Live and Let Spy (5 page)

But after about twenty seatings Caylin's anxiety subsided. In fact, she found she was even enjoying herself. Seeing all the people dressed in tuxedos and long, flowing, elegant dresses was somewhat magical. Walking up and down the stairs again and again and again was way better than a workout on the StairMaster. Her assignment
did
have its fringe benefits, she had to admit.

“Seat forty-two-D,” a familiar voice said, yanking Caylin from her thoughts.

“Jo!” Caylin gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“My
uncle
gave me a ticket,” Jo said with a wink.

“Right this way,” Caylin said, trying to keep her expression even in case anyone was watching.

“I never saw Ewan or von Strauss even once today,” Jo hissed as she followed Caylin down the stairs.

“My day's been a snooze, too,” Caylin whispered. “All aisle letters and seat numbers.”

“Ewan was supposed to call my boss, but he never did,” Jo said. “Talk about false hope.”

Caylin pointed toward Jo's assigned seat. “Let's hope Theresa's having better luck than we are.”

•  •  •

“We need one last touch-up on that tree over there, Tiffany,” Julius demanded moments before curtain. “Go in the supply closet and get some more paint quick!”

“No problem,” Theresa said, frantically sprinting to fetch the paint.

What a jerk! As far as Theresa could tell, Julius was nothing more than a short, ugly man with an even shorter and uglier personality. But maybe he'd grow on her . . . like a fungus! If he weren't head of the props and lighting departments, Julius would be one loathsome and useless human being.

She rounded the corner near the supply closet and slammed into something so forcefully, she landed on her butt.

“Whoa!” she muttered, shaking the Tweety birds away. “I'm really sorry.”

Theresa stood up shakily and saw dark, almond-shaped eyes and beautiful black hair pulled back in a supertight bun. A tight white tutu on a body that was one of the most muscular and graceful she had ever seen.

Anka Perdova!

“Oh n-no, it's y-you,” Theresa stammered. “I didn't even see—”

“Stupid American,” Anka spat. She shoved Theresa aside and headed straight to her dressing room.

The door slammed.

Theresa stood there, gaping. For someone who danced so beautifully, Anka sure was nasty! The ballerina had looked so nice on video, signing autographs and smiling.

Maybe she should think about changing her name to
Sybil
Perdova, Theresa thought. Either that or double up on the Midol!

•  •  •

As the lights dimmed Jo settled back in her seat and took a deep breath.

Her father had always loved the ballet. It was a soft side few people saw of the no-nonsense, hard-line judge. He
had always claimed that it relaxed him. Transported him.

So as the first note of music sounded Jo closed her eyes and let herself go. When she opened her lids, every concrete thought in her head was whisked away by the delicate beauty and grace of the dancers' movements. The ballerinas were talented, but Anka Perdova truly stole the show.

She glided across the stage effortlessly, leaping to the heavens and practically flying through the air. Uncle Sam wasn't kidding when he said she was the troupe's principal attraction. As far as Jo was concerned, Anka earned that title in spades the first five seconds of her performance.

It was hard to believe that in a week's time, this entire theater could be a bloodbath. How could InterCorp do such a thing?

The mere thought of InterCorp made Jo sick. Money. Power. All these things were bought with blood. Jo learned that at a very young age.

The ballet played on. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Seeing the talented ballerinas in action made Jo all the more determined to stop InterCorp and save Prime Minister Karkovic. She was willing to do whatever it took.
For the sake of world peace and for the memory of her father.

When the lights went up for intermission, Jo looked back and snuck a smile at Caylin, who was in the rear of the auditorium, directing people to the lobby. After Caylin met her gaze, Jo scanned the room for a glimpse of Theresa. She didn't see her.

But she did notice a gaggle of small children gathered near the stage, lined up for Anka's autograph.

How cute, Jo thought. But while watching Anka, tight-lipped and businesslike, scrawl her name on the kids' programs, Jo's eyes narrowed. Something didn't feel quite right.

