Live and Let Spy (11 page)

She reached the turnstiles and fumbled with the token and the slot. She didn't look behind her—she didn't want to know.

“Come on, come on!”

The token slipped into the slot. The turnstile gave.

Theresa plunged through and jumped onto the tram just as the doors slid shut.

“All right!” she exclaimed, struggling for breath.

As the tram pulled out she searched around for the burly guy through the window.

She saw nothing.

Who could be following me? she wondered with a shiver as the train accelerated into the cold, dark night.

•  •  •

Back at 3-S, Caylin brought a bowl of popcorn to Jo's bedroom. “Look at the bright side, T.,” she said. “At least you got away.”

Theresa, sprawled next to Jo on her enormous canopy bed, smiled. “Very funny,” she replied. “That dude was
huge
.”

“You got a good look at him?” Jo asked excitedly.

“N-No,” she stammered. “I could just tell. He was
huge
, that's all. No other distinguishing characteristics. Sorry.”

“Intense,” Caylin said. “Well, now that we found this weird Alexandra Parsons file, maybe we can get this sucker solved.”

“Alexandra Parsons, huh?” Theresa said. “Think that's the impostor?”

Caylin shrugged. “Looks that way to me. But I guess we'll soon find out.”

Jo took a handful of popcorn. “And at least we don't have to waste any more time on ‘Danny Thugs I.' ”

“Speaking of not wasting any more time,” Caylin replied. “Aren't you glad you didn't waste any more time on Ewan?”

Jo rolled her eyes. “The freak. Calling me a nobody.
Me!
”

“Oh, the humanity!” Theresa cried dramatically.

“Oh, the
humility
,” Caylin deadpanned.

Jo sported a smile as wide and evil as Godzilla's. “Yeah, well, freak-boy Ewan is about to find out how much damage a nobody can do!”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Jo whispered as she scoped out InterCorp's halls for any suspicious-looking areas on Friday morning. Since Anka could be hidden
anywhere
—not just at the theater—Jo was making it her business to go over every square inch of the building with a fine-tooth comb.

As Jo approached a door marked Supplies she put her hand on its metal knob. A secretary in high heels clicked by, and Jo gave her a wave and a smile.

Once the woman passed, Jo tried the door again. Locked.

She used the magic key, and abracadabra, she was in.

“I have to get one of these,” she whispered.

Jo scanned the room. Although there was no Anka to be found, there were no supplies to be found, either.
The closet was filled ceiling high with boxes marked Confidential and IRS.

“Wow,” she mused. “Heavy-duty. Pay dirt, perhaps?”

She snapped some quick mascara pix of the boxes and bolted back to her cubicle before her boss could notice she was even gone. Once she got back and checked her e-mail, she was thrilled to find that Gottwald would be in a meeting for the next hour.

A whole hour.

Cool.

“Time to see what's in my boss's office,” she sang under her breath.

Confidently striding into Gottwald's office with a packet of papers under her arm, Jo operated as if she had every right to be there. Who was going to say anything? She
was
his acting assistant.

Von Strauss's assistant poked her head into the office moments later. “Can I help you?”

Jo jumped in surprise. “Uh, just looking for a folder Mr. Gottwald needs. You know, for his meeting.”

The woman nodded slowly. “I see.”

“I'll let you know if I need anything, thanks,” Jo said sweetly, shooting her a confident smile.

But after searching Gottwald's files for the next half hour, Jo was feeling anything
but
confident.

She found nothing.

Then she paused. She caught a flash of red poking out from under his computer keyboard. She lifted the keyboard.

A red folder marked Trade Pact. Right there. Hidden away.

Jackpot! Jo thought triumphantly.

Holding her breath, she opened the folder. It held only one piece of paper. But it was worth a thousand words. It was a confidential memo about the financial loss that InterCorp would suffer if the open-trade pact was signed!

Millions! Zillions! Enough to start another country in a really good neighborhood!

