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His gut tightened, but he shook his head as if unconcerned. “If they had, it would be Beatrice calling us in, not Rory.”
Somewhat mollified, she returned to her food and said around a mouthful, “A mission, maybe? For the two of us?”
“Beatrice or Cal would hand out orders for that.” He chucked her chin. “What kind of mission do you think they’d assign to us, anyway?”
“You doubt my field skills?”
Yes. “Of course not,” he lied.
She snorted, knowing he was.
The elevator stopped and they walked into the quiet computer hub. No one was present, except for the department head. Rory didn’t so much as look up. “No food in here, you know that.”
Ian made a face and set the tray on the closest desk, shoving an energy bar in his back pocket. Vivi hurriedly wiped her mouth, swallowing the last bite of her burrito. Together, they made their way past the assorted cubicles and machines, the background hum like white noise to Ian’s nerves.
Rory had an L-shaped station with multiple monitors and keyboards. Ian shifted one of the visitor chairs so Vivi could sit. He stayed standing. “What’s up?”
Rory hit a couple keys and raised his attention to them. As he did so, he swung a monitor around so they could see it. “Look familiar?”
The photo was a grainy black and white, probably from a security camera. A man’s face was caught in profile as he entered a building on a rainy night, the lapels of a trench coat flipped up around his neck.
Ian bent and peered at the shot. At the same time, Vivi leaned forward, her breath hitching. “Is that…?” Her eyes turned to him. “You?”
Distant warning bells were going off in his head. He scanned the part of the building caught in the frame, along with the glass entrance. It didn’t look familiar. “Where was this taken?”
Rory hit a few more keys and turned a second monitor toward them. “The Oliver Hotel in Berlin on the night of November eleventh last year, at 1100 hours. Ring any bells?”
Now his stomach fell. He and Vivi stared at each other. “That’s not me,” Ian said. “I was…”
“In Vegas getting married?” Rory asked.
“Wait,” Vivi said, coming out of the chair. “The Oliver Hotel in Berlin. That’s where the chancellor was assassinated.”
Rory dipped his chin. “On the night of November eleventh at midnight, and they never caught the shooter.”
“Where did you get this photo?” Ian asked, eyeing his profile once more. He’d been nowhere near Berlin. He did the math, confirming it—Central European time to Pacific—he was in a Vegas chapel saying “I do” about then.
Rory leaned back, the chair squeaking in protest. “It was sent to Dr. Montgomery’s private phone by an unknown number two days before she touched down in Germany and walked into Lawrence’s party.”
Vivi sat down hard. Ian could see the wheels turning in her head. “You accessed my records?”
Rory cracked his knuckles. “Of course.”
“You shouldn’t be digging around in that stuff.” Her voice held clear warning. “They’ve probably got trackers on all of it.”
“They do,” he agreed, not the least bit concerned.
“Look, I know everyone here believes you’re the best at what you do, but it’s not worth stirring this hornet’s nest.”
Ian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I want to know who was impersonating me that night and why.”
“So do I.” Beatrice strode in and stopped at the desk. “And we’re going to find out.”
Vivi glanced between her and Rory, fear on her face. “Youwantthem to know you’re looking into it. You want them to come after you.”
“Not me,” Beatrice clarified, standing over Rory’s shoulder and scanning the monitor on his side. “You. I want to know why someone painted suspicion about a U.S. Navy SEAL being at that hotel on the night the chancellor was assassinated, yet it wasn’t brought to anyone’s attention, within our government, or in Europe.”
“How do you know it wasn’t?” Ian asked.
