I have to stop that, she told herself. The best way to protect Teresa is to make people believe I’m Teresa!
The other couple won the toss and chose to serve.
The Canadian woman’s first serve was deep and hard. Nancy’s partner returned it well, but the Canadian coach hit a great shot down the line. Nancy missed it.
“Fifteen-love,” called the referee.
Nancy knew within five minutes that the deception was going to be even more difficult than she’d feared. She was in a double bind. To play well, she would have to use her own style, and the masquerade would be exposed. But if she forced herself to play like Teresa, her reflexes were slowed, and she missed shots Teresa would have hit.
Once, after she’d netted one of Teresa’s characteristic backhand shots, Nancy caught her partner looking at her strangely. But the game was too fast for him to focus on anything other than his own playing.
The Canadian team took the first set easily.
George was at the rail when Nancy wearily went to her seat for the few minutes between sets. She was not allowed to enter the court, but her eyes spoke plainly to Nancy. Calm down. Don’t force so much! Zen. Her lips framed the last word.
Nancy frowned. Then her face cleared. George was referring to the zen of a sport, a phrase Nancy had heard her use often. It meant concentrate on the objective, on the target, not on the technique you hope will get you there.
Nancy and her partner won the next game. A faint murmur reached her from the bleachers, and Nancy resolutely put away the fear that her own tennis style might be creeping in. Concentrate on where the ball should go, as George had said. Rely on the earlier practice for the style—
A gleam of light from somewhere in the stands danced into Nancy’s eyes, and she missed a high volley, not even getting her racket on the ball.
There was a disappointed murmur from the crowd, followed by a ripple of appreciation as Nancy’s partner ran in to save the shot, catching the ball on its first bounce. He slammed it back, and the momentum of the game picked up again.
The ball came toward Nancy, and she moved forward to meet it. But as she swung, the glint of light bounced into her eyes again. The glare was just great enough to throw her off-balance. She tripped and fell, scarcely hearing the referee’s voice announcing the point for the other side above the groans of the crowd.
Pretending dizziness, Nancy knelt for a moment on one knee. But her eyes were busily sweeping the stadium.
The light had come from the far end—from the east. So it couldn’t be rays from the dying sun. None of the tournament floodlights had been lit yet. Where was it coming from, and why couldn’t she see it now?
Nancy’s partner strode toward her, concerned about her delay. Nancy nodded at him and began to rise. Then she saw the glint again.
As if he knew she needed his help, Nancy’s partner caught the next few balls with some dazzling maneuvers. There was no repeat of the flash of light, and Nancy was able to return some shots successfully. Her mind was racing.
If the glint was not from electricity or the sunset, what had caused it? Sunlight from behind her? Binoculars? A camera lens? A telescope?
Then the truth crashed down on Nancy. It was a telescope of sorts—the telescopic sight of a sniper’s rifle!
Nancy froze. A ball smashed past her, and the glint came again. Instinctively, Nancy ducked.
She made it look like a stumble, and murmurs rose from the crowd. Nancy’s partner strode toward her. Nancy shook her head. And then, with sharp clarity, she knew there was only one thing to do.
It was the Canadian woman’s turn to serve. As the ball came toward her Nancy completely abandoned her attempt to imitate Teresa’s style. She rushed forward to meet it with a wild forehand slam that sent the ball soaring over the crowd—directly toward the sniper.
There were gasps from the crowd. They must have assumed Teresa was cracking beneath the pressure. But one person knew better. George’s eyes had been on Nancy. They followed the ball. Then they swung back to meet Nancy’s for a shocked instant, and the next moment George was grabbing the nearest security guard and pointing.
From all over the stadium, officials began to dash toward the sniper.
I did my best, Nancy thought. All I can do now is hope.
She rushed back into the game, and she did not see the telltale glint again.
