License to Thrill (13 page)

“No problem at all,” the woman said, chuckling modestly. “Have a smashing day.”

Once I figure out how we can pass for the cleaning crew, Theresa thought, my day won't just be smashing—it'll be superfly.

•  •  •

“Yes, I'd love to work for Sunbeam,” Caylin told the director of personnel at Sunbeam in her
Louise
voice before she left for the embassy. It wasn't the first call she'd made that Wednesday morning; she'd already called to cancel Sunbeam's Thursday night green room appointment in her
real
voice. “I hear you have a really nice outfit there, and I'm a real cleaning pro with oodles and oodles of references.”

“Well, you're certainly an enthusiastic one now, aren't you?” he asked wryly. “How is one o'clock today?”

“That's brilliant,” Caylin said, using the word that Brits seemed to use for everything and anything. “See you then.”

The second she hung up the phone, Caylin was hit by the fact that she was supposed to be cleaning offices for Fiona at the same time she was going to interview for the
Sunbeam cleaning job. And taking a late lunch wouldn't work since that wouldn't give her enough time to get everything to the seamstress and counterfeiter Uncle Sam had hooked them up with the night before. She scratched her head and racked her brain. How in the heck was she supposed to be in two places at the same time?

•  •  •

“Fiona, I'm really sick as a dog,” Caylin said, doubling over her cleaning bucket from imaginary cramps at 12:38 p.m. “It's that time of the month, you know.”

Fiona fixed her with a glare. “I've worked here five years, and I've only called in sick once. Once! And that's when I had gallstones.”

“Well, unless you want this bucket filled with puke, I'm going to have to go,” Caylin said, making her voice weak and feeble. “And I filled in for that girl who called in sick on bank holiday, remember? So give me a break.”

Fiona's features softened a tiny bit. “Righty now, I remember. Well, if you're sick, you're sick. Just leave me the list of which offices you haven't gotten to, and I'll see you tomorrow.”

•  •  •

“So your references are clearly excellent, and we'd love to have you on board,” Joseph Winslow, director of personnel at Sunbeam Cleaning Company, announced an hour later.

Caylin smiled brightly, thrilled he had bought her “hardworking Brit looking for extra dough” tale of woe. She was getting good at this acting stuff, if she did say so herself. If she kept this up, there could even be an Oscar somewhere in her future.

“You must be smiling in anticipation of seeing the lovely uniforms,” Joseph joked. “Follow me and we'll get you set up.”

“Do you chaps have photo ID cards as well?” Caylin asked.

He nodded. “Yes, but you won't need that until your first day on the job.”

Caylin bit her lip. She really needed that ID card
today
. She walked along in silence for a moment, collecting her thoughts. After a few paces she said, “I know this sounds silly, but is there any way I could get my ID card today? I'm getting braces on Monday and would hate to have to look
at a tin grin on my ID day in, day out. And I plan to be here for a long while, so it'd boost my morale to be able to have a picture I could be proud of.” Even Caylin had a hard time keeping a straight face for that explanation.

Joseph looked at her as if she were a few cards short of a deck. “Braces?” he asked. “But your teeth are perfect.”

Since she'd already endured two years of braces, he was right—they
were
perfect. She stuck her top teeth out a bit and tried not to smile. “Well, they look okay now, but my dentist says they're shifting. Happens to a lot of people, more than you'd think.”

Joseph nodded as they entered the uniform closet “Hmmm—well, I
guess
it's okay. As long as you don't say anything to anyone.”

“My lips are sealed,” she promised, locking her lips with her fingers and throwing away the imaginary key. “So these are the uniforms?”

“Straight off the runway,” he joked. They were even drabber than the one she had to wear at the embassy. The ensemble consisted of navy blue polyester pants, a navy cotton smock that had a Sunbeam Cleaning patch above
the left breast, and a matching Sunbeam Cleaning ball cap.
Gag.

“I need a size . . .” She trailed off, trying to remember what a size eight was in Britspeak. “Thirty. Yes, a thirty.” She sighed and thanked her lucky stars she wouldn't have to wear this outfit for more than one evening. Life's too short to wear polyester pants—that had always been her motto.

