Love Another Day

  “Off!” Mal shoved him with the strength of a black belt.

  He grinned at her futile efforts, but he wasn’t taking any chance she’d use her infamous karate chop on him. He pushed off her and leaned back against the lav door. “Okay, here’s the plan. You leave the lav first before we hit any additional turbulence, go back to your seat and buckle in for safety. I’ll go disable the bad guy. We’ll rendezvous when our would-be assassin is out and the turbulence has passed.” Like the turbulence between them would ever pass. “Sound good?”

  “Peachy. Just watch yourself. Turbulence can be deadly. And messy. I imagine there’s a lot of spilled milk, coffee, and liquor out there.”

  I’m facing a hard-core, hardened RIOT assassin, and she’s worried about atmospheric instability. How sweet.

  He opened the lav door and let her out, closing it behind her and staring at himself in the mirror. Damn, his eyes were dilated beneath the clear glass lenses of the glasses that were purely for show. They may have made him look intellectual, but he hated them all the same. He wasn’t a bookish kind of guy. Or nerdy, even though he was a software guru.

  He ran his hands through his hair and pursed his lips as he thought. The damnable thing about airplanes was there were very few places to commit murder, or even mere disabling and hiding of an inert body, in secret, out of plane view. Oh, nice pun, Tate. Corny, but what the hell?

  He pulled his cell phone out, brought up a CIA airplane app, one his company, Cox Software, had created, and called up the layout and specs of the particular airplane they rode on.

  Oh, nice, there’s a beverage cart dumbwaiter from the galley to the cargo area. Perfect way to dispose of a body. If that bastard out there really is RIOT, he deserves to be in the cargo area with the dogs. And Mal can rest easy. He’ll eventually be discovered.

  Now all Tate had to do was get to the galley and lure his tail there. Turbulence played into his hand in at least one way—the flight attendants would be buckled into their jump seats and out of Tate’s way.

  Hmmm … If this guy really is following me, he won’t be able to resist seeing what I’m up to in the galley.

  Tate pushed open the lav door, walked, or rather bounced, to the back business-class area, and spotted his target.

  Mal’s right. He is watching us.

  The guy looked nonchalant, but Tate was experienced enough to know when he was under surveillance.

  Tate strode past him, and then, when none of the flight attendants were looking, but Tate was sure the suspected RIOT agent was, ducked into the galley. The galley wasn’t much more spacious than the lav. But Tate figured he and the suspected bad guy could fit.

  Tate quickly scoped out the dumbwaiter and eyed it, making visual measurements. Yeah, that dumbass should be able to fit. But he won’t be comfy.

  Tate looked at his watch. He spent exactly three minutes in the galley. And then he did a trick he’d learned from his magician buddy and now fellow spy, Rock Powers. He created an illusion, making it look as if he’d left the galley, while he actually crouched in wait.

  He pulled a stylus pen from his pocket. It was the latest model from research and development. Of course it wasn’t just a pen, a stylus, a laser pointer, a black light, and a flashlight. It was also a syringe with a single dose of a knockout drug that would put a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man, or a small horse, out for a good twelve hours.

  Tate watched as shoes appeared beneath the curtains of the galley. The curtain slid open and the bad guy slid in, right into Tate’s waiting syringe. Tate got him with a direct hit to the neck. The guy barely had time to register shock before he crumpled. Tate caught him and stuffed him onto the dumbwaiter as the plane jounced and bounced in the sky, knocking cans and various airplane cooking supplies off shelves.

  A tray of airplane-sized liquor bottles fell off a shelf. Tate dodged them just in time. His victim wasn’t as lucky. He took several to the head.

  That’s gotta hurt.

  Theoretically, there was room to stuff a six-foot-tall man on the dumbwaiter. But the muscle-bound thug wasn’t as limber as Tate needed. You need to start doing some flexibility and stretching exercises, buddy. For your own health.

  Folding the thug’s deadweight into a pretzel in the midst of turbulence as the ground suddenly became air beneath Tate’s feet and unsecured items slid off shelves, Tate both cursed the turbulence, and prayed for it to continue.

