Two Lies and a Spy (7 page)

“You . . . you . . .” I open and close my mouth like a fish.

“Jackass?” Evan supplies helpfully. “Arsehole?”

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I assure him. “There are no words bad enough for you.”

“I find myself curiously flattered,” Evan muses.

“We’re wasting time,” Rita breaks in. “Kari, get over it. Evan’s joined the party.”

She takes me aside and whispers in my ear, “And even if you don’t like him, he’s good eye candy.”

I’m not so sure he didn’t overhear this little gem.

I stare at him in disbelief as he nods and lifts a corner of his mouth at me. Then he blows on his fingernails and polishes them on his tailored shirt. “Now, where were we?”

Aaaarrrgghhh!

“We were convincing Luke that we need access to his dad’s laptop,” Rita says. “Because it may be the only insight we can get into what has happened to Kari’s parents.”

“Who are spies. Do I have that right?” Evan turns to me, his face the picture of avid interest.

I take a deep breath so that I won’t hit him. Then I nod.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “I’ve never met a bona fide spy. However did they get into such a profession?”

I take another deep breath and clench my fists. I glare at Rita, who looks skyward.

“Does one go to spy school?” he wonders aloud. “Does one write a thesis on surveillance?”

“Evan,” I say through gritted teeth, “I don’t have time to explain it to you right now. In case you didn’t pick up on it, we have an urgent situation on our hands.”

“Right,” Evan agrees. “Well, you’ll have to let me buy you a pint sometime and you can tell me all about it.”

I barely restrain a growl.

Evan turns to Luke. “Terribly sorry, mate. Back to pressure-cooking you over pop’s laptop.”

“Like there’s going to be a file on the desktop labeled ‘Andrews, What Happened to Them,’ ” Luke says, exasperated. “Rita, you have no idea where to look, even if I did manage to give you a half hour alone with the thing.”

“I happen to be very good at what I do,” she says hotly, pushing the pink Chanel glasses up to the bridge of her nose.

“Of course you are,” Evan soothes her. “No one’s in any doubt.”

Luke folds his arms across his chest. In terms of body language, it’s not a good sign for our cause.

“So,” Evan says. “We have a pair of vanished spies. We have, in Mitch and his counterpart, a pair of rogue agents—possibly moles, since they knew exactly where to find Kari and Charlie. Moles who are willing to go as far as kidnapping, and perhaps worse. And we have a police APB out on Kari and her brother, a well-publicized one, which suggests deliberate leaks by someone in power. I can’t say that’s good news.”

“What if it is, though?” Luke asks. “What if it’s Kari’s
parents who leaked the info to the cops? And they want to make sure that their kids are picked up and safe?”

I shake my head. “They already knew where to find us. We set prearranged meeting points and times, and my parents didn’t make any of them. There’s something really wrong.” I am not pleased that pressure is forming behind my eyes, and that they’re beginning to sting. I’m not a blubberer.

Luke shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Not to mention that the Andrewses’ lives could be at stake,” Rita says.

Luke looks reluctantly at me.

I’m horrified to realize that my eyes are filling, and even though I blink furiously and order the tears back to wherever they came from, a couple of them escape and roll down my Gothed-up face.

Luke takes a step toward me, his hand reaching out.

“Got something in my eye,” I mutter gruffly, and use the hem of my black T-shirt to try to repair any damage to my funeral-black liner and mascara.

Evan raises an eyebrow at Luke. “You going to just stand here and let the poor girl cry, when you have the power to solve her problem?”

Luke stares at him, flinty eyed, for a long moment. Then he looks over at me and sighs.

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

We return my borrowed car and then pile into Luke’s Grand Cherokee. Luke lives in Great Falls, in a beautiful old two-story Greek revival home. I can just picture his sister Lacey in another century. She sweeps down the curved staircase in a ball gown and takes the arm of a beau who escorts her through the white columns framing the porch and up into a waiting carriage.

Evan murmurs under his breath, “How terribly
Gone with the Wind
.”

Unfortunately it’s the twenty-first century, and Lacey shows no signs of leaving, since her silver BMW 335i is parked in the drive. Luke parks his Jeep next to it.

