Blowback

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T
here was nothing like floating into an exclusive European cocktail party dressed in a beautiful Marchesa dress and borrowed Jimmy Choos, looking and feeling like someone in a James Bond movie.

Unfortunately, Molly would never know what that felt like. Still clutching the lost-baggage receipt the airline rep had given her, she shook her head and looked at her scuffed sneakers. Why, oh why, had she dressed like a bum to travel? She knew the answer. Archaeologists never wore anything they didn't mind getting ripped and dirty—too many excavation directors made people work as soon as they arrived—it had just been force of habit. At least her nails were clean this time.

The Athens-bound taxi bounced over a pothole, and Victoria Ruskin, a stringer for some East Coast channel who Molly had been sitting next to in the plane, bashed her head on the roof of the cab.

“Sonofa…”

“Seatbelt?” Molly said pulling at her strap and raising her eyebrows.

Rubbing her head, Victoria said, “I think you should just skip the cocktail party and come hang out at the Media Club. At least jeans are the norm there. And the dirtier they are, the more hardcore you look.”

Molly didn't know what to say. She wanted to go to the Media Club with her new friend and forgo the embarrassment of turning up at a black-tie event in jeans, sneakers, and a
HISTORY ROCKS
T-shirt she'd picked up at a geology conference. But she couldn't. She was on a mission.

Not like a mission to seduce or a mission to stun. A real mission. A government-requested goddamn mission that she was about to completely flunk.

“I can't. I have to at least show my face,” Molly said, staring out at the city lights wondering how everything could have gone so wrong so quickly.

“Seriously, you do not want to miss the war stories of the guys at the Club. And besides, there'll be plenty more cocktail parties to go to during the
endless
freaking weeks of the G20 meetings. At least two every day. You'll have plenty of time to wear your fancy dress.”

Molly sighed. She was only supposed to be in Athens for a few days, but it felt futile to explain. “I know.” She changed the subject. “So how long are you here covering the G20? What's your main event?” Most of the week was boring meetings of international rules regarding antiquities, energy development, and banking. Nothing, Molly imagined, that made for exciting TV. Oh God, was she trying to think like a spy now? She mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

“Oh…I'm here for the fracking discussion in the energy development sessions,” Victoria said. “Three scientists are speaking for the first time about measured effects on the environment, and because we're just about to do a major vote on it in our viewer area, my channel wants me here to see if someone's actually figured out whether or not fracking is safe. Glamorous, right?”

Molly wiggled her toes in her shoes. “We sure are living the dream, aren't we?” She gave a rueful smile. Victoria seemed nice, and she was happy to have met her on the flight and to have figured out that they were both heading for the same fancy hotel. She just wished that she could get this stupid mission-slash-favor out of the way so she could go back to panicking about the speech she was scheduled to give at the antiquities meeting. And since that wasn't happening until Thursday, she also had plenty of time to hang out with Victoria at the Media Club, wherever that was. It sounded fun.

“So, the Media Club?” Victoria asked again, as the taxi ground to a halt outside the huge hotel opposite the government palace.

“I'd love to later in the week. Maybe I'll catch up with you at breakfast tomorrow and we can compare our schedules?”

Victoria looked disappointed. “Sure, maybe I'll see you later.” She slipped Molly some euros for the taxi and said, “It's on me. I bet I have a bigger expense account than you.”

“That wouldn't be hard, because I don't have even a small one.” Molly laughed and watched as the journalist followed the porter carrying her bags into the hotel. She paid the taxi driver, hauled her paltry duffel bag on to her shoulder and walked into the ornate hotel. She
had
to learn to pack better. Jimmy Choo and Marchesa deserved carry-on baggage status, at the very least.

She checked her phone again, hoping she'd messed up on her time zone calculations. No, unfortunately not. And still no text. She bit her lip. Dr. Doubrov, the Russian antiquities minister, was only at the meeting for this one day. It had been made very clear to her that this cocktail party was going to be her only opportunity to slip him the note that she'd been given. And she was already two hours late.

She still couldn't believe she'd agreed to do this. When Brandon had first called her a week ago, she'd thought he wanted to ask her for a date. After all, he'd spent a lot of time with the team that had debriefed her for the State Department's official report on her last trip to Iraq. But no, turned out he wanted a different kind of favor. Just a small task, he'd said. One that would help her country immensely.

Of course she'd said yes. After her time with various military and ex-military people the previous year in Iraq, she'd been proud to be asked. Of course, the only answer had been yes. They met on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, where he gave her a message to pass to Dr. Doubrov. “What on earth? Can't you just send him an email?” she'd asked.

“The Russians moved back to paper and ink about five years ago to ensure none of their secrets could get hacked,” Brandon had explained. “The KGB—or the SVR as they are now—almost exclusively use typewriters now. He'd never take a thumb drive or anything that could compromise him. The only way for me to reach him is through you. You already know him, and you're already scheduled to attend the only party he's attending. No one will get suspicious about old friends chatting.”

“So what's the message?”

He slipped her two plain, small envelopes, one with her first name on it, and one with her last name on it. “I'll text you with one word before you get there. Just open the corresponding envelope, read it, and recount it word for word to Doubrov when you see him. Then destroy both the envelopes afterward.”

It all seemed so…
Bourne Identity
-ish.

But exciting though.

“Make sure no one overhears you talking to Doubrov. He usually has bodyguards, so get close enough for it to be a private conversation.” His voice was getting tighter and more clipped the more he spoke. He seemed stressed to her. A single drop of sweat trickled diagonally across his temple. It was warm, but it wasn't that warm. His fingers danced on his leg as if he were playing an imaginary piano.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice. “You look…tense?” Her mind raced, wondering what was so important that he would ask someone who could only really be described as a remote acquaintance to help him out.