Nancy played hard after that, with all her skill. She knew the best thing she could do was to prolong the game and keep the Canadian pair from winning easily. She had to give Teresa as much time on the loose as she could.
“Game. Set to San Carlos,” the referee called. The announcement was made over the loudspeaker. “The match is now a tie.”
During the third set, Nancy and her partner played well. When it ended, they had lost the match by only two heartbreaking points in the last set!
The players shook hands. Exhausted, Nancy walked slowly from the court amid a flurry of whispers. The Canadian woman came over to put a companionable arm around her shoulders.
“You made a great comeback,” she said. “Too bad you lost when the game was so close. That would have killed me!”
Nancy gave a tight grin. “You don’t know how close it came,” she murmured in her best attempt at a San Carlos accent.
Chapter Fifteen
GEORGE MET NANCY with a quick hug as soon as she stepped off the court. “The sniper got away,” she whispered at once. “Our driver’s waiting right out front, and the other guy got your things from the locker room.”
During a wild ride on the parkway, the driver abandoned the pretense of driving a private limo and used a siren. He turned it off once they were within half a mile of the hotel. All the same, Nancy and George were back in their suite just twenty minutes after the match ended.
Teresa was already there with Bess, and both of them were distraught. The news about the sniper had come over the car’s two-way radio as Dan and Bess drove back from the restaurant. Bess had been forced to tell Dan about the entire plot and masquerade. He had been furious.
“He said we were dumb and reckless—that not only could he lose his job as a result, but we might have caused either or both of you to lose your lives!”
“That is crazy,” Teresa said sharply. “I knew the risk to me, and I chose to take it!” She looked at Nancy. “But it was not right of me to let you risk your life.”
“Yes it was,” Nancy said firmly. “How else could we have found out about the dawn executions?”
Then she looked more closely at Teresa. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a concerned voice. “I mean, what else is wrong? What happened at your meeting with Roberto’s friend?”
Tears welled up in Teresa’s eyes. “I am sure it is not true,” she whispered. “Or no—I am not sure. But—”
“But?” Nancy prompted gently.
“But this friend, he is telling me Roberto—Roberto was not to be trusted! That he was—what did he say?—a double agent, working for the dictator and for the revolutionaries. He says he found, in Roberto’s papers back in San Carlos, some letters that show that he wanted to sell the list of names to the senator.”
“Sell the list?” Bess gasped.
“Yes,” said Teresa. “If she would not pay enough, Roberto would not care what happened to the people on the list!”
“So he really wasn’t working to overthrow the San Carlos dictatorship?” Nancy asked, appalled.
“There is no way to tell whose side Roberto was on.” Teresa bit her lip. “And maybe he would even betray me!”
Nancy was horrified, but there was no time to think over what Teresa had said. It was almost nine o’clock.
“Dawn’s at five-fifty-seven,” Bess said starkly. “The senator checked. Dan took Teresa straight to her as soon as he found out.”
That meant Senator Kilpatrick knew about the masquerade—and Carson Drew probably knew as well. “Where’s the senator now?” Nancy asked weakly.
“At the Department of Jus
tice, pushing panic buttons and pulling strings. She took your dad with her,” Bess added. “I almost forgot. She said that out of desperation the government agents even took Teresa’s poetry book. They used microscopes and infrared light and tried all kinds of code tests, and it’s clean. So Teresa will get it and that postcard she was using as a bookmark back tomorrow.”
Nancy saw Teresa’s face change.
“What postcard?” Nancy asked instantly.
Teresa shook her head, turning away slightly. “It is nothing . . . I just realized that that card is the last thing Roberto ever gave me,” she confessed, wiping away tears.
“Roberto gave you a postcard?” Nancy jumped up. “Teresa, think hard. When did he give it to you? And why?”
Teresa looked at her, bewildered. “Why . . . when we were leaving the airport, Roberto said he wouldn’t have time to write postcards, that he was stupid to think he would. He threw the cards into a trash can. And I—I said I would like to have the picture of the Capitol to take home to my mother. So Roberto laughed and took it out of the can and gave it to me. I was keeping it in the poetry book.”