Immediately she ran the paper through Gottwald's personal fax machine and made a copy. Then she placed the original back in its folder under the keyboard. All before
Gottwald even returned, she thought smugly as she slid into her cubicle and stuck the photocopy in her Gucci briefcase for safekeeping.

“Whatcha got there, Selma?” came a voice.

Jo whirled and saw Ewan. She clicked her briefcase shut and forced herself to smile.

“Just a copy of an article I found interesting,” she said automatically, shifting into flirt mode. “On money. My favorite subject.”

“Really?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “What about money?”

Did he see me in Gottwald's office? she wondered.

No. She was just being paranoid.

“Best buys at Tiffany's,” she quipped. “My first stop on my next jaunt to New York.”

As Ewan looked into her eyes and smiled Jo felt just like Audrey Hepburn in Tiffany's—
Breakfast at
, that is. Like the smartest, most glamorous girl in the world!

•  •  •

As Theresa approached her locker she first saw a flash of white, then a bloodred psychotic scrawl.

What was it . . . a postcard. Taped to her cubby.

Her pulse raced. Who could it be from? she wondered, moving closer.

“Pozor!”
it read in gigantic crimson letters. An army of foreign words had been scrawled in a madman's slanted script beneath it.

“Uh-oh,” she muttered.

She slipped her minitranslator from her coat pocket and punched in the magic word.

Her blood ran cold.

Danger.

She quickly punched in the rest of the words from the postcard and wrote down their English translations one by one. When she'd deciphered the last syllable, her blood positively froze.

Stop snooping into things that are none of your business—or every one of you will die!

•  •  •

Everyone's dashing about like maniacs today,” Ottla told Caylin as the office staff ran through the halls. “Two days until this pact signing, and you'd think the world was coming to an end.”

Caylin laughed. “Everyone's gone troppo!”

Ottla gave her a blank look.

“Troppo,” she repeated. “Aussie for ‘crazy in the head.' ”

“Right. Troppo,” Ottla said. “Listen, Muriel, we need each department head to sign off on this.” Ottla handed Caylin an interoffice memo outlining each department's responsibilities for Sunday. “This will take some legwork on your part,” she continued, “but it needs to be done today.”

“No problem,” Caylin said, secretly thrilled to be able to snoopify some more. Even though Theresa had covered practically every inch of the place and found no Anka, Caylin was dying to take a crack at it herself.

After scoring Theresa's boss's signature and calling “Cheerio!” to her fellow Spy Girl, Caylin walked down the hall toward the head choreographer's office. En route she stopped short in front of what looked like a small utility closet.

Caylin regarded it with fascination. She had never even noticed it before. Seeing as how a simple utility closet had borne one of the most important pieces of evidence in the London mission, she was just itching to have a look inside.

“Wonder what's behind door number one?” Caylin whispered as she opened the unlocked door and entered the damp, musty interior. As Caylin reached out a hand to feel for a light switch the door slammed behind her.

“Uh-oh,” Caylin moaned.

The closet was totally black. Caylin blindly groped for the doorknob. It wouldn't budge.

“Uh-oh squared.”

A twinge of panic crept into Caylin's stomach. She was trapped. And she didn't even have her cell phone on her to call Theresa!

As reality hit, Caylin dropped her clipboard with a clatter and sank to her khaki-covered knees. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her already.

Claustrophobia—Caylin's worst enemy.

“Somebody help!” she yelled, kicking the door.

She blindly ran her hands along the door, searching for anything. But there was no keyhole, and the hinges were on the outside.

The only things she could find were a broom, a mop and bucket, and a fuse box on the wall.

Trapped.

Claustrophobia.

She forced herself not to think about it. She kicked the door again. But she couldn't help it. The walls were too close. She could smother, or be crushed, or the roof could collapse, the theater was so old. . . .

No!

Caylin took a deep breath and thought of snowy slopes, the wind in her hair, and her snowboard. It didn't help. The irrational fear gripped her tight. Her tumultuous tummy turned somersault after somersault.

Will anyone ever find me? she wondered with another aggravated kick.