He frowned at her. “What are you talking about? I'm just asking you to do a simple thing for me. For your country.”

“But last year, when I met you, you were—and please know I mean no disrespect—a fairly junior State Department officer, bringing tea and taking notes. This feels…strange.”

“I know it does, and I'm sorry. I've just become party to some information that needs to be passed on to someone in the Russian government without a big deal being made of it. I'm still trying to pin down the details, which is why you have two envelopes. I'm waiting for one last confirmation, but that won't come until you are in the air. But don't worry. You're perfect for the job.” A smile reached his eyes briefly. “I know you, and you know Doubrov, and no one's going to think twice about you talking to him. It actually works all around.”

It sounded absolutely reasonable when he put it like that. She did know Dr. Doubrov, and had found him to be a passionate scholar of archaeology and antiquities. He only ever had one speaking mode, and that was a full-on lecture. He'd lecture anyone about anything, but always with a twinkle in his eye, knowing full well that his imposing six-foot-plus stature intimidated people. As did his nationality and his alleged past in the KGB. But he'd always seemed to have a good sense of humor, and Molly liked what she knew about him. She also knew that he'd be happy to see her again, because he'd told her boss as much on the phone a month ago. Harry had told her to be sure to look to him for support during her speech if necessary.

Some of her early speeches had gone down less well, with academic heckling and private contractors trying to diminish her experiences. But as they went along, she'd become more adept at handling them. But at an event this important, she was happy to have someone very well thought of to have her back if necessary.

She'd tucked the two envelopes into her purse, tamping down the exhilaration rushing through her. Did this make her a spy? She'd really thought it might. She'd raised her eyes expectantly, silently asking if there was anything else.

“Good girl,” he'd said, which had made her bristle.
Girl?
She'd let it slide with the sudden realization that for a short couple of days, she'd be an agent. A real government agent. Excitement had coursed through her that her country—the US of freaking A—would trust her with such an important task. Her, a mere archaeologist.

“Remember. You have a four-hour window at that cocktail party. Don't miss him. The consequences will be dire if you don't get the message to him. Like two-superpowers-going-to-war dire.” And then he'd jumped up and walked away, without so much as a thank you or a good luck.

But Molly hadn't cared. She'd sat there for a good ten minutes gazing out at the Washington Monument and reveling in the fact that she had been called to serve her country.

It was going to be epic. A story to tell her grandkids.

But for now, she was still late. She checked in and took the elevator to her room, pausing only to throw her small bag over the threshold into the room before running back toward the elevator. She checked her phone again. Still no text. Shit. She had both envelopes in her jeans pocket. She just needed to know which one to open. She followed the signs for the party and headed to the back of the hotel.

There was a security team, patting down guests and funneling them through metal detectors. When they came to Molly, the man in black's eyebrows raised. “Lost luggage,” she said, giving him a rueful smile and flashing her “Guest Speaker” pass.

“I'm sure no one will notice,” he said with an utterly charming Greek accent. She looked at his nametag.

“That's so sweet of you, Platon Asker. Thank you.” She felt better already. Especially since Platon was tall and good looking.
Very
good looking. That didn't hurt.

The party was everything she'd hoped for—glamorous women floating in long dresses and smart men in tuxes. Champagne flutes and night sky. Tall arrangements of flowers arching toward the stars. Breathtaking. It seemed as if the restaurant had retracted its whole roof and allowed the entire area out to the balcony to be open air. She wished so hard that she were wearing her dress and sexy high heels.

Her butt vibrated.
At last.
She dug out her phone.

Molly.

She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray and circled the guests to locate Dr. Doubrov.

David Church eyed the people talking to his principal. Close protection was a bitch, but the company he worked for had saved him from self-destruction, so he basically owed them his soul. And this week, his soul was guarding a very important scientist. He had no idea who would want to hurt a scientist, but his boss had assigned him to Athens, and here he was.

Although his attention was on Professor Rankin, he was also scanning the room for someone special, the other reason he hadn't complained at taking this job: Molly Solent was on the week's schedule, and he wanted to see her.

Badly. Like blue-balls badly.

He'd kept track of her for nearly a year, since they'd met, briefly, in Iraq. At the time he'd been in no shape to choose a tie color, let alone date someone as…
unique
as Molly.

From the second he'd laid eyes on her, he knew she was trouble. Trouble for him, anyway. His eyes rested for a second on the far wall, which was adorned with a mosaic picture of an ancient Greek warrior. In some way he was like that mosaic. A fine illustration of a fighter, but when you got up close, you could see the cracks. Millions of cracks. Good for no one, especially someone like Molly. Hell, he was barely in good enough shape to have this job. But his CEO had seen something in him—or so he'd said—something that David couldn't see himself, and had sent him on a series of low-risk jobs. It had been almost enough to take his mind off Molly.

She had haunted his days and nights with her eyes that were full of promise, full of a future than he couldn't see. She'd seen him at his worst, and it didn't seem to faze her at all. Her eyes. He closed his own as he thought about her again. Innocent and totally open. She'd wanted him and hadn't been afraid at all of making it clear.

Her image had kept him going through the long, dark nights of recovery. The single chink of light in his life. He was scared to lose that. Scared to see her.

The one thing that he was proud of, pretty much the only thing, was walking away from her before he sucked her into his downward spiral.

He had to keep his mind on that one point if he saw her here. He wasn't fixed yet. Wasn't entirely right. He still looked longingly at liquor, remembering the peace that came at the bottom of the bottle. He still dreamed that he'd fallen off the wagon. When he woke up, all he could remember is how good it felt. And the hallucinations. Nope. He definitely wasn't ready for Molly. And she definitely didn't deserve the shitstorm that seemed to always revolve around him.