Live and Let Spy (9 page)

The woman again averted her gaze as she made her exit, totally clueless that her bathroom break had just turned into a Kodak moment.

•  •  •

“This place is unbelievable,” Jo cooed as she looked around Ewan's obscenely large loft. The chocolate brown couches, cherry-wood furniture, and big-screen TV screamed “boy,” but in a tasteful way. However, no framed pics or quirky touches personalized the space. The quarters were so generic, in fact, that the loft could have easily passed for a Pottery Barn showroom. “Not many personal touches, huh?”

He shrugged. “I've only been here a week. But I do have my high school rowing trophy up on the mantel. First place.”

She eyed the silver award, unimpressed. Not that she
was expecting to find a ransom note for Anka on the refrigerator or anything, but she had hoped she'd find something more juicy than high school memorabilia.

Jo smiled. “I bet you miss your creature comforts from back home.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Which ones?”

“You know—the dog, the pool, the Lamborghini.”

Jo gasped. “The
Lamborghini 
?”

“I love it,” he said. “But believe me, I'm not complaining. At twenty-four, I couldn't have it much better than this.”

Jo fought off the urge to ask for a spec list of the Lam. She was slavering to know all about it . . . but there were more pressing issues at hand.

“Were you a boy genius or something?”

“I think I'll pick the ‘or something,' ” he said with a laugh. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Jo nodded and Ewan left the room. She heard the bathroom door down the hall close.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Now was her chance to bug
the phone. She slid her hand into her purse and retrieved the tiny device. Her fingers were shaking so badly that she almost dropped it.

Steady, girl.

Jo hurriedly grabbed his living room phone and inserted the bug in the receiver. But as she was putting the receiver back in position, she heard Ewan enter the room behind her.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“Checking my messages,” she said, adopting her best panicked expression. “I'm sorry, Ewan, but I'm going to have to take a rain check on dinner. Something's suddenly come up.”

“Oh,” he replied.

Ewan's sad puppy-dog expression hit Jo right where it hurt—but she knew she had to leave before anything happened, for better or for worse. Still, poor Ewan seemed
sooo
disappointed. It was positively heartbreaking.

“Everything okay, I hope?” Ewan asked.

“Nothing life or death, but I do have to run,” she explained.

“Let me drive you,” he offered.

“No, I'll grab a cab,” she insisted. No way would she let him drive her anywhere near headquarters!

Ewan shot her a quizzical look.

“I need to make several stops,” she lied, “and I have no idea how long I'm going to be.”

“Well, at least let me walk you out.” He grabbed her little faux fur coat and held it out for her.

What a gent, Jo thought her heart temporarily melting. It quickly froze up again, and not because she was back out on the frigid streets. How could Ewan be a gent if he was mixed up in a psychotic assassination plot?

I have to do something about these hormones, Jo told herself.

Jo shivered while Ewan hailed her a taxi. “Remind me to never again wear a little black dress in subzero temperatures,” she joked, teeth chattering.

“Little black dresses suit you,” Ewan replied gently. “Better than power suits, at least from where I'm standing.”

A cab pulled up and Jo felt a surge of relief. She was turning into a Popsicle.

As if reading her mind, Ewan attempted to melt Jo with a warm kiss as she slid into the cab.

She turned her cheek just in time.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said, shrugging out of his embrace. “I'll see you in the morning.”

She slammed the door and the cab pulled away, leaving Ewan behind, sadness and confusion written all over his gorgeous face.

•  •  •

“Can you believe he tried to kiss me?” Jo asked Caylin and Theresa later that evening back in the living room of 3-S. Jo was sprawled out on the oriental rug while Caylin and Theresa lounged on the antique couches. Theresa's homemade mix of French pop blared from the speakers.

“Why is it you always end up with the guy adventures?” Theresa asked.

“Yeah, I'm wondering that myself,” Caylin said, swinging her blond locks over her shoulder. “Absolutely no cute guys work in the theater offices. In fact, it's a
total
no-man's-land.”

