Live and Let Spy (16 page)

Fake Anka shook her head. “The bodyguards know all about this secret little meeting. And they don't suspect a thing.”

Without a word Caylin hefted Ewan's gun and the magic key chain and took off running.

“Be careful!” Jo called.

“Why put a bomb in the cellar?” Theresa asked, indignant. “You would have killed Karkovic and Anka, too. You'd have no one to take the rap.”

“Von Strauss was going to bring her up after he took Karkovic down,” Fake Anka spat. “You did half our work for us. I should thank you.”

“Don't bother,” Theresa snapped. “Now tell me how to disarm this thing.”

“Why bother?” Fake Anka asked flippantly. “We'll be okay. Who cares?”

“I think
you
will,” Jo angrily chimed in. “Your boyfriend's down there, too.”

“I don't believe you,” Fake Anka said. She stared at Jo uncertainly.

Jo glanced at the timer as it passed the two-minute mark. She reached into her purse and held up Ewan's Lamborghini-logo key chain. “I believe this is the key I used to lock him in. Do you recognize it?”

“You're lying,” Fake Anka snarled, eyes darting from Jo to Theresa and back.

“You know you love him,” Theresa said. “Do you want him dead?”

“Why should I believe you?” Fake Anka screeched. “Why should I?”

Jo looked deep into her eyes. “Because if you don't, your boyfriend'll be dead and
you'll
be the only one to blame.”

•  •  •

As Caylin dashed through the rows of wine she caught a glimpse of von Strauss racing toward the exit. Behind him she could hear Karkovic screaming and pounding on the cellar door.

She gripped Ewan's gun . . . but wasn't sure if she could use it.

She had a better idea.

She stuck out a foot and caught von Strauss as he sprinted by. The big man sprawled headlong onto the concrete floor with a cry of rage. Caylin smoothly stepped out of the shadows and tossed the Tower key ring at him. He caught it and stared in confusion.

“What are you doing?” von Strauss demanded.

“Saving the world from evil,” she said, snapping her fingers.

“Wha-what?” he cried as the shock disabled him and he writhed on the floor in pain.

Caylin immediately scrambled to unlock the crawl space door and set Karkovic free. But she didn't have a key. . . .

Von Strauss did!

Quickly she patted his tuxedo pockets. Left. Right There!

She snatched his key chain from his prone form and frantically searched for the right one. “Go, go, go,” she chanted. Her hands were shaking.

The fifth key worked. She hauled the door open and
saw Karkovic crouched next to the bound and gagged Ewan.

“Come on, sir,” Caylin ordered, waving Karkovic out. “We have to get you out of here!”

•  •  •

:19

“Red or black, Anka?” Theresa pleaded, tweezers poised. “Red or black?”

The music escalated to a deafening level.

:16

Jo: “Tell me, Anka.”

:13

Theresa: “Ewan's going to die.”

:12

Jo: “You're a murderer.”

:11

Theresa: “Red or black?”

:10

Jo: “You love him—you know you do.”

:09

Theresa: “Just say it,
red or black
.”

With eight seconds left on the clock tears of frustration welled in Fake Anka's eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Red,” she whispered.

Praying she wasn't bluffing, Theresa closed her eyes and gripped the red wire with the tweezers.

“Do it,” Jo said.

Theresa clipped the red wire. The timer's LCD display faded to black.

While Fake Anka broke into sobs, Jo and Theresa hugged each other tightly.

“You did it,” Jo whispered, squeezing her hard.

“No,” Theresa said, pulling back to look into Jo's fake baby blues. “
We
did it!”

“As soon as I get von Strauss processed you're both going with me,” Interpol Agent Johnson told Fake Anka and Ewan as he cuffed them to separate poles in a dark backstage corner. “In the meantime, Spy Girls, they're all yours. Off the record of course.”

“Of course,” Theresa repeated, smiling smugly. There were a lot of loose ends to tie up, and this was their big chance to get some answers.

“I cannot believe you two—two—women are the ones I was having followed,” Fake Anka said, her English failing in her fury. She glared at Jo and Theresa.

Theresa glared right back. “How'd you even know to have us trailed in the first place?”

“The computer—you were fools,” Fake Anka snarled. “After you break into my dressing room—you did not
leave—log off—Internet,” she said. “Dumb mistake. That is how I knew someone has been snooping around.”

“Then she told me,” Ewan said, “so I hired a private investigator.”

“The big guy who followed me and left me that postcard, right?” Theresa asked.

“Yes,” Fake Anka spat. “He saw you talking to the blond one, too.” She motioned to Caylin. “She was first to come in today, so Ewan took her hostage. I was glad. I've always hated blonds.”

Caylin narrowed her blue eyes. “You don't impress me all that much, either, thanks.”

“And I guess this same investigator must have spilled the beans to you about my little gallery date with your pig boyfriend, hmmm?” Jo asked.