“Teresa, think! You’d just gotten into the U.S. You hadn’t even left the airport! When and where did Roberto get American postcards?”
Teresa frowned. “He must have bought them—”
“The novelty shop!” Nancy almost shouted. “I knew that must have something to do with this! It was the only place Roberto could have gone during those few minutes. He must have written a message on one of the cards.”
She faced the others urgently. “Come on! We have to get hold of the manager of that store! The hit list may still be there.”
“Hold on,” George said promptly. “One, the store’s been searched—several times. Two, he could have mailed the card. Three, and most important, the senator’s not about to let any of us loose till the hit men are arrested. She gave strict orders to those musclemen outside our doors.”
“That’s easy,” Nancy said. “George, phone the senator’s office, tell her assistant that we need to follow up a lead for the senator.”
Hiding a grin, George did so. “We’re in luck all the way,” she announced when she hung up. “We’ve got a bulletproof car and escorts, your father’s occupied looking up legal measures the senator can invoke to protect the people who could be on the hit list, and your chaperon,” she added, turning to Teresa, “has just been picked up by the FBI. It seems she has an interesting past they want to find out more about.”
“Chatty assistant,” Bess said, smiling at George. George simply bowed.
Could Seńora Ramirez be a terrorist? If so, on which side—the rebels’ or the dictator’s? Nancy felt a sudden stab of pity for Teresa. She was so alone on her first trip to a foreign country. The man she loved had been brutally murdered, and suddenly she wasn’t sure who that man had been. Even her chaperon might betray her.
“Teresa, you stay here. You’ll be safe with the guards at the door. Would you like Bess to stay with you?” Nancy asked gently.
Teresa’s face was set. “I am coming with you. Perhaps I will remember something more when I am there.”
“No one’s going anywhere till Nancy washes her hair and scrubs that skin dye off,” Bess said. “There’s a contract out for Teresa Montenegro, remember?”
Nancy and Teresa stared at each other. “Bess is right. You change back. Me, I will be all right as a blond American!” Teresa fairly pushed Nancy toward the shower.
Nancy didn’t think it was the time to point out that by then there was probably a contract on her too. She used a few precious minutes to wash the gel out of her hair and to try to scrub away the skin dye. If she looked more deeply tanned than usual, it couldn’t hurt much. She pulled on jeans and a shirt.
Then there was a knock on the door. Everybody froze.
“Takeoff time,” a detective’s voice whispered through the door.
They piled into the car. Nancy was still toweling her wet hair.
During the second wild ride of the night—out to the airport—Teresa sat wrapped in silence, gazing unseeingly at the lights of Washington across the river.
The limousine careened into the airport arrivals area. With Nancy in the lead, George, Bess, Teresa, and their escorts swept toward the novelty store.
The owner was in the shop, and he wasn’t in a good mood. “I’ve been over this twice already with other agents,” he snapped. “Why can’t you people get your act together? Yes, I was in the shop at the time you mentioned. But I’ve already said I can’t remember every foreigner who walks into this place. Or every native, either!”
“Please!” Nancy forced herself to smile at him. “I know this is annoying, but it’s terribly important.” She glanced over at Teresa, who was gazing as if hypnotized at the poster for the tennis tournament.
“It’s about her—her fiancé!” Nancy told the storekeeper in a low voice. “He’s been murdered, and we need to know everything we can about his movements. He bought postcards. He probably bought them here.”
“You mean the poor guy I read about in the papers? Is that the girl—Montenero or something—they’re talking about?”
He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember! There was someone in here buying postcards. I remember him on account of he stared at that poster just the way she’s doing. Kind of creepy. And it was weird the way he picked his postcards—just up and down one of the rows, as if the pictures on ’em didn’t really matter.”
