Live and Let Spy (12 page)

“Four thousand crowns,” the overweight clerk said without looking up.

Theresa passed the woman her Visa, emblazoned with the name Camilla Stevens—a popular Tower alias.

The woman tossed her a key. The key was stamped with the number 555.

The magic key probably would have done the trick on the hotel room door, Theresa figured. But with the luck she was having that day, she'd probably walk in on two newlyweds.

As soon as she entered 555 Theresa marched to the window and jerked open the curtains.

“Yes!”

She had, as planned, a direct view of Anka's room.

“Let's zoom in,” she said, digging around in her pockets for the opera glasses she sometimes used to check out the last act of the ballet from the balcony.

She caught sight of the security guard conferring with two Prague police officers. After a few moments they shut Anka's door and left.

The apartment sat empty.

“Guess there's nothing to do now but wait,” Theresa muttered. She took a deep breath and flipped on the TV. The fact that there were only four stations to choose from didn't matter much.

Theresa couldn't understand a word anyone was saying, anyway.

Just as she was about to nod off from boredom, Theresa saw an overhead light go on over at Anka's.

“Gotcha!” Theresa cheered. Squinting, she saw two blurry figures enter the room. Pulse racing, she hopped up from the bed and scrambled for her opera glasses to get a better look at Fake Anka's companion.

“Who's your boyfriend?” she whispered into the
darkness, bringing the glasses to her eyes. As the fuzzy figures came into focus Theresa gasped at the man standing just inches away from Fake Anka.

Ewan!

They were arguing. They paced back and forth, their gestures angry and wild. Ewan raised his hand above his head and Theresa winced and closed her eyes, bracing herself for the blow.

But when she opened her lids, Ewan was giving Fake Anka a deep, passionate kiss.

Theresa's opera glasses hit the floor with a resounding clunk.

•  •  •

“I just can't believe they're a couple!” Jo cried back at 3-S. “So
she
was the one Uncle Sam got on tape!”

“Looks that way,” Theresa replied.

The aquarium phone rang in the living room. Caylin immediately dove for it.

“Yo,” she said.

“Hello, my superfly spies,” came Danielle's voice. “Good news.”

“We like good news,” Caylin said, rubbing Jo's back consolingly.

“I've located Anka Perdova's family.”

“Really? Where, in Moscow or something?” Jo asked.

“In Ohio.”

“Ohio?”
Theresa echoed, confused. “Whoa. I'm missing something.”

“Yeah . . . we
all
were missing something,” Caylin said, a smile creeping across her face. “Don't you get it? Alexandra Parsons
isn't
the impostor. She's the real deal.”

Theresa gasped. “You mean—”

“Yes!” Caylin cried. “Alexandra Parsons is actually Anka Perdova! Right, Danielle?”

“Yes sirree,” Danielle confirmed. “I guess it's some big secret of hers. Her mother is of Russian descent, but our Anka is baseball and apple pie all the way.”

Jo gasped. “So she's been fooling everybody all this time? No way!”

“Affirmative,” Danielle replied.

“She's a darned convincing Russian,” Caylin exclaimed.

“We're talking Academy Award here,” Danielle said.
“Apparently
everyone
was duped. I'm guessing that only the higher-ups at the New Russian Ballet are in on it—hence the lengths you had to go through to nab this folder. Who knows, maybe Alexandra thought she'd have a better shot at the NRB if she pretended to be Russian.”

“Maybe it was her
only
shot,” Caylin suggested.

“Exactly,” Danielle agreed. “And maybe the execs finally found out her secret, so they're covering it up to save face.”

Theresa took a deep breath. “It's just so hard to believe. . . .”

“And get this,” Danielle said. “I paid her folks a visit, posing as a reporter. They said they haven't talked to her in a week and a half. And interestingly enough, they received a postcard from her just yesterday. I palmed it and e-mailed you a color scan.”

“Danielle,” Jo teased, “you sneak.”

Theresa darted to fetch her laptop, then signed on. Within a matter of seconds she was staring at a downloaded file of the postcard.

