License to Thrill (9 page)

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” Theresa barreled into people left and right. Thank goodness I put aside my computer long enough to go to all those rock shows, she thought
proudly as she slammed her way through the crowd like a pro linebacker. A supermodel-looking girlie practically bounced off her shoulder.

“What in blazes are you doing?” she screeched.

“Emergency situation,” Theresa yelled, pointing back to Jo. “This girl needs medical attention!”

Jo nodded. “Appendicitis. Don't drink the cranberry juice.”

“Uh, okay,” the girl said, stepping aside. Others around her followed suit, clearing a path for them.

“I see her—that way!” Theresa called, pointing to the front door. She hauled tail with all her might. Short Hair was barely two yards away. Suddenly an immense shadow grew along the floor, followed by an enormous wave of excited chatter. Before Theresa could stop and change direction, a huge group of under-eighteens rushed in past the bouncer.

“Stop!” Theresa screamed. She knew the momentum she had built up was about to work against her in a dangerous way, but she was powerless to prevent it. She careened headfirst into the crowd and was bounced clear off her feet
and onto the floor. A very sturdy Dr. Martens boot kicked her to add insult to injury. By the time she clambered to her feet, Short Hair was gone.

Infuriated, Theresa threw herself back down on the floor. “I think I'll just stay down here awhile, if you don't mind,” she told Jo's sorry-looking feet.

A hand dangled in front of her face. Theresa looked up to see Caylin, scowling. Her blond hair was in an insane tangle, and her right stiletto heel was missing and presumed dead somewhere in the pit. She pulled Theresa to her feet with a slight stumble. Cursing, she lifted up her left foot and snapped off the heel of her shoe as if it were a twig. “This is pointless!” she hollered, throwing the heel to the ground.

“Well . . . at least we know she's onto us,” Jo said optimistically.

“A whole lot of good that does us now,” Theresa muttered. If they couldn't beat the mosh pit at Meltdown, how were they supposed to stop a gang of ruthless terrorists from destroying the world?

“Hello?” Caylin said briskly into the phone Monday afternoon, feeling refreshed and revived after a Sunday of doing nothing but sleeping and recharging. But since Jo and Theresa had called dibs on a holiday stroll, Caylin was forced to stay in and play secretary in case Uncle Sam called in with an emergency.

“Yes, Louise Browning, please,” said a woman who sounded an awful lot like her boss, Fiona.

Caylin gulped, wondering what her next move should be. She had answered the phone in her normal voice, so she couldn't just say, “Speaking.”

“One moment, please,” she said, adding a little bit of country twang to her own Maine accent. She rustled the phone a bit and waited about fifteen seconds for authenticity's sake.

“'Allo,” she greeted Fiona in her Louise voice, adding a breathless element as if she had just rushed to the phone.

“Fiona here,” she chirped. “Hate to ring you on holiday, but the weekend girl's come down with a bug. Could you possibly cover for her tonight? You'll get overtime pay.”

“Why, sure,” Caylin replied, trying to disguise her excitement. What better time to plant the bugs and search for the disc than when the offices were empty? “I could be there as soon as you need me, actually.”

“Brilliant,” Fiona said, very pleased. “Just be there around seven. I won't be there, but a schedule of offices you'll need to clean will be with the security copper. Simply ask for it when you sign in.”

“Splendid,” Caylin said, not quite believing her good fortune.

At twenty to seven Caylin swung by the front desk, her backpack stuffed to bursting, to pick up her “toothpaste.” After she'd secured it, she ducked into the Ritz's ladies' lounge and cut the tube open with her Swiss army knife. There they were, eight more bugs. She hid them in her hair with bobby pins. This way, in the event that the security
guard decided to frisk her or put her bags through the X ray, her bugs would pass for funky barrettes rather than ultrasophisticated surveillance equipment.

Caylin practically skipped all the way to the embassy. Not only was she psyched to come in on a holiday, but she'd be solo all evening, too. No Jonathon Nicholson to gripe her out, no Fiona inspecting her every move, no annoying crowds clogging the narrow halls. Bugging the Nicholsons' offices would be a megacinch!

