Live and Let Spy (7 page)

“Okay, baby, be here.” She yanked open the bottom desk drawer. There, underneath a tattered Euro edition of
Vogue
, was the elusive PC.

“Gotcha.”

She hit the on/off button. As the familiar “ding” sounded Theresa smiled from the pure rush of adrenaline she felt. She felt like that chick from
The Matrix
—brainy, brazen,
and
babelicious.

“Internet, where are you . . . there you are,” she said, double clicking on its accompanying icon. Her motions were fast-forward and precise now. She was in the zone.

“Okay, decoder, make me proud.” She inserted her flash drive into the computer. A wordy prompt popped
up on-screen. Theresa clicked “find password” and the decoder went to work. Hundreds of password combinations filled the screen in seconds.

“What's it going to be?” Theresa wondered. “Egomaniac? Prima donna? Impostorina?”

But no. The magic word was
pirouette
.

“Gotcha, part
deux 
!” She replaced the decoder with a blank flash drive to copy the hard drive. The computer went to work, and Theresa leaned back to take a deep breath.

Just as the doorknob rattled.

She whirled around and gasped at the sound.

Indeed, the knob was rattling back and forth. Theresa's blood ran cold.

Someone was coming in.

And she, smart girl that she was,
forgot to lock the door behind her
.

“Oh,
pretzels
.”

Theresa knew she had only one option. Her clammy hands frantically groped for the stun-gun key chain. And her eyes closed as she anticipated the absolute worst.

•  •  •

Depression set in as Jo went over the memos Ewan had asked her to type. She thought perhaps she might pick up some vital information from them. But no such luck. Reading the memos had been exciting for the first five seconds, but the thrill had long since vanished.

“Dear Sir, I must decline your dinner invitation,” she read aloud as she typed away, rolling her eyes at the sheer inanity of it all. But after she printed the first letter, she decided to make a copy of it on her hard drive.

“You never know. . . .”

On the way to Ewan's office Jo spotted Mitchell von Strauss approaching. He looked exactly the same as he had in the video—tall, silver haired, and distinguished. She noted his serious expression as he slipped into his office and quickly shut the door.

“In the flesh at last,” she whispered, slightly bummed about not scoring a personal intro. All in due time, she told herself. All in due time.

Jo was surprised to find Ewan at his desk. She smiled and entered without knocking.

“I thought you were out globe-trotting,” she purred, dropping the completed memos on his desk.

He smiled at the sight of her. “Unfortunately work must intrude.” His eyes scanned her up and down as he put the memos aside. “You're a lifesaver, Selma.”

Jo blushed despite herself. “Don't mention it,” she said, trying to keep her tone in that happy medium between professional and playful. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

“That I do,” Ewan said, grinning wider.

She nodded and turned on her stilettos to exit without another word. But as Jo strolled out the door she felt Ewan's gaze upon her, watching her every step.

•  •  •

Theresa secured a vise grip on her stun gun.

The dressing room door slooowly inched open, creaking eerily the entire way.

Theresa fought off the urge to yell or scream or crawl under the desk and hide. She had to stand tall. Stay calm.

Yeah, right, she thought. Easier said than done.

A male head became visible through the partially
opened doorway. Not Anka, thank goodness. But who was it?

The smell hit her nose. Intense BO.

The maintenance man!

Theresa immediately turned her head so that he would only be able to see her from behind. The tutu. The tight bun of hair.

“Prosím,”
he mumbled—obviously in Czech.

She said nothing and shooed him away with her hand, hoping he'd just exit without an argument.

“Prosím!”
he repeated. Only this time he punctuated the foreign statement with “Anka.”

He thought she was Anka!

“Go away!” she ordered in her nastiest voice.

Ding!

Theresa jumped as the computer sounded. She could still feel the maintenance man hovering in the doorway. Tying not to shake, Theresa hit eject and slowly removed the drive.

The maintenance man uttered something in an angry tone and slammed the door.

“Man, do you
stink 
!” she declared. Relief flooded her as she snapped Anka's laptop shut and placed it back precisely where she'd found it.