Mr. Carson’s government-issue Lincoln Continental isn’t anywhere to be seen, and neither is the old silver Mercedes that Luke’s mom usually drives when she drops off the kids at school.

We troop into the house behind Luke, and I hope that his sister stays in her room instead of coming out to look at me like I’m some weird and disgusting species of insect. She cannot stand Rita—it’s probably a fashion rivalry or something—and since I’m Rita’s best friend, she despises me, too.

The house is full of antiques, and the huge kitchen has dark cherry cabinetry and a big granite-topped island in the middle. There’s an apron tossed on it that says
CHEF DAD
across the chest and a notepad next to it. Someone has scrawled:

Gone to get filet mignon and portobello mushrooms. Will stop at package store for wine, too.

The handwriting is bold and masculine. Is it possible that we’ve just gotten very, very lucky?

“My dad likes to cook,” Luke confirms. “My mom, not so much. She decorates.”

At the back of the house, to the rear of the kitchen, is an old-fashioned study behind a set of French doors. It’s lined with cherry bookshelves. A desk the size of an apartment complex presides over a big Oriental rug, and a burgundy-leather rolling chair sits behind it.

Luke enters a four-digit code into a simple keypad on the left door and opens it to let us in.

We barely spare a glance for the decor or the silver-framed photos of Mr. Carson with different presidents, senators, and other heads of state. Instead we’re fixated on the laptop that sits on a leather blotter in the middle of the desk.

Rita pumps her fist into the air. “Yes!”

“Lucky break.” Luke swallows nervously.

Am I the only one who thinks this is a little too good to be true? “You guys, this is awfully convenient. Almost like someone’s been listening to our conversations.” I shoot a narrowed glance at Evan as I say this.

His expression is as innocent as the Gerber baby’s. Ha.

“Oh, Kari. Don’t be paranoid,” Rita retorts.

Me? She’s the one who’s obsessed with all the cloak-and-dagger! “I’m just saying. . . .”

But she’s already behind Mr. Carson’s desk, her fingers clearly itching to violate his privacy and probably several different laws. I love Rita, but she is a snoop.

Clearly Luke isn’t at all comfortable with this.

“Um,” he says to Rita as she opens the laptop. “Shouldn’t you wear gloves or something?”

She peers at him over the pink Chanel glasses. “What, does he dust for prints every night? Is he expecting someone to hack into his computer?”

Luke flushes and turns away. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and disappears.

I try not to think about Luke naked upstairs as Rita fishes a thumb drive out of her purse, plugs it into Director Carson’s laptop, and hits the start button.

“Whoa,” Evan says, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“What’s that?” I ask her.

She rolls her eyes at Evan, shoots me a glance from under her lashes, and chooses USB Drive as the
boot-up device from the screen. “It’s a different operating system.”

“Holy crap,” is all I can think of to say. “Why?”

“Are you really doing this?” Evan asks. “I thought you were joking.”

She doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“It’s called Backtrack,” she explains. “And it should be able to obtain Mr. Carson’s password.” She types some commands into the computer while I watch, very uncomfortable with this, but still desperate enough to do it.

My skin feels hot and itchy, my pulse has kicked up, and my palms are sweating.

Evan just stands like a statue, one eyebrow raised.

Rita attempts to access the hard drive directly, but it asks her for a password, which is only to be expected. She blows out a breath. “Okay, time for a little brute-forcing,” she says.

“What?” I’m alarmed. “Don’t hurt the machine!”

She chuckles. “I’m talking about
password
brute-forcing,” she says, “not smashing the computer with a sledgehammer.”

“It doesn’t sound good.” I fold my arms.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

Rita’s fingers fly on the keyboard, and the room is filled with the sound of her clicking away. We can also hear faint music coming from either Luke’s or Lacey’s room on the floor above us, punctuated by the tick of a grandfather clock in the foyer. Other than that, the
house is silent.

“You have got to be kidding me,” says Rita.

“What’s the matter?”

“Seven hours and forty-three minutes?”

“For what?”

“To recover the password! To go through all the possible combinations.”

“Rita. Oh my God. We don’t have that kind of time!”

“No, we don’t.” She checks her watch.