“The handwriting's pretty shaky,” Theresa noted.

“And she usually writes in a very neat script, according
to Mama,” Danielle said. “Okay—postmark Prague, three days ago. Read along with me here and see what you think.

Hi, everyone, I'm fine but very busy. You know I'm not one to whine or anything, but things have been really hectic and I'm beat. Can't wait to see you on holiday.

Cheers,

Alex

“It sounds generic enough,” Caylin said.

“What about the front of the postcard?” Jo suggested, staring at the screen intently. “Could you zap that over?”

“Sure thing,” Danielle said. Her scanner buzzed in the background. A few seconds later the file appeared in Theresa's incoming mailbox.

The card featured a shot of a child ballerina with daisies in her hair.

“Magnify that.” Jo brought her nose closer to the screen while Theresa blew up the image four hundred percent.

“What are those little splatters in the right-hand corner?” Jo asked, referring to five or six spots on the image.
“Is that just on the scan or on the original?”

Danielle paused. “Good eye, Jo—I didn't even notice those. It's definitely on the card. It's something red.”

The Spy Girls shared fearful glances.

“Blood?” Caylin wondered grimly.

“I'll have forensics check it out,” Danielle promised.

“Does the card have a smell?” Jo asked.

“A smell?” Danielle repeated. “Actually, it's kind of musty. Dank.”

“Strange,” Jo murmured.

“I just hope this means the real Anka is still alive,” Theresa said, sighing deeply.

“Yeah.” Caylin ran a hand anxiously through her blond hair. “But if we don't get on the stick, she may not be for much longer.”

“And neither will Karkovic,” Jo added.

Theresa shook her head. “Let's face it. We're all doomed.”

At least my heart doesn't skip a beat when I see him anymore, Jo thought as she looked into Ewan's eyes Saturday afternoon.

They were brunching at Luna, a hip eatery with fresh-cut flowers on the tables, colorful murals on the walls, and candles everywhere. Despite the Fake Anka revelation, Uncle Sam had told Jo to keep the brunch date and use the opportunity to pump Ewan for information. Although Ewan hadn't yet revealed anything over pancakes, Jo remained optimistic.

At some point the guy's got to slip, she resolved, leaning back in her seat and smiling wickedly. And when he did, she'd be right there to nail him.

“Are you excited about the ballet tomorrow night?” Jo asked, pulling up the sleeves on her black sweater.

Ewan's face paled so much, his skin looked lighter than his cream thermal. “The ballet?” he repeated with a gulp. “I guess so, but I'm more interested in the trade pact. For me the ballet is simply an appetizer to the main course.”

“But Anka is just amazing,” Jo exclaimed. “I can't wait to see her in action again.”

“She is quite something,” Ewan agreed. “It will be a lot of fun, I suppose.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Jo asked, hoping she could score an invite to hang out with him for a bit longer.

“You wouldn't believe it if I told you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

She grinned. Thirty-thousand watts. “Try me.”

“You'll probably think it's stupid,” he said, averting his gaze.

“I promise I won't laugh,” she replied.

He paused. “Well, I'm actually taking a skydiving lesson. At two.”

“Sk-skydiving?” Jo echoed. Although she loved flying down the freeway, free falling from ten thousand feet was an entirely different story.

“I'm trying to conquer my fear of flying,” he confessed.

“By jumping out of a plane?”

He shrugged. “They say it works. Want to come with me?”

Jo hesitated.

Skydiving. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.

Should she put herself in danger to score some juicy details or stay on solid ground and possibly miss out?

“I'd love to,” Jo finally replied, hoping she wasn't making a big, big mistake.

•  •  •

“Jeez, for an international impostor and potential murderess, your Saturday sure is a snoozer.”

Theresa muttered as she watched Fake Anka exit a grocery store from a hundred feet back. Since the theater was closed to stage staff and dancers for pact-signing preparations, Theresa had spent the better part of her morning trailing the deadly diva.

So far it'd been one big laugh riot—the laundry, the gym, now the grocery store. What's next, the post office? Theresa wondered, taken aback by the fact that such a devious supercriminal could lead such a boring existence.