After he issued her uniform, Joseph snapped her photo and laminated it to a blue-and-white ID card. “Okay,” he said, “you're all set until Monday. See you at nine a.m. sharp.”

In your dreams,
she thought, but instead said with a tin-free smile, “See you then. Ta-ta!”

Once she left the building, Caylin immediately fished her pressed powder compact cell phone out of her purse to call Uncle Sam, as he'd instructed.

“Go to room thirteen eleven in the Sullivan Suites at fourteen twenty-five Plumbtree Road in half an hour,” he told her. “There a seamstress and counterfeit ID maker will be waiting. Good luck.”

As she snapped the compact shut Caylin hoped—in light of their upcoming green room invasion—that they wouldn't be needing any
more
luck from here on out.

•  •  •

“Theresa, would you be a dear and run by the stationery shop after work to pick up my order?” Ms. Dalton asked her near the end of the day. “Then you could just bring it to work with you tomorrow morning.”

“No problem,” Theresa said with a smile. After all, it was the first time Dalton had ever asked her to do anything outside of the office and the woman was
way
too old to be trekking around town fetching supplies.

However, once she started making her way to the store, a huge knot formed in the pit of Theresa's stomach. She was certain she was being followed. She kept looking over her shoulder warily, scared to death of what she might find behind her. Each time she saw nothing suspicious. But she still couldn't shake the eerie sensation.

She walked into the stationery shop and picked up Ms. Dalton's order without once experiencing that I'm-being-watched feeling. Her spirits lifted until she exited the
store. Rain tore down in sheets all around her. Great, she thought. She was only about ten blocks from the Ritz and was wearing a raincoat, but she had no umbrella. So she stuck the sack in her raincoat pocket and made a mad dash for the tube, where at least she'd keep dry the two stops to the hotel.

A train pulled up immediately, and Theresa sank down into a seat. But as soon as the doors closed, that knot formed in her stomach again. This time, tighter.

She looked around at all the other passengers, checking to see if anyone's eyes were on her. One man met her gaze full on and held it a beat too long, totally giving Theresa the willies. How come only the wackos give me the eye? she wondered. Disgusted, she stood up to change cars.

She checked the reflections in the windows as she walked. Sure enough, Mr. Shifty had gotten up as well. He shuffled along behind her. Theresa's heart raced with fear. She sped up and bolted into the next car. When she glanced over her shoulder for a split second, she saw that he had sped up, too.

She dashed through the car, bumping into people along
the way. When she looked back again, she noticed a bulge at the man's waistline that could only be a gun.

“That man pinched me!” she screamed. “He pinched me!” She pointed at the guy in anger, still keeping up her pace. She heard a few people call him a pervert, but that was it. She decided to go for the sympathy vote and employ an English accent in the next car. Even if that blew her cover with Mr. Shifty, she didn't care. She was running for her life now.

“That bloke pinched me on the bum!” she hollered the moment she opened the door to the next car. “Somebody help me! Please!”

As she ran down the aisle she glanced back and saw a group of rugby players stand in his path. But straight ahead she saw that the next car was the last. A dead end—in more ways than one. What was she supposed to do now?

She stepped out and stood between the two cars, the wet underground air tossing her hair about her face. Theresa shot a glance back at Mr. Shifty. He had made it halfway through the crowded car—only a few scant yards, one train door, and one very chivalrous rugby
player separated them. Biting her lip, Theresa studied her surroundings. She had two options: get trapped in the next car or surf the top of the train. Either way you slice it, I could definitely croak, she thought. Her heart was racing so fast, she feared it was going to burst out of her chest. But she couldn't just stand by and make herself an easy target.

As she stole one last glance at her assailant she sighed deeply. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered. She boosted herself up on the safety chain connecting the two cars and placed her hands on the top of the last car, her adrenaline pumping. Gathering all her strength, she pushed off the chain with her legs and hoisted her body on top of the car in one swift motion. She was almost immediately blown away—literally—by the whooshing wind in the tunnel.

