Live and Let Spy (4 page)

“Take it,” she insisted, hoping the tip would put a smile on his stony—but still gorgeous—face.

He simply shrugged again and left, wheeling his dolly down the hall with nary a peep.

“What, no
thank you
?” Jo shrieked as she slammed the door after him.

“I don't think he understood you,” Theresa offered.

“But I was speaking the
international
language!” Jo complained. “How could he
not
—”

“Can't talk! Clothes!” Caylin screeched.

Jo instantly brightened, and she and Caylin ripped open their boxes like kids on Christmas morning. Theresa lagged noticeably behind.

“Prada winter wear!” Jo squealed as she surveyed her duds, grateful that posing as a socialite guaranteed her a delicious designer wardrobe.

“I've got more of the Banana Republic thing going,” Caylin said, pulling out tan wool pants and beige fisherman's sweaters. “I guess it's that whole Australian safari vibe.”

“I'm the Gap girl, thank goodness,” Theresa called, smiling brightly as she held up basic after basic.

Jo held up a cream-colored blouse and sighed. “Well, sisters, one thing's for sure.”

“What's that?” Theresa asked.

“Even if we
don't
save the world, at least we'll look good.”

“I feel like I'm in the middle of
Amadeus
,” Caylin noted, Aussie accent in full effect as she led the way into the baroque city on a chilly Monday morning. “This city's a beaut, I tell ya!”

Peddlers made their way toward the town square, their pushcarts overflowing with everything from fruits and vegetables to handcrafted dolls and puppets. The spires and towers of the gorgeous Prague Castle dominated the skyline. Brightly painted houses—some dating back to the thirteenth century—lined the streets, contrasting with the stubborn gray sky.

Theresa smiled and nodded. “This place is about as far from Arizona as you can get, but it really
is
a beaut.”

“It'd be a lot
more
of a beaut if it wasn't so freaking
cold,” Jo grumbled through chattering teeth. “You're sure you know where we're going?”

“Yep,” Caylin affirmed. The instructions they retrieved from the safe last night informed them that Josefská, the narrow, cobbled street they were living on, led straight to the main square. There the St. Nikolai Theater and InterCorp were only a few meters away from each other. Despite Jo's grumblings, Caylin had a definite spring in her step.

“I can't believe we're finally
doing
something,” she cheered.

“Yeah, freezing our butts off,” Jo commented. “This little faux fur number is
not
cold-weather compatible.”

“The Tower issued you a
long
coat, Jo,” Theresa said. “It wouldn't kill you to wear it.”

“But I can't cover up this gorgeous quilted mini!” Jo cried. “You might as well call the fashion police!”

In the square an ancient clock chimed ten.

The Spy Girls froze.

“That's our cue, Sheilas!” Caylin announced.

“Sheilas?” Jo asked.

“It's Aussie for ‘girls,' ” Caylin explained.

“I know,” Jo said with a smile. “I saw
Crocodile Dundee
enough times. You don't have to lay it on so thick when it's just us.”

“Yes, I do,” Caylin argued. “This is like method acting. If I don't do it right here, how can I do it right when it counts?”

“Point taken,” Theresa said. “Let's split up, sisters.”

“Good luck, you guys,” Jo said.

Theresa smiled nervously. “You too.”

“G'day, mates!”

Each Spy Girl moved off in a different direction.

Each with a different mission.

Each wondering if she could pull it off.

•  •  •

“And this is the grand tour,” Josef Capek droned as he walked Jo through the halls of InterCorp Prague. “On the right, the employee break room.”

“Exciting,” Jo breathed. The first thing she had noticed about Josef Capek was his looks or, more specifically, his
lack thereof. His short, stodgy frame, plain features, and receding hairline had thrilled Jo to pieces—not because she was into him but because she so
wasn't
. Since Capek's looks weren't the least bit lovable, Jo was able to concentrate solely on the InterCorp tour.

Of course, there was still that pesky matter of Ewan Gallagher to worry about. . . .

“You'll be required to perform general office duties—answering phones, running errands, that sort of thing,” Capek continued as they walked down a long, narrow hall.

