Spy Girl

by Jillian Dodd

  “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Then tomorrow, we have a date. You will bring the bath bombs. I will supply the bathing garments.”

  X X X

  The Amber Room is a glittering venue set up specifically for the Montrovian Grand Prix and is the setting for numerous parties over the race weekend. There is flowing champagne, exquisite cuisine, performances by iconic artists, amped up DJ sets, and tonight’s fashion show which benefits an international charity. I’ve met jet-setters, film stars, Formula One drivers, and royalty from numerous nations. Security is tight, and no one gets in unless they are on the list.

  I’m having fun.

  And feeling fairly relaxed. With all the famous people in the room, the bodyguards and security are numerous. Not to mention that the Prince’s personal bodyguard, Juan, is sticking very close tonight as are the other three who accompanied us to this event.

  I even get the chance to go backstage to wish Allie luck. I thought she might be nervous, but she seems in her element and ready to go. She also looks killer with her bangs teased and held back by a barrette and wearing a sexy, retro bikini.

  I go back out and take a prime seat next to the Prince as the show starts.

  A well-known DJ is spinning a sick beat, and the fashion show is fast-paced and features both men and women’s attire from many of the high-end boutiques in Montrovia’s elite shopping district.

  “You would look amazing in that,” Lorenzo says, commenting on the red gown that is the grand finale to the show. “You must have it.”

  “Where would I wear it? Cinderella’s castle?”

  “I was thinking my castle,” he says, taking my hand in his and kissing it. “Shall I buy you glass slippers, too?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to leave you at midnight?”

  He slides his hand into my hair and kisses me. “Most definitely not. Does that mean you will still allow me to escort you to the Queen’s Ball?”

  “When is it, again?” I ask, playing it cool.

  “Sunday night, after the race. It’s our grand finale of the week.”

  “I guess since I said I’d hang out with you for Race Week, it would include that.”

  “Hang out seems so casual.”

  “I thought that’s how you liked your relationships with women.”

  “Usually, that is the case. With you, I’m inclined not to want such a casual arrangement.”

  “We’ve only known each other for a short time.”

  “Still.” He gazes into my eyes. It’s incredibly sweet. I feel a pang of guilt for manipulating his emotions, but I know the manipulation isn’t a lie. Because I genuinely like this man.

  And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone kill him.

  There’s a psychological phenomenon known as Stockholm Syndrome, where a hostage develops a strong emotional bond, almost a love, for their captor. These feelings are irrational in light of the danger endured by the victim. If the captor is kind to them, they mistake the lack of abuse for caring. It’s a form of traumatic bonding. Traumatic bonding can occur in numerous situations, like a hostage and his captor or even in a situation like the Prince and I have been in. Two people in danger together. It heightens the feelings and emotions and is completely natural.

  Or so it was explained to us in school. What a good spy has to do, however, is use this closeness to his advantage.

  I was taught to be emotionless and uncaring, but no matter how much they tried to drill that into my head, it never worked. I am motivated because of emotion. And it’s that emotion that will always drive me to succeed.

  The Prince steps away to speak to someone in private. This worries me, but I see a Saudi Prince with numerous bodyguards join him.

  When he is finished and meets back up with me, he’s agitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The Saudis use the Strait of Montrovia to ship oil to the rest of Europe and the U.S. He offered to have his naval assets supplement ours. He is worried that we are vulnerable.”

  “Are you?”

  “Every country is vulnerable to an attack. An elite air force could destroy us, but terror organizations do not command those sorts of troops. When he left the meeting, things were tense. I mean, what did he expect? For me to turn our royal maritime unit over to him?”

  “I don’t know. Did he say why this is a concern all of a sudden?”

  “If you are going to spend time with me, you must know the risks. My own national security as well as the Americans have picked up chatter, an indication that something could happen in my country. I’m assuming his government has heard it as well.”

  “Like a terrorist attack. Like at the race?”

  “The intercepted chatter seemed to be more indicative of a threat to the throne—to me, personally.”

  “Considering someone may have just tried to gun you down, that makes sense.”

  He grins at me and takes my hand. “But you kept me safe. I’ll have to be keeping you close.”

  We mingle for a bit longer then end up in a corner of the Amber Room chatting with a wealthy Indian man, who owns one of the race teams, along with his drivers. He’s hosting a party on his yacht tomorrow night and assures us that we will receive hand-delivered invitations in the morning. We’re all sipping champagne—except for Lorenzo who guzzled down his last drink, his conversation with the Saudi clearly weighing on his mind.

  I’m nodding where appropriate about the upcoming race, but I’m mostly eavesdropping on the conversation behind me. Clarice is discussing the Terra Project with an actress who is a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador. She’s sharing her passion for the project and discussing an area in the United States where they’ve set up a successful trial community using all the Terra concepts. I wonder how this peaceful project in America could possibly be related to the threat to the Prince.

  But then she mentions that the next step is to try it somewhere on a larger scale. What if that is her plan? To bring this project to her own country. The country she could be the queen of if just a few people were to die.

  That comment alone moves her up to prime suspect number one on my list.

