Love, Lies, and British Spies Page 2

  Eva wanted to head out to the firm immediately, but Owen, usually so self-confident and secure suddenly “needed” her to be there for his rehearsal. He drew her into the darkened corner of the hallway and tried to make his case.

  “I promise I’ll take you over to their offices tomorrow if you’ll stay and watch my rehearsal now,” he said softly, as he put his hands on her hips and drew her closer. “I’d really like to see your reaction to the new material before I have to put it out there in front of everyone tonight. Please stay?” he rumbled as he nipped soft kisses along her jawline and up to her earlobe. He then flicked his tongue along the aforementioned earlobe, eliciting a soft sigh from his rapidly melting wife.

  “Wait … so, it’s all right for you to work on our honeymoon but not me? You, don’t play fair,” she purred, stroking her hands down his chest as he buried his face in her hair.

  “Ah, Eva, what’s not fair is how insane I am over you,” he whispered in her ear. “There’s never a moment of the day when I’m not thinking of you, of what I want to do to you, of how you smell, how you taste.” He stroked his hands down her cheeks and pulled back to look her in the eyes. “No matter what, love, never doubt that I am absolutely, mental over you. You’re everything to me, you know that, right?”

  “Mmm. And you show it so well. Do that little thing with my earlobe again?” she breathed back.

  He leaned in to fulfill his husbandly duties when a round of throat clearing commenced from behind him. Eva looked up and over his shoulder, turning bright pink and giggling.

  Herb Winston, Owen’s manager, stood behind them in the hallway outside Charlene’s office, looking highly uncomfortable. Herb was a small, wiry man, always dressed in running gear, and almost always on the run. He was well known as an agent in the music industry in Western Europe, and much less well known as the Director of Courier Services for SIS, the British secret intelligence service more commonly called MI6.

  “I’d make some reference as to whether the two of you are done, but from what I’ve gleaned in the last few months, you’re never done. If you can take a break for a few minutes though, I’d like to go over some business things with you, Owen,” Herb chastised.

  “No need to get testy, mate,” Owen returned, grinning. “I’m happy to talk with you.”

  “It’s perfect timing, actually,” Eva said, smiling at Herb and winking at Owen. “I’ll just go down to the lobby and call this firm to set up an appointment for tomorrow. Come get me when you’re ready for me to hear the new stuff, hon.”

  • • •

  As Eva walked away down the hall, Herb motioned for Owen to follow him. They set off down the hallway and entered a small conference room at the far end. Once there, Herb lifted his left wrist, pushed a button on the side of his wristwatch and held it out in front of him as he turned 360 degrees around the room.

  “OK, we’re good,” he said, as he pushed the watch button again and moved to sit down at the conference table.

  “So, were those Hassam’s people we spotted in the van earlier?” Owen queried, joining him at the table and opening a bottle of water he pulled off the refreshment cart nearby.

  “We think so,” Herb answered. “Alicia was able to get off a couple of photos of them while you were having coffee with Derrick, so we’re running them through the system right now. She managed to get pictures of three men in the van. They were all large boys and she thinks maybe relations.”

  “Ah, bloody hell!” Owen swore. “It’s probably the Abdul brothers. Those wankers!” he cursed again, pounding his fist on the table.

  “Were they the ones who caught you in Portugal a couple of years ago and kept you from getting that Lithuanian guerilla the Yanks had cornered?”

  “Yes, that would be them. They’re bloody stupid, but tenacious and big, and they guard the gates to Hassam’s operations like some sort of three-headed dog.”

  “Well,” Herb continued, “we’ll get those photos checked out to be sure, but the main thing is, Alicia was able to throw them off your track for now. I don’t suppose there’s any way we could swing a hotel switch for you?”

  “You know that’s not possible this time, mate,” said Owen looking at Herb somewhat regretfully. “It’s our honeymoon. How would I ever come up with a reason why we need to change from the hotel we spent weeks choosing together?”

