“Yeah, sure.” The man stuffed the card and the bill into his pocket and ambled away.
Finn stayed, chewing on her lower lip. After a moment, she took out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and hit the number she wanted.
“Tito? It’s Finn.” She started walking toward the main street. “Yeah, long time. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”
The offices projected respectability, with the plush oriental rug over marble floor in the elevator lobby leading to a glossy wooden door. On the wall adjacent to it was a small brass plaque. The engraved letters discreetly announced: STRATEGIC INFORMATION ASSOCIATES.
By design, the company’s name was not very forthcoming. Strategic, of course, referred to plans serving a particular purpose or advantage. But information was less illuminating. Just what sort of information was the company dealing in? Advertising? Accounting? Management consulting?
For a select, well-heeled set scattered across the globe, no further explanation was necessary. SIA was a major player in a burgeoning industry that linked refugees from the world of government espionage to the decision makers who ran multinational corporations and, from time to time, political regimes. In their previous lives, many of SIA’s employees, trained and nurtured by national secret-intelligence services, had been in the shadowy business of unearthing secrets in the name of national interest. Now they performed more or less the same function, only they’d transferred their allegiance to the self-interests of their well-paying clients.
Finn pressed her hand against the reader under the brass plaque and the door clicked open.
“Mr. McAuliffe would like to speak with you,” the receptionist told her.
“Thanks.”
Finn veered left and walked to the open door at the end of the hallway. She knocked on the frame. “You looking for me?”
John McAuliffe glanced up from his computer screen. He was handsome but not excessively so, with craggy features and a gray mane that was impressive for a man on the far side of fifty. He wore a buttoned white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He reminded Finn of the fathers she’d seen on TV growing up, cardigan-wearing scotch drinkers who sat in living rooms, interrogating their daughters’ young suitors about their college plans and the provenance of their parents.
She liked McAuliffe because she felt she understood him, and because he made her nostalgic not just for her childhood but for a time when every father, even hers, seemed to have answers that explained the world. It was an engine of McAuliffe’s charisma, one she’d seen work on clients time after time. He spoke with tremendous confidence and certainty, as if he’d seen and understood and known everything from the beginning.
McAuliffe pushed his keyboard aside. “Come in. I have a new assignment for you.”
Finn plopped down in one of the guest chairs. “No can do. I’m buried on this piracy case. Looks like I might have to go to China after all.”
One of the big movie studios thought someone in-house had pirated their latest blockbuster, set for release in a month. The studio had hired SIA to investigate and McAuliffe assigned Finn.
“You can handle this one before you leave. And it’s a great gig — vetting security for the World Cup this weekend.”
“I thought Croom in Anti-Terror was on that.”
“He is. This is something more... focused.”
Finn knew that tone. He was soft-pedaling something she wasn’t going to like. “Focused?”
“Protecting player gear in the locker room.”
Finn laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.”
Finn grimaced. “No way.”
“Why not? You get to go to the world’s most popular sporting event. These guys are superstars. I’d do it myself if I could. Maybe get an autograph.”
“I’m not guarding dirty underwear. I don’t care who it belongs to.”
“It’s not dirty underwear. It’s accoutrements of heroes. A jersey worn by a star during a World Cup final can be worth a million dollars.”
“The answer is still no.”
“Fine,” McAuliffe said. “Another op will jump at it. And you’re doing TYDWD.”
“TYD — what?”
“Take Your Daughter to Work Day. It’s today. And you’re talking to the girls. Now that I think about it, you’ll be perfect.”
“Why? Because I don’t like kids? Or because I don’t have a daughter?”
“All you have to do is tell them what your typical day is like.”
Finn gave her boss a look. “Seriously? You want me to tell them the truth?”
“Of course not. These girls’ parents work here. I don’t want you to terrify them.”
“I’ll make sure we sing ‘Kumbaya’ at the end.” Finn pushed herself out of the chair. “When is this get-together around the campfire?”
McAuliffe clicked his computer back to life. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”
The four girls were in their early to mid teens. A curly-haired blonde wearing a bomber jacket over a belted dress and ankle boots glanced up from her phone when Finn walked in. The others stayed glued to their screens.
“Hey,” Finn said.
No response.
“I’ve shot two people, but they didn’t die.”
Phones forgotten, the girls all stared at Finn. Bomber Jacket’s mouth was a small O.
“Is that true?” The speaker was a lanky brunette in a Coachella T-shirt.
“Of course not,” Finn said. It’s more like seven. And one is definitely dead. “I’m a corporate spy. We lie for a living. Anyway, I’m supposed to talk to you about my job. What do you want to know?”
A blocky girl leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. “Do you have a cool car?”
“No. You want to blend in, not stand out.” Finn fingered the Porsche key chain in her pocket. “I drive the speed limit so no one notices me.”
“Ever been in a car chase?” Blocky Girl.
Finn flashed back to six months earlier in Ireland. Jacked car, automatic weapons, a J-turn that ended in a plunge over a cliff. “Sorry, nope.”
Bomber Jacket asked, “Do you have any cool spy gear?”
Finn shook her head. “That stuffs only in the movies.” And Dickey’s lab, where SIA’s resident tech genius — wooed away from the NSA’s gadget team by McAuliffe — worked on his creations.
“Do you have sex with people to find out their secrets?” said the fourth girl. She was curvy, with eyes made up as though she were the After in a smoky-eye tutorial on YouTube. Bomber Jacket snickered.
“No!” Finn said. At least not since I met Luc. “Mostly I just watch people.”
“What do you watch for?” Smoky Eyes.
“Depends on the job.” Someone who’s selling company secrets. Or the bagman on a ransom drop. Sometimes I’m looking for the chance to steal a competitor’s prototype. “It’s usually pretty basic stuff — where someone goes for lunch, who he hangs with.”
Lanky Brunette made a face. “Sounds boring.”
“It is. Speaking of which, I have paperwork to do.” I owe McAuliffe a write-up on my last job, including an explanation of how I switched real diamonds for fake ones under the sultan’s nose and got his underage mistress back home to Belarus. “You girls have a good day.”
Absorbed again in their phones, no one looked up when Finn walked out.
She headed for the cubicle she’d been assigned for the duration of her assignment. SIA had offices around the globe. As a field agent, Finn worked out of them when the need arose. McAuliffe did too. Usually he was in their D.C. or New York bureau.