Mr. Nice Spy by Jordan McCollum

a woman he’s probably never met relaying his info.”
    Right. Because we have the ambassador’s wife on tape, and he’s been talking — or not talking — with someone else’s significant other. We can make the implication, but if the guy puts up a fight, I want to go in with a lot more than our word against his.
    Talia swallows. “I hate to point this out, but we also need to think about legal ramifications. On the off-chance the US decides to bring charges.”
    I put on my best you-can’t-be-serious look. We are not law enforcement. Nowhere in our job description. We don’t worry about evidentiary support, illegal searches and seizures, or our legal Latin from amicus curiae to sui generis .
    But both of us have law degrees — well, Talia doesn’t quite, but she’s done with coursework — so we know the law. Too well.
    “I’m not saying we’ll package an airtight case for them,” Talia clarifies between sips of soda. “I’m saying we need to think about it. If he could go to jail over this, I certainly don’t want it to be our fault he doesn’t.”
    “And I don’t want to get dragged into a federal courtroom and have my cover job part of the public record.”
    She nods. “Which is exactly why we have to have the hard evidence to wrap him up, in case he’s . . . disinclined to confess.”
    “Great. We just have to sneak into a guarded US Embassy, trick half their employees and definitively pin one as a leak. Getting better all the time. Anything else?”
    Talia pulls her straw away from her lips to purse them. “This wasn’t my idea.”
    Spies are experts in codes. Deciphering girl-code isn’t always my strong point, but I understand her unsaid message: this is your case, your mess. You fix it.
    CSIS talked to her about this, too, and she told them no. She’s here because of me, and ultimately, this falls on me. I need to get a lot more creative if I want to fix this problem.
    Meanwhile, Talia tosses her fork onto her unfinished food and folds her arms. No, she practically folds into herself, hunching her shoulders defensively, avoiding my eyes, going from business mode to near-shutdown. I can tell I won’t like what comes next.
    Sure enough, her hushed voice drops another bomb. “So, are you telling her?”
    That drop of dread crystallizes again. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
    “Women aren’t as hard to understand as you make us out to be.”
    I refrain from rolling my eyes. “I’m a guy, not brain-dead. ‘I need time’ is pretty clear.”
    Talia meets my gaze, searching like she can find some hidden meaning in Shanna’s words and email and behavior via telepathy.
    Yeah, no luck, sister. The answer isn’t anywhere in my brain.
    “If that’s all Shanna’s told you she needs, maybe you should give it to her.”
    “Thanks a lot, Confucius.” Of course that’s all she said she needs. I’m giving her exactly what she asked for. Other than a wedding date.
    I smash my fortune cookie in its little cellophane package to cut off that thought train. I fish the paper out, then pour the cookie bits into my mouth.
    “Charming.” Talia breaks hers open, takes out the fortune and nibbles on half of the cookie while she ponders.
    “Aren’t you going to read it?” I ask.
    She raises an eyebrow at mine, discarded on my tray. I pick it up — and immediately I’m sorry I did. Meet your opponent halfway. You need the exercise.
    Talia takes it from me and grimaces. “Not much help.” She hands me hers. Be assertive when decisive action is needed.
    “So much for our fortune cookies planning the op for us.” I pretend not to notice Talia tucking the slips of paper into her pocket as she stands. I grab her tray for her.
    “I can handle my own trash.”
    “I know.”
    She holds out a hand. “Then let me.”
    Something firm in that tone tells me not to argue. I’ve never been one to back down, even when only the stupid would charge forward, but . . . it’s Talia. And I