Live and Let Spy (8 page)

Jo grabbed a thick stack of files and marched down the hall, looking busy.

Mitchell's office door was wide open and his secretary nowhere in sight. With a deep breath Jo pulled a bug out of her pocket.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered, heading for Mitchell's office. When a cleaning lady passed her way in the hall, Jo gave her a brisk nod and continued confidently on.

As she entered Mitchell's domain she smoothed her Dior suit and left the door just slightly ajar—a closed office door usually sent up a red flag of suspicion in the business world, she had learned.

Jo picked up Mitchell's receiver and expertly installed
the bugging device, her movements both fluid and precise. Bugging Mitchell's phone gave Jo the same rush she got behind the wheel of a race car—her blood pumped, her mind raced.

But when she heard Mitchell's secretary's voice seconds after she placed the receiver in its cradle, Jo felt more like she had hit a gigantic speed bump.

“May I help you?” the secretary inquired, her tone nasal and accusatory.

“Just dropping off these papers for Mr. von Strauss,” Jo said, exactly as she'd rehearsed.

“With the door practically closed?” the secretary asked warily.

“Oh, did the door close behind me?” Jo recited from memory. “Must have been a draft.”

“I'll make sure he gets the papers, then,” the secretary promised, ceremoniously motioning her out.

“Thanks a mil,” Jo purred, smiling in victory. But before she allowed herself to feel too cocky, she had one more stop: Ewan's office.

The coast appeared to be clear.

She plopped more papers down on his immaculate desk and placed a hand on his state-of-the-art telephone.

“Just what do you think you're doing?”

Jo spun around at the voice.

Ewan stood in the doorway, eyes narrow and deadly.

Jo's blood ran stone cold.

•  •  •

“I'll never be able to enjoy paint by numbers again,” Theresa mumbled to herself as she applied a large stroke to the moat of Prince Siegfried's castle.

“What?” Hannah asked, a few feet to her left.

“Nothing,” Theresa replied. The fumes and the mundane repetition of her painting duties were just getting to be too much. Theresa was
so
over it. But after a few more strokes Theresa experienced an instant attitude adjustment.

A door slammed. Feet stomped.

Anka had stormed out of her dressing room.

And she was headed
directly
Theresa's way.

“Have either of you seen my purse?” Fake Anka demanded. “It was in my dressing room, but now I can't find it.”

Was it Theresa's imagination, or did Anka just put extra emphasis on the words
dressing room
?

Both she and Hannah shook their heads no.

She knows I was in there, Theresa figured. She has to.

“Well,
somebody
must have taken it,” Fake Anka hissed, staring down Theresa and Hannah coldly before storming off.

“Somebody forgot to take her happy pill this morning,” Hannah said, scowling.

She doesn't know the half of it, Theresa thought.

•  •  •

“Uh, Ewan, I'm just dropping off these papers for you,” Jo blurted, snatching the papers from his desk and waving them in front of his gorgeous face. “Your assistant wasn't in. . . .”

“What were you doing with the phone?” he asked suspiciously.

“The phone?” she asked, oozing little-girl innocence.

But even under her best wide-eyed gaze Ewan's expression didn't soften. “Yes, the phone,” he snapped impatiently.

“I was . . . I was going to leave you a personal voice
mail,” she purred, turning on her flirtatious charm full force. “And I didn't want to do it from my cubicle—you know, where everybody could hear.”

Ewan's expression froze for a moment, then softened. He cocked an eyebrow. “A personal voice mail?”

“Yeah,” she replied sweetly. “To see if you wanted to get together sometime after work. I wasn't sure how proper it was because I'm an intern. But I figured it was a great way to learn. You know, I'd just
love
to pick your brain.”

Ewan soaked up the attention like a sponge. “Well,” he said, smiling, “that can certainly be arranged. In fact, tonight there's this gallery opening downtown. You should join me.”

“That sounds great. What time?”

“Seven o'clock,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Should be lots of fun.”

