Live and Let Spy (2 page)

“A tax write-off, probably,” Uncle Sam replied. “And a smoke screen for their more devious doings.”

Suddenly pictures of distinguished-looking men and women of all nationalities were flashing on the screen, rapid-fire. “In just eight days these dignitaries will be flooding
Prague to finalize the aforementioned open-trade pact,” Uncle Sam said. “It's scheduled to be signed immediately following a performance at the ballet.”

“Let me guess,” Jo said. “Something's going to go down during the performance.”

“I'm getting to that,” Uncle Sam said as a close-up picture of an older, graying gentleman filled the screen.

“He looks familiar,” Caylin said.

“This is Gogol Karkovic, the prime minister of Varokhastan—a small, newly democratic Eastern European country,” Uncle Sam explained. “If he signs the pact, InterCorp stands to lose a fortune.”

“Why?” Theresa asked.

“Varokhastan is rich with mines,” Uncle Sam replied. “
Diamond
mines. InterCorp has a vested interest in the diamond industry—and they're very possessive. They would like nothing more than to lay claim to the diamonds of Varokhastan. And as I mentioned before, they do
not
like competition—something this open-trade pact would create.”

A million glittering diamonds filled the screen.

“Heaven,” Jo said in awe.

“Not really,” Uncle Sam said gravely. “We believe an attempt is going to be made on Karkovic's life before the trade pact can be signed. And we believe InterCorp is behind this assassination plot.”

Jo gasped. An assassination plot? She instantly regretted her last breezy comment as images of her father flickered before her eyes.

“How will they do it?” Theresa asked, concern etched on her face.

“That's for you to find out, Spy Girls,” Uncle Sam replied.

“And for us to stop,” Caylin added. She pounded a fist into her hand for emphasis.

“Exactly.” Uncle Sam cleared his throat. “Don't forget who you're dealing with here. Men like von Strauss and Gallagher don't care who they destroy in their wake as long as they get what they're after.”

“And that doesn't just mean Karkovic, right?” Theresa asked.

“You're right,” Uncle Sam replied. Suddenly the image of Anka Perdova reappeared on-screen. This time she was
smiling and signing autographs for a bunch of kids. “Who knows how far InterCorp's plans reach? They could endanger the whole ballet troupe. Everyone in the audience that night. The entire city of Prague. Young children, like the ones you see here. Karkovic may be their target but anyone anywhere near the theater will be in danger—unless you foil InterCorp's plans.”

Jo's eyes teared up at the poignant image. To think that such an awful thing could take place during a ballet performance—it seemed impossible.

As Jo watched the talented ballerina smile for the young children her heart leaped into her throat. She and Anka, on the surface, seemed so alike. They both had long black hair; they both were eighteen; heck, they both were even lefties. And now they were both wrapped up in a horrible assassination plot.

“Karkovic's bodyguards won't have a chance,” Theresa stated.

“So what's the plan?” Caylin asked, bouncing up and down in her seat. Ready to run, move, do something,
anything
.

Uncle Sam exhaled deeply. “Girls, your mission is to infiltrate the open-trade conference and stop the assassination of Karkovic.”

Theresa raised her hand as if she were in grade school. “Uh, we
knew
that already, Sam,” she said half sarcastically. “Don't you have any more for us to go on?”

“Negative,” Uncle Sam replied. “You're entirely on your own.”

Caylin's brow furrowed. “Why us?” she asked. “This is a big challenge. I mean, we're talking global impact and stuff. Why don't you just notify the pros and let them handle it?”

“You
are
the pros,” Uncle Sam responded testily. “Besides, it's all speculation at this point. The exposure of a formal investigation can't be risked. And since most of the stagehands and interns are young females, we thought you would arouse the least amount of suspicion. Feel up to it?”

“Do we have a
choice
?” Theresa scoffed. But her gray eyes were dancing with excitement.

A slow, sly grin grew across Caylin's face. “Well, I
do
love the ballet,” she drawled. “And I've got
nothing
else on my schedule this week. I guess I can cope.”

