Live and Let Spy (3 page)

“You do realize, Jo, that if we die now, no one will be left to save the world,” Caylin stated dryly.

“Relax,” Jo replied, smoothly slipping the car into gear. She revved the engine methodically. “With a V-eight,
five hundred sixty-two horses, we'll go from zero to one-double-oh in three-point-four seconds.”

“Is that with or without the air bag?” Theresa asked.

Jo gave her a grin, pressed her pedal to the metal, and peeled out. “Prague, here we come!” she screamed.

“This is it.” Theresa surveyed the homes along the winding cobblestone street. She scanned the piece of paper on which she had scrawled the address. “I think.”

“After an hour in customs I can't keep anything straight,” Caylin said crankily.

Jo squinted at a map. “Malá Strana,” she recited, ever the language expert. “The Little Quarter district of Prague. Our new home.”

“Mozart used to walk these streets all the time,” Theresa revealed. “But I doubt he lived
here
.”

Theresa pointed at the door in front of her for emphasis. The number 242 was painted next to it haphazardly. Drop-jawed, she gazed up and up—the run-down building was five stories tall. Forbidding stone gargoyles stared down at her from the rooftop. “It looks so . . . old.”

“Chances are, it is,” Caylin quipped.

“Could this all be for us?” Jo whispered.

“Not,”
Caylin said, dropping her bags by her feet. “It looks like my aunt's apartment building in Paris. Didn't Danielle give a flat number?”

Theresa squinted at the crumpled piece of paper. “Three-S.”

“There you go, Watson,” Caylin said, picking up her bags and jaunting toward the door with a new spring in her step. “What did you think the three-S stood for?”

“Three spies, of course,” Theresa said. “Hey, who's got the key?”

Caylin produced the envelope that a stern flight attendant had slipped to her during the flight. Inside were two keys. Caylin unlocked the heavy, hand-carved door and pushed it open. “Okay—I bet three means third floor,” Caylin said, heading for the steep stairwell before them.

“No elevator?” Jo whined, looking disdainfully at the water-stained walls and worn gray carpet covering the stairs. “This is a far cry from the Ritz.”

Indeed, the worn-down carpet and water-stained walls looked positively dilapidated compared to the decadent digs they'd dwelled in just days earlier.

When they reached the third floor and laid eyes on the scratched-up door marked 3-S, their expectations deflated even further.

“This is a nightmare,” Jo said, her nose wrinkled.

“You can say that again,” Caylin agreed, turning the key in the lock. But when the door swung wide, she gasped. “Check it out!” she cheered, spinning around to soak in the red velvet couch, the ornate woodwork, the abstract art on the walls, the giant aquarium.

“Can you say
delish
?” Theresa exclaimed. She slipped her sneakers off and ran her bare feet over the soft oriental rug. “The Tower has really outdone itself this time.”

“Too cool!” Jo squealed, dumping her bags and dashing into a bedroom. “Whoa—a four-post canopy bed!” she hollered, prompting Theresa and Caylin to run in after her.

“Talk about perfect!” Theresa shrilled.

“Hurry up,” Caylin prodded after scanning the room. “I want to see more!”

All the bedrooms had massive canopy beds and antique decor. The ceilings had to be fifteen feet high, with long windows framed by heavy red velvet drapes.

“Check out the new laptop in here,” Caylin said, pointing into the middle bedroom. “Man, this room is totally equipped!”

Theresa gasped.
“Mine!”
She marched in and dropped her bag by the bed, gazing lovingly at the setup before her. “Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine! Ooh, I've been
dying
to get my hands on one of these!” Theresa plopped into the high-back wooden chair and punched away furiously at the keys. “Wow. A good computer can be so . . .
sexy
.”

Jo grabbed Theresa's arm and yanked her away from the laptop.

“Hey!”

“No net surfing till we see the rest of the place!” Jo ordered. “Let's check out the living room.”

“And the fridge!” Caylin added.

En route to the kitchen Theresa spied a note resting on the corner of the massive antique dining room table.
“Uh-oh, gal pals,” she exclaimed. “We have a love letter!”

As Theresa snatched up the paper, Caylin and Jo dashed over at lightning speed.