  Tate duct-taped the guy’s mouth and trussed him up into the smallest package he could make. And then in a flash of inspiration, he seized a luggage tag with a code for Scotland, and slapped it on the suspected RIOT operative.

  Very nice. With any luck, they’ll check him through. The guy will wake up in Scotland, far enough away not to be a problem.

  The man’s size thirteens were the problem. They kept sticking out and catching as Tate tried to send the dumbwaiter to the cargo area. Finally, Tate pulled them off and stuffed them into a storage cabinet.

  He rigged a wedge behind the guy so when the dumbwaiter went into the cargo bin, the thug would roll off and Tate could recall the dumbwaiter.

  At last, Tate succeeded in getting the guy’s limp deadweight into the space allowed. Tate pushed the button that controlled the dumbwaiter. “Adios.”

  The plane bounced again. Tate dodged a glass coffee carafe, eager to get out of that galley and back to his seat before he was beaned with something more lethal. Like maybe a dull knife or a business-class chafing dish. Besides, he was losing valuable beauty sleep. He had to look his best if he was going to woo a sweet young RIOT thing when he got to England.

  The dumbwaiter resurfaced and Tate let out a breath of relief when it returned unoccupied.

  He peeked out the curtain. When the aisle was clear and no one was looking, he stepped out and adjusted his glasses as he sauntered toward the larder as if he belonged in the aisle. He picked up a pack of cookies just as a flight attendant looked at him.

  “Sir, you’ll have to return to your seat. The captain hasn’t turned off the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign.”

  “Sorry.” Tate flashed her an apologetic look. “I just woke up and didn’t pay any attention.” He was going for the absentminded-professor cover. “Head in the clouds.” He laughed again, playing the professor who was amused by his own lame joke. Everyone onboard was literally in the clouds.

  The plane took a sudden drop in altitude. Tate grabbed the larder doors and hung on just in time to avoid being thrown against the ceiling.

  “I see what you mean,” he said dryly. “It’s dangerous out here.”

  Half the passengers looked green. As soon as the plane leveled out, he scrambled to his seat. As he passed Mal, he leaned in and whispered to her. “He won’t be bothering us for the duration.”

  “What did you do to him?” she whispered back.

  “Let’s just say, he’s laying down with dogs. But he’ll be fine. And found. Once we land and they unload the plane.” He shook his head. “Unless they check his tag and put him through to his final destination—Scotland.”

  * * *

  How can Tate be so calm? Mal thought as they deplaned at Heathrow. Isn’t he at all worried the airport staff will discover the bound thug before either MI5 can apprehend him or we get out of the airport?

  But Tate seemed nonplussed and totally relaxed as they wound their way through the terminal. Mal had never been on a mission with him, and while she knew he traveled with ease, this was a side of him she’d never seen. No wonder the Agency thought so highly of him. He was fearless.

  He strode with his typical confident Tate walk, eyeing attractive women and smiling at them as they headed for baggage claim.

  “Knock it off,” she whispered to him.

  He arched a brow. “What?”

  Next time she’d put more hiss in her whisper. “You’re a mild-mannered, nerdy computer science and mathematics professor, remember? Not God’s gift to women. Tone down the charm and act like your cover self.”

  Tate r
olled his eyes, but mercifully kept them straight ahead. “You’re no fun, Mal.”

  “Just doing my job. You’re not supposed to be any fun, either. Not yet anyway. You’re supposed to be low profile, attracting no attention, or as little as possible. So just stop hamming it up and searching for the spotlight and the paparazzi.

  “You’re not Tate Cox. Keep that in mind.”

  Since their divorce, Tate had once again regularly made a variety of “most eligible bachelor lists.” Because he dated a wide variety of high-profile celebrity women—actresses, singers, and the like—photographers regularly snapped his picture for the tabloids. While he’d been married to boring old, everyday her, the paparazzi had pretty much left them alone. They’d never cared about Mal in the first place. Since their divorce, she’d been invisible to them. And she liked it that way. She was also fierce about keeping Kayla out of the public eye.

