Bull Market

The spinach from lunch still clung to her teeth—Gina could feel it with her tongue, a tiny green flag of surrender. She smiled anyway, because that's what you did when you were sleeping with the enemy.

'You're quiet tonight,' Marcus said, swirling his merlot. The candlelight caught the silver at his temples. At forty-two, he wore his betrayal like an expensive coat—comfortable, well-tailored, utterly unremarkable.

'Just tired.' Gina pressed her napkin to her mouth, checking for the spinach. 'Long week.'

Three months embedded in his life, and she still forgot to monitor herself. Her handler had warned her: 'Don't fall for the target. Don't forget who you're working for.' Easy advice to give from a safe house in Vienna.

She was supposed to be a corporate spy, extracting information about Marcus's hedge fund for the SEC. Instead, she was extracting his deepest fears over late-night takeout, learning how he took his coffee (black, no sugar), memorizing the way his hands looked when he thought he was alone.

'Marcus,' she said, setting down her glass. 'We need to talk.'

He looked up then, and something in his expression shifted. 'I know why you're here, Gina.'

Her heart stopped. But he continued, his voice gentle: 'The spinach. You've been checking your reflection every five minutes since we sat down.' He reached across the table. 'It's been gone since the first course.'

Gina froze. He'd known. He'd known and hadn't said anything.

'I'm not talking about the spinach, Marcus. I'm talking about—'

'The money you've been transferring to your offshore account? The encrypted emails to someone at the SEC? I'm not an idiot, Gina.' His expression didn't change. 'I was a spy myself, once. Cold War, Germany, before the Wall came down.'

She stared at him. 'You knew?'

'I knew.' He signaled for the check. 'I also know the investigation is going to fail. My funds are clean. The market—' he smiled bitterly, '—the bull market died two years ago. Nobody noticed but me.'

'Then why—'

'Because I was lonely.' He met her eyes across the table. 'And because I hoped, maybe this time, I was wrong about someone.'

Gina felt something crack open inside her chest. 'Marcus—'

'Don't.' He stood up. 'The check's paid. You should go. They'll be here to collect you in the morning.'

She watched him walk away, his posture perfect, his stride measured. The spinach was gone, but something else remained—the taste of all the things she'd never said, all the chances she'd missed to tell the truth. Sometimes, the most dangerous spy craft wasn't the corporate espionage. It was the way you could spy on someone for months and still never really see them until it was too late.