The string quartet plays something fancy in the background, but all you can hear is the click of her heels and the low murmur of her voice in your earpiece.

“Try not to look so tense.”

Yelena Belova whispers as she links her arm through yours with a smile that is so convincing it could win awards. “We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, remember?”

The chandelier above you glitters, the people around you in tuxedos and silk gowns, but you’re not here for the wine or the small talk. You’re here for intel. And so is she.

She leans in closer. “Target’s heading to the west wing. I’ll make a scene—you slip away and find out what he’s hiding. If anyone asks, you’re my hopelessly devoted date who doesn’t speak much English.”