  The baggage carousel was already in motion when they arrived. Mal pulled her bag off. “Be a sweetie and get a trolley, will you? We’re going to need one.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tate said. “Who’s popping out of character now? Aren’t you supposed to be my assistant?”

  “Fine, I’ll get the trolley and you get the big, heavy bags.” She grinned.

  “Damn,” he said, as he realized she’d just manipulated him into doing exactly what she wanted.

  She swiped her card, unlocked a trolley, and returned to find Tate surrounded by their bags.

  “I thought you only checked the one?” He was frowning.

  “Oh, I did. But the Agency sent a few extras along.”

  “How big is the rental car you booked for us?”

  “Tiny, minuscule, like all British cars. But relax, I got us an automatic.” She winked and watched as Tate scowled.

  He hated automatics, calling them sluggish cows. But what could she do? Dr. Tate Stevens was not an expert at extreme driving. He was a good old American who would have enough trouble driving on the wrong side of the road that he wouldn’t want to mess with also having to shift with the wrong hand.

  She laughed and leaned in to whisper to him, “What? You were expecting an Aston Martin DB5?”

  He shrugged. “I would have rented a sports car.”

  “But with university budgets being what they are these days, Dr. Stevens, frugality is what counts.”

  “Damn it, Mal. I can hardly wait to see what accommodations you’ve booked us in. If you’ve reserved a youth hostel, I’ll have to kill you.”

  She smiled and shrugged as casually as he had. “Don’t be silly. I’m the only one of us young enough to stay in one. You’re much too old.” Now that was a direct hit and Mal was delighted. She even wiggled her hips and held up her arms, shimmying them in the way the teens and twentysomethings did. Ah, it felt good to be young.

  She picked up the smallest of the bags surrounding them and pointed to the rest of the pile. “Dr. Stevens is a nervous nerd, always helpful and kind. He wouldn’t dream of letting his pretty young assistant strain herself by lifting those monstrous bags. Especially when he’s sleeping with her.”

  “Don’t push me, Mal.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. All of this is clearly spelled out in your cover-life dossier.”

  He picked up a bag and tossed it on the trolley, looking as if he’d rather throw it at her. But she merely smiled and held the trolley steady for him, very helpfully, like a good assistant would.

  When it was loaded, Tate got behind it and began wheeling it toward the general public access area. “We’re meeting our MI5 contact for tea and further instructions.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mal said. And she was looking forward to it. “I picked the café.” She led the way.

  Even though he was raggedly dressed in tweeds and a cap, Mal spotted her MI5 cover-life counterpart, Sir Herbert Wedgefield, immediately. He stood to greet them as Tate negotiated the trolley through the narrow aisles of the crowded café.

  Mal would have loved to hug her old friend Sir Herbert, but as Tate’s assistant, she wasn’t supposed to know him. And the Brits were so reserved, anyway. Sir Herbert was Britain’s version of Andre Leon Talley—stylish and dapper with taste coming out his ears. He’d worked as editor in chief at some of Britain’s top fashion magazines before retiring and joining MI5.

  Sir Herbert slapped Tate on the back and shook his hand. “So glad you could make it to the conference, Dr. Stevens. How was your trip?”

  “Turbulent, I’m afraid.” Tate released Sir Herbert’s hand.

  The MI5 cover-life artist turned to Mal. “And this young lady must be your assistant.” He extended his hand.

  As Mal took it, she leaned in and whispered to him. “Tweed, really? You are slumming it, Sir Herbert, darling.”

  He laughed. “And you aren’t dressing your age, my dear. But you look lovely all the same.”

  They all sat and ordered. Mal ordered tea and scones. Tate ordered coffee, black. Speaking in code, Tate informed Sir Herbert of the real problems of their flight. Tate, of course, knew Sir Herbert as well. After all, he’d been at their wedding and was something of a fashion mentor to Mal. She’d originally met Sir Herbert when she was studying at Central Saint Martins College.