“Backstage is no boyfest, either,” Theresa moaned. “Except . . . well, there is one guy. . . .”

“Really?” Jo asked, perking up.

“Who is he?” Caylin demanded. “We're all on a need-to-know basis, remember?”

Theresa burst out laughing. “Just kidding. He's a maintenance man. And he stinks! You never smelled BO like this! It's like bad cheese or something.”

Jo groaned. “Gross!”

“Did you get his number?” Caylin asked.

“Har-dee-har,” Theresa said. “He caught me in Anka's dressing room. I thought I was toast. At least Jo's target is cute.”

“I know it sounds like I'm lucky,” Jo insisted, “but I'm telling you—if this guy's involved with the Anka thing, he's pure pond scum. This was no date, trust me.”

“Beats bad BO, that's all I'm saying,” Theresa said.

“And taking pictures in bathrooms,” Caylin added.

The ringing of the aquarium interrupted them.

“Uncle Sam awaits,” Theresa said, reaching for the red button.

“Can't we let the machine get it?” Jo joked.

“I heard that, Jo,” Uncle Sam replied, his dark silhouette coming into focus among the fish. “Anything to report?”

“I'll say,” Jo began. One by one the Spy Girls delivered their daily reports. Once they were finished, Uncle Sam said he wanted them to listen to something. “And, Jo, I believe you'll find this particularly interesting. The first voice belongs to Mitchell von Strauss. The second, we're unsure about as of yet.”

Jo scooted to the edge of her seat as a crackling static sounded, interrupted by a deep male voice:

von Strauss: How is she?

Voice 1: Fine. Sedated.

von Strauss: No one's seen her?

V1: Nobody but me.

von Strauss: No one snooping around?

V1: No.

von Strauss: Keep it that way.

Click.

The Spy Girls glared at one another grimly.

“So this confirms our suspicions,” Caylin announced. “It's gotta be the real Anka they're talking about.”

“It appears so,” Uncle Sam said, voice grave. “Does anyone recognize the other voice? Someone who works at the ballet or InterCorp, perhaps?”

“Nope,” the girls chorused glumly.

“Any more ideas about ‘Danny Thugs I'?” he asked.

The girls again shared blank looks and shrugged, frustrated. “Nope.”

“No more of this ‘nope' nonsense,” Uncle Sam growled. “There are only four days left. If we don't find the real Anka in time to save the prime minister . . .”

“Boom,” Caylin replied softly. “They're dead.”

“And so are we,” Theresa added.

“I am just
too
dedicated,” Theresa muttered to herself.

She had arrived at the theater around 5:30 a.m. Thursday morning, before Julius or even the stinky maintenance man made it in. But she wasn't there to get a jump start on retouching the great hall of Prince Siegfried's castle.

As if.

She just wanted some uninterrupted snoop time.

What do we have here? Theresa wondered as she surveyed the props closet. In the corner a tall roll of paper sat propped up against a stack of hatboxes.

It looked like a roll of wrapping paper, only it was beige and yellowed. Yet as Theresa unrolled the paper inch by inch, her smile grew wider and wider.

This was no wrapping paper. These were blueprints of the theater, dated 1988. The year of the last renovation,
she remembered, flashing back to what Hannah had told her on Monday.

Theresa felt a surge of excitement. These blueprints could be the map that led her to the real Anka—if she was a prisoner somewhere in the theater, that is.

She studied the map for over an hour, taking in every millimeter of the centuries-old layout.

“Looks like an attic is right above the costume closet,” she whispered, running a finger over the aged plans.

That would make a great hiding place.

Theresa rushed to the costume closet to check out the ceiling. Sure enough, there was a thin rope hanging from the rafters that, when pulled, would likely deliver a creaky staircase, like her attic door did back home.

Maybe she'd get lucky.

Theresa reached up on tiptoe for the flimsy rope. Her fingertips grazed the braided twine.

She heard heavy footsteps. And a low whistle.

Theresa gasped. She knew that whistle all too well—Julius!

