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why I’m here. “Stage fright?”
    Talia doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
    “Break a leg.”
    She doesn’t make a comment about me keeping an eye on them for both of us. She doesn’t do anything but maneuver a foot closer to me as we approach the token security guard at the top of the escalator. We have a legitimate excuse to be here, so there’s no reason for nerves now. And security’s hardly interested in us anyway, especially when Talia flashes her folder of music at them.
    As soon as we’re cleared, I slide a little closer to her. “I thought pros don’t need music.”
    “I’m a replacement.” She shoots me a sarcastic look, but when she looks away, that same semi-secret smile she’s worn all week wins out. And all week, the same mini-defibrillator response has kicked in my chest.
    That’s because of me.
    And I like it.
    We reach the greenroom, but there’s no time to talk with the singer, a folk dancing troupe, and the “headliner” for the night, a string quartet, all hanging around.
    Suddenly this feels more like something Shanna would drag me to than an op I designed. I haven’t forgotten Shanna, not for a minute — but when somebody wants you to forget them, wants to get away from you, it could be the right thing to let them. Maybe.
    Talia settles into one of the chairs ringing the room, running through imaginary scales on her lap. I take a seat next to her and take her hand to stop the nervous movement. At least that’s what I tell myself. But I tell Talia, “You’ll do great.”
    She slides free to flex her fingers. “Just staying warmed up.”
    Good idea, since we have a while to wait. One of those obnoxious headset-and-PDA-hardwired-to-her-nervous-system wedding planner types strides in and collects the performers to practice their entrances and exits.
    I take the time to plan my next move. And not on Talia.
    We’re in, but from here, it gets tougher. I’ve done my best to memorize the face of every Emirati staffer, Talia’s taken the Americans, and we’ve both been over the ranking members of Transport Canada. Now we just have to find some connection between somebody inside our embassy and the Emiratis’. Right. They could have the same cleaning lady for all we know.
    Okay, we’ve checked that, so not any local-hired staff. And the American side has to be somebody close to the ambassador.
    With the rehearsals finished, it’s up to me to keep Talia’s nerves in check — although she’s not that nervous anymore, so could be just me. All of a sudden, the first act is up, the singer. Twenty minutes seem to simultaneously crawl and fly until the folk dancers leave and the singer returns to pack up her stuff. Our turn. Without looking over her shoulder, Talia disappears.
    This is my cue, before the dancers get back. I’m supposed to slip out of the greenroom and into the party like I belong there, mingling with and monitoring the guests to find anybody who looks familiar. Talia, no longer in disguise, will hit the floor, too, to try to read people and find that invisible connection.
    Not my most efficient plan, but one night of my life is worth a shot.
    Drinks with the ambassador may not be on my weekly schedule, but the CIA trains you early on in this scenario, so it’s not too difficult to blend in. Talia’s doing a good job, too, playing some piece that even I vaguely know. At least nobody’s staring at the stage in horror.
    She finishes, curtsies to the polite applause and leaves the stage. Now the real show begins. I make the rounds of small talk, trying to scope out any Emiratis, but the ballroom is too big and too dim to make this effective — especially without Talia.
    The string quartet that followed her finishes their second number. It’s been way too long. She should be here.
    I check the doors again. Still no sign of her. Before I can grab my operational phone to check the time or give hers a call, I spot someone else in my line of sight. Someone I need to see.