Agent Of The Unknown

The first mistake was letting Iris Westcott in.

The second was giving her a microphone.

And the third—arguably the most catastrophic of them all—was assuming that the woman in the black evening gown was there to behave herself.

In fairness, nobody had actually said she couldn’t.

Technically.

The ballroom of the Halewick Hotel glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. Golden light spilled across polished marble, expensive suits, and dresses that probably cost more than Iris’s first three years of rent combined.

The evening was meant to celebrate wealth, diplomacy, and the sort of international cooperation that existed only when everyone involved had something to gain.

Politicians occupied the tables nearest the stage. Businessmen laughed over champagne. Foreign dignitaries exchanged pleasantries with people whose names they would forget before morning.

And beneath the pleasant conversation, the expensive perfume, and the clinking of glasses, a dozen different people were quietly trying to ruin one another’s lives.

It was, in other words, a perfectly ordinary Thursday.

Iris Westcott was having a wonderful time.

She stood beside a marble pillar near the western entrance, holding a champagne flute she had no intention of drinking from.

Her black gown was elegant, and her dark hair fell neatly over her shoulders. A delicate silver necklace rested against her collarbone. She looked expensive.

She looked harmless.

She looked like the sort of woman who might apologize if someone accidentally stepped on her foot.

Which was unfortunate for everyone involved.

Because Iris had already stolen a security pass, switched two invitations, identified three undercover operatives, and eaten a canapé belonging to a man she was reasonably certain had ordered an assassination sometime during the previous week.

She was currently debating whether the canapé had been worth the risk.

Conclusion: mediocre.

“Miss Belov?”

Iris turned.

A man in a dark suit stood behind her. Mid-forties, military posture, earpiece concealed beneath his hair. His expression was polite in the way expensive security personnel were trained to be polite when they suspected someone might become a problem.

“Yes?”

“May I see your invitation?”

She blinked.

Then she smiled.

“Of course!”

She reached into her purse.

The man waited.

Iris rummaged around. She found a lipstick, two hairpins, a folded receipt, a tiny packet of mints, and a key that she was fairly certain belonged to someone else’s office.

Her smile widened.

“Oh, dear.”

The man’s expression didn’t change.

“Is there a problem, miss?”

“Several, actually. But the invitation isn’t one of them.”

She produced a small black card and handed it to him.

He examined it.

Then he examined her.

Then he examined the card again.

Everything appeared to be in order.

Naturally. Iris had made certain of that approximately four hours ago.

“Thank you,” he said, returning it.

“You’re very welcome.”

He hesitated.

“Enjoy your evening.”

“I intend to.”

He walked away.

Iris watched him disappear into the crowd, then glanced at the ceiling.

“That was almost disappointingly easy,” she murmured.

A voice crackled through the tiny earpiece hidden beneath her hair.

“Westcott.”

Iris sighed.

Oh, wonderful.

Her handler.

She touched the earpiece. “Good evening to you too.”

“Report.”

“Beautiful chandeliers. Terrible food. The security personnel have the collective emotional warmth of a tax audit.”

“Focus.”

“I am focused.”

“You’ve been inside for eleven minutes.”

“And I’ve accomplished so much.”

“Iris.”

She straightened, her expression remaining pleasantly vacant as a waiter passed beside her.

“Yes, darling?”

“Do not call me that.”

“Then stop sounding so concerned about me.”

“I’m not concerned about you.”

“Wonderful. We agree on something.”

A pause followed. Then, in the flat tone of someone reconsidering every professional decision that had led to this moment, her handler continued.

“Your objective is on the second floor. Private meeting room. The file should be inside. You have twenty minutes before the situation changes.”

“I know.”

“Retrieve the file. Verify that it’s the original. Once you’ve confirmed it, send the signal.”

“And then?”

“The secondary team takes over.”

Iris glanced toward the eastern entrance, where two security officers were exchanging a few quiet words.

“How reassuringly vague.”

“You don’t need to know more than that.”

“Ah. My favorite kind of briefing. The kind that leaves me with absolutely no legal defense.”

“Westcott.”

“Yes, yes. Retrieve the file. Confirm it’s real. Send the signal. Don’t ask questions.”

