Live and Let Spy (10 page)

But still . . . it could've been a code.

She mixed up the letters faster.

The first combination she came up with was
thin gun days
.

“What's that supposed to be?” she muttered under her breath. A .44 trying to slim down to a .38?

An overweight waitress set a chicken sandwich before her, but Jo was too engrossed in her jumble to look up.

Shun Indy tag.

Unfortunately the Indy 500 was months away, and she doubted that Prime Minister Karkovic would be attending.

Duh Ginny sat.

“More like ‘duh, Jo, this is pointless,' ” she murmured.

Then Jo paused.

Could that be it . . . ?

She organized the letters one final time and smiled.

“Sunday night!” she exclaimed.

The night the assassination was supposed to take place!

Jo congratulated herself . . . on figuring out a piece of information that everyone knew already.

Her heart immediately sank. Suddenly she wasn't so hungry anymore.

•  •  •

“Am I glad to see you!” Caylin whispered as Theresa entered the theater bathroom after lunch.

Caylin grabbed Theresa's arm and pulled her into the nearest stall.

“Can I wash my hands before you abduct me?” Theresa pleaded. “You don't wanna know where they've been.”

“Not a chance,” Caylin replied. “You have no idea what I've gone through this morning. I've tried everything. Begging, conning, lying. But Ottla will
not
let me into those executive offices!” She kicked the side of the stall. “Got any ideas?”

“How about my key ring?” Theresa whispered, fishing it out of her pocket. “That's how I got into you-know-who's dressing room.”

Caylin hefted the key. “That's great, but what about the guard by the door?” she queried. “If he sees me—
bam
, cover blown.”

Theresa rubbed her chin, then smiled. “I got it,” she
replied. “I'll ask the guard to come help me with something onstage. Then you slip right in.”

Caylin returned a sly grin and wiggled her eyebrows. “Rock and roll, Spy Girl!”

•  •  •

Moments later Operation Distraction began.

“Sir, could you help me?” Theresa asked the unsmiling guard while Caylin crouched around the corner.

“No glop da English,” he said, scowling.

Theresa smiled wanly. “Great. Where's Jo when I need her? Um, let's see. Could. You. Help. Me?”

“No glop da English,” the guard repeated, more forcefully.

Theresa motioned him closer. When he leaned in, she took him by the arm and pulled.

“Please,” she said in a timid, helpless voice.
“Por favor? Bitte?”

“Bitte?”
the guard asked, brow furrowed.

“Um,
ja
!” she piped. “
Bitte
give me a hand over here, okay?”

No response.

Theresa pulled on the man's arm. He took a step forward.

“
Ja! Ja!
Attaboy!
Bitte
help! With me. Over here.
Ja!
”

I feel like an idiot, Theresa thought. She
had
to get some language lessons from Jo, if only to avoid looking—and sounding—this stupid in the future.

But the guard actually followed her to the stage.

“I hope you don't freak when you realize I'm lying to you,” she muttered to the man. She chanced a glance over her shoulder to make sure Caylin had made it through the locked door.
Bingo.
“Um . . . have you ever actually
used
that gun?”

“No glop da English.”

“That's what I thought.”

•  •  •

Caylin slid the magic key in the door. After a few jiggles it popped open.

Once inside she warily eyed the black filing cabinets lining the room. Six sprawling wooden desks were weighed down with books and documents, and several cheap prints of ballerinas hung crooked on the yellowed walls. The smell of old papers and dust hung in the air.

Caylin darted directly to the nearest filing cabinet and began flying through the manila folders, frantically searching for
Anka Perdova
or any name she didn't recognize.

There was nothing in
A
.

She immediately went for
P
.

She paged through the folders one by one. But nothing jumped out. She glanced at her watch. Three minutes had passed.

“Too much time,” she whispered. “Come
on
.”

She nipped through even faster, knowing she'd probably miss something. But she couldn't take the chance.