  “I know. I know,” said Herb, shaking his head. “We’ll make sure to keep Derrick and Alicia close by until the delivery is complete.” Herb paused for a moment. “You really just had to go and do this? I still can’t believe it. I mean she’s a great gal, don’t get me wrong, but light duty? Owen Martin on light duty?”

  “Well, so far it doesn’t feel that light, mate. I’ve got the bloody Abdul brothers after me and I’ve had to lie to my new wife about fifty times since we started our honeymoon.”

  “You know the drill, Agent Martin. You either leave ’em parked or leave ’em in the dark,” Herb responded.

  Owen shut his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, reminded once again of the difficult choice he’d had to make when he fell in love with Eva. Married MI6 agents were presented with two options. The first was to keep their spouses parked. This meant that their spouses could know they worked for MI6, and when they went on missions, but spouses weren’t ever allowed to travel with them or to know the nature of the missions. Most MI6 spouses and families were housed in neighborhoods together where they had security provided discreetly by the agency so they were protected at all times.

  The second choice was to keep their spouses in the dark. This option, chosen by Owen, meant that he could never tell Eva what he really did for a living. His musical career was simply a cover, but one that she had to believe as well as everyone else. This meant that he had to lie to her. A lot. But, the trade-off was that he could take Eva with him while he worked instead of being away from her much of the year, and that Eva could continue to live her life in the carefree manner she was accustomed to. It also meant he didn’t have to risk telling her who he’d been the last decade of his life, a confession that he feared might end their relationship. Keeping his spouse in the dark also meant he’d been reassigned to “light duty”, where he was given assignments with relatively low risk to him and his spouse.

  “All right,” Owen said after an awkward pause. “I’m to pick up the package from the Iranian contact after the show tonight, and then deliver it to your guy who will take it on to Brussels?”

  “Yes,” said Herb. “It’s a bundle of blueprints, some schematics of the nuclear program the Iranian government’s got going. I’ve set it up for you to drop it at the Café du Vin at one A.M. I figured you could tell Eva you were going out for a walk or to pick something up at the pharmacy?”

  “Yeah, I can handle that part. Thanks for trying to make it convenient,” he paused for a moment. “Look, I know that keeping her in the dark makes it harder for everyone on the team. I appreciate what you’re all doing. I never thought this would happen to me, mate, trust me. But I’m so crazy about her that I just can’t leave her sitting alone in Essex nine months of the year while I’m off in the wilds getting shot at, and trying to extract intel from women without violating my marriage vows. I watched Anthony do that for too long,” he said, referring to a colleague who had been killed the year before. “That’s not a marriage.”

  Herb stood up and put his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “We got you, and we’re happy to do it. It’s a loss for the agency, you doing these little jobs, but your happiness is more important, and I gotta’ say, that gal makes you happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Now, let’s go get your sound checks started. Have you practiced for this performance at all?” Herb said, rolling his eyes at Owen.

  “You’re a git,” Owen replied, as they headed down the stairs to the theatre. “You know the great Owen Martin doesn’t need to practice.”

  Chapter Two

  London — Five months and three weeks ago

 
After their first encounter, Owen and Eva had met up at Tesco every day for a week, chatting longer each time. Eva was beginning to wonder where she could store all the food she kept buying unnecessarily when Owen finally popped the question: “So, would you like to go down the block and have a cup of tea with me?”

  By this time, Eva felt pretty certain he wasn’t a serial killer or gay. She figured he could still be married or a pervert, but two out of four wasn’t bad, so she said, “Yes.”

  They strolled down to the Copper Kettle Tea Shop, secured a table in front of the windows, and sat down with a pot of tea and a basket of scones. The table was covered in a faded floral cloth and the floor was worn oak planking. There were small vases of flowers throughout the shop, and Eva thought to herself that at a couple of inches over six feet, with broad shoulders, hair that brushed his collar, and a wicked gleam in his green eyes, Owen looked far too masculine for the little tea shop.

