Surveillance sucks. And it can take up way too much of a spy’s job. I readjust the stand for my government-issue parabolic mic, pointed out the back windows of my nondescript van. I shouldn’t miss a whisper from the ambassador’s office. My aim has gotten good over the years — and even better in the last four hours.
“How’s it look up there?” I murmur into my other mic, comms to my partner for this op.
Talia, my spy in the sky, answers back. “Still. Boring.” From her perch in the building next to my van, Talia’s got an overhead view. Of nothing, apparently.
“Same here.” I sip my cold, burned coffee and refocus on that one lit window in the United Arab Emirates Embassy. It’s long past dark here in Ottawa, and I doubt they keep on Dubai local time inside, so work might be wrapping up in the ambassador’s office.
Yes, the United States is close with Canada and the United Arab Emirates — but sometimes you have to keep your friends closer. This is one of those times. CSIS, Canada’s spy agency, has informally asked us, their favorite CIA office, to help with a potential airport landing rights problem.
If you want to get technical, they asked me to help, and I roped in Talia. So unofficially, we’re here, though we could start a lot of trouble if we get caught eavesdropping on an ally.
What our Congress doesn’t know — well, let’s just hope they never find out.
From what I can tell, however, there’s not a whole lot to find out. The ambassador is busy reading or filing or making paper airplanes. No phone calls. No meetings. No nothing, just periodic paper shuffling. But as long as his light’s on tonight, I’ll be here listening.
My phone dings. Text. I think I’m safe to look away from the window for ten seconds.
It’s from Shanna, my fiancée. Be home anytime soon?
I glance at the time. She’s flying to Chicago to visit her mom tonight, and she probably expects me to drive her to the airport. To be honest, though, with how things have been lately, I’m surprised she’s asking.
“ Habiibii? ” A woman’s voice, not Talia’s, through my headset makes me jump — and jump into action.
“Got company,” I inform Talia. “Wife, I think.” I tuck my phone away, steady my mic and make sure the laptop is recording. I’m the best we’ve got in Canada, but my rudimentary Arabic will need help.
In the next two minutes, I think I catch a “Toronto.” The reference could be anything, given our location, but it’s enough to tickle my hackles in a way I really don’t like.
Then I pick up something else I don’t want to hear: “American.”
“The ambassador’s not the only one with company.” Talia’s voice breaks in over the ambassador’s wife. “Two men from the embassy gates.”
Could be anybody. It’s not that late. Visiting diplomats. Local officials. Cleaning staff. I almost believe myself. One way to check. “What are they wearing?”
“Black.” She’s quiet for a second, and the ambassador’s wife cuts in. Good thing we’re recording this. Talia interrupts again. “You say it keffiyeh , right?”
The headdress for Arabic — and especially Emirati — men. Still, anybody coming from the embassy could be Emirati. Even if they usually wear white instead of black. “Sure they’re men?”
“Unless these are really burly women, yeah. I can recognize a burqa.”
Most Emirati women don’t go for the full burqa, but I don’t correct her. I crane my neck to scan through the back windows. I’m situated half a block from the embassy gates in a beat-up plumbing van. I should be safe.
Thing is, I feel anything but safe. “What are they doing?”
“Checking cars. They’ve got flashlights.”
And I’ve got a whole lot of stuff I don’t want them seeing. The ambassador’s light is still on, but I don’t have much of a choice. I toss out one last-ditch hope. “Security?”
“Dog walkers. Come on. Of course.”
“They don’t have the
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