“That sounds fine to me,” she said, effortlessly employing the accent she'd perfected while staying with relatives in Brazil.

As Capek directed her to her cubicle Jo was way tempted to ask where Mitchell von Strauss and Ewan Gallagher were. But Jo could tell that this was a busy office. Information would float through the air like confetti. She would quickly learn which bits were important and follow them through without arousing suspicion.

“This is your station,” Capek announced as they approached a tiny cubicle already marked with a nameplate
reading Selma Ribiero. “You will be assisting Alexander Gottwald, a vice president in charge of marketing. Why don't we meet him now?”

Jo nodded as she followed Capek down the hall. She kept her eyes glued to door after door, hoping to see a plate with one of the nasty names. Nothing. She stifled a sigh of disappointment.

Then she saw it.

Mitchell von Strauss, right there in plain letters. And his office was within sight of her cube!

Jo's mind spun. It told her to bug his phone, make friends with his assistant, send him flowers, offer to play golf with him, do
anything
to get on the inside.

She flashed the stern-looking woman at the desk outside von Strauss's office a smile. Jo received a frown in return.

So much for
that
plan.

Alexander Gottwald's office was two down from von Strauss's. Jo regarded the imposing man behind the large, cherry-wood desk carefully. Gray-haired, distinguished, and Armani clad, he was the picture of sophistication as he extended a hand toward her.

“Welcome aboard,” Gottwald said in accented English.

“I'm thrilled to be here, Mr. Gottwald,” she said, blessing him with her best thousand-watt grin.

“Well, we'll definitely keep you busy,” Gottwald said. “With the open-trade pact coming up, things are really reaching a boiling point.”

No kidding, she thought gazing blankly at him. “Open-trade pact?” she asked innocently.

“Yes—it's a very important event but I'll let Josef fill you in on all the gory details,” he explained. He gave her a stern look. “You should read the newspapers more, my dear.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, her voice full of shame.

“For now,” Gottwald continued, “I'm expecting two important calls. One from Ewan Gallagher and one from Vienna. When they come through, make sure you find me immediately.”

Jo's heart sped up at the mention of Ewan's name. She would actually be talking to him that day! Her first big break!

“I'll show her how to put calls through right away,” Capek promised with an efficient nod.

“I look forward to working with you, Mr. Gottwald,” Jo called as Capek ushered her out.

“Likewise, I'm sure, Selma,” Gottwald replied, turning his attention back to his paperwork.

Moments after Capek trained her on the phone system and left her to her own devices, Jo's cell phone went off, jolting her from her thoughts.

She looked around casually. Seeing no one, she slipped the phone out of her pocket and glanced at it.

Go to ballet box office
 . . .
Pick up ticket for tonight's performance
 . . .
Uncle Sam.

“Cool,”
she whispered.

•  •  •

“I'm Ottla Heydrich, director of ushers,” a gray-haired woman told Caylin in fluent English. She extended a ring-adorned hand, and Caylin shook it briskly.

“Very nice to meet you,” Caylin said. “Muriel Hewitt.”

“Have a seat, Muriel.” Ottla motioned to the chair in front of her desk.

While Ottla scanned “Muriel's” resume, Caylin looked around Ottla's office, which was tucked away in a far
corner of the St. Nikolai Theater. It was a damp, dusky space filled with stacks of file folders, books, and ballet programs. Nothing too fascinating.

“Here from Australia, are you?” Ottla asked.

“You're not wrong about that!” Caylin laughed. “Aussie born and bred.”

“Beautiful country,” Ottla said offhandedly. She then took a deep breath. “As I'm sure you're aware, we're putting on
Swan Lake
right now. There are performances six nights a week. And our principal attraction, Anka Perdova, fills the seats night after night. Which means a St. Nikolai usher is a busy usher.”

Caylin smiled, but she was bristling on the inside. She hated being talked down to. What was she, a third grader?

To Ottla she probably was.

“Let's go ahead and give you the tour,” Ottla said. She rose from her chair and led Caylin out the door.