“Nice barrettes,” the security guard commented as she buzzed Caylin in.

“Thanks,” Caylin replied. “I made them myself.”

Without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars, Caylin headed straight to Jonathon's office. But just as she was about to bug the telephone, she heard approaching footsteps. Her heartbeat racing, she ducked under the desk and tried not to breathe too loudly.

“Hello, Louise?” a female voice—Fiona's!—screeched loudly. “Louise?”

What is Fiona doing here? Caylin wondered. She said she wasn't going to be in! Caylin bit her lip and scowled.
This certainly would throw a wrench into the works.

When Fiona's footsteps finally faded into the distance, Caylin hopped up and finished the phone job hurriedly, totally on edge. She wasn't sure if Fiona would be back or what, but she wasn't taking any chances.

After she placed a bug in Jonathon's desk drawer, Caylin tackled the huge sliding glass door that led out to the balcony. But just as she was about to apply a bug in the lower corner, she heard footsteps approaching once more. Darn, she thought, Fiona again! The desk was on the other side of the office—her only way out was right in front of her. She was balcony bound.

Caylin gathered up her backpack, nipped up the security lock on the door, and slid it open quickly; thank goodness it was whisper quiet. In a flash she stepped out onto the narrow balcony and whisked the door shut.

What a horrid view! she thought, looking down the six floors onto an empty warehouse and an alley. She listened for some kind of sound on the other side of the glass door, but she heard nothing. She didn't see any shadows on the wall, either. The longer she waited, the more impatient she
became. Surely Fiona would have come and gone by now.

She peeked through the door and gasped. There, in front of the desk, stood someone who was decidedly taller, more solidly built, and far more masculine than Fiona. It's Jonathon! Caylin realized, her spine tingling. And—oh no!—he was coming her way!

Caylin pulled her head back from the door and froze for a moment. She had absolutely nowhere to hide. Her heart beat a mile a minute. Terrified, she scooted as far away from the window as she could and plastered herself up against the embassy wall. Still no sign of Jonathon at the glass door. She was safe.

Suddenly a face pressed up against the door. Jonathon! Caylin bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Her heart beat so loudly, she was sure it would give her away. She tried not to move an inch, to breathe—she even tried to use her meditation techniques to become one with the wall. But her mind kept telling her she was dead meat. She shut her eyes and waited for the inevitable—for him to come out and throw her off the balcony.

She waited for what seemed like hours. Summoning
all her courage, she opened her eyes. Jonathon's face was gone. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she heard the door inside open, close, and lock.

“I made it,” Caylin murmured under her breath. “I'm alive. I made it.” She peeked through the glass door—the office truly was empty. But when Caylin tried to open the door, it wouldn't budge. Jonathon had locked it.

“Just my luck,” she muttered. What on earth was Jonathon doing in his office on a holiday, anyway? Didn't he have a
life
?

“Stay calm,” Caylin told herself, taking a long, deep breath. She exhaled and began methodically removing her rappelling gear from her backpack. Thankfully she was only six floors up. Scaling down the embassy would be a walk in Hyde Park compared to the death-defying descents she'd made with her dad on some of their father-daughter mountaineering journeys. That didn't mean it was going to be easy, however.

After slipping off her gray housecoat to reveal a black bodysuit and tights, she quickly changed into her lightweight footwear and tied the housecoat around her waist.
The service key! she remembered with a start. It was useless on the glass door, but she sure needed it to get back into Jonathon's office. She detached it from the key chain and hooked it onto her hoop earring for safekeeping.

Caylin strapped on her harness, hooked it up to the line, and secured the other end of the line to the balcony rail. She tugged on it to make sure the connection was solid. After she wiped the sweat from her palms, she grabbed on to the end of the line nearest the balcony. On a wing and a prayer she boosted herself up onto the rail, swung her legs over, and dropped down over the side.

Her heart pounded fiercely—half from excitement, half from fear—as she swung freely under the balcony. The rush was intense. Her nerve endings were practically singing. With a grunt she swung her legs up so her feet met the wall. Pulling the line taut, she began walking down the side of the embassy, letting out a little line with each step.