  I excuse myself to use the facilities and give Ari a look that lets him know I want to talk in private.

  We meet in the hallway to the restrooms.

  “Ari, were you listening to Clarice? Did you hear what she said about the Terra Project?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you think that’s her plan? To become Queen and implement it for all of Montrovia?”

  “I can’t imagine that. She seems passionate about a lot of random things.”

  “That’s true. I heard her ranting earlier about the energy used by the cattle industry. She won’t eat meat.”

  “But she sure likes the bone,” Ari fires back.

  “What?”

  “Ha! I don’t even know where that came from. Actually, I do. It’s from an oldie that one of my sergeants used to listen to. Get it?”

  “Ari, you have a bone,” I say with a smirk. “Maybe you should barter her with it.”

  “She has a boyfriend and seems crazy in love with him. I don’t like him though.”

  “I want to know how she got to be such a tree hugger. How did she learn about this project? Who started the whole idea?”

  “I don’t know, but we better find out,” he says.

  Lorenzo is waiting for me in the corner of the room, chatting now with Peter and Allie.

  Clarice still has the actress cornered and is ranting. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if our culture didn’t thrive on conspicuous consumption? A small nation like ours would be the perfect place to take the project to the next level. That is, if the King would abolish the currency and let us all live in peace.”

  “It seems pretty peaceful here already,” the actress says.

  “We do live in peace, but that’s not the point. When there were terror attacks in Europe that killed a few hundred people the news was all
over it, but when thousands died in genocide in Africa, no one said a word. It’s that kind of inequity that the project would change. Not to mention the industries that are ruining our planet. Do you eat meat?”

  “Uh, yeah,” the actress admits, sounding a bit ashamed.

  “Did you know that way back in 2006 a report was released by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations that states the livestock sector is a major stressor on many ecosystems and on the planet as a whole? Did you know that agriculture releases the most greenhouse gas emission, even more than the transportation sector? Not to mention the horrific treatment of the innocent animals.”

  I think she’s going to stop ranting, but she continues. “The industry has even made up names for our food to make us feel better about what we are eating. Instead of Foie gras, escargot, veal, and caviar, we should call them what they are: unnaturally fattened duck livers, snails, baby calves, and fish eggs.”

  Allie, who must be eavesdropping, too, looks at me and makes a gagging gesture, which causes me to stifle a laugh.

  A waiter emerges from a door just behind us with a flute of champagne on a platter and presents it to the Prince. He takes it. I’m thinking it’s kind of rude that there’s only one glass when I notice that the waiter is wearing black gloves instead of the normal white ones.

  A chain reaction quickly takes place in my body. My heart races, my breathing speeds up, and my muscles are on high alert ready to strike.

  Something’s not right.

  In a split second, I process the waiter’s military short haircut. Buff body. The tattoo snaking up his neck.

  The Prince moves the glass toward his lips.

  “Wait! Don’t drink that!” I yell, reacting quickly by grabbing his arm.

  I give Ari a look and he stealthily leaves the room, hopefully to chase the man, who I watch run out of another door.

  Both Lorenzo and I are quickly surrounded by his bodyguards.

  Juan, his personal guard, asks me, “Why shouldn’t he drink it? What do you know?”

  I realize I must act dumb. My being able to stay close to the Prince depends on them believing what I say next.

  “Uh, I don’t know anything. I just thought it was weird.”

  “What was weird?”

  “The waiter came out of the kitchen with only one glass of champagne instead of a tray full, and he had on black gloves instead of white ones.” I look straight at the Prince. “I mean, I don’t know how things go here in Montrovia, but I’d hate to see you end up as a plaything in a frat house getting taken advantage of.” I purposefully giggle. “Oh, wait. That doesn’t make sense. Maybe I’ve had too much champagne.” What I’m about to say next is a total conflict, but I have to say it. I ready my hand to knock the drink away in case they call my bluff. I’ll blow the mission if I have to, to keep him safe. “You’re right, I’m being dumb. Who’d bother to roofie the future King? Everyone already knows he’s easy. I just reacted, it’s probably fine to drink.”

  The Prince chuckles and considers this by looking at his glass.

  “Don’t,” his bodyguard says sternly. “Give me the glass.” He speaks into his cuff, alerting the police, then takes the glass carefully. “Miss Von Allister had a good gut reaction. Better safe than sorry. We’ll take care of this. You enjoy the rest of the party.”

  X X X

  Ari takes off on a run after the black-gloved waiter, but the man has a large lead.

  By the time he gets outside, the man has taken off his waiter’s jacket and is hopping onto a motorcycle. Ari presses a button on his phone and communicates with Ellis.

  Ellis is moving the limo toward the street when the motorcycle screams its way around the corner. The man is riding a black Ducati with no identification tags. Ellis throws the car into park, jumps out, and taps his cane hard on the ground causing a steel baton to emerge from its core. He sticks the baton out just as the assailant drives by and knocks the man off the bike.

  The assailant rolls to the ground with a grunt, but quickly pops up, pulling a slim gun out of his coat and aiming it at Ellis.