“Me too.” Jo sighed dramatically. “So many evil schemes, so little time.”

Uncle Sam chuckled. “Glad you're so confident, girls.”

Theresa smiled. “Why's that, Sammy?”

“Because you ship out in two hours.”

“So is Prague gonna be cold or what?” Theresa asked as she stood in front of her walk-in closet. The Tower dorm room she shared with Theresa and Caylin was a blur of flying shirts, pants, and dresses as the trio attempted to get appropriately attired for the long plane ride ahead.

“Freezing,”
Caylin said with a frown. “Which wouldn't be so bad if there were any mountains to snowboard. But Prague's not exactly the ski capital of the world.”

“Too bad,” Jo kidded, bundling socks. “You'll just have to concentrate on the silly old mission, won't you?”

“Drag,” Caylin replied with a smirk. “I hate when that happens.”

Theresa unplugged her laptop and slid it into its padded case. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows—warmth she wouldn't be seeing for a while. She selected the
stereo remote from the eight remotes on her night table and aimed it at the far wall. “I can't even hear myself think.”

Miles Davis faded slightly. Theresa chose another remote and switched the channel from MTV to CNN, hoping to catch a glimpse of a global weather report.

“I'm going to miss this entertainment center.” Theresa sighed. “We've got it all, but we only had two days to enjoy it.”

“That's because you just had to rewire the whole wall before we left for London,” Caylin said. “You're the only one who knows how to work everything. I mean, we have eight remotes!”

“They're labeled,” Theresa explained.

“I still can't tell them apart.” Caylin stared longingly at her snowboard, which she had mounted on the wall above her bed. “I just wish I could bring my board. What a bummer.”

“I can't say I'm looking forward to icicles, either,” Jo went on, folding a sweater. “After all, this bod's too dope to hide in a coat!”

Theresa giggled. “We're going on a
mission
, Jo. Not a vacation.”

“A mission that we have
no time
to pack for,” Caylin interjected. “What kind of wardrobe can a girl pack in no time?”

“Sometimes you guys amaze me.” Theresa sighed. “A prominent world leader is about to be assassinated, and you two are worried about clothes.”

Theresa gestured toward the giant TV screen. There Gogol Karkovic was being shown meeting young children who had been orphaned during the course of a recent civil war. Tears shone in the older man's eyes as he spoke in his native Varok.

The caption at the bottom of the screen read,
We cannot live in a world where guns make the law—where children are left to suffer alone.

The room fell silent as Theresa clicked off the remote.

Jo squinted. Karkovic's message had clearly hit home with her. “Well, come on, we
do
have to wear
something
,” she began, ignoring the heart-wrenching newscast. “Some
help you are, Theresa. I still can't believe your mother is a fashion designer.”

Theresa rolled her eyes. “I know, I know.”

“I really
don't
get it, T.” Caylin shook her head sadly. “How can you hate fashion when we have The Tower buying us clothes? You could get couture for the asking, sweetie darling, but all you want to do is wear jeans.”

“I have better things to worry about,” Theresa muttered, arranging her laptop and an array of peripherals on the bed.

“You and your toys,” Jo kidded. “I'm gonna call Danielle and see if she has any last minute advice for us.”

She went to grab the proper remote, but she could only stare, dumbfounded, at the lineup of controllers on Theresa's night table.

“Okay, T.,” Jo growled. “I give up. Which one works the video chat?”

“Third from the left,” Theresa replied without looking up from her hardware.

“I hate these things,” Jo said. “Can't we just get one big remote?”

“It'd be the size of a mainframe,” Theresa said with a laugh.

Jo sighed and punched in 11-12-80—the secret code to activate the video chat and Ryan Gosling's birthday. “Oh, Danielle, are you home?” Jo asked as the big TV came back to life with a flashing blue screen and the word
ringing
emblazoned across it.

Theresa couldn't help but smile at the mention of Danielle's name. When they were in London, the Spy Girls had seen a tall woman with short brown hair following them everywhere. They had been certain that “Short Hair” was working for the enemy and had tried desperately to learn her identity by snapping her picture with their secret cameras and chasing her through nightclubs.

