Free Live and Let Spy by Elizabeth Cage Page A

door flew open.
    â€œWhat?” Fake Anka growled.
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œYes, I did,” Fake Anka replied, offering no explanation or apology whatsoever.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThank you,” Fake Anka said, her icy demeanor melting a half an inch.
    â€œUm, 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.
    â€œPerhaps . . . we will see.”
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    â€œSeat 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.
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œYour 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!
    â€œRight 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.”
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    â€œThis artist is very big here in Prague, apparently,” Ewan said as he and Jo strolled into Galerie MXM’s small, dark interior.
    â€œI 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