Fifth floor . . . fourth floor . . .

As she descended she felt eerily calm—the way she always felt while doing something intensely physical. But
this time the stakes were different. Her backpack was splayed out where her “boss” could find it, totally blow her cover, and bring her career as a spy to a screaming halt. Her line was hooked to the balcony of a terrorist who could rush out and send her plummeting to her death without a second thought.

Caylin's palms immediately went into a sweat. She lost her grip momentarily and slipped down the rope. In her free fall the air whooshed out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't scream.

With a thud she landed on the third-floor balcony.

“Third floor,” she murmured. “Housewares, lingerie, and
time to get a grip, Caylin
.” Thankfully the room on the other side of the glass door was abandoned. She'd hate to have all that awful explaining to do while her butt was aching.

Glowering, she wiped her palms on the housecoat and pitched herself over the balcony for the last half of the ride. She rushed herself—not a smart move where safety was concerned, but she had no time to waste. Her nerves were jangling anxiously, and she lost her foothold a couple of
times. But she wanted to get her toes on solid ground and her tail back up to Jonathon's office before Jonathon—or Fiona, even—could catch a drift of her little ruse.

She slid all the way down the line from the second-floor balcony, silently cheering as she touched down. With lightning speed she disconnected herself from the rope, brushed off, and slipped into her uniform. She left her harness connected to the rope—she'd pull it up once she made it back to Jonathon's office.

If I get there in time, that is, she thought with a wince. Sheer panic flooded her body. Mortified, she unsuccessfully smoothed out the wrinkles in her housecoat and prayed no one would ask her where she got such weird-looking shoes.

Caylin knew her confidence wasn't about to return anytime soon, but she didn't have time to wait for it. She rushed toward the rear security entrance. She didn't want the woman up front wondering where she'd lost her fabulous barrettes.

“I can't bloody believe this, but I was taking out the trash and got locked out,” Caylin ranted before the rear
security guard could open his mouth. “Cripes, I'm not even supposed to work today and I get stuck out in the wind! Can't believe my luck. I really bloody can't.”

The overweight security guard, engrossed in his
Sun
tabloid, barely even looked up during her entire monologue. Finally his gaze met hers. “No bother,” he muttered, buzzing her in.

Once in, Caylin raced to the elevator and back up to Jonathon's office without encountering another soul. She removed the key from her earring and opened the door. The office looked exactly how she'd left it. And the balcony—
yes!
Her hook glimmered through the glass door. She put on her rubber cleaning gloves, undid the lock, and stepped out onto the balcony, wanting to drop to her knees and kiss her untouched backpack and even her ugly embassy-issue housekeeping shoes.

“What in the world are you doing out there?”

“F-Fiona!” Caylin whirled around and gave her boss what she hoped was a confident smile. “Well, Jonathon asked me to dust off the balcony of his suite the other day,” she lied, heart pounding like crazy as she positioned
her body in front of the hook. “I figured I'd do it for his office as well.”

Fiona eyed her suspiciously, but Caylin's innocent gaze didn't waver one bit. “Oh, well, all right, then,” Fiona said. “I was just wondering where you'd run off to. Security called me down to confirm you were the right girl and all. Everyone's high-strung round here with the conference just two weeks away, and I just wanted to suss everything out.”

Caylin exhaled in relief. “Everything's right as rain, Fiona. I'm working like a busy bee. In fact, I'd climb the walls if you gave the word.”

“I've got the munchies in a
big
way,” Theresa declared. Even though she'd only made it a couple of hours past lunch—shepherd's pie, the Tuesday special at the embassy commissary—she was feeling the need for something cocoa derived to combat the starch in her stomach. Desperate, she turned to the young woman at the voice mail station to her right for advice. “Siobhan, do you know if there are any vending machines in this place?” she asked breathlessly.

Siobhan looked at her questioningly. “You mean, candy machines and the like?”

“Yes!”

“Sorry, no,” Siobhan replied. “But you might try the kitchen. I've snuck in there a few times m'self when I'm feeling peckish.”