  “So tell me,” he began as he poured out a cup of tea for her, “what brought you from Kansas City to London?”

  “I wanted a change, and there was a job, so I left my parents and my brothers and got on a plane,” she replied a little too perkily.

  “This need for a change wasn’t perhaps related to a chap was it?” he asked shrewdly.

  “You’re very good aren’t you?” she said, smiling sadly down at her cup of tea. “Yes, it had to do with a former fiancé, a disloyal cousin and a cancelled wedding. How clichéd of me, huh?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said laying his hand over hers on the table. “I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he told her, with a wink, “the guy was a giant prat.”

  She laughed, and then told him about her job with an interior design firm, her background in textiles and Art History. He told her about his stint in the military and finally, about his music.

  “You’re a musician?” she asked, seeming surprised by the information.

  “That I am. I’m what they like to call a singer/songwriter. I write my own pieces, although I’ve been known to do the occasional cover as well. I perform at a lot of smaller venues — theaters, amphitheaters — once in a while a larger music festival. It’s usually just me and my guitar, but sometimes I have a friend or two come along and play on a few songs — a piano or some strings. I’m generally the headliner, but I like to give new artists a chance to warm up the audience for me.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s so wonderful,” she said quietly. “I’d have never guessed you were an artist, but now I hear you talk about it I can see it so clearly. Will you sing something for me?”

  “Ah, love, I was afraid you’d say something like that,” he groaned. “Really? Right here in the tea shop?”

  She smiled and nodded her head, not willing to give him a way out of it.

  “All right then.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s see … OK, I’ve got a good one for you.”

  Owen started singing a sweet Celtic inspired ballad, looking at Eva as she blushed and smiled. His voice was rich and smooth and vibrated all the way into her heart. The words to the song were of sunshine, love, beauty, and dreams. The tune was lilting and soft. When he finally finished she whispered, “Oh my,” as tears shimmered in her eyes. “You’re not just a musician, you’re amazing. I’m blown away.”

  He lifted her fingertips to his lips and gave them a kiss. “You inspire me.”

  Just then they heard a funny hiccup and looked up to see the waitress and the counter girl both staring, mesmerized by Owen.

  “Sorry ladies,” he said grinning. “Didn’t mean to disrupt the place.”

  “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” whispered the counter girl.

  “Me too,” swooned the waitress. “Your food’s on the ’ouse. Couldn’t possibly charge ye’ when ye’ let us ’ear that.”

  “That’s really not necessary … ” Owen started.

  “It most certainly is!” an older woman shouted as she entered from the back room. “I could hear it all from the back and it was worth a hell of a lot more than that pot of tea and those scones, so no arguing. And young lady?” she said turning to Eva. “If you don’t snatch him up quick, you’re a fool.”

  Both Eva and Owen left the teashop feeling embarrassed, but by the time they made it a block down the street they were laughing.

  “I thought the old hen might get out her shotgun and make you marry me,” Owen joked.

  “I think I would have had to fight the waitress for you though,” Eva retorted. “Do you get that reaction every time you perform?”

  “Well, it’s a little different when I’m on stage. No one can talk to me right that minute, and the lights keep me from seeing much of the audience’s reaction. So, no, I don’t usually have moments like that one.”

  By this time they had made their way back to the Tesco, and Eva stood awkwardly trying to think what she was supposed to do or say next.

  “Well, thank you very much for the tea, Mr. Martin — ” she smiled and gave him a little curtsey “ — and especially for the song.”

  “The pleasure was all mine I assure you, milady,” Owen responded, bowing over her hand. He turned her hand palm up and kissed it at the spot where it met her wrist. Then he stood up and looked her directly in the eye.

  “Eva, I know we’ve met under somewhat unusual circumstances, but I would very much like to see you again. Is there any chance you would go to dinner with me?”

