Live and Let Spy (6 page)

Theresa chuckled nervously. “Uh, not to be negative or anything . . . I mean, the hack is a snap. But how exactly am I supposed to break into her dressing room?”

“I was hoping you would ask that,” Uncle Sam replied confidently. “Under the lamp in your bedroom you'll find a little item that just might help you out. Go get it, please.”

Theresa hurried into her bedroom and returned with a key ring. It had one key and a square plastic attachment that resembled a car alarm remote. “Here it is.”

“That key unlocks eighty percent of locks in the world,” Uncle Sam explained. “It should work on Anka's door.”

“Cool,” Jo responded snagging it from Theresa's grasp. “Can we keep it?”

“Absolutely not,” Uncle Sam replied. “And I'd be careful how you handle that key ring, Jo.”

“Why?” Jo asked. “Will it blow up?”

“No. But if you snap your fingers, the metal edge of that
plastic remote becomes the business end of a very potent stun gun. The voltage is enough to stop a two-hundred-fifty-pound man.”

Theresa yanked the key ring back. She stared at the dull metal plate on the stun gun and chuckled nervously. “Knowing my luck, I'll run into a guy who weighs two fifty-one.”

•  •  •

Jo was sitting at the ballet during intermission, wearing a flowing green velvet dress. As she scanned the stage for the fake Anka she spotted Ewan Gallagher lurking by the front row.

This was her chance to meet him!

Practically floating on air, she made her way down toward the stage. As she got closer his immaculately combed blond hair came into focus. As did his square jaw and handsome, chiseled face.

He turned to speak to her, his ice blue eyes locking on hers.

Jo's heart pounded in her chest. She felt her cheeks flush. She awkwardly introduced herself as Selma Ribiero.

Ewan smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, Jo Carreras.”

Her jaw dropped open in surprise.

How did he know her real name?

“Uh . . . my name is Selma. Selma Ribiero.”

“Whatever you say, Jo,” Ewan replied, his grin menacing. “Why don't we go meet the prime minister?”

Ewan grabbed her elbow and led her forcefully along the row of seats.

“Karkovic?” she asked, confused and panicked. “What's going on? Let me go!”

As they approached the prime minister the people around him—including his bodyguards—parted so they could get through. Jo recognized Karkovic immediately. She'd seen his picture a thousand times.

The prime minister rose to greet them, extending his hand and smiling. “Hello, Jo,” he said, covering her hand with his. Karkovic's grip was firm and strong.

“Wha-what?” she stammered.

How did he know her real name, too?

He laughed and released her hand. But when he did, Jo heard a loud, earsplitting boom.

Something zipped by her ear. Too fast to see. A supersonic wasp. There was a simultaneous thunk. Like slapping meat with your bare hand.

Jo screamed, bewildered, as Karkovic was flung backward in agonizingly slow motion.

Blood erupted from his tuxedo shirt. Dazzling red on white.

He'd been shot in the heart.

When he landed in his theater seat, Jo saw a clear image of the wounded man.

It was not Karkovic.

It was
her father
lying there, blood pumping steadily out of his limp, lifeless form.

Jo sat up ramrod straight.

She blinked, her breath ragged. The room was dark. Shadowy.

She was in her bedroom in the flat. In Prague.

Safe.

It was just dream—a bad dream.

While she struggled to catch her breath, Jo had a sudden image of her father in his casket, so ashen and alien to her fourteen-year-old eyes.

She let out a deep breath and forced herself to lie back down. She gripped her pillow with her fists and made a silent vow.

She wasn't going to let Prime Minister Karkovic's family go through what she had gone through.

No way.

“Who could that be?” Caylin wondered as the phone in her room bleeped loudly on Tuesday morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and picked up the phone, careful to use her Aussie accent. “G'day.”

“Hello, is Muriel there?”

“This is she,” Caylin replied.

“It's Ottla calling,” her boss said. “I'm afraid I didn't mention it yesterday with all the first-day confusion, but you don't need to be in until one o'clock from now on. I just wanted you to report early yesterday to get the seat numbers down, but it seems you got through your first night with flying colors.”

