Spy Candy

by Gina Robinson

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I’m good with hair.” She sounded regretful as she tousled her own short hair with her fingers. “Before the cancer, I used to have hair down to the middle of my back.” She spied my look of sympathy. “Go on. Get your lipstick on before we’re even later.”

  A quick swath across my mouth with Domino pink, a blot on a tissue, and I was ready. Almost. I had to use the bathroom. It was a Jarvis thing. We always have to use the bathroom at the very last minute. Doesn’t matter if we just went two minutes ago. The habit had been drummed into me by my mother with her unfailing litany, “It’s time to go. Have you used the bathroom? Gotten a drink of water?”

  I turned to Emma. “I have to use the facilities.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the hall.” She rolled her eyes and departed.

  Minutes later I joined her outside our rooms. Just as I pulled the locked door closed behind me, I remembered something from one of the pictures. But was I remembering right? Or had I simply imagined it by thinking too hard on it? If Emma hadn’t been shoving me along, I’d have gone back to check out my memory right then.

  As it was, she played mother hen, shooing me toward dinner. Checking the pictures would have to wait until after dinner….

  Chapter Four

  Dinner was served mess-hall style at long tables in the cafeteria. Despite putting the rush on, Emma and I arrived late and had to gulp down our food to make it to the orientation on time. We sat in the back next to the Maxwell Smart clone, who preferred to be called Max and had donned a suit jacket for the occasion. Octopussy strolled in even later than we did and took a seat right in front, crossing her legs provocatively, the big suck-up.

  Agent Rockford, alias Chief, gave the welcome address. “Welcome to The Grove. A lot of you came here expecting James Bond-type adventure. We’re gonna give you that. And while we don’t have a license to kill, we do have something Bond doesn’t—a license to thrill.” He grinned at his own cleverness.

  “While you’re at FSC we’ll refer to you as CTs, Career Trainees, just like the CIA does. We’ll treat you like real CTs and that means giving you the standard warning—in the spy world you can’t believe anything you see, hear, or experience. You can’t believe or trust anyone, except yourself. Truth is a scarce and valuable commodity, and lying’s cheap and par for the job. Skepticism and intuition are your two best friends.”

  The group did a collective squirm.

  “If you’ve read your mission notes, you all know the mission scenario, but I’ll repeat it just the same.

  “You’ve been selected by a top-secret paramilitary unit for a covert operation deep in enemy territory. The mission will culminate in terrorists kidnapping one of you. The others will mount a rescue attempt.”

  Next to me Max whispered, “It’s the old kidnap-a-CT trick.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Rockford leveled his gaze at us. “Let me just say that in all the missions I’ve overseen, the rescue rate runs about fifty percent. Last mission the hostage ended up dead.” He gave us a slow, evil smile. “You’ll be facing every kind of simulated danger imaginable.”

  “And loving it!” Max piped up.

  The class laughed.

  Rockford looked like he wanted to make Max drop and give him ten but chose to ignore him instead. “To prepare for this mission you’ll be trained by my handpicked group of contract mercenaries and some of the world’s toughest Special Ops folks.

  “During your six days here you’ll learn such spy essentials as face reading, pistol marksmanship, unarmed self-defense, CPR, rappelling, close-quarter battle techniques, police and bodyguard training, panic control, hostage negotiation, and evasive driving techniques.” Rockford took a sip from a glass of water on the podium. “Now let me introduce the staff. Boys, come on up.” Rockford motioned a group of men up front.

  “First, your driving staff.” Rockford slapped a fiftyish, balding man of average height on the shoulder. “This is Davie Edwards.”

  Davie gave us a wave.

  “He has twenty-six years of professional auto racing experience. He’s trained hundreds of security chauffeurs, law enforcement officials, and bodyguards in evasive driving techniques. He taught driving at the Bondurant School of High Performance Driving for six years. What Davie doesn’t know about driving hasn’t been invented yet.”