  Ellis leaps toward him with surprising grace for someone of his age and clips the man with the baton, knocking the gun free. Ari who has been sprinting to catch up, grabs the gun off the pavement and levels it at the man, telling him not to move.

  The man doesn’t listen. He kicks the gun out of Ari’s hand and punches at his face. Ari avoids the contact and throws a series of punches of his own, all connecting and leaving the man dazed. Ari gives the man another blow, knocking him down to the ground.

  “Who do you work for?” Ari questions, sitting on top of the man, his hands wrapped around the man’s neck, almost cutting off his oxygen.

  The man gives Ari a defiant look, then head butts him, causing Ari to go crashing backwards. The man gets up, only to be shot in the arm by Ellis. The man grabs his bicep and attempts to run back to his bike. Ari stops him with another blow to the head just as the authorities arrive. They quickly take the man into custody, thank Ari and Ellis for their service to Montrovia, and leave.

  What they don’t know is that before they left, Ari managed to place a small tracking and recording device on the man.

  Ari and Ellis calmly go back to the limo and follow the police to the detention center.

  They record and listen to the authorities’ first—and very useless—round of questioning. The assailant refuses to answer anything.

  When they take a break, Ari slips unnoticed into the center and into the questioning room, only to find the man dead.

  Foam leaks out of his mouth.

  Ari takes a vial from his jacket pocket, scoops up some of the foam, and leaves the facility as stealthily as he came.

  X X X

  The Prince leads me to the bar and orders a stiff drink. After his earlier uneasy conversation combined with a possible attempted poisoning, I can see why he needs one.

  “Would you like to go home now?” I ask him. “It’s been a long day.”

  He gently brushes my hair from my face and kisses me, avoiding telling me what’s troubling him and saying instead, “I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.”

  “As I have yours.”

  “I’m looking forward to our bath tomorrow.”

  “Me too.”

  He glances at his watch. “I guess it already is tomorrow. How would you feel about coming home with me now?”

  I know what he’s asking.

  I bite the corner of my lip nervously and lower my head slightly. “Um . . .”

  He takes his finger and raises my chin. “It’s okay. We should move slowly. This. Us.”

  He leans in to kiss me again, but we are separated by guards. “Come this way, quickly.”

  We’re escorted to a waiting limo and taken to the castle.

  I lean toward him and whisper. “Is this really how you get a girl to come home with you?”

  He laughs heartily then rolls the partition down and asks Juan what’s going on.

  “We’ll discuss it when we are in the safety of the castle, Your Highness,” he replies formally. Usually, he calls him Lorenzo.

  When we get to the castle, we’re whisked down a hall to the War Room, and I’m introduced to Admiral Philipe Lamonte, the Joint Chief of the Montrovian armed forces.

  Admiral Lamonte gets in my face. “Why did you suspect the Prince’s drink to be tainted? And I’d like you to be very specific. Tell me everything you can remember.”

  His attitude tells me that I was right about the champagne. But I have to keep playing dumb.

  I can’t blow my cover.

  “Uh, well, like I told Juan, the waiter came out of the door and headed straight toward us. He only had one glass on his tray, which I thought was both odd and kinda rude, because I would have taken another glass. Mine wasn’t actually empty, but it had gotten warm. When he presented it to the Prince, I thought maybe it was something special for him, but I didn’t remember him ordering anything. It’s li
ke the first thing they teach us in college, never drink something you didn’t pour or order yourself. Which, obviously, only really relates to frat parties and club drinks because I have been drinking champagne off silver platters since I got here. It’s just that the platters always come out full, and the waiters always wear white gloves, not black ones like this guy had. Really, it was the black gloves that gave me pause. And then when he walked straight out the other door. I’m sorry if I caused a scene. I didn’t mean to. I highly doubt anyone would want to roofie the Prince.” I laugh. “Well, except maybe for a few enthusiastic females who might want to bear a royal heir.”

  “Describe the man.”

  I try to make my description sound normal. Wordy. Not like a rap sheet. “Uh, he was shorter than me in heels, so like five-ten, maybe. He had short blond hair, light skin. There was a tattoo peeking out of his collar, but I couldn’t see the design. He looked like he could have been of Slavic descent, maybe.”

  “Your brother, Ari, chased a man of that description. He and your driver fought and managed to subdue the man until the authorities came and took him into custody.”

  “So what did you find out?” Lorenzo asks.

  “Nothing, other than that he is Russian,” the admiral replies.

  “Russian? First a German and a Moroccan, now a Russian? What, is the whole world out to get me?” the Prince asks. “Did you question him? Find out who he is working for?”

  “We did not. He killed himself with the same poison found in your glass, a cyanide salt compound. You would have been dead within minutes.” He turns to me. “You have done a great service to our country, Miss Von Allister. We cannot thank you enough.”

  Both the Prince’s and my eyes widen as the Admiral and Juan leave the room.

  The Prince gives my hand a squeeze. “It seems I owe you my life again. If you keep this up, I’m going to have to hire you as a bodyguard.”

  I press my free hand against his chest. “You do have a nice body, from what I’ve heard.”