“If there's anything that needs to be done around the office, I can always blow in early,” Caylin offered, positively itching to nose around for some info on Anka.

“Well, I had planned to have you do some light office work in the afternoons and usher in the evenings from here on out, so there's really no need for you to come in early,” Ottla said. “Unless, of course, you just want to.”

“Righto,” Caylin chirped. “Ten it is.”

“Uh . . . okay,” Ottla said.

But Caylin didn't particularly care if she confused Ottla or not. She was on a mission to find Anka's whereabouts, and digging up any information would definitely be a good start.

Time was already running out.

•  •  •

“He's working us like dogs!” Theresa whispered to Hannah. Julius had been watching them with barely concealed anger all morning as they touched up each and every set. Unfortunately none of their efforts had been good enough to win his approval thus far.

Theresa dropped her brush on the tree she was retouching and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, utterly exhausted. “Man, what I wouldn't give to be in Jo's
and Caylin's shoes right now,” she muttered to herself. “This is slave labor.”

As she finished perfecting the tree's paint job Theresa caught a glimpse of Fake Anka leaving her dressing room. Theresa checked her paint-splattered watch: 12:05.

“Finally,” she whispered.

Lunchtime for the prima donna. That meant Fake Anka would be gone for at least an hour. Theresa shot Julius her hungriest look. Give us a lunch break, give us a lunch break, she silently commanded, hoping he'd catch her Psychic Friends Network vibes and let her get down to Spy Girl business.

“
Ach
, go and eat, you people,” Julius finally growled. “Perhaps food will make you better painters!”

Theresa let out a huge sigh and dropped her brush into the thinner.

“Wanna join me, Tiffany?” Hannah asked, grabbing her coat from the corner. “There's a café down the street that has unbelievable soup.”

“Thanks, but I need to run some errands,” Theresa said
with an apologetic shrug. If breaking into someone's office counted as an errand, then she wasn't
totally
lying, she reasoned.

The second Julius made his exit, it was showtime. Looking around the halls to make sure the coast was clear, Theresa slipped into the costume closet, her heart pounding.

She locked the door and frantically searched the crowded racks for the right size bodysuit, tights, and slippers.

Deep breath, Theresa, deep breath! she commanded herself as she slid out of her Gap wear and into her makeshift ballerina suit.

As she pulled her hair haphazardly back into a severe bun Theresa reminded herself to grab the key ring and flash drive from her jeans.

It would totally suck if she forgot those.

She extracted them from her pocket, hoping she hadn't forgotten anything else.

Theresa took a deep breath. “Now or never.”

She slowly turned the doorknob and poked her head out.

Looked right. Then left.

The hall was empty. She quickly slipped out of the costume closet and tiptoed down the hall.

I sure don't feel like a ballerina, she thought.

Anka's dressing room door was in sight. Just slip in and get the job done. Nice and neat. Better than Bond.

She pulled the magic key ring out and fingered the key. Her sweaty palms made the metal slick.

“Calm down,” she told herself.

She began the final steps toward the door.

A maintenance man rounded the corner right in front of her. A surge of panic swept through her.

He gazed straight ahead and whistled softly. His belly jostled with each thick step.

Oh no!

Theresa ducked her head immediately. She held her chin in a southbound position and continued strolling down the hall.

Just another ballerina . . .

She prayed the maintenance guy wouldn't see her face and bust her undercover mission wide open. She knew
he'd seen her around. She knew he knew who Tiffany was.

His hulking shape tromped by.

Theresa caught a whiff of tobacco. And intense BO.

Ugh!
It was so bad, she had to cover her nose.

But thankfully the man's footsteps grew fainter and fainter.

Theresa sighed, grateful for the breath of fresh air. She was safe—for the moment. She chanced a glance over her shoulder. The maintenance man was gone. The hall was clear again.