“Push the red button on the aquarium,” Theresa read, glancing up at Caylin and Jo with a quizzical look in her eyes.

“Go for it,” Caylin instructed.

Theresa pressed the red button on top of the aquarium. Nothing happened.

“Press it again,” Caylin said, reaching for it.

“No, wait,” Theresa replied. “Look.”

The long side of the aquarium actually flickered. Gradually Uncle Sam's shadowed face appeared in the glass.

“That's so cool!” Theresa exclaimed, meeting Jo's and Caylin's gazes. “You can still see the fish. Is this an LCD or what?”

“That's top secret, Theresa,” Uncle Sam replied.

“No fair.”

The Spy Girls plopped down on the expensive-looking chairs and couches around the living room.

“Time to get down to business, ladies,” he said.

“Cool,” Caylin replied. She scooted to the edge of her seat in delicious anticipation. “Let's have it.”

“There are three tablets in the drawer embedded in the base of the aquarium,” Uncle Sam said. “Take notes.”

Theresa ran over and retrieved the tablets and passed them out to her eager counterparts. “Ready, Sammy,” she said, placing her fingers on the keys expectantly.

“You're all to report for duty tomorrow—that's Monday morning—at ten a.m.,” Uncle Sam instructed. “Jo, you'll pose as Selma Ribiero, a Brazilian-American daughter of wealthy parentage. You're interning at InterCorp so that you can learn the ins and outs of big business.”

Jo grinned wickedly.

“Already dreaming about rubbing elbows with Ewan Gallagher?” Caylin teased.

“No,” Jo said lightly. “Just dreaming about saving the world, that's all.”

Caylin laughed. “I do that, too, but it doesn't make me blush.”

“Let's move on,” Uncle Sam admonished. “Theresa,
you'll be posing as Tiffany Heileman, an American who's interning at the ballet in the props department.”

“Tiffany?”
Theresa scoffed. “Does a bleach job and frosted pink lip gloss come with that alias?”

Uncle Sam remained silent. While she couldn't see his face, Theresa could practically feel his glare.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Tiffany's . . . great. No complaints from me.”

“Good.” Uncle Sam cleared his throat. “Caylin, you're posing as Australian exchange student Muriel Hewitt, who's ushering at the theater for some extra cash.”

“All righty, mate!” she replied in her best Aussie accent. “If I can't surf down under, at least I can talk about it.”

“The information on where to go and who to report to is in the locked safety-deposit box under the sink,” Uncle Sam continued, “and the key is taped to a sour spot in the refrigerator.”

“Sour spot?” Theresa repeated. “Let's see—sour cream, sour milk, sweet-and-sour sauce. . . .”

Uncle Sam chuckled. “Your wardrobes will be delivered shortly.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Jo and Caylin cheered.

“But answer the door
only
to those who use the secret buzz.”

The intercom suddenly buzzed. Two short, two long.

Caylin rolled her eyes.

“I saw that!” Uncle Sam said.

“Saw what?” Caylin asked innocently.

“The eye roll, that's what,” he said, thankfully not sounding
too
mad. “You're on video cam, too.”

“Really? Where is it?” Theresa said, looking up, down, and all around to track the location of the hidden lens.

“You tell me,” he dared.

Theresa went to the aquarium and began to inspect it inch by inch. “Check it out!” she called. “One of those fish swimming behind Uncle Sam is actually a camera.”

“Okay, Sam, you got me,” Caylin said as she looked directly into the faux goldfish's mouth, where a camera lens was hidden. “But isn't a secret buzz a little much?”

“Not if the people on the other side of the door have guns,” Uncle Sam said.

“Good point,” Jo admitted.

“Good point indeed. And good night.” Uncle Sam's shadowy image dissolved into the aquarium's crystal blue water.

“This is totally wild,” Jo said.

“I'll say,” Caylin agreed. “I've always wanted to be an Aussie!” She broke into her best Sydney accent. “Let's go suss out that sour spot.”

Jo and Caylin ambushed the fridge while Theresa checked out the equipment.

“This kitchen is loaded,” Theresa noted. “Fresh fruit, juice machine, espresso . . . why go out?”

