A Valuable Asset

A VALUABLE ASSET DECOY SERIES BOOK 2 CHLOE ARCHAMBAULT To my mother, who convinced me I could do anything CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 About the Author Also by Chloe Archambault CHAPTER 1 Special Agent Hodak took a sip of beer as he scanned the crowd, from one end to the other. He did this by looking absentmindedly in one direction as he tilted his head backward, then letting his eyes travel over the people’s faces when he lowered his glass. He’d been at this for sixteen years, he’d said, having seen everything the unsightly underbelly of humanity had to offer. Sixteen years with the Bureau. And now growing more irritated by the minute, as if the grind of these had reduced his patience to powder. “Where the hell is he?” he said, trying to keep a half-pleasant expression on his face. The exclusive cocktail dinner Agent Matt Hodak and I had lied our way into was in full swing at the Beach Club Restaurant of The Breakers hotel. Flushed cheeks beamed over cocktail dresses and pressed shirts, as rounds of frozen Beach Bellinis and Mojitos fuelled the roaring chitchat. “Shrimp satay, miss?” “Scallop, sir?” Waiters deftly passed around the hors d’oeuvres as salsa music undulated in the background and partygoers mingled on the patio. My date for the evening took a quick look at his tactical watch. He didn’t have to. As far as I knew, there wasn’t much to be worried about. “He’s probably just waiting for the right moment to show up.” I took a sip of my vodka cranberry, well on its way to room temperature. It was hot in Palm Beach for the month of September. Hot and humid. The Atlantic Ocean had gone quiet before sunset, and forgotten to blow its evening breeze. A woman to my right laughed as she told a story to a group of friends. She had flat platinum hair that brushed her shoulders as she moved her head. Very straight hair, like a weighted curtain. Expensive hair. “Oh my God, Kiki,” a woman next to her said. How did it feel to be called Kiki and drink rosé champagne by the ocean with a chic clique of Amerikanskiy socialites? Hugs. Air kisses. Compliments. This was how the rich people lived in the Sunshine State. Above the unseemliness of everyday concerns. And all of it without ever freezing your fingers or having to take out a shovel and a pair of boots. No wonder Oleg Balakin had chosen it over the icy streets of Moscow. “Ten more minutes and we’ll have a walk around,” Hodak said. Another sip of beer and another tilt of the head for my date, who I had to admit was reasonably handsome with his light brown crew cut and hit-me-if-you-dare potato of a nose anchored over satisfied lips. It was Special Agent Hodak’s operation I had joined at the drop of a hat, following the unexpected request of Peter Jenkins, my superior and a senior intelligence officer at the ODNI, the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Two other agents were waiting in a van parked outside the hotel while another two kept themselves busy on the beachfront grounds. One, dressed as a maintenance worker, toiled away at a planter outside the restaurant. The other, dressed as a busboy, took his time cleaning the tables around the nearest pool. “It’s a one-day assignment,” Jenkins had said to me, forty-eight hours earlier. “A no-brainer. You’ll be joining a small team of FBI agents as a Russian linguist from the ODNI. These guys are short-staffed. They won’t even question it.” That no one in Palm Beach would know my real identity was a given considering it was a well-kept secret since I had moved to California with my father. And how could I say no to Jenkins? The man had been a constant in my life since I’d arrived in the U.S. the previous year, even offering me a job after my three-month-long debriefing period had ended. Thanks to Jenkins, who’d been part of the welcome committee, I had been hired as a contractual analyst with the Foreign Malign Influence Center, a division of the ODNI, doing part-time hours remotely while I pursued my graduate studies in computer science. But our understanding had always been that I wouldn’t be doing any field work. Until two days ago. Agent Hodak shifted his weight from one foot to the other and almost took another sip of beer, but thought better of it. “Goddamn Russki,” he said, with a faux grin. A quick smile back for my partner, who didn’t know I too was a Russkiy national, on the lookout for a compatriot. Our prospective catch was a twenty-nine-year-old former Cozy Bear hacker from Moscow who had asked for witness protection. A talented recruit, Oleg Balakin had years earlier graduated from sowing dissent on the Internet to become a go-to mover of cryptocurrency for the rich and outwardly respectable. After leaving Russia for the U.S., he’d expanded his clientele and grown increasingly popular with a certain crowd of moneyed locals who preferred to keep secret some of their forays into fringe politics. The Criminal Investigation Division of the FBI wanted Balakin’s list of American clients, and their money transfer details, to prosecute them for domestic terrorism financing as well as tax evasion, if they could. But Balakin was also a suspected ‘non-traditional collector’ for the Russian government. Someone who passed on information he collected abroad to his homeland’s secret services without being a formal member of an intelligence agency. That was why the National Security Branch of the FBI was also interested in Balakin, for reasons they hadn’t shared with Agent Hodak and his team at the Criminal Investigation Division. Reasons