Theresa had been hoping to witness secret meetings, hidden hideaways, bang-'em-up car chases—
something
to revive the mission. But no such luck.

When she saw Fake Anka look around suspiciously and jump into a taxi, Theresa practically had a heart attack. Finally—a sign of life!

“Follow that cab,” Theresa told a driver as she hopped into his taxi. “And step on it.”

Ha! She'd always wanted to say that!

As they trailed Fake Anka's taxi over long, winding roads and across baroque bridges Theresa's interest grew with each mile. And her curiosity level went off the Richter scale when she observed Fake Anka's vehicle stopping in front of what appeared to be a neighborhood carnival, complete with rides, tents, and the whole nine.

“Guess it's time to get on the merry-go-round,” Theresa mused.

•  •  •

“When the queen of England arrives, you curtsy,” said Ms. Pontiva, the woman Ottla had hired to train the ushers and office staff on how to properly address government
officials and royalty. All the tables had been pushed to the corner of the ballroom to give Pontiva enough space to work her magic.

Although Ms. Pontiva was very thorough, Caylin was having a hard time keeping the different customs straight. Such a hodgepodge of countries would be represented! The fact that the importance of this stuff faded in comparison to that of her mission didn't exactly boost her concentration level.

“What happens if we get confused?” she asked, looking up from her notebook.

“Just stay calm,” Ms. Pontiva instructed, “and everything will be all right.”

“Easy for you to say,” Caylin mumbled to herself. “Miss Priss.”

Then she froze. Ottla had just entered the theater.

She was accompanied by Prime Minister Karkovic!

Caylin's heart pounded as she laid eyes on the man she'd been sent to protect.

“Excuse me,” Ottla said, “but I'd like you to meet Gogol Karkovic, the prime minister of Varokhastan.”

With a nervous smile Caylin stuck out her arm to offer a firm handshake. A few other ushers followed suit while one bowed and another curtsied.

“We're still working out our greetings,” Ms. Pontiva apologized with a laugh. “Welcome to Prague, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, welcome,” the group sang while Karkovic smiled ear to ear.

“G'day,” Caylin called.

“Your theater is utterly breathtaking,” he declared in a strong accent. “I am very pleased to sign pact that will have such enormous influence on our countries.”

His aides quickly ushered Karkovic away, noting that his schedule was tight.

Caylin smiled as he said his good-byes. Even a few goose bumps dotted her flesh. He seemed to be such a good man.

Then her smile vanished. That good man had only twenty-four more hours to live.

Not if Caylin could help it. Now that she had met the man in the flesh, she was more determined than ever to keep him from harm's way.

•  •  •

“Okay, I understand,” Ewan said into the special in-flight phone. He sat perched in the second row of the eight-seat InterCorp jet. The blue seats were made of plush velvet and the phone was state-of-the-art.

In the five minutes he'd been on the phone, Jo had been staring out the window, lost in thought.

Anka was somewhere in that world down there, she reflected. But where? How much did she know? Who else was with her?

When he hung up abruptly, Jo noticed Ewan had a strange look on his face.

“Everything okay?” she asked, secretly wondering if the call was about Anka, or Alexandra, or Fake Anka, or . . . whoever.

“Fine,” he said, his expression indicating otherwise. As he looked deep into her eyes she felt a shiver up her spine.

His eyes were cold, vacant.

“What?” she asked in alarm.

He shook his head. “It's nothing, really,” he insisted,
slapping a plastic smile on his face. “Let's get those parachutes on and get this show on the road.”

As Ewan handed her a parachute pack and took one for himself Jo couldn't shake her uneasy feeling. For a terrifying moment she wondered if the parachute Ewan had given her was operable.

“Don't we have an instructor?” Jo asked.

Ewan shook his head. “I know all I need to know.”

“Then could you ask the pilot if he can descend a few feet to relieve some of the pressure? My eardrums are about to burst!”

Ewan shot her a strange look before dropping his parachute on the seat and heading up to the cockpit.

While he did, Jo switched her parachute with his.