Seconds later she stuck her head out the door, looked right then left, and dashed to the costume closet, changing into her clothes as rapidly as the models she'd seen backstage at her mother's runway shows.

She exited the closet, bun halfway undone and attire slightly disheveled.

Someone clunked around the corner.

“Julius!” she called, trying to sound nonchalant.

“What were you doing in there?” he asked suspiciously.

“Uh, just looking for a safe place to stash my purse,” Theresa replied innocently. “I, uh, went to the bank over lunch.”

“Well,” he snarled, “that room is off-limits.”

Theresa triumphantly ran her fingers over the flash drive in her front pocket, giving Julius her most innocent “Who, me?” smile. “Sorry, Julius. It won't happen again. I
promise
.”

•  •  •

“When Ottla told me the files were a wreck, she wasn't kidding,” Caylin grumbled as she waded through a muddled sea of paperwork. Although she had gone through nearly every file in the office, Caylin hadn't yet run across one on Anka Perdova. And since she'd located a file for every single other ballerina, the absence of Anka's was a major red flag.

When Ottla returned from lunch, Caylin approached her.

“I've noticed some of these file folders are ragged and mismarked,” Caylin stated, “and I'd like to dice them and create new ones for the troupe. Is there any way I could get a list of the performers, just so I don't leave anyone out?”

Ottla blessed her with a smile of approval. “Aren't we the industrious one?” She immediately sat down at her desk and printed out a list.

“And you know,” Caylin continued innocently, “I can't seem to find a folder for Anka Perdova at all.”

Ottla shrugged. “It must have been misplaced, I guess.”

Try stolen, Caylin thought with a frustrated frown.

•  •  •

“You guys have been
busy
,” Danielle said as she, Uncle Sam, and the Spy Girls shared a conference call on the aquarium phone later that evening.

“No kidding,” Theresa replied. “Three heart attacks in one day is enough for me, thank you very much.”

“Did you find anything that looked suspicious on the hard drive, Theresa?” Uncle Sam inquired.

“Sure did,” Theresa said with a triumphant smile. “The only thing out of the ordinary was a piece of e-mail received yesterday morning. The subject was ‘Danny Thugs I.' ”

“What did it say?” Danielle asked, her image expanding as she moved closer to the video cam in anticipation.

“It said, ‘Once hit, lights out,' ” Theresa recited, looking down at her crumpled piece of paper. “ ‘Escape route A. Subject in the dark. No implication.' ”

“What's your take on that?” Uncle Sam asked.

“Obviously,” Theresa replied, “ ‘once hit, lights out' means once Karkovic is hit, the theater will go black.”

“Good theory,” Uncle Sam said. “Go on.”

“ ‘Escape route A' is a preplanned route for Fake Anka after she shoots Karkovic. ‘Subject in the dark' I take to
mean that the real Anka is clueless over who her kidnapper is. And ‘No implication' means no consequences will be suffered because the kidnapper will replace Fake Anka with the real Anka immediately.” Theresa took a breath, then stared directly into the fish lens. “So, what do you think?”

“I think it sounds like you're right on all counts,” Uncle Sam said. “Very good job, Theresa.”

“But what does ‘Danny Thugs I' mean?” Jo asked.

Caylin shrugged. “Do you think someone named Danny could have Anka?”

“Or ‘thugs' could mean there's more than one,” Jo added.

“And I was thinking—since all this is going down at the theater, do you suppose the real Anka is being kept in there?” Theresa suggested. “It seems like the most convenient place, especially if the kidnapper—or kidnappers—plan to switch the two Ankas as soon as possible.”

“It's possible,” Uncle Sam said, “but we'll just need to keep our eyes and ears open and investigate to see if our
theories are valid or not.” He paused. “Anyone else make any progress?”

“Well,” Caylin began, “I found out there's no file on Anka Perdova.” She launched into the story of how every troupe member had one except Anka and that Ottla didn't seem too concerned about it. “I think someone stole it.”

“Good to know,” Uncle Sam said. “Keep up your probe. How about your day, Jo?”

“Well, I got the RSVP list for the treaty signing,” she announced, holding up the copy she'd made for herself in front of the camera.