“He was interested in the poster? Did he say anything about the tournament?” Nancy asked urgently.
“Nope. Just stared. And he touched it.” The shop owner scratched his head. “That was weird, too, come to think of it. Seemed like it was the poster itself he was interested in, not what it said. I had to tell him to take his big hands off it. We don’t let people mess the airport up with graffiti or anything,” he added smugly.
Take his hands off the poster . . . Nancy moved toward it as if hypnotized herself. Her eyes swept over it. Then, delicately, her hand reached out to touch one word. Semi-Pro.
The dot over the i seemed ever so faintly larger than the dot over the i in the word International, which was set in the same type.
Nancy’s index finger touched the dot, her nail scraped against it—and the dot came off in her hand.
She knew what it was even before she heard one of the agents breathe the word behind her shoulder. “Microdot!”
Chapter Sixteen
NANCY KNEW SHE would never forget that frightful night. The stretch limousine must have had a souped-up motor, because the ride away from the airport was a blurred montage of headlights, nightlit monuments, and the Capitol dome glowing like a beacon in the distance.
The federal agent at the wheel did not volunteer where they were headed. Nancy didn’t ask. She was well aware that if time hadn’t been so urgent, she and her friends wouldn’t have been allowed to go along.
Sometime during the evening, a light rain had begun to fall. The dark streets gleamed, and raindrops streaked the windshield. Nancy stole a glance at her watch. Time was running out!
The limousine tore past the White House. A group of demonstrators huddled forlornly with umbrellas and banners on the far side of the street, under the watchful eye of police.
“Protesting the dictatorship in my country,” Teresa said emotionlessly. Her hands were clasped tightly, her face like stone.
At last the limo turned into the entrance to a garage. An armed guard at the entry booth checked the driver’s ID. They parked in a cavernous, almost empty enclosure that was brightly lit. Their footsteps echoed as they walked across the concrete, and Nancy noticed that their escorts held guns in their hands.
The driver punched a coded sequence of numbers into an electronic device beside a heavy steel door. For a moment a tiny beam of red light swept their faces. Then, noiselessly, the door slid open.
Surrounded by their armed guard, Nancy and her friends stepped inside into a bright, hospital-white cor
ridor. The steel door slid shut again, and another door concealed in the opposite wall slid open.
Then they were crowded together into a small, futuristic elevator car, which sped upward.
When they stepped out, Nancy fought back a giggle. Unconsciously she’d been expecting a science-fiction laboratory of some kind. But the room they entered was a cross between a drab office and her high school chemistry lab.
The electronics technicians who were waiting for them, though, were all business. As soon as the federal man produced the tiny i dot from the poster, it was whisked beneath a high-powered microscope.
Nancy, Teresa, Bess, and George were ushered into a small office and told to stay there.
“Make yourselves some coffee if you want to. There may be something around here to go with it,” the man in the lab jacket added. He went out, shutting the office door behind him.
“None of us has had any dinner yet, come to think of it,” George said in a flat voice. “Not that it matters.”
Bess tasted the coffee that was left in the glass pot and made a face. “This is awful.” She emptied the pot, washed it, refilled it, and turned on the machine. Nancy rummaged in the small cupboard for the “something” the scientist had referred to. Her stomach felt like lead, but she had to keep her hands busy. She found a box of crackers and a jar of cheese spread and began making snacks for everyone.
George paced between the window and the door. Teresa sat on a plaid daybed, looking like a statue.
The coffeepot steamed, sending out the strong, comforting smell of brewing coffee. The clock ticked away. Eleven-thirty. Midnight. One A.M. Two A.M.
“Why don’t they tell us something?” Nancy exclaimed at last.
“Remember the old saying, no news is good news.” Bess pressed a third mug of coffee into Nancy’s hand.
Nancy set it down so hard that the scalding liquid splashed her wrist. “I can’t stand this. I have to know!”
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