  Rockford pointed farther down the line of men to two fortyish guys. “Next we have Jim Wexel and Greg Helmer. They’ve got thirty-five years of on-and off-road racing experience between them and both of them belong to the Hollywood stuntmen’s association.

  “Now for the combat staff.” Rockford grinned at Torq and a tall, handsome blond with snapping blue eyes, a lazy, laconic stance, and a killer grin that was fixed in my direction and made my toes curl in a reflexive lust reaction.

  Wow! Two instantaneous crushes in one day. That was some kind of record for me. Maybe it’s true that women come into their sexual prime in their thirties. Guess there was an upside to getting older after all. If it hadn’t been clear that there were only the three of us women in the room, I would have looked around to see whom he was aiming that grin at.

  Just as I was about to return it, Emma leaned into me and whispered, “Dibs on the blond. I got a thing for blonds.”

  “You can’t dibs an instructor,” I hissed back.

  “I just did. Look, he’s smiling at me.” She gave him a little finger wave and whispered to me while looking straight ahead at him. “Besides, you’ve got a mate.”

  “But you said I should drop him,” I whispered back, giving the blond my own little wave.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she said.

  Rockford gave Emma and me a hard stare and cleared his throat before giving his own qualifications as combat instructor—sixteen years in the U.S. Army Special Forces. Several tours of duty in Vietnam. A stint with the British SAS and several other counterintelligence agencies. Then he introduced Torq, telling us about his six years with the CIA, four years with Special Forces, and two years of civilian service. “He’s an expert in intelligence/counterintelligence and has a black belt in karate.”

  Torq gave an enigmatic head nod and went back to his seat at the front of the class. So much for Mr. Personality.

  “And this"—Rockford slapped the blond on the back with obvious affection—"is the guy who keeps camp lively and fun. He hails from Texas and served twelve years in the U.S. Army Special Forces. He’s trained more than a hundred SWAT teams nationwide. He can drink anyone in this room under the table. He’s a hell of a driver, and a nice guy, too. Everyone, meet Alex Fry.”

  Alex nodded to the class. “Y’all can call me Fry. I prefer it to Alex.” He flashed that grin again.

  Emma and I were trying hard not to swoon. You had to love a Texas accent.

  “There’s our 006,” Emma whispered to me. “His name is Alex and he even looks like a young Sean Bean.”

  “006 went bad,” I said.

  “No worries. I like ‘em bad.” Emma gave me a wink. “The badder the better.”

  Fry sat down.

  Rockford had us introduce ourselves by our aliases. The cast of camp characters read like a who’s who of pop culture spies—Emma and me, Max, John Steed, Octopussy, “but please, just call me Pussy” followed by a salacious wink, Bill Tanner, Q, Ethan Hunt, Tom Bishop, and Jack Wade.

  I held my hand out, palm up, to Emma when Jack introduced himself. “Guess I’m the winner. Pay up.”

  “Sorry. I don’t have anything on me.”

  “OK. But just so you know, I’ll be charging usurytype interest until I get my money.” I gave her a grin.

  “Nothing doing. Double or nothing Wade blows his cover first,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Cheater.”

  She grinned back.

  Rockford passed out the schedule for the week and rattled on about camp policies. I stopped paying attention a few minutes in when I noticed a row of three desktop computer
s along the far wall. Aha! A way to contact Daniel.

  I was startled out of my thoughts by the feel of Rockford’s hard stare on me. “And for cripes sake, CTs, dress appropriately for camp. This isn’t some goddamn beauty show.”

  I felt myself blush. So what was “appropriate” attire? His staff had sent me a bikini top. Maybe I should show up in that instead.

  “Class dismissed. See you back here at six hundred hours.” Rockford turned and left.

  Emma stopped to visit with some of the other campers, but I begged off and went back to my room, stopping by the vending machine to grab a soda on the way.

