proud.
“Nice to meet you, Ian. I'm Sydney. I’m here for the weekend with a friend.”
“Oh. Nice. Hitting the tourist spots?”
“If work allows.” I smile, softening my comment aimed at getting him to move on, and then, to be cordial, I ask, “Which spots do you recommend?”
He hits the D.C. top five, and opens his phone, swiping up to show me where to go to get the best handmade ice cream.
He’s relaxed, and I almost miss it, but I catch the black device fall from his palm as he moves closer to my stool. The movement is smooth, practiced—a drop technique I recognize because I’ve used it myself. Time seems to slow as I track the device’s trajectory toward my handbag.
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.