“Yeah, lots of fun,” she said cheerily, both excited and terrified. She'd never forget what had happened to her in London when she got too close to the enemy.

She'd almost lost her life.

Beauty is only skin deep, she reminded herself. That was one lesson she'd never forget.

•  •  •

Knock-knock-knock.
Theresa rapped on Fake Anka's door, three times fast.

The door flew open.

“What?” Fake Anka growled.

“Just wondering if you found your purse,” Theresa said, doing her best to come off like a Good Samaritan. After Hannah's comment about happy pills, Theresa had given some long, hard thought to the situation. Rather than treat Fake Anka like dirt, Theresa decided the best thing to do was treat her like royalty—be sweet, compliment her, suggest getting together for coffee.

In other words, kiss some serious butt.

After all, the closer she got to this carbon copy, the closer she'd be to finding the original.

“Yes, I did,” Fake Anka replied, offering no explanation or apology whatsoever.

“I also wanted to introduce myself,” Theresa said, trying her best not to let Fake Anka's cold demeanor affect her attitude. “I'm Tiffany Heileman, a huge fan of yours. I think you're just unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Fake Anka said, her icy demeanor melting a half an inch.

“Um, I'd love to get together for coffee sometime and hear all about your experiences.” She paused. “Maybe not.”

Fake Anka sized her up for a moment before saying anything. Her expression was as sour as if Theresa had asked her to go on a blind date with the stinky maintenance man.

Theresa was about to turn and leave when Fake Anka finally answered.

“Perhaps . . . we will see.”

•  •  •

“Seat fourteen-D—right this way, mate,” Caylin told a ballet goer.

She was operating on automatic pilot. Even though her bod was in the theater, Caylin's mind was still on the office and the events from a few hours prior.

When Ottla had amicably agreed to take Caylin on a tour of the under-renovation executive offices, Caylin had thought it would be a piece of cake to ditch Ottla and case the joint out solo.

But that didn't wash. Although Ottla had been happy enough about granting the tour, Ottla had refused to leave Caylin's side. Each of Caylin's attempts at privacy—asking to realphabetize the files, reorganize the paperwork, even offering to clean the place—was immediately shot down.

“No one but authorized personnel is allowed in here without supervision,” Ottla had replied, her tone implying Caylin was totally
un
authorized.

Caylin knew then that she would have to break in.

Her inner adrenaline junkie was so thrilled that even ushering couldn't bring her down. She bounced up the steps two at a time.

“Your tickets, sport?” she called as she rapidly approached an older gentleman with a much younger bleached blond on his arm. Whoa, wait a minute, she thought. The graying hair, the tall, lean frame—where did she know this guy from?

The guy handed her his tickets and smiled confidently, cockily. Of course—Mitchell von Strauss, head of InterCorp!

“Right this way, sir,” she said, praying that her recognition didn't show on her face.

As she turned to show them to their seats her brain was buzzing with one big question:
Could they be here to finalize assassination plans?

As they slid into their seats—first row, center—the bleached blond looked Caylin straight in the eye. “Could you tell me where the ladies' room is?”

Caylin glanced up at the growing group of people at the top of the stairs, all waiting to be shown to their seats. “I was actually headed there myself,” she said, deciding to blow off her usherly duties so she could dig for potential dirt. “Let me show you the way.”

•  •  •

“This artist is very big here in Prague, apparently,” Ewan said as he and Jo strolled into Galerie MXM's small, dark interior.

“I can see why,” Jo muttered, checking out the gigantic canvases dominated by wild colors and abstract images.

Good thing I wore black, Jo thought, looking down at her little velvet dress in gratitude. It seemed to be the color of choice for ninety-five percent of the crowd, so she fit right in.

“Maybe we should buy some of his work for the office,” Ewan mused. “The Prague office is so bland compared to the American headquarters.”

Jo nodded blankly in response. She desperately wanted to change the subject to Anka and the signing. She knew that she had to take it slow, however. Nice and easy.