“It's a really beautiful theater,” Caylin enthused. Hundreds of seats formed a sea of red velvet. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from above, and ornate moldings covered the high ceilings. The carpeting was bloodred, lined
in gold. The stage was grandiose, and the air resonated with performances past. It simply oozed history.

“Yes, it is,” Ottla agreed. “It was built in 1886, three years after the National Theater opened in 1883, and all renovations—up to the last one in 1988—have stayed true to the original design.”

“Grouse!” Caylin exclaimed. Aussie for “very good.”

Ottla gave her a confused look before handing her a piece of paper. “Here's a seating chart. You'll need to familiarize yourself with it immediately. You'll be seating people this evening.”

“Righto,” Caylin said, gazing down at the maze of numbers and boxes with confidence.

“We're getting ready to host all the dignitaries in town for the open-trade-pact signing in a week,” Ottla said. “It will be the most important night of the year for us.”

No kidding, Caylin thought grimly. “How exciting!” “Muriel” exclaimed.

“We'll definitely need your services that night,” Ottla said, looking a bit worried. “The volume is going to be immense.”

Caylin smiled. “Wouldn't miss it for the world!”

“The ballerinas are at a local school giving a concert this morning,” Ottla explained, “so the theater is empty. Why don't you take advantage of it and acquaint yourself with the layout for a few hours?”

I'd like nothing better, Caylin thought.

Starting with backstage . . .

•  •  •

“So we have to touch up these three sets. The garden and great hall of Prince Siegfried's castle. And the lakeside. Do you have any questions, Tiffany?”

Hannah Shrum, a young American stagehand, was cheerfully training Theresa backstage. She'd already given Theresa a tour of the main theater. Now they were getting down to the real nitty-gritty.

Theresa examined the mammoth sets warily. “Does it take long to do this?” she asked. The artistry was extremely detailed—like paint by numbers times a million. Since Theresa was way more proficient in keystrokes than brush strokes, she was a bit intimidated.

“Depends,” Hannah said, eyeballing the gigantic, varied
backdrops depicting huge oak trees and velvet couches and shimmering pools of water. “They have to be perfect every night, and sometimes the paint peels or cracks under the lights. The damage varies from show to show.”

Theresa had already observed the out-of-date light system. But the lights weren't the only things that had captured her attention. She'd also noticed there weren't many people around. No ballerinas. Not even
Caylin
was anywhere to be seen. “How are the other people who work here?”

“Everyone is pretty cool as long as you stay out of their way,” Hannah explained. “And not knowing how to speak Czech or Russian is a big handicap, although a lot gets communicated through pointing and hand signals. And even though our boss, Julius, can be a little temperamental at times, he's pretty laid-back once you get to know him. He's a British import—you know the type. Always wearing black leather pants and those clunky black boots. You'll meet him when he's back from that school thing.”

Gotta snoop, Theresa thought. But how could she
not
be obvious? “Could you give me a backstage tour?” Theresa asked, cocking her head to the side. “I know you gave me
that map earlier, but I'd like to see the real thing for myself. I don't want to get lost back there.”

Hannah shrugged. “Why not?” she said, heading toward stage left and motioning for Theresa to follow.

“Here's the costume department . . . props . . . lighting . . .”

Hannah reeled off a laundry list of offices as they strolled down the dim hall and slowly passed each one. Their heavy footsteps broke the eerie silence. Theresa wrinkled her nose at the dank, musty smell that hung in the air—the walls were as dingy and water-stained as the ones in her new apartment building. The doors were constructed of heavy gray steel, giving the space an industrial feel. Theresa carefully tried to commit each door to memory.

“Here's Anka Perdova's dressing room,” Hannah said.

A surge of adrenaline flowed through Theresa. She just knew she had to get in there . . .
somehow
.

•  •  •

I hope I can keep all these numbers straight, Caylin prayed as the audience started to file in for the evening's
performance. Although she'd memorized most of the sections with no problem, she was still a bit freaked she'd mess something up. After all, an accent, alias,
and
new job were a lot for a girl to juggle all at once.