I'm gonna die, she thought. Her sweaty palms, coupled with the condensation on the outside of the train, were making it almost impossible to keep her grip. Her fingers slowly slipped from their hold. Just when she thought she couldn't hold on even one second longer, Theresa glanced
up—and spotted a dim light up ahead in the tunnel. A stop! she realized. If I can only hold on until then, I can make it!

The few seconds felt like an eternity. Please let me live, she prayed desperately, and I'll never pull anything this stupid again.

Suddenly the brakes engaged. Theresa flew forward, and her grip strained under the pressure. She held on for dear life as the train ground to a halt in the station. Her body began sliding to the left.

“You're almost there,” she whispered, even though she knew her hardest move was yet to come. If she got off the train too soon, there was a chance Mr. Shifty would see her and snatch her. But if she tried to get off too late, she could get killed trying to jump off a moving train.

Once the doors slid open and she heard, “Please mind the gap,” she held her breath and went for it. She scooted over to the side of the car, made her body go limp, closed her eyes, and rolled onto the concrete just as the doors whooshed shut.

As she hit the ground relief flooded her body. Taking a
deep breath, she opened her eyes—and stared straight into the eyes of Mr. Shifty, now trapped behind closed doors.

She gasped. A look of disbelief overtook his sinister features, and he began to claw at the window desperately. As the train pulled away from the platform Theresa dragged herself up and gave her predator a “So there!” wave until he was no longer in sight.

•  •  •

“So then I jumped off the train and escaped,” Theresa relayed to Uncle Sam via videophone just moments after returning to suite 1423. Although she was bursting with pride, the train adventure had definitely left her shaky.

Neither Jo nor Caylin looked as if they could believe what Theresa had just been through. But while Caylin's face beamed with pride, Jo looked upset and concerned.

“First, I want to commend you on how you handled yourself, Theresa,” Uncle Sam said. “You weighed your options, relied on your instincts, and did what you had to do. Good job.”

Theresa smiled. “All in a day's work.”

Uncle Sam chuckled. “Second, you need to be on high
alert with the conference coming up in just four days,” he continued, his voice suddenly grave. “You've given me a good description of your would-be attacker and I'll get an artist on the composite. In the meantime don't open your hotel doors to anyone. Look around when you're walking outside. Be aware of your surroundings. The stakes are getting higher, and these people don't care who they have to crush to get what they're after. So beware.”

“We'll be extra careful, Uncle S.,” Caylin promised. “We're crossing our fingers that the disc is in the green room and that it will be in our hot little hands mañana.”

Uncle Sam cleared his throat. “I hope so too. But in the event that it's not there, I'm confident you'll recover it somehow.”

Theresa wished she could say the same. She wasn't so sure she could anymore.

“This polyester is going to give me hives!” Caylin whispered as the trio made their way to the green room at 8 p.m. sharp Thursday evening in their custom-made Sunbeam uniforms.

As they approached the tall, wiry guard he eyed them curiously. “You aren't the ones who usually come,” he said in a suspicious tone, looking them up and down.

“We're the fill-in crew,” Caylin said, as they'd rehearsed. According to Theresa's plan, Caylin was to do all the talking. “Thomas, Martha, and Hugh were on a long-distance assignment and got held up, so we've been sent in their place.”

She presented her ID card, and Jo and Caylin followed suit. “Well, I didn't hear anything about this, and there are strict policies,” the security guard said. “Perhaps I'll just call your HQ.”

“Go right ahead,” Theresa said, keeping her cool only because she'd had the foresight to have Sunbeam's calls forwarded to The Tower just fifteen minutes earlier.

As he dialed the digits Theresa's hands began to shake slightly. The operator had said the phone calls would be transferred within ten minutes—but what if there was a delay?

“Yes,” the security guard said into the phone, “this is James at the U.S. Embassy. I'm just calling to verify that in lieu of our regular crew being held up, you've sent over a Ms. Frazier, Ms. Hanover, and Ms. Fineberg.”