“Boy, did I feel stupid when we found out Danielle was actually one of us,” Theresa said.

“I know,” Jo replied, dropping the remote on the bed. “I about had a cow when we got to the safe house and
bam
, there she was.”

Theresa immediately retrieved the remote from the bed and replaced it on her nightstand. “I'm glad we've got her
on our side. We're sure going to need her help on this mission.”

A few seconds later Danielle's face appeared on the big screen. “Hello, Spy Girls,” she chirped. “Ready to roll?”

“Hardly.” Theresa moaned, pointing to the T-shirt and boxers she was still lounging around in. “I'm so clueless about clothes, I can't even figure out what to wear on the plane.”

“You better get a move on,” Danielle instructed. “You have less than an hour.”

“I know,” Caylin said, running a brush through her long blond hair. “Any Prague pointers?”

“Just keep a cool head,” Danielle instructed. “This is a high-pressure mission, seeing as the pact signing is just over a week away. Stay focused and take it one step at a time.”

“As long as those one-steps-at-a-time bring down InterCorp, it'll be
all
good,” Jo said enthusiastically.

Danielle smiled. “Now, when you land, you need to tell your driver to take you to Josefská two-four-two, three-S. Is someone writing this down?”

“I am,” Theresa said, grabbing the nearest pen and paper. “So it's what?”

“
J-o-s-e-f-s-k-a
two-four-two, three-S,” Danielle repeated. “Got it?”

“Yep,” Theresa said, writing down the letters in a sure, block script.

“I'll be there in thirty minutes to take you to the airport,” Danielle said. “Good luck, girls!”

The screen faded to black.

“Hope we don't need it,” Theresa muttered.

•  •  •

“Five minutes late.” Caylin scowled as she hopped around impatiently in the designated Tower pickup area. “Danielle is five minutes late. Where is she?”

Jo whipped out her cell phone. She was just about to dial Danielle's digits when she heard the sound of screeching tires.

Delicious. Jo loved that sound. She could practically smell the burning rubber already.

A sleek, lobster-red blur roared around the corner, fishtailing and squealing to a halt in front of her.

Jo's tongue practically rolled out to the ground. There it sat, right in front of her. Jo Carreras's weakness number two—a gorgeous sports car. A brand-new Ferrari 458 Italia, to be exact, with Danielle grinning from the driver's seat.

“No way—a 458!” Jo gasped as she ran a hand over the sweet ride's shiny enamel. “Where'd you score this?”

“Didn't think I was this cool, did you?” Danielle opened the door and slid out. “This beauty was confiscated in a big drug bust a few weeks back. And when they plea-bargained the guy yesterday, the car stopped being evidence and started being mine. At least for a couple of days.”

“You gotta let me drive, Danielle,” Jo demanded, circling the vehicle like a lioness stalking her prey.
“Now.”

“No way.” She shook her head. “The only one getting behind that wheel is me.”

“Guess again, Sherlock.” Jo swiped the keys from the ignition. “Direct fuel injection . . . German transmission—ohh, I
need
this.”

“Say, Wonder Wheels,” Theresa interrupted. “Where are
we
supposed to sit?”

“Yeah,” Caylin agreed. “There're only two seats!”

Jo shrugged. “Cram in the back.”

“With our
bags 
?” Theresa asked incredulously.

“Come on,” Jo grumbled, flipping the driver's seat forward and stuffing her bag in the tiny space behind it.

As Caylin slid uncomfortably into the Ferrari she glared at Danielle. “Couldn't get a limo, huh?”

“Who needs a limo when you've got a Ferrari?” Jo breathed. “We'll be at the airport in seven minutes.”

“Seven?”
Theresa exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Okay, six.”

“Danielle,”
Theresa and Caylin complained in stereo.

“Don't worry,” Danielle soothed. “I won't let Jo kill us.”

Caylin and Theresa stuffed their bags—and each other—into the tiny space behind the two seats. Their heads were scrunched against the tan leather roof and their limbs tangled in their luggage.