“Precisely.”

“See? We can communicate when we put our minds to it.”

“And, for the love of God, do not improvise.”

Iris looked across the ballroom.

At the far end, a politician was laughing at something a wealthy industrialist had said. Near the stage, a woman in a red dress was speaking to a man who hadn’t looked at her once in the past five minutes. Two security officers had just changed positions.

And a waiter had entered through the eastern doors carrying an empty tray.

Interesting.

Iris’s smile grew.

“Define improvise.”

“Westcott—”

The connection went dead.

Iris stared at her reflection in the dark screen of a nearby window.

Then she whispered, with genuine affection, “He’s going to have such a terrible night.”

And she walked toward the staircase.

There was something her handler had neglected to mention. Something that, in Iris’s opinion, was rather important.

Three days ago, a classified intelligence file had appeared in a location where it absolutely should not have been.

Its contents had been fragmented, encrypted, and stripped of identifying information. Almost everything useful had been removed.

Almost.

One line had survived.

WESTCOTT: SUBJECT RESEMBLANCE CONFIRMED.

Iris had read it exactly seventeen times.

Not because she was frightened. Not because she was particularly interested in what it meant.

But because someone had gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to make sure she saw it.

And Iris Westcott had never been especially fond of people who tried to get her attention indirectly.

If someone wanted to speak to her, they could simply ask.

If someone wanted to threaten her, they could get in line.

And if someone wanted to investigate her family?

Well.

That was practically an invitation.

* * *

The second floor was considerably quieter than the ballroom.

The music faded behind Iris as she walked down a corridor lined with framed photographs of politicians, diplomats, and people who had probably paid a great deal of money to have their photographs displayed in expensive hotels.

She stopped outside the private meeting room.

The door was closed.

Naturally.

She tried the handle.

Locked.

Iris stared at it.

Then she glanced at the ceiling.

“Really?”

She had spent four hours arranging her invitation, adjusting her cover, and memorizing the floor plan.

And the door was locked.

Whoever had designed the security arrangements clearly believed inconvenience was an acceptable substitute for intelligence.

Fortunately, Iris had never particularly respected locked doors.

A short while later, she was inside.

The room was empty. A long table occupied the center, surrounded by leather chairs. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside a folder of documents. The curtains were drawn, concealing the windows overlooking the city.

Iris approached the table.

She checked the folder.

Nothing.

The drawers.

Nothing.

The space beneath the table.

A rather impressive collection of dust.

She straightened.

“Well, this is disappointing.”

Her earpiece crackled.

“Westcott. Status.”

Iris glanced at the door. “Your definition of a private meeting room is very generous.”

“Have you located the file?”

“Not unless your mysterious file is a collection of documents about international trade regulations.”

“Search the room.”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“Iris.”

“I’m searching.”

She moved toward the desk near the window. A small black case was tucked behind a stack of papers.

Iris smiled.

“Oh, hello.”

She opened it.

Inside lay a slim document folder bearing a classification marking she recognized immediately.

Her expression changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

She picked it up and examined the seal.

It was intact.

The folder was heavier than she expected.

Interesting.

“Found it,” she murmured.

“Confirm the identification.”

Iris checked the markings, then the seal, then the small identifying code printed along the bottom edge.

“Looks authentic.”

“Looks?”

“Would you prefer I write it a strongly worded letter and ask?”

“Verify it, Westcott.”

She sighed. “You’re so demanding.”

She checked the identifying code against the information she’d memorized before the operation.

It matched.

Her smile returned.

“It’s the original.”

“Good. Send the signal.”

Iris paused.

Her gaze drifted toward the closed curtains.

Something about the room bothered her. She couldn’t quite identify what it was.

The coffee was still warm.

The chair nearest the desk had been moved.

And the door—

She looked at it again.

Someone had entered this room recently. Someone who had known exactly what they were looking for.

“Iris?”

She touched her earpiece. “One moment.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That is never a reassuring answer coming from you.”

“I’ll try to sound more distressed next time.”

“Westcott—”

A sharp, distant crash interrupted him.

Not from the corridor.

Somewhere below.

Iris went still.

Her handler fell silent. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then his voice returned, suddenly sharper.