Fake Anka glared at Jo. Then at Ewan. Then at the floor.

“What I want to know is,” Caylin asked, “why did you come up with this elaborate plan with the bomb in the cellar? Couldn't you have just shot Karkovic from the stage?”

Caylin received bizarre looks from all directions.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I didn't mean that would have been a good thing, but—”

“I wanted to shoot Karkovic,” Fake Anka said. “I'm a good shot. My uncle, he teach me. I
told
Ewan, but he wouldn't listen.” She jerked her head in Ewan's direction. “He said we can put Anka's fingerprints on the box and frame her in an easier way. Less people hurt, but she would still go to jail and die.”

While Fake Anka described this setup, the real Anka approached. The ballet had ended to a standing ovation, and she still wore her stage costume. “But why would you get plastic surgery and pretend to be someone you're not to frame someone you don't even know?” she asked incredulously. “Did you do it for Ewan?”

“Of course not,” Fake Anka said scornfully, glaring right back into the real Anka's eyes. She drew herself up and threw back her shoulders. “I'm Anna Poritzkova. You beat me out for my rightful place in the New Russian Ballet four years ago, and I swore I'd get revenge.” She smiled bitterly. “I almost did. And I got to dance.”

Anka's jaw dropped. The Spy Girls looked at one another in disbelief.

“Sorry to interrupt here,” Interpol Agent Johnson said, “but I need to ask Ms. Perdova a few questions.”

As he pulled her away Caylin noticed that Anka didn't once take her eyes off Fake—er,
Anna Poritzkova
.

“And it's curtain call for these two as well,” Interpol Agent Zimmerman said, uncuffing Ewan and Fake Anka from the pole and commanding them to stand with von Strauss.

“Thanks for the memories!” Jo cheered. She winked at Ewan as he was led away.

“I'll get all of you for this,” von Strauss threatened. “You just wait.”

“Yeah, you would've gotten away with it, too,” Caylin said in mock fear. “If it wasn't for us meddling gals.”

Jo smiled sweetly and hollered for Agent Johnson to hold up. “Mr. von Strauss's going-away comment reminded me: You might want to check into InterCorp's secret tax files, too,” she said. “They're hidden in the third-floor supply closet.”

Von Strauss's face reddened with rage. “Why, you little—”

The Spy Girls were still laughing over von Strauss's expression when Ottla approached and introduced the president of the Czech Republic.

“I'd like to thank you for all your hard work,” he said, shaking each of their hands. “You have done our country a great service.”

The Spy Girls couldn't help but smile at one another.

“Cool,” Theresa whispered.

“Thank you again,” he proclaimed. “I just don't know what to say.”

The Czech leader then turned to Karkovic. “Sir, would you like us to postpone the signing in light of everything that has happened?”

Karkovic smiled and shook his head. “Everything that happened is the biggest reason of all to go through with it,” he replied. “We cannot let evil triumph over the goodness of humanity. I want to finish what I have started. After all,” he concluded, “that's what freedom is all about.”

•  •  •

“I can't believe I'm actually bummed to be leaving somewhere so cold,” Jo exclaimed over her suitcase back at 3-S. She'd grown to appreciate Prague and its quiet charm. She really was going to miss it.

“I know what you mean,” Caylin said as she folded a sweater and placed it in her suitcase. “While I'm psyched to go home, a part of me wants to stay.”

“Me three,” Theresa agreed with a sad smile.

At that moment the door buzzer sounded—two short, two long.

“The secret buzz!” Jo said, rushing to the door to get it. “Hope it's the same delivery dude from last time!” She smoothed her hair before she opened the door.

“Special delivery for Caylin, Jo, and Theresa,” a dark-haired woman announced. She handed Jo a folded paper bag before turning on her heels.

“What could this be?” Jo wondered. She set the bag down on the dining room table so they could open it together.

“Three cappuccinos to go!” Caylin announced. She
removed a trio of steaming cups from the bag.

“And that rare Nirvana CD!” Theresa squealed. She yanked the disc out so fast, she ripped the bag. “Now, who knew I was a total Kurt Cobain freak?”

“Looks like you're about to find out,” Jo said, reaching for the folded note that had flopped out onto the table. “ ‘Next stop: the birthplace of grunge,' ” Jo recited, “ ‘where you'll crack the code of the century—Uncle Sam.' ”

“Huh?” Caylin muttered, utterly confused.

“Seattle!” Jo cheered, totally pumped.

“The coolest city in the universe!” Theresa chimed in.

Theresa passed coffees to Jo and Caylin and took one for herself.

“Lids off,” Jo commanded, a twinkle in her eye.

They all removed their coffee cup lids.

“To our next taste of adventure,” Theresa toasted.

Caylin smiled. “Ready, set, sip!”

And they did.

Elizabeth Cage is a saucy pseudonym for a noted young adult writer. Her true identity and current whereabouts are classified.

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