  I popped the top and opened my dresser drawer, eager to take another look at my fabulously fun photos. Only …

  The camera was gone! Poof! Vanished.

  I tore through the drawer, tossing clothes on the floor like a madwoman as I went, trying to convince myself I’d just overlooked it. I hate it when things go missing. Drives me nutso until I find them.

  When the drawer was finally empty and still no camera, I had to admit defeat … and disappointment with the human race. Someone had obviously broken into my room and stolen my camera. What other explanation was there?

  The hairs on my arms stood up. It’s amazing how creeped you can feel when someone has violated your personal space and pawed through your underwear.

  I looked around the room, as nervous as if I expected a SPECTRE agent to jump out from behind the curtains and attack me. The air-conditioning clicked on. The curtains rustled. Scaredy-cat that I am, I jumped and froze, hand on heart, a real easy face-on target for any junior marksman. Definitely not a Bond-girl stance.

  When no one jumped out firing an automatic weapon at me and my heartbeat slowed back down enough to allow rational thinking, I made a vow. I was going to pay attention in unarmed self-defense class ‘cause acting like a chicken was no way to face a real threat.

  I went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The window was definitely closed and latched. I couldn’t see any sign that the window had been forced in any way. Not that I was an expert, but I didn’t see any pry-bar marks or broken glass. To the best of my recollection, with the exception of the things I’d tossed on the floor, everything in the room looked just as it had when I’d left it. Which meant it either had to be an inside job or I’d been hit by a real pro.

  I took inventory of the rest of my things. All my brand-new sexy panties were accounted for. We weren’t dealing with a pervert. Nothing else was missing. Time to face facts—someone, probably one of my fellow campers, had stolen my camera. How low could you go—a big lottery winner stealing from poor little me?

  I evaluated my options. I could report the theft, but making accusations wasn’t going to win me any friends. And what could really be done about it now anyway? Instead, I decided to keep an eye out for it. If it didn’t return itself by camp’s end, I’d report it and collect the insurance.

  It was getting late and, given the traveling I’d done, I should have been dead tired. But I couldn’t settle down, too wound up to even get ready for bed.

  I did a little pacing. Maybe it was time to check out the computers in the orientation room. Doing something would take my mind off the current mystery, and a little distance of time would probably put the creepiness factor at bay. If I could get on those computers, I could contact Daniel.

  I glanced at the clock. Oh, darn. It was after curfew. What would 007 do? I grinned. As if I needed to ask!

  I pulled on my pink sneakers and headed out.

  Well, actually, old 007 would probably be curled up in bed with Octopussy burning off his 130 calories per boink. But eventually he’d get to the computers.

  The door to the orientation room stood cracked open. These spy camp guys were trusting souls. You’d think they’d have more security. Maybe this was all another test. Maybe they had hidden security cameras and bugs everywhere. In a minute a SWAT team would be all over me.

  I peeked in. The lights were on. The room was empty. I cautiously slid my hand along the door frame, prepared to run. Nothing. I slipped inside and closed the door.

  Inside the room, I did another quick scan for people. All clear, so I popped over and sat down in front of the nearest computer. When I touched the mouse, the screen came to life.

  I took another look around the room to make sure I was still alone before returning my attention to the screen. I tried logging on to my Web mail account, typing in my username and password.

  A message popped up. “Invalid password. Please check your password and try again.”

  What? Invalid password, my hind leg. I tried again. Same response.

  Idiocy is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different response. I typed really carefully the third time.

  “Access denied. To apply for a new password please provide your birth date and the last four digits of your social security number … a new password will be sent to you. Or call customer service …”

  “Shit!” I banged the desk with my fists, then froze and looked around, fearing I’d given myself away. It was then I realized I’d been typing in the password for my online banking account. And I couldn’t even blame my mistake on jet lag. During the summer, Phoenix is on the same time as Seattle.