And how would she explain herself if someone did?

Doubts and insecurities slam-danced around Caylin's brain as she tried to come up with a game plan.

Don't bother, you're nailed, they'll catch you and they'll kill you. . . .

“Shut up!” she commanded the taunting voices in her mind. She finally hit her forehead against the door in frustration.

“So we solved our last mission—so what,” Caylin said bitterly. “The conference is in forty-eight hours, we still don't have one solid lead, and I'm stuck in a freaking closet!”

Ugh, I sound like a whiny brat! she thought, disgusted with herself. Caylin had always been a fighter. She was
not
one to give up. And she wasn't about to start now.

Self-pity abruptly transformed into unqualified rage.

She pounded on the door with unprecedented force. “Let me outta here!” she snarled, a caged animal.

After a few minutes of her furious pounding, the knob finally jiggled.

Relief flooded through Caylin's veins. Finally!

The door swung wide and she was met with a stench so thick, she could taste it.

“Ano?”
a maintenance man asked in bewilderment.

Caylin squinted as the hall light blinded her.

“Ugh!” she replied, covering her nose in disgust.

“Ano?”
he asked again.

“Nemluvím cesky!”
Caylin immediately said. Translation: “I don't speak Czech!”

She scooped up her clipboard and slipped past him. “So much for a breath of fresh air,” she added.

And so much for finding any more leads.

•  •  •

Let's see you thugs follow me now! Theresa silently dared as she strolled to Fake Anka's dorm on Friday afternoon.

Theresa had asked Julius if she could knock off at lunch, pleading that good ol' “time of the month” crampage. When Julius surprisingly obliged her request, she pulled her hair into a messy bun, donned some sunglasses, and hit the door double quick before he had a chance to change his mind.

She clutched the magic key ring in her pocket.

“Identification, please,” the dorm security guard requested as soon as Theresa entered the lobby.

Without so much as glancing up, Theresa flashed the man her theater ID and rushed past him, beelining straight for the dormitory directory.

About eight lines down she hit pay dirt:
Anka Perdova
—
5-E.

Theresa scurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself as 5-E came within sight.

She slipped her magic key into the doorknob. “Open, sesame,” she whispered, her heart filled with high expectations over the possible treasures hiding behind it. It swung open easily.

She stepped in.

An ear-piercing wail sounded, and Theresa panicked.

A burglar alarm!

Theresa spotted the beaten-up plastic keypad next to the door. It was loose on its screws.

Defuse it! she told herself.

The plastic cover came off in her hand. The wires underneath were old and frayed. One of them snapped in her hand, but the alarm continued to shriek.

Too much time . . .

The phone rang.

That was the last straw.

Theresa bolted. She slammed Anka's door shut and ran toward the fire door at the end of the hall. She heard the creak of a door opening behind her, but she didn't care.
She whipped open the fire door and dashed through it, finding herself on the fire escape. Anka's alarm wailed on and on inside.

Scrambling down the stairs, Theresa gasped as she nearly slipped on the icy metal.

Don't look down, she told herself, white knuckling the freezing rails for dear life. Five floors was a long way down.

She frantically descended the steps one by one. Her hands were freezing on the steel rails. Bizarre thoughts bombarded her brain: Would she be caught? Did Fake Anka know her identity? Was the mission blown?

Finally she made it to solid ground.

Theresa ducked into the nearest alley and peered back at the dorm.

Seconds later the security guard burst out of the dormitory doors, screaming incomprehensibly at the top of his lungs.

Theresa sighed. Now what? She needed to do something. Waiting around for the police to catch her was not an option.

Her gaze fell upon a hotel across the street from the dorm.

Theresa smiled.

•  •  •

“I need, um . . .” Theresa looked down at her pocket translator. “I need . . .
pokoj do ulice
 . . .
na jih
 . . .
poschodi
 . . .
pet
,” she told the hotel clerk in pidgin Czech. “A room facing the street on the fifth floor, south side,” she followed up.