Page 60 of Code Name: Harbor

“Oh God,” she groans, letting her head fall back against the headrest.

“I told him you and I were seeing each other.”

She sits bolt upright, turning in the seat toward me. “You told him that?”

“Yeah, because it’s the one thing I don’t want hidden. I’m not going to skulk around with you in the dark. I told him because lying about that to a man who has clearly already worked it out is worse than the truth. So I gave him the truth. I told him we’re seeing each other, it started after the rescue and it’s serious.”

“It’s serious?” she asks, her mouth curving into a sappy smile.

I turn to look at her. “You and I both know it’s serious.”

Josie blushes and if I weren’t driving right now, I’d kiss the fuck out of her.

“What did Cole say?”

“He thanked me for being straight with him.” Except he didn’t say it quite that way. He said, “Thanks for being straight with me about seeing Josie.” Which meant he didn’t believe me when I told him I didn’t know Voronin. And now for all I know, Cole’s put me on the FBI’s radar, but that’s not something I want to worry Josie about.

I squeeze her hand again. “Hey… it’s going to be all right.”

“You don’t know that.”

I pull Josie’s hand to my mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Well, I have to believe it. The alternative isn’t acceptable to me.”

She sighs, and it tells me she’s going to choose to believe it too.

My gallery’s on Western Avenue in Pioneer Square in a 1909 brick warehouse I bought and gutted five years ago. The front windows are seven feet tall and the interior is whitewashed brick walls with dark stained oak floors. There’s a single low-watt track lighting system on warm dimmers that highlights every piece on the walls, which is something my gallery director and I argued about for three months before we installed it and which she lords over me every time we host an event.

Tonight’s opening is for a Seattle painter named Margaret Nguyen whose work I’ve represented for two years. She does large-format abstract landscapes in oils, mostly of the Pacific Northwest, which sell well in the Bay Area private market.

It’s a low-key event with wine and small plates, the art community circulating among small talk and ambient mood music.

I hired a valet service and turn my car over to one of the attendants, along with a fifty-dollar bill, before helping Josie out of the passenger side.

Her hand finds my arm without looking, and we cross the sidewalk to the front doors of Marlowe Fine Art, where my gallery director, Janelle, meets us.

I’m greeted with an air kiss and then introduce her to Josie. “Janelle pretty much runs the gallery, which means Janelle runs me.”

“That has never been more accurate,” Janelle says with a laugh. She takes Josie’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I take Josie by the elbow but before we walk away, Janelle leans in. “Heads up… Mr. Norris is here and wants to talk to you about the Christensen piece.”

“I’m not lowering the price,” I reply.

“I know that, but he doesn’t seem to know that. Maybe you can tell him again.”

“I’m on it,” I assure her.

Josie looks around as I lead her across the floor. “This is incredible, Finn.”

I take in the scene, and yeah… I’ve built something worth being proud of. It’s truly just a cover for what I really do, but it’s legitimate and it makes money, and it fits me more into Josie’s world than smuggling does.

The place is filling up, and I shake hands with several regulars as we make our way to the bar. The wine is from a Walla Walla producer I’ve been buying from for the past few years. Waiters circulate with trays of fresh oysters from Hood Canal.

Josie is a complete hit and it’s clear she can hold her own in a room of art-world people with the same competence she holds in a room of analysts. I introduce her to Margaret, and they chat for ten minutes about the Pacific Northwest light evoked in her paintings. Josie asks intelligent questions but never pretends to know more than she does. She makes Margaret laugh, which is something because she’s a bit dour.

While they’re talking, I notice Marcus over in the corner. He’s in a dark gray suit with no tie. The coffee thermos is absent and he raises a glass of wine in my direction when our eyes meet.

“Excuse me,” I say to Josie, squeezing her elbow. “I’ll be right back.”