  Sir Herbert got on his cell, tapped out a text, and smiled. “Yes, we’ve located your errant piece of baggage and are processing it. It’ll be off to our facilities to be decontaminated within minutes. Good job and very ingenious using the dumbwaiter. Used an airplane app, did you?”

  “Yes, well, we Americans are known for our innovation.” Tate grinned. “And we have the very best apps of any in the world.”

  “As you can tell, he’s not modest,” Mal said, rolling her eyes.

  “And why should he be? We use Cox Software apps ourselves. We’re looking forward to picking the real Tate’s brain. If only you could have come to the science festival as yourself, Dr. Stevens. Although I’m afraid most of what you would have to say is over my head and out of my area of expertise, many in GCHQ would love to hear it. But such is the shadowy world we live in.”

  Though few Americans knew about it—after all, it had never been featured in a Bond movie—GCHQ was the third branch of Britain’s intelligence service and worked in conjunction with MI5 and MI6.

  “Yes,” Mal said. “I’m with you, Herb.” Using his familiar name didn’t come easily to her, but it was in her brief to use it when others might overhear. “I have no desire to listen to Tate speak.” Her tone was barbed.

  Sir Herbert laughed and studied Tate. “It is a shame you two didn’t work out. You have so much in common.”

  Mal arched a brow. Her old friend was so obvious and such a romantic for someone who’d remained staunchly single his entire sixty-plus years. “You must mean our love of fashion and the finer things in life?”

  “Yes, exactly that,” Sir Herbert said in his staid, upper-crust British accent. “Frankly, I’m surprised your boss sent you two off on this trip together.”

  “Only out of necessity,” Tate said. And then explained, speaking in code once again, of how onerous it was working with the ex.

  “Well, I expect things will be brighter and pick up in Cheltenham.” Sir Herbert’s eyes twinkled. “The science festival will be of particular interest and quite fun for you, I expect, Dr. Stevens. Given your reputation.”

  He meant Tate’s reputation for chasing women.

  Mal changed the subject. “What do you have for us?”

  “Your car is waiting outside. Inside you’ll find instructions to your hotel and for the conference. As well as a list of events and local dignitaries who are eager to meet you.” By which, he meant contacts.

  He called up something on his phone. “Let me just show you some of the lovely local sights in Cheltenham.” He turned his phone around to reveal a picture of the Government Communications Headquarters, GCHQ, building in Benhall, a small civil parish of Cheltenham.

  “Wow!” Mal remembered at last to fall back into her young, eag
er college-assistant self. “I’ve never seen a Regency spa town before. Awesome.”

  She’d been many times and loved the place, loved anything Regency, actually. She was a big Jane Austen fan. But she’d also been to Benhall and now the message was clear—she and Tate were to report there for further instructions and briefings.

  Tate arched a brow. “I hope I have the wardrobe.”

  He was asking whether he should go as himself or the good doctor.

  “Oh, they’re eager to show around such an eminent mathematician.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Government Communications Headquarters in Benhall was something of a modern wonder of architecture. From an aerial view, it looked like one large, round structure. In reality it was three, all built around a central hub. The beauty, as the Brits claimed, was that you were never more than a five-minute walk from any colleague on the campus, facilitating easy communication. Which was the point of the building and the agency.

  The entire building was approximately the size of Wembley Stadium and the roof was based on the design of Centre Court, Wimbledon, lots of glass and sunlight for an airy feel. GCHQ featured a central navigation route, the Street, the Brits called it, and all the amenities of a small town or mall—coffee shops, restaurants, a shop, and a gym. Housing over 5,500 employees, it was, in fact, larger than many small English towns.

  The many skylights, the aluminum columns, the greenery sitting around, the open seating areas, and the spiral staircases all pleased Mal’s sense of design. Tate seemed oblivious to the pleasures of the design.

  The moment they entered the building, he removed his glasses, tucked them into his front pocket, shed his jacket and held it over his shoulder with one finger.

  They waited until the director’s assistant came for them. “This way, if you please. Lord Witham is expecting you.”

  They followed the assistant down the Street deep into the building. Tate walked along cheerily. Mal wondered whether she should be leaving a trail of bread crumbs.