As Ewan greeted a young, preppy-looking guy Jo soaked in the party atmosphere. Very glam, very Euro, very so-hip-it's-sick crowd. Lots of money in the room, obviously. Tuxedoed waiters offered glasses of champagne too tall to sip and tiny appetizers too beautiful to eat.

“Rohlík?”
a waiter asked as he offered up a large tray of finger rolls.

“Dekuji,”
Jo said in gratitude. She popped one into her mouth as Ewan turned to face her.

“An old polo chum,” he explained, gesturing toward the departing male figure. “I would have introduced you, but he's quite boring.”

“Then I guess I should thank you,” she said with a laugh. “Where do you know him from?”

“Switzerland,” he said. “Have you ever been?”

“I've been everywhere,” she gushed, playing up the “socialite” end of her false identity.

“Oh yes, that's right.” He laughed, curiosity obviously piqued. “Around the block a few times, correct?”

“Daddy had wads of money,” she gushed. “Anywhere I wanted to go, I went.”

“Then what was it that prompted your sky's-the-limit self to come to InterCorp?” he asked, his tone fun and flirtatious. “I'm dying to know.”

“Well, although money's been no object throughout my life—well, perhaps
because
of it—I adore nothing more than earning buckets and buckets of it on my very own,” she explained. “And I figured the best way to learn how to do this was at InterCorp.” She smiled at Ewan coyly. “You are, after all, the experts.”

“You definitely came to the right place,” Ewan said. “In fact, you'll have the opportunity to rub elbows with every sort of financial mogul at the open-trade-pact signing next week. It's obscene how much cash these people have—almost
insane
.”

“Almost,” Jo replied with a wink. “Do you know much about the trade pact?”

“Only that it's a pain to even think about,” Ewan said. “So enough about the financial world. What are your other passions?”

“There are sooo many,” Jo cooed, momentarily bummed that he wasn't giving up any dirt on the signing. “The ballet, of course. I went a few nights ago, and Anka Perdova was amazing. Have you had a chance to see her?”

“She's genius, pure genius,” he agreed, looking a tad uncomfortable. “And speaking of genius, the more I look at this art, the more I feel like it's seriously lacking.”

“I agree, but I didn't want anyone to overhear and think I was a snob.”

Ewan smiled. “Would you care to leave?”

Jo hesitated. “Where to?”

“Are you hungry?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Ravenous,” she replied. What better place to pick Ewan's brain than at an intimate dinner for two?

“I don't feel like dealing with any crowds right now,” he explained. “We could swing by my apartment and order in. That way we can really talk.”

Uh-oh.

His
apartment?

Jo didn't know what to say. Things were moving awfully fast. If Jo had been on a real first date—and not a secret mission—she would
never
go back to a guy's apartment. It was the baddest of all bad ideas.

Or was it?

She fingered the pea-size lump in the lining of her purse—the phone bug that she didn't get to install in Ewan's office that afternoon. Maybe she could get his home phone. . . .

With a sultry smile she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Ewan, I thought you'd never ask.”

•  •  •

Caylin followed von Strauss's bleached blond friend into the lounge area of the ladies' room. “First time to see this production?” she asked, trying to sound like nothing more than a well-meaning usher.

“No,” the woman answered curtly.

“Isn't Anka bloody amazing?” Caylin asked.

“Yes,” the woman responded, lowering her gaze before disappearing into the bathroom area.

Did she lower her eyes because she doesn't want to talk to me anymore, Caylin wondered, or because she knows something about the true Anka's whereabouts?

She washed her hands and touched up her lipstick to kill time.

Then she had an idea.

She slipped her hand into her pocket and brought out her bottle of eyedrops. But it held a lot
more
than just eyedrops. In fact, it held exactly what Caylin needed right now.

When the blond emerged to fix her makeup, Caylin was ready.

“My blasted contacts make my eyes bone-dry!” she
complained, dropping one, two, then three drops in each eye.

Snap-snap-snap.
The miniature camera inside the bottle clicked softly, taking frame after frame while drop after drop hit Caylin's pupils.