She neared the back of the
P
drawer and started thinking, which letter to tackle next.

Then she saw it.

A file marked
Alexandra Parsons
.

Caylin knew there was no such person in the ballet troupe. But she could've been anyone, an employee of InterCorp, a dancer long since gone.

She opened the file, anyway. It was the only name that was even close.

“Alexandra Parsons,” she read. She looked over the
dancer's vitals and felt a surge of excitement. They matched Anka Perdova's. Exactly. Which meant that they would match the impostor's, too.

“This has gotta be her,” Caylin reasoned. “It's just gotta be!”

The doorknob rattled.

Caylin's heart jumped into her throat. Was it Theresa? Or that security guard?

Caylin dove under the nearest desk.

The door creaked open.

“Muriel?” Ottla called. “Are you in here?”

Caylin held her breath, praying Ottla wouldn't actually come in.

“Muriel?” Her voice was closer now. “Muriel?”

Caylin's heart pounded. Her hands shook so badly that she had to ball them into fists.

Get out of here, Ottla, Caylin silently commanded. Give it up.

After a few seconds Ottla's footsteps retreated and the door slammed.

Caylin sighed in relief.

She waited a few moments and pulled herself up from beneath the desk. She slipped the file underneath her sweater. As she snuck out of the office Caylin crossed her fingers tightly, praying that she finally got her mitts on the money.

•  •  •

“The letters in ‘Danny Thugs I' spell out ‘Sunday night,' ” Jo reported to Uncle Sam on her cell phone on her way back to the office. Her eyes darted all around her to ensure that no one from the office was on the sidewalk nearby.

“Well done, Jo,” Uncle Sam proclaimed. “I'm glad you called because I want you to hear this call that came in late last night. The first voice is Ewan's. We don't know who the woman is yet.”

The word
Ewan
was enough to spur Jo's interest. As a large truck rumbled past, Jo stuck her finger in her right ear in order to hear better.

Ewan: Hello?

Woman: Ewan, you are such a snake!

Ewan: What? What did I do?

Woman: You went to the gallery opening with some bimbo, that's what! I saw her! Who was she?

Ewan: Just a girl from the office—she's nobody.

Woman: Nobody—yeah, right. I'm coming over.

Ewan (sighing loudly): I'll be downstairs.

Click.

“A
bimbo
? Jo exclaimed. “A
nobody 
? That creep show was lucky I even went to the gallery with him!”

“Hey!” Uncle Sam barked. “Keep your ego out of this, Jo. This mission is about stopping the assassination, not finding Mr. Right.”

But Jo couldn't help it. She was so angry, she had to fight back bitter tears.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jo replied stiffly.

“Fine, then. Do you have any idea who the woman is on the tape?”

Jo took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “Obviously she's a jealous girlfriend, but I had no clue he was seeing anybody. I mean, he actually asked me out again for Saturday! The two-timing pig!”

“Any female pictures in his loft?” Sam asked.

“No,” Jo replied. “And believe me, I was looking.”

“She might know something about Anka's whereabouts,” Uncle Sam said, his voice cutting out for a second. “Can you hold?”

While waiting for Uncle Sam to return to the line, Jo looked at InterCorp's building looming in the distance. Who wanted to go back to work when “Danny Thugs I” was meaningless and Ewan had a girlfriend that she—his prime investigator—didn't even know
existed
?

“Theresa and Caylin are conferencing on the other line,” Uncle Sam stated. “So I'll talk to you tonight. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for any information on Ewan's girlfriend.”

Jo hit end and scowled. Despite her nausea, she felt more determined than ever to go out and get the goods.

Nobody called her a nobody and got away with it.

Nobody.

•  •  •

“This is great work,” Uncle Sam told Caylin and Theresa, who were conferencing him from two separate cell phones. Caylin was perched on a park bench near the theater while Theresa stood in front of an apartment building two blocks over.