What was
he
doing in so early?

Theresa frantically rolled up the blueprints and crouched in the corner.

The steps grew louder. The whistling was casual, as if Julius was simply making early morning rounds, finding dozens of imaginary faults in the set designs. For future torture of set painters, no doubt.

The steps paused right outside the door. Theresa held her breath.

What was he looking at?

The whistling stopped.

He'd seen something he didn't like, she knew. Did she leave some trace of her snooping?

Four heartbeats. Five. A dozen.

Finally Julius growled, “Stupid people . . . stupid, stupid, stupid people.”

His whistling resumed and the heavy footsteps faded away.

Doesn't Julius ever sleep? Theresa wondered, letting out a sigh. So much for early morning snooping. She'd have to wait until lunch. And even then she knew she might not get much of a chance to see the attic.

Before she gently closed the closet door behind her, she gave the attic door one last searching look.

Please be up there, Anka, she prayed. Just be there.

•  •  •

“No way!” Jo whispered as she approached her cubicle Thursday morning.

In the middle of her desk sat a crystal vase containing a dozen red roses!

Trembling, Jo extracted the attached card from its envelope.

Selma,

Sorry our evening was cut short. Hope everything turned out okay and that I can honor that rain check you're holding. Free Saturday afternoon?

E.

“Take a chill pill, girl,” Jo warned herself. This was actually bad news. She wasn't supposed to get too close.

But what an opportunity to get information!

“You can go . . . but strictly for research,” she resolved,
skipping over to Ewan's office to accept his invite.

But when she spied his blond hair, those blue eyes, and that seductive smile through the doorway, she was overwhelmed by one supersize, super-scary realization—

I like him too much already.

•  •  •

Theresa froze. Panic coursed through her veins.

The attic stairs creaked like an old man snoring!

It was lunchtime, and she'd snuck back into the costume closet to take another shot at the attic. But as she tiptoed up the stairs the wood sounded as if it were ready to disintegrate beneath her.

She paused, listening. Nothing. No Julius, no Hannah.

She continued up, trying to step lightly. No dice. She'd have to risk it.

The attic was musty and damp, and the dim overhead bulb offered little light.

She took a step forward and kicked something. A thick cloud of dust erupted from the floor in front of her—just as she breathed in. A huge poof of soot shot straight into her nose.

She sneezed.

Ah-ah-ah-choooo!

This was no prissy little achoo. Theresa cranked out a whopper that rattled the rafters!

“Oh, man,” she grunted, wiping her nose. “I'm dead.”

She listened for a reaction from below.

Nothing.

Maybe she got lucky again.

She covered her mouth and nose and peered into the gloom. If Anka was up here, she knew she had company now, that was for sure.

“Anka?” Theresa called out.

She heard movement and froze. Could it be her?

“Anka?”

Theresa held her breath in anticipation. But instead of receiving a reply from the missing ballerina, she felt the pressure of little feet scampering over the top of her boot.

She shuddered. In the darkness she could just make out the shape of a giant rat scurrying toward a pile of boxes. Soon she heard a multitude of supersonic squeals.

“That's it,” Theresa growled. “I'm outta here.”

Theresa scrambled down the ladder and brushed herself off. Then carefully she poked her head out of the costume closet door and checked the hall.

No one.

She sighed and quietly closed the closet door. Slumping against it in frustration, she wondered where in the world the real Anka Perdova could possibly be.

“Rats,” she groaned.

•  •  •

“ ‘Danny Thugs I,' ” Jo murmured as she wrote the letters down on the place mat.
Thugs
just seemed too obvious to her.

She had found a small, deserted café not far from InterCorp. It looked like a safe enough place to eat, think, and spy at the same time. The café was dark and silent with only three other customers.

Jo tore the paper place mat into eleven pieces and wrote a letter from “Danny Thugs I” on each piece. On a whim, she shuffled the letters around. But the more she reorganized the letters, the more she thought her exercise wasn't much more than a way to pass the time until her food arrived.