  Eva felt like she was going to float off into space. She stood on the gritty London sidewalk, cars inching by, people parting like a wave in order to walk around she and Owen; there was chaos, noise, and the weather sucked, but she felt like she’d died and gone to heaven.

  “Um, I think that would be very nice,” she responded. “Would you like my number?”

  “I think it’s imperative,” he said.

  They exchanged numbers and then he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before saying goodbye. Eva drifted away down the street, gently swinging her small bag of groceries as she went.

  • • •

  A half hour after she left Owen on the sidewalk in front of Tesco, Eva stood unloading the bag of groceries into her overflowing refrigerator. Her phone rang.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Did you make it home?” he asked.

  “Owen?”

  “Last time I checked, yes.”

  “Hi! Yes, I’m home. Putting away that enormous bag of radishes you made me buy. I’ll never be able to eat all of those,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at the vegetables that he swore were good for her but she secretly associated with Scarlett O’Hara vomiting in the fields of Tara.

  “Well, I’m hoping you won’t need to eat any of them tonight. Will you have dinner with me?” he asked.

  “Tonight? Isn’t that a little last minute?”

  “Possibly, but by the time I got home I realized I had two choices this evening. I could spend the entire night thinking about you or I could spend it with you. I’d rather the latter. What do you say?”

  Eva grinned and silently pumped a fist in the air, trying to control the enthusiasm in her voice. “I think that would be fine,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “Wonderful. I’ll be by to get you at seven. Number 4, right?” he said, smiling.

  “Yes, I’ll see you then.” She clicked off the phone and did a happy dance around the flat, jumping on and off of the coffee table, dislodging knick-knacks and shaking the floorboards.

  She never thought to ask how he knew her apartment number.

  Chapter Three

  Paris — 14:30 8 September

  As many times as Eva had heard Owen perform, both privately and in public, she never tired of listening to him. He had a truly exceptional talent that was praised everywhere he went. The only mystery about Owen’s music career was how he wasn’t absolutely, stunningly rich and famous. But Eva knew the answer to that mystery. Owen had no desire
for those things.

  While he occasionally said he wouldn’t mind being a little wealthier, Owen made a good living and had absolutely no desire to be terribly famous. In fact, he avoided most opportunities to give himself exposure, even going so far as to refuse to put his picture on any of his promotional posters and CD covers. He was critically acclaimed whenever he performed, and fans were enthralled, yet frustrated by the lack of access they had to him. Meanwhile Herb continued to book him in the smaller, more intimate venues he preferred, and Derrick only promoted him in the ways he agreed with, and to the extent that kept his career on the same even keel.

  But, while the bigger world might not be getting as much of Owen’s talent as they liked, Eva was fortunate to hear him as much as she wanted, and when he picked up a guitar and began to strum out a song it was like a little burst of sunshine was suddenly all around her. Derrick had once said that Owen’s music could “charm a soul out of the underworld,” and Eva didn’t doubt it.

  In some ways Owen’s strange obsession with privacy worked to Eva’s advantage. She knew full well that if Owen’s gorgeous person were displayed all over promotional materials, magazine covers, and the Internet he would be besieged by adoring women. That was something she could do without. She trusted Owen completely, but had no desire to put him to the test every time he walked out the door.

  Now, as Eva sat in the front row of the Theatre Renaissance watching him rehearse, she was once again stunned by her husband’s music. She watched as everyone in the room went quiet, and not just in the usual professionally polite way. No, when Owen played people were quiet with a kind of reverence that she’d not witnessed before. It was possible that she was biased because he was her husband, but Eva could swear that when people heard Owen’s music they were more at peace with themselves and the world.

  After the afternoon’s rehearsal Owen took Eva back to the hotel for some dinner before the concert. He insisted on taking a taxi, and when they arrived he whisked her inside in a fit of passion that nearly had her naked in the lift before they reached their room. They walked in the door of their room to find that Derrick had sent over a bottle of champagne.