“Man, did he reek!” she muttered as she backtracked to Anka's dressing room. Lifting the key up to her pursed lips and kissing it for good luck, she silently prayed Anka's lock wasn't one of the twenty percent in the world the key wouldn't open.

Slowly sliding the cold metal into the ancient knob, she held her breath and turned the key ever so slightly.

Nothing. It didn't budge.

New panic pumped through her. What if she couldn't get in?

She tried again. It still wouldn't budge.

Suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps filled the silence.

Theresa's mouth went dry as cotton. She froze.

What was she going to do now?

•  •  •

“Here's a list of people who will be at Sunday's open-trade-pact signing, Ms. Ribiero,” Alexander Gottwald told Jo as he handed her a thick stack of paper right before lunch. “The caterer needs a final head count, so confirm these RSVPs ASAP.”

“A-OK,” she replied.

Gottwald didn't seem to get it.

As he disappeared into his office Jo quickly scanned the list. The name “Karkovic, Gogol” jumped out immediately.

He'll be dead meat if we don't stop this, Jo thought. Less than six days were left until the—

Someone cleared his throat behind her. Jo turned.

Ewan Gallagher!

He was even more gorgeous than in her nightmares!

Jo forced herself to stay cool, showing no signs of recognition—or lust—as she scoped him out.

Ewan's gelled blond hair was in tousled waves atop his head. His cold blue eyes were like icicles boring into her own. When he smiled, two adorable dimples dotted his cheeks.

And the devastating final touch—his Armani was a
perfect
fit.

“Can I help you?” Jo asked coolly.

“I'm Ewan Gallagher, director of international relations,” he said. “And you are?”

She stuck out a Versace-covered arm and shook his hand. “Selma Ribiero, intern,” she said, flashing him her pearly whites in what she hoped was a
friendly
and not
flirtatious
way. “Anything I can do for you?”

He smiled. “Actually, I was wondering if you could type up some memos for me. My secretary has gone home sick. Twenty-four-hour bug, we hope.”

“No problem,” Jo said, locked in his magnetic gaze.

“Can you type the top two in French?” he asked, eyebrow cocked.

Jo lowered her eyelids halfway. “I think I can handle that.”

“I am impressed, Miss Ribiero,” he replied, slipping a hand casually into his pocket. “Most Americans can speak only English.”

“Well, I got around quite a bit in my youth,” Jo explained, flashing her best smile again. “It's a small world.”

“Indeed,” Ewan replied. “And yet we receive small surprises every day.”

“I surprise you?”

Ewan chuckled. “Perhaps you should get back to your memos, Miss Ribiero.”

“Call me J—just Selma.”

Oops. Steady, girl.

“Selma,” Ewan repeated, eyes twinkling. “A very pretty name.”

“Thank you,” Jo replied, even though she
hated
the name.

He checked his watch. “Now I must go. Feel free to drop the memos in my in-box when you get the chance.”

“Will you be in?”

Ewan smirked. “I doubt it, Selma. I get around quite a bit myself.”

He turned and strode down the hallway. He turned the corner and was gone.

Jo let out a sigh. Then smiled slyly.

“I think I got him,” she whispered.

Just open! Theresa silently pleaded as she tried Anka's dressing room lock.

Still nothing. Nothing but approaching footsteps and the pounding of her own heart.

The footsteps grew nearer and nearer. Faster, faster . . .

One more time, she told herself. Shutting her eyes, she tried to envision the door opening easily as she turned the key in the lock. Not that it would work, but . . .

It did. The tarnished knob turned and she was in.

Theresa quickly and quietly shut the door behind her. She pressed her ear against it, listening.

Her heartbeat intensified as the steps grew louder.

“I'm so busted,” she whispered.

But the footsteps faded.

Whew! This spy business would kill her yet.

“Okay, Anka—or whoever you are, where do you keep your laptop?” Theresa wondered out loud.

She scanned the desktop, the floor, the bookshelves. No computer anywhere to be found.

“Don't tell me she took it with her,” she muttered, flinging open every drawer in sight. She could have sworn Fake Anka didn't have any bags with her when she left.