She grabbed her satin clutch and hurriedly fished out her mascara cam—a minicamera concealed in a trademark pink-and-green tube of Great Lash, courtesy of The Tower.

Jo snapped a few shots just to be on the safe side.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it yet, but something was definitely wrong with this picture.

“I wish we could have stopped at the Malostranská kavÃ¥rna,” Theresa declared as she plopped down on the couch in their flat on Monday evening. “That's where Kafka used to hang out in the twenties.”

“You know we can't be seen in public together,” Jo reminded her, biting into a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I know,” Theresa replied. “It just would've been nice.”

The Spy Girls had made their way separately back to their flat after the ballet. Theresa had suggested that they use this time every night to share their information and theories. Though on this first night, they didn't have much.

“Leave it to you to know about who ate somewhere a zillion years ago,” Caylin muttered through her ab crunches. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and sweat beaded her brow.

“So I like Kafka,” Theresa replied. “So what?”

“The only person's eating habits I care about at the moment are
mine
,” Jo said, chomping the grilled cheese. “I'm starvin', Marvin, and I can't deal with the cuisine. Can you believe they actually sell
deer
in the supermarkets here?”

“Well, at least you're not starving
and
in pain,” Caylin said, glaring angrily at her Italian leather pumps, which lay on the floor a few feet away. “Those heels nearly killed me tonight.”

“You'll live,” Jo replied. “So what do you all think is up with this Anka chick?”

“What do you mean what's up with her?” Caylin asked in confusion, finishing her crunches and sitting up.

“Something's not right,” Jo said. “I can't explain it, but when she was signing autographs, something weird was going on. Like she was all tight-lipped and sour faced. Nothing like she was in the video we saw.”

“I accidentally bumped into her before the performance and she nearly took my head off,” Theresa divulged. “She gave me a dirty look, then called me a stupid American.”

“That doesn't fit what we know about her personality,” Caylin said.

“That's what I'm saying,” Jo insisted. “Something just doesn't fit here. I took a few snaps of her with the mascara cam. Maybe they'll tell us something.”

“Psychic factor of ten!” Theresa exclaimed. “After my run-in with
Cranka
, I shot a video of her performance.”

“No way,” Jo replied, smiling.

“Way,” Theresa said. “I just clipped my porta-cam to a broom propped against stage left and voilà, it was lights, camera, action.”

She fished the black porta-cam from her coat pocket and showed it off—only a quarter of a pound and the size of a pack of gum. She placed it on the coffee table in front of them and sat down.

“Let's run it all through the video software,” Jo suggested, slipping her mascara cam out of her red satin clutch.

Theresa agreed and set up her new laptop in front of them. She uncoiled the digital camera adapter and plugged the mascara cam into a video port in the side of the computer.

“This stuff is so cool,” Theresa remarked, her eyes fixed and intent on the hardware. She punched at the keyboard furiously. Finally a crisp image of the theater appeared on the screen.

“Good shot,” Caylin remarked.

“Good seat,” Jo replied. “Wish I had that seat for the season.”

Theresa clicked through the shots—four in all—of Anka Perdova signing autographs. There she was, grim and snarly.

“See what I mean?” Jo pointed out. “Not a happy camper.”

“I see that she's grumpy,” Caylin said “But that's about it.”

“Let's zoom in on Anka,” Theresa suggested, her brow furrowed in concentration. She moved the mouse and clicked away. Anka suddenly doubled in size.

“Nice pen,” Caylin pointed out. “Mont Blanc.”

“I'm so impressed,” Theresa replied dryly.

“Wait!” Jo cried.

“What is it?”

“Can you call up that very first video we saw of Anka?” Jo asked. “The one where she's signing autographs with the kids?”

“Yeah,” Theresa replied.

“Can you put the images side by side?”

“Yeah. What's the deal, Jo?”

“Just do it!” Jo ordered. “Hurry!”

Theresa clicked away. In minutes a still picture of the smiling Anka was next to the scowling one.

“Not much difference,” Caylin stated. “Except she has a nice smile.”

Jo chuckled. Then outright giggled.

“Jo?” Theresa asked.