“Did you send the signal?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t sent it yet.”

“Then send it.”

Iris looked at the folder in her hand.

For the first time that evening, her smile disappeared completely.

Something was wrong.

She didn’t know what. But she’d learned a long time ago that the most dangerous mistakes were the ones people made while convinced they were following the plan.

And this plan was beginning to smell suspiciously like a mistake.

She glanced toward the door.

“Give me a minute.”

“You have thirty seconds.”

“How generous.”

“Iris, I am not joking.”

“Neither am I.”

She slipped the folder into her evening bag, then looked at the door one last time.

And smiled.

“Try not to miss me.”

“Westcott, don’t you dare—”

She disconnected.

* * *

The ballroom was still glittering when Iris returned.

The music had resumed. The guests were laughing, and the politicians were continuing their conversations as though the world outside their little gathering didn’t exist.

Everything looked perfectly normal.

Which, naturally, meant something was about to go horribly wrong.

Iris emerged from the staircase and paused beside a marble pillar.

Her eyes moved across the room.

At the far end, the same politician was laughing at the same industrialist’s joke. Near the stage, the woman in the red dress was speaking to a different man. The two security officers near the eastern entrance had changed positions again.

And a waiter had entered through the doors carrying an empty tray.

Iris frowned.

She was almost certain she’d seen him before.

Her earpiece crackled.

“Westcott, status update.”

She didn’t answer.

Her attention had shifted to the balcony overlooking the ballroom.

A man stood there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.

He wasn’t looking at the guests.

He wasn’t looking at the stage.

He was looking directly at her.

Even from this distance, Iris could make out the unnerving stillness of his expression.

There was something almost irritating about it. The man’s face suggested that he had never once misplaced his keys, forgotten an appointment, or woken at three in the morning wondering whether penguins had knees.

He looked like a man who organized his thoughts alphabetically.

Iris immediately disliked him.

Not personally, of course. She didn’t know him.

But she was willing to make an exception.

The man lifted one hand and touched his earpiece.

Iris’s own device crackled.

Her handler’s voice returned, stripped of its earlier irritation.

“Westcott. Listen carefully.”

She continued watching the stranger. “What?”

“Abort the operation.”

Her smile faded by approximately half a millimeter.

“Why?”

“Falk is here. And he’s noticed you.”

“Who is?”

A pause.

“Kian Falk.”

Iris knew the name. He was a senior operative attached to an intelligence division whose official existence had been denied by three successive administrations.

She’d read about his reputation for dismantling operations before the people running them realized they’d been compromised.

She just hadn’t expected to meet him tonight.

He was methodical.

Relentless.

And apparently spectacularly unpleasant to work with.

She looked at him again.

He was still watching her.

Then, very slowly, he smiled.

It wasn’t a friendly smile.

It wasn’t even a particularly pleasant one.

It was the expression of a man who had just discovered that a problem he’d been anticipating for months had finally arrived.

Iris’s eyes lit up.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Her handler sounded close to losing his mind.

“Westcott, leave. Now.”

But Iris was still watching Kian Falk.

He turned away from the balcony and began moving toward the staircase.

For the first time that evening, Iris was genuinely interested in what might happen next.

She set her untouched champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray, smoothed the front of her dress, and made a decision.

The sensible option was to leave.

Unfortunately, Iris had never been particularly interested in sensible options.

She headed for the stage.

* * *

The host was halfway through a speech about international security, economic stability, and the importance of transparency.

Iris listened for approximately six seconds.

Then she decided she’d suffered enough.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement near the eastern entrance. One of the security officers had touched his earpiece. His expression changed—not dramatically, but enough to catch her attention.

He looked toward the second floor.

Then toward the stage.

Then back to his colleague.

Oh.

That was interesting.

Iris’s earpiece crackled.

“Westcott, you need to leave. Now.”

“You’re becoming terribly repetitive.”

“The secondary team has moved.”

Her smile faltered.

“They weren’t supposed to move until I sent the signal.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then perhaps you should inform them of the schedule.”

“Iris, this is not the time—”

A sharp crash came from the floor above.

Different from the first.

Closer, too.