I’m suddenly afraid that Luke’s mom will come purring into the driveway in her Mercedes and get out with several shopping bags. I position myself by the front door so that I can distract her if this happens. Evan follows me.

“What kind of game are you playing here?” he demands. “Do you realize that you’re probably breaking all kinds of laws by accessing that laptop? And where did Rita get that Backtrack software anyway? Did she steal it?” His hands are on his hips, and he’s wearing an expression of outraged condescension.

“Listen, Evan. I’m not playing any game. I need to know what’s happened to my parents and where they are. And don’t you even think about taking that tone with me, when you’ve eavesdropped and forced your way into this situation—”

“Oh, so that means I can’t be worried about the possible fallout?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what it means. You don’t get to be a priss-pot now.”

“Priss-pot?”
Evan’s mouth works, but oddly enough there’s amusement in his eyes, along with irritation.

I don’t understand the guy. He’s 100 percent annoying, and he’s in my way. I push past him and look out the narrow windows to either side of the Carsons’ front door.

“Clearly I’m out of my depth among you superspy kids,” Evan tosses out. “I’m quite grateful, really, that you let me tag along. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two.”

“Maybe,” I say shortly, still staring out the window.

“Afraid that Mr. or Mrs. Carson will drive up any moment now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, love, priss-pots have their uses. I can stand guard here by the door, if you like.”

I turn and evaluate him, try to read the expression in those blue-gray eyes of his. They’re looking more blue now. “I like. That would be the first helpful thing you’ve ever done, Evan.”

“Well,” Evan says, “when you find your parents, maybe you’ll share with our enquiring minds just where the old ’rentals have been and what they’ve been up to. I can use the material in a screenplay.”

“Right—like they talk about that stuff a lot.” I don’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Evan leans forward, into my space. It makes me uncomfortable, and he takes up too much oxygen. “Ah. But perhaps they keep a Super Spy Journal, love. And you can peruse it using a Super Secret Spy Decoder
Ring.”

I take two steps backward and stare up into his mocking face. I so wish that I could vaporize it. “You. Are. An. Idiot.”

“Why, thank you. I choose to take that as a compliment,” he says graciously.

“Proving, without a doubt, that it’s true.” Very
un
graciously, I turn on my heel and march back to the study in search of Rita, who is much better company.

Evan’s soft laughter follows me.

•  •  •

Thirty minutes later, Rita and I still haven’t managed to crack Mr. Carson’s password, in spite of her trying every combination she can think of off the top of her fashionable head—while Backtrack continues to run. She’s tried Luke’s birthday, Lacey’s birthday, Mrs. Carson’s birthday, and even the Carsons’ wedding anniversary (the last few conned out of a reluctant Luke). Her eyes are a little manic behind the pink Chanel glasses.

To tell you the truth, I’m starting to feel manic myself. My parents have now been missing for almost forty-eight hours. What if they’re being tortured?

I see my dad’s face as terrorist thugs kick in his ribs with steel-toed boots, not to mention doing much, much worse. I see my mom hanging from a beam by her bound wrists as she’s beaten.

Bile rises in my throat, and I’m hyperventilating before I know it.

Luke has joined us again, in clean clothes with his
hair still damp from the shower. He notices my distress before anyone else. “Kari,” he says, putting one big, warm hand on each of my shoulders. “Look at me.”

I do. I look into his strong-boned face and his concerned brown eyes.

“Take a deep breath: the deepest that you can.”

I nod and inhale as much oxygen as I’m capable of. But I choke on it and start coughing. God forbid I should ever be graceful in front of Luke.

“Kari,” he repeats. “I need you to calm down. Okay?”

I gasp, then gasp again.

“Freaking out is not going to help your parents. Or Charlie,” he says. “So I need you to center yourself and calm down. Now, deep breath. One.”

I do as he tells me.

“Another.”

And somehow he gets me focused on just breathing, just being still for a moment or two.

“Don’t think,” Luke says. “Just focus on taking in that oxygen.”

Once I’m breathing normally, I’m torn between being grateful to him and feeling unbelievably stupid. “Thanks,” I mutter. I know I’m blushing, because I can feel the heat in my face.

He smiles at me, a warm, genuine, sweet smile that pretty much melts off my toes. “You’re welcome.”