“Alexandra Parsons, Anka Perdova—A.P.,” Uncle Sam continued. “An unusual coincidence. Perhaps this Ms. Parsons is the impostor in this scenario. But you had better FedEx the folder to me right now—there's a drop box three blocks north of the theater. Don't keep that information on you for longer than you have to.”

“Got it.” Caylin nodded, scanning the passersby to make sure no familiar faces spotted her. Most everyone was distracted by a marionette puppet show in the park; they didn't even give her a second glance.

“Should I snag those blueprints, too?” Theresa asked.

“Definitely,” Uncle Sam replied. “You need to know that theater like it's your bedroom. And by the way, the ID on the pictures you shot of von Strauss's escort came back, Caylin. It's his daughter.”

“His daughter?” Caylin echoed, aghast. “Oh, drag. That's so
non
-juicy.”

“Afraid so,” he said. “And knowing von Strauss's attitude toward his family, he would probably never put his own daughter in danger. It's unlikely she knows anything.”

“Great,” Caylin muttered, slumping against the park bench. “Another dead end.”

•  •  •

“Want to go grab some joe?” Hannah asked Theresa after a grueling evening performance. The backstage area swarmed with dancers and technical people preparing to go home for the night.

Theresa had her eye on one superstar dancer in particular.

“Nah, I have to get going,” Theresa said as she watched Fake Anka gather her bag and coat. “Rain check?”

“Sounds good. Catch you tomorrow.”

“Every day,” Theresa replied.

As she followed Fake Anka to the exit Theresa slipped a black cap on her head and tucked her tousled brown hair up under it. Her heavy black wool overcoat completed the ensemble.

“So long, Anka!” a dancer said as Fake Anka pushed open the door.

“Uh-huh,” the impostor replied gruffly.

Theresa followed her out, lagging about twenty paces behind her.

“Time to find out who you really are,” she whispered. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses just to be safe. Even though the sky was dark, she didn't want to chance being recognized. Besides, the lenses were dark enough to shield her eyes but light enough to see out of at night. The perfect stalking shades.

The night air was frigid. Anka headed down the back alley behind the theater toward the main street. Live jazz poured out from an open tavern door, but otherwise the streets were silent. A trio of cats scurried near a bank of trash cans, scavenging for food.

A trash can lid spun from beneath a cat's paws and clattered to the street.

Theresa gasped and ducked behind the cans.

Fake Anka whirled, staring.

Just the cats, just the cats, just the cats, Theresa silently prayed. Keep going!

Moments passed. Fake Anka stared out into the darkness.

One of the stray cats sniffed at Theresa's foot. She gave it a nudge toward the middle of the alley.

The cat meowed loudly and scurried away.

“Just a cat,” Theresa whispered, hoping somehow that that would convince Anka.

It did. The impostor turned and continued on. Theresa slipped out from behind the cans and followed.

Anka turned the corner and marched down the street away from the theater. Theresa was careful not to get too close. In fact, Anka was walking almost too fast to keep up with.

“Man, she's in good shape,” she huffed.

Then Theresa heard more footsteps.

Only this time they were
behind
her.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her stomach tightened, and she fought the urge to turn around.

The footsteps got closer while Anka moved farther away.

It didn't matter. Theresa had to look. Just had to. The tingling sensation at her back was almost too much to bear. She gulped and began a count.

One . . .

The steps quickened.

Two . . .

Two's good enough!

Theresa spun around. She saw a burly figure plunge into a shadowy alley, and her whole body went numb with fear.

“I'm outta here,” she whispered, running to the left.

There—the tram station! She could lose him there! It was only two blocks away.

Could she make it? She knew she wasn't exactly Caylin in an all-out sprint.

She didn't have time to care.

She took off full tilt. Panic gripped her when she heard pounding footsteps behind her. Then she spotted the tram already at the station—preparing for departure!

No!

Theresa slipped a sweaty palm into her coat pocket and pulled out a tram token as she ran.

She had to time this perfectly. If that tram left . . .