“Hey, I know,” Caylin exclaimed, “why don't you check to see if there are any Dans or Dannys on the list? That could be our ‘Danny Thugs I.' ”

“Good idea,” Uncle Sam replied.

Jo scanned the list. “There's one Dan—Dan Fields,” she said, “and one Daniela—Daniela Fuentes. No one with the last name ‘Daniel' or ‘Daniels.' I'll find out who they are in the morning and see if they're legit.”

“Sounds good,” Uncle Sam affirmed. “Anything else?”

Jo read Ewan's memos aloud.

“They don't sound like much,” Uncle Sam surmised when she was done, “but it's good you've established contact with one of the key players.”

“I'll bet she has,” Caylin teased.

Theresa rolled her eyes. “Don't tell me you've got a crush on this guy
already 
!”

Jo scowled. “Mind your own espionage, girls. I've got things under control.”

“You mean under your spell,” Caylin corrected.

“What can I say?” Jo replied. “I don't spy and tell.”

“That's quite enough, ladies,” Uncle Sam scolded. “Jo, I don't have to remind you of your mission parameters, do I?”

“Absolutely not,” Jo replied, shooting a scowl at Theresa and Caylin.

“Speaking of Gallagher,” Danielle interjected, “how about bugging his and von Strauss's phones?”

“Jo, see what you can do about that,” Uncle Sam ordered. “The bugs are in the kitchen in the canister marked ‘flour.' And, Caylin, I'd like you to gain access to the theater's
executive offices. They're not in use right now in preparation for some renovation project, but they still hold files there. Once you get in, ransack the area for anything pertaining to Anka Perdova.”

“I'm on it,” Caylin said.

“And I'll keep checking Anka's e-mail and try to locate a floor plan or any secret hideaways backstage,” Theresa promised. “Who knows—maybe the true Anka is right under our noses.”

“That would be nice,” Caylin said solemnly.

“Remember your assignments, Spy Girls,” Uncle Sam commanded. “Or Prime Minister Karkovic will end up like Abraham Lincoln.”

“Yeah,” Theresa replied. “Shot in an old theater for reasons that make no sense at all.”

“Yes, this is Selma Ribiero from InterCorp Prague,” Jo said into the phone as she sat in her cubicle on Wednesday morning. “Will Daniela Fuentes be attending the open-trade-pact signing?”

Jo posed the question in Portuguese, as she had noticed the international code preceding Ms. Fuentes's phone number was 55—Brazil. After Ms. Fuentes's assistant answered in the affirmative, Jo asked, “And could you please give me her full professional title?”

“Vice president of international affairs, Brazilian Council,” the assistant replied, her tone implying it was a very stupid question.

Jo politely thanked her and hung up. Then, after making sure no one was within earshot, Jo immediately placed
a call to the Brazilian Council to find out if Ms. Fuentes was indeed legit.

“Yes, this is Selma Ribiero from
Noticias Sudamericanas
,” Jo lied to the Brazilian Council receptionist in Portuguese. “I'm fact checking an article about the open-trade-pact signing and was wondering if you could verify the spelling of Daniela Fuentes's name and the exact wording of her official title?”

It was exactly the same. Jo crossed Daniela Fuentes off her list.

Next Dan Fields of the good ol' USA. When a woman answered with “Dan Fields's office,” Jo went into her usual spiel.

“Yes, he will be attending,” the secretary confirmed.

“And can I get his official title?” she asked.

“Head foreign correspondent,” she replied,
“New York Chronicle.”

“Thank you,” Jo said, punching the
New York Chronicle
into her computer to see if Dan Fields's name was on their official website. After a few keystrokes “Dan Fields, head
foreign correspondent” popped up on the virtual masthead.

“Oh, well,” Jo muttered with a frustrated sigh. But one look at the clock was enough to perk her up.

Twelve thirty p.m. Ewan and Mitchell von Strauss would be at lunch.

“Get out your Raid, boys and girls,” she whispered, dropping two pea-size surveillance devices in her pocket. “ 'Cause you got bugs.”