“Where's that key . . . ,” Caylin grumbled. “Lemonade?” She examined the ceramic pitcher for the magic key. “Nope, no cigar. Maybe pickles?”

“What about lemon balls?” Jo proposed, looking bored with the search. “Do they have those in Prague?”

Caylin unscrewed the lid of the pickle jar. “Bingo!” she cheered, snatching the key from inside the lid.

“Now that all the secret bells and whistles are out in the open,” Jo said, “I'm going to unpack and unwind.”

The others agreed. An hour later essentials were
stowed, snacks were scarfed, and the Spy Girls were ready to rock.

“Okay,” Jo began as she dabbed pink polish on her toenails. “Here's a little vocab lesson. There are about a dozen ways to say ‘cute' in Czech, but I'll give you three.”

“How challenging,” Caylin called out from the kitchen, where she was whipping up a goulash dinner to celebrate their first night in Prague. “Just don't quiz me later, okay?”

“One, there's
roztomilý
, which is a charming kind of cute,” Jo continued, unfazed. “Then there's
rozkošný
, which is
cute
-cute—you know, like ‘that little big-eyed puppy is totally
rozkošný
.' And then there's
mazaný
, which is foxy . . . literally.”

“Thanks, Jo,” Theresa drawled. “I'm sure
that'll
come in handy the next time I'm in a bind.”

Caylin jumped out of the kitchen. She clapped and rolled her eyes up melodramatically. “ ‘Please, sir, don't kill me—I find you so . . .
mazaný 
!' ” she cried breathily.

“I'm just going to stick to my pocket translator, thank you very much.” Theresa waved the thin, checkbook-size computer in the air for emphasis.

“You guys just don't know how to have fun.” Jo sighed as she finished up her pedicure. “You know, it's amazing how the right polish and a kickin' toe ring can make the ugliest part of the body look fabulous.”

Theresa looked up from her laptop. “You know, what's
really
amazing is how much time people spend painting their fingers and toes and faces. It just doesn't seem sensible.”

“I think you've been surfing that web too long, my darling,” Caylin called out. “Try some
real
surfing and you'll see the world in a whole different way.”

“Sports and makeup.” Theresa rolled her eyes. “Sorry, but I don't see the connection.”

Buzz-buzz . . . buzzzzzzzz-buzzzzzzzz.

Jo jumped in surprise at the sound of the intercom. Thankfully her perfect polish remained intact.

“The secret buzz!” Theresa whispered.

“That's our wardrobe!” Jo exclaimed. She hobbled toward the door on her heels to avoid damaging her tantalizing tootsies. “Who
iiis
it?” she asked, peering through the peephole.

“Special delivery,” the guy behind the door called.

Panting, she turned to Theresa and Caylin. “He's
foxy 
!” Jo whispered.

“Don't you mean
mazaný 
?” Theresa and Caylin teased in stereo.

The “Mystery Date” song played in Jo's head as she opened the door, revealing a tall, muscular guy with long blond hair and a bright smile.

“I w-would like to, h-how you say,
greet
you,” he mumbled in stilted English.

Jo held out her hand. “You mean,
hello
.”

The delivery guy ignored her hand and squinted at her. “Yes . . . hello. I have boxes.”

He turned and began unloading cardboard boxes from his dolly. Each box was marked with one of their names. The muscles in his forearms rippled like steel cables.

Mmm,
yummy
.

Jo grinned at the others, wiggling her eyebrows. “Those boxes look heavy,” she said to him.

He stared at her feet. “Pink.”

She showed off her pearly pink toenails. “You like?”

He gave her a strange look and walked out.

“What's
his
damage?” Jo whispered to her compatriots. Still, she couldn't help admiring his fair form as he brought in the last box.

“I go now,” he said.

“Wait!” Jo cried.

The guy froze.

“Jo, the gentleman should
go
now,” Caylin explained politely.

“I
know
, Cay, but I have to tip him, don't I?” Jo rummaged through her pockets frantically for the crowns she'd exchanged at the airport. She stuffed some of her cash into his big, strong hands.

“No, too much.” He looked down incredulously at the wad she'd handed over.