“What is it?” Caylin demanded.

“Don't you
see
it?” Jo wondered.

“See what?”

“Right there in front of you!” Jo said, pointing and laughing. “That's the answer right there!”

“
What
is?” Caylin growled.

Theresa's jaw dropped. “I see it!”

“See
what
?” Caylin continued, her face reddening. “You two are killing me!”

“Cay,” Jo explained, “you noticed the pen before. Compare the two pens.”

Caylin took a moment. “They're the exact same pen, Jo. Exact. Except . . .”

“Yeah?” Jo asked hopefully, sharing a smile with Theresa.

“Oh, wow!” Caylin exclaimed, a lightbulb practically flashing on above her head. “That's it!”

“You see it too?” Theresa asked.

“Her
hands 
!” Caylin said. “In the happy picture she's left-handed. In the nasty picture
she's right-handed 
!”

“You win Final Jeopardy,” Jo remarked.

“Well, maybe she's—” Caylin's brow wrinkled in thought.

“Ambidextrous?” Theresa finished.

“Yeah!”

“No. Anka Perdova's dossier says that she has been left-handed since childhood,” Theresa said.

The Spy Girls shared a knowing look.

“That proves it, then,” Theresa said.

“Right,” Jo replied. “This can only mean one thing.”

Caylin nodded. “The Anka we saw tonight is an impostor!”

•  •  •

“Good work, ladies,” Uncle Sam complimented, his shadowy silhouette shimmering in the aquarium's screen. “I'll pass this info on.”

“If InterCorp installed an Anka look-alike,” Theresa said, “think how easy it would be to assassinate Prime Minister Karkovic. She'd have a clear shot from the stage. Bang, bang—he's a goner, and the real Anka—wherever she may be—is left holding the bag.”

“Maybe InterCorp kidnapped her,” Jo suggested.

“It's a theory,” Uncle Sam replied.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Caylin countered as she juggled a squirt bottle of water between her hands. “I have dancing experience, and if that woman's a killer, she's a darn good dancer, too.”

“It
is
hard to believe InterCorp could find someone
that good,” Theresa agreed. “And who looks so much like Anka.”

“Hard to believe, yes, but not impossible,” Jo reasoned. “Especially with the dough InterCorp's got. And hello—plastic surgery?”

“Plastic surgery is
that
advanced?” Caylin asked. “I mean, this is face transplant territory.”

“Uncle Sam?” Theresa probed. “Is it possible? I mean, has The Tower done this sort of thing?”

Uncle Sam remained silent.

Jo shuddered. “Ew, creepy.”

“Wait a sec. What if the real Anka has been murdered?” Theresa wondered. “That changes everything.”

Jo shook her head. “She probably has to be alive if they're going to pin the assassination on her.”

“Either that or the look-alike is the fall gal,” Caylin offered.

“I agree with Jo on this one,” Uncle Sam stated. “Odds are that Anka Perdova is alive and somewhere in Prague.”

“Why do you think that?” Jo asked.

“If she's going to take the fall, she needs to be close to
the scene—that way she can be switched with the impostor without delay,” Uncle Sam explained. “Finding the real Anka Perdova is now a priority.”

Caylin grinned. Her whole body felt wired with anticipation. “Now we're cooking with fire!”

“Find out what you can, ladies,” Uncle Sam said. “In the meantime, Theresa, I have something specific in mind for you.”

“Shoot,” she said, her calm voice not betraying her excitement. She rested her tablet in her lap, hands hovering.

“Anka Perdova has an online account with Artech, a European carrier,” Uncle Sam explained. “Our records show that she has been online regularly from the theater. As recently as yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

“Hmmm. The impostor knows her way around the web, huh?” Theresa noted.

“Does she have a computer in her dressing room?” Jo asked.

“Laptop, probably,” Theresa replied, typing the info into her tablet. “She could be communicating with her boss.”

“Exactly,” Uncle Sam agreed. “Theresa, I want you to get into her dressing room and make a copy of whatever's on her hard drive. Files, incoming mail, the works. She might slip up and give us something good.”