Page 2 of Nikolai
Munro tried to pass herself off as Everywoman, with her friendly manner and Midwestern accent.But George had taken a dive into her personal life.Her family ran something like 200 silos throughout the Midwest.And her father, instead of being a useless drunk like his father, was a canny investor.Munro had a trust fund of eight million dollars, though she tried to live within her salary.But Daddy always came through on Christmas and her birthday, with a new Mercedes, a diamond necklace, Apple stock.
She always pretended she was practical, no-nonsense, but she wasn’t a self-made woman.Not at all.
And now she had hired Garin after announcing, that there were “security concerns.”
Security concerns.George felt his throat tighten.If she only knew.
The air smelled of perfume and food, but George’s stomach clenched instead of growling.He lifted his glass of wine as though to toast a passing colleague, but he drank to buy himself time.To look occupied, harmless, one more functionary in the safe, predictable ranks of Foreign Service officers.
No one could guess.He had been careful.Brilliant, even.The app he’d loaded onto Munro’s phone was elegant, invisible, undetectable.When she spoke, he knew.When she wrote, he read.He wasn’t stupid enough to keep the data on his work computer; no, he had a chain of digital dead drops, private accounts buried under layers of misdirection.He’d been paid well for the information he was able to get—Russians with their thick promises and thicker accents, the Chinese, so business-like, Neapolitan mobsters with flashy clothes and good haircuts and deadly smiles.Each payment more intoxicating than the last.
Soon it would be as if he were a trust fund baby too.
He had more than his miserable salary could ever have bought him—tailored shirts now, real wine instead of boxed, restaurants where the waiters knew his name.His colleagues pretended not to notice, and if they did…why not?It wasn’t as though anyone openly said what George had known his whole professional life: that half of them were bankrolled by family money.Trust funds.Estates.Summers on Martha’s Vineyard.He had nothing but his degree, his thinning hair, his drab government paycheck.
Until now.
“I wouldn’t eat that,if I were you,” Nick said just as the beautiful woman was about to pop the formless gray blob in her mouth.
“No?”She sighed and turned, keeping the blob in the small napkin.She looked up at him.“What do you suggest I do with it now?I mean I can’t throw it on the floor.And I can’t put it back on the tray.”
Nick held out his hand and she placed the napkin in it.He sauntered over to the huge potted palm tree in the corner and leaned over as if observing something interesting in the broad avenue that ran along the bay.Nobody saw him deposit the napkin with the noxious blob in the soil.He also saw several other blobs.He wasn’t the only one.
He sauntered back to the beautiful woman.
She smiled at him and ohmygod.No one should have a smile like that.It should be illegal.It was like the sun came out, on a sunny day in Italy.
Man, he’d spent too much time away from women.
Her smile widened.“That was well done.I didn’t see a thing.”
He bowed his head, leaned close to her and tried not to sniff like a dog.She smelled of something light and enticing.“I wasn’t the only one with that thought,” he said in a low voice.
Her eyes widened.“Others?”
“Hmm.You didn’t taste it, but I did.I’m surprised this nice terrace isn’t covered with that cr—stuff.”
She sighed.“Poor Tobias.”
“Tobias?The perpetrator has a name and it’s Tobias?Here?In Naples?”
She made a little humming sound, lips curved.“The Consul General’s grandnephew.Her sister persuaded her to let him intern here.”
“That must have been some persuading.Naples must be full of excellent chefs.Where did Tobias study?The Culinary Institute of Dead Horse?”
“Close.The Herman Franklin Institute of Pastry in Cleveland.”
Nick barely kept the wince off his face.“So I guess you know the Consul General fairly well if you know her staff choices.”He held out his hand.“I’m Nick, by the way.Nikolai Garin.”
She looked at his hand dubiously.He understood.He had big, visibly strong hands.He was a big guy, and he looked rough.There was no way for her to know he wouldn’t crush her hand.Because he could, easily.Her hand was soft and delicate and looked extremely crushable, though he had no intention of crushing it.He would like to hold it, though.
He took her hand, held it for a moment, then let go, though he didn’t want to.The way she looked at her still-intact hand was telling.
Nick stood, waiting for the second half of the introduction.He also wanted to hear her speak.She had a beautiful voice, clear and slightly husky.It also sounded weirdly familiar, though he knew for a fact he’d never met her before.He’d have remembered.
“Parker.Parker Donovan.Parker is a family name.I personally would have preferred Susan or Jane, but it is what it is.Do you live here, too?”
I wish, Nick thought.“No, my base is London.I’m here for a job.”