The conversation around her faltered. Several guests looked toward the ceiling. The host paused mid-sentence, his practiced smile slipping as he glanced toward the nearest security officer.

The officer touched his earpiece.

Listened.

Then turned toward the staircase and spoke quietly to another guard.

Nobody screamed. Nobody ran.

Not yet.

But Iris noticed the way the guards had stopped paying attention to the guests and started paying attention to their radios.

Something had happened upstairs.

Something they hadn’t expected.

And whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the woman standing near the stage in a black evening gown.

At least, not as far as anyone in the ballroom knew.

“Iris,” her handler said, his voice suddenly very clear in her ear. “Get out.”

She glanced toward the eastern entrance. Two guards had moved closer to the doors, speaking urgently to someone just outside. They weren’t blocking the guests from leaving, but the western entrance was now the only route that looked remotely clear.

She could leave.

She probably should leave.

Instead, Iris looked at the host.

Then at the microphone in his hand.

Then back at the host.

An idea occurred to her.

It was, admittedly, a terrible idea.

But Iris had never particularly believed that an idea’s quality should determine whether it deserved to be pursued.

“Westcott,” her handler warned.

She smiled.

“One last question.”

“No.”

“How do you feel about public speaking?”

“Iris, don’t you dare—”

She took the microphone.

The host stared at her.

“Miss, I’m afraid—”

“Borrowing this.”

“Excuse me?”

“Temporarily.”

Before he could object, Iris stepped forward and faced the ballroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen?”

Her voice carried through the speakers.

The conversations gradually faded. Hundreds of faces turned toward the stage, some curious, others irritated.

Iris gave them a bright, perfectly innocent smile.

“I do apologize for interrupting. I’m afraid there’s been a slight disruption upstairs, and our wonderful hosts appear to be experiencing some technical difficulties.”

The host looked as though he might faint.

“I assure you,” Iris continued, “I’m not qualified to explain what’s happening.”

An understatement of spectacular proportions.

“But I would strongly recommend that everyone remain calm, avoid crowding the entrances, and allow the security staff to do their jobs.”

Her handler fell silent.

Perhaps he’d finally accepted that she was beyond saving.

Iris glanced toward the balcony.

Kian Falk was looking at her again.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t angry, either. He simply watched her with an expression she couldn’t quite interpret.

Then he touched his earpiece, said something, and turned toward the staircase.

Iris tilted her head.

Oh, you are interesting.

A burst of static came through her earpiece.

Her handler’s voice returned, quieter now.

“Westcott. Listen carefully. Whatever happens next, do not interfere.”

Iris looked toward the staircase.

A security officer emerged from the upper floor, moving far too quickly for someone who’d merely discovered a broken window or a misplaced fire alarm.

He spoke to the nearest guard.

Iris couldn’t hear the words, but she saw the other man’s expression change.

And then the security team began evacuating the ballroom.

Not calmly.

Not discreetly.

Urgently.

Iris lowered the microphone.

Well.

That was unfortunate.

She’d been hoping to find out what was in the file before the evening became interesting.

Now it appeared she’d have to settle for finding out why everyone else was so determined to keep her away from it.

Across the ballroom, Kian Falk stopped beside the staircase.

He looked at her once more.

This time, he didn’t look away.

Iris smiled at him.

He did not smile back.

How unfortunate.

She had been rather hoping he would.

Then the lights went out.

For one brief moment, the ballroom vanished into darkness.

A startled cry rose from the crowd. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered. The room erupted into a confusion of hurried footsteps and shouted instructions.

Iris stood still for half a second, listening.

Her handler’s voice crackled in her ear.

“Westcott—”

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I’m being proactive.”

“That is not—”

The connection dissolved into static.

Iris slipped the microphone onto the nearest table and moved away from the stage, keeping one hand on the strap of her evening bag.

The original plan was gone. The secondary team had moved early. Someone had entered the meeting room before her. And Kian Falk had looked at her as if he’d been waiting for her to appear.

It was almost enough to ruin an evening.

Almost.

Iris’s smile returned.

Whatever was happening, somebody had made a very serious mistake.

And judging by the way the night was unfolding, she suspected it wasn’t going to be hers.