  Well, that’s what I get for following instructions on how to protect your online presence and making up different passwords for different accounts, using a combination of letters and numbers that form nothing but gibberish. Who the hell can remember gibberish, let alone keeping all those gibberish passwords straight?

  I was stuck. I couldn’t call. Grrr … Daniel would just have to wait. I should have felt more let down about that. Instead, I felt a surprising sense of relief at being incommunicado. I didn’t have to feign any loyalty or lovey-dovey stuff while battling that pesky niggling bit of guilt about the reactions I was having to Torq the Bond Butt.

  I heard a door slam down the hall. I swiveled in my chair, heart racing, fully expecting to get caught. Male voices approached. I held my breath.

  Following a perfect Doppler-effect pattern, the male voices grew louder, then receded into the distance. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I’d just settled back into my chair when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I froze, sensing the presence of someone behind me, watching me. I paled. What would super spy girl do in this situation?

  I jumped and spun around in my chair to find Fry staring down at me, or rather, appreciatively down my fake cleavage. Fortunately for me, while my real breasts liked the attention enough to bud right up, my silicone inserts remained undaunted and anatomically correct, but at ease. I was the Ice Princess. Totally cool and unflappable, just like a real Bond girl. I put my hand to my heart to slow it down from the start and from Fry’s nearness. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry.” He was grinning as he pulled up a chair next to mine. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

  “How’d you sneak up on me like that? I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you. It’s a trade secret.” Fry flashed me a flirty grin and nodded toward the computer screen. “So what are y’all doing out and about after curfew?”

  I’m neither a good actress nor an accomplished liar. But I’m pretty good at partial truths. I explained about my BlackBerry not working. “I’m expecting an important message,” I said, conveniently leaving out the “from my boyfriend” part. Spies never tell the whole truth anyway. “No one said anything about these computers being off-limits to guests.”

  “CTs,” he corrected. “Not by me, they aren’t. Rockford might shit bullets, though.” He winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. But it’s getting late. First full day of camp’s a real butt burner. You’ll need your rest. Why don’t I just see you safely back to your room?”

  And see me safely back, he did. Without putting any smooth 006 moves on me, more’s the pity. You know, Six was one of Bond’s best friends. They were in MI6 training together and had covered each other�
�s backsides on more than one mission. That’s what made his betrayal of Bond and country all the more heinous. So I expect Six had a lot of Bond’s talents with the ladies, too. Just like I imagine Fry does. After all, isn’t everything bigger in Texas? I grinned to myself at the thought.

  Chapter Five

  I woke on Monday morning after a night of fitful sleep. Fuming about my stolen camera and being a tiny bit fearful that the perp might come back for more of my goodies made for light sleeping. I did my best to push aside uneasy thoughts of someone breaking into my room.

  By morning’s light I’d halfway decided the theft was just a camp test to see how I’d react or how secure I kept my things … or something. It made sense. As far as I could remember, everyone had been at orientation, giving all the CTs alibis. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t keeping my eyes peeled for the camera’s return or that I wouldn’t be on the lookout for a guilty party. Or that I’d think it was funny when the Chief handed it back to me when camp was over.

  Excited and nervous about the day’s upcoming activities, I dressed in my tan Lycra sport bra top, matching bikini panties, spanking-new desert fatigue pants, and combat boots. Getting into the paramilitary aspect of camp, I was going for the Domino as GI Jane look. Yes, I was still wearing the signature Domino headband … in camouflage to match the outfit. That Domino is a regular style maven. Plus, I’d seen Bond wear his fair share of military attire.

  I met up with Emma in the bathroom, where we fought over the sink and mirror space as we raced to get ready. Eager for confirmation, I was dying to share my camera-stealing-camp-test theory with someone and desperately trying to think up a way to see if Emma knew anything about my missing camera. After all, she couldn’t have stolen it; she was with me the whole time and I beat her back to the room. But she might have seen something that would be helpful in getting it back.