If Looks Could Kill (2 page)

“Yeah, we all read
The Beach,
Sammy,” Jo replied.

“Of course. Apparently it seems that a good number of these rich young westerners are going to Kinh-Sanh but not coming home. They've joined with a man known as ‘Luscious' Lucien West.”

“ ‘Luscious'?” Caylin asked, raising one perfectly shaped blond eyebrow. “You're joking.”

Sam sighed. “You girls know I don't have a sense of humor.”

“It's what we like best about you,” Jo replied. “Continue, please.”

“Right away, young lady,” Sam said dryly. “It seems this West runs a religious sect from a compound a few miles outside the capital city. And it's plush. Very opulent, very private, and very hush-hush.”

“My kind of joint,” Jo remarked.

“Backpackers get word of this place from an underground network running throughout Southeast Asia, and they flock to Lucien West—along with the account numbers of their trust funds,” Sam said.

“Sounds like a cult,” Caylin said. She leaned back into
the seat as the taxicab left Manhattan for JFK Airport.

“Yes, it does,” Sam agreed.

“So what does The Tower want with a self-professed holy man?” Theresa asked, squinting slightly.

The once surly driver slid a dossier through the opening in the Plexiglas partition. “Here you are, ladies,” he said, harsh New York accent and chewed-up cigar now gone.

They flipped it open and read while Sam spoke. Several satellite photos—super-zoom lens close—were clipped to the dossier. “The problem is that Lucien West's physical profile matches that of an international con man known only by the name of Carruthers. He's a chameleon.”

“So we see,” Theresa said, passing several photos of men with blond hair, black hair, mustaches, beards, and a dozen kinds of glasses. “This is all the same guy?”

“Yes. For the past ten years Carruthers has been linked with various schemes in Europe and the United States. Mostly things like counterfeiting, con games, and gambling. But he's never been caught.”

“Again I ask why The Tower cares about a con man fleecing some rich Euro-dweebs who don't know any better?”
Jo inquired, studying a photo of Carruthers wearing, of all things, a turban.

“Carruthers came to the attention of The Tower when he was linked to a group of terrorists trying to smuggle nuclear weapons out of Russia,” Sam answered gravely.

“Whoa,” Caylin replied. “Nukes?”

“Yes, Caylin. Nukes,” Sam said. “The plot failed, but again he was not caught. It's been three years since Carruthers has surfaced, and there's a good chance that this ‘Luscious' Lucien West is his latest guise. And as peace loving and charismatic as Lucien is purported to be, he could be hiding something sinister . . . and deadly.”

“But what if this Lucien guy is the real deal?” Jo asked, glancing warily at her friends.

“That's precisely what you're going to find out,” Sammy replied.

Nothing like walking in blind, Caylin thought. “Great,” she said. “But what if he's not?”

“That, Spy Girls,” Sam said ominously, “is precisely for you to take care of.”

“This is
wild,”
Theresa remarked as the Spy Girls slowly moved through the crowded streets of Kinh-Sanh's capital city. The culture shock was instantaneous—no matter how many countries they were sent to, Theresa never got over the first few minutes. “It's so alive!”

After the eternal flight across the Pacific, a taxi had sounded like torture. So to take them to their Kinh-Sanh digs, the Spy Girls hired a rickshaw—sort of a human-drawn cart. The driver just chugged along, seeming unfazed by the load he was carrying—three Spy Girls plus luggage. His only reaction when they flagged him was to glare at their pile of bags, roll his eyes, and say something unintelligible.

The capital was a beautiful city. Modern skyscrapers mingled with more traditional architecture, blending the
Old World with the New. According to the Spy Girls' briefing, the prime minister of Kinh-Sanh had set forth a bold plan to modernize his country so that it might grow into a major trading power with the United States. Kinh-Sanh was known for its clothing industry—as well as its burgeoning computer industry. The tiny nation wasn't far from becoming a young Singapore. The streets were clean and safe, the citizens were educated, and the country was definitely on the upswing.

No wonder all the Western kids traveling across Asia stopped off here,
Theresa thought.
This place is so cool.

The rickshaw driver rolled them through the market district, a zoo of merchants, tourists, and native shoppers haggling over fish, bread, and cheesy souvenirs. Theresa soaked it all up, knowing that they were about to undertake a mission in the most exotic locale yet.

Finally the streets thinned out, and the driver stopped in front of a squat apartment building.

“I guess this is it,” Jo said. She peeled off some Kinh-Sanh currency—known as the
yingling
—and passed it to the driver. She also slipped him a U.S. ten-dollar bill
with it. “Forgive the obnoxious American, buddy, but you deserve it after hauling
our
luggage.”

The man smiled and jogged off.

“Looks like we lug our own bags,” Theresa said, glumly staring at all her stuff, then at the building. “To the
third
floor.”

Caylin slung her backpack over one shoulder.

“You girls really need to learn how to pack light.”

“Show me some computer hardware that weighs less than a hundred pounds and I'll pack it,” Theresa grumbled, hefting her twin duffels.

“No one said you had to bring HAL 9000,” Jo muttered. “You
always
bring HAL 9000. And his family, too.”

“You glam queens have no appreciation of the fine art of hacking,” Theresa replied as they entered the building and began the long climb to the third floor. “This is precision equipment. Unlike your crate o' Esteé Lauder, Jo.”

“A small price to pay for world peace,” Jo replied with a sigh.

Several minutes of bickering later, the girls found their apartment. Theresa produced the key that had been
included in their mission pouch and opened the door.

All three of them gasped.

Unbelievable,
Theresa marveled silently, mouth gaping.

“Am I wrong, or is this pad the paddiest pad yet?” Jo asked breathlessly.

“Pretty paddy,” Caylin agreed.

The whole place was decorated in traditional Kinh-Sanh, complete with what appeared to be antique vases, rugs, screens, and figurines. Huge windows illuminated the twelve-foot walls with streaks of late-afternoon sunlight, bathing the apartment in an exotic orange. There was no furniture per se. There were, however, dozens of huge throw pillows and mats. In fact, the sunken center of the living room was a sea of velvet and chenille.

“I feel like a stupid American,” Theresa mumbled, shaking her head. “If I had taken the time to learn anything about Kinh-Sanh culture, I'm sure I'd appreciate this a whole lot more.”

“I dunno,” Jo replied incredulously. “I'm appreciating it pretty well over here. And I don't even know how to ask, ‘Where's the bathroom?' ”

Reluctantly they dispersed to find the bedrooms, the kitchen, and for Theresa what would serve as a computer and communications room. In this area there were ports for all her equipment, along with a normal desk and chair. There were also three ten-speed mountain bikes hanging from the ceiling. Once Theresa saw the computer ports, the spell was broken for her.

“Jackpot,” she whispered.

She returned to the main room to fetch her bags so she could set up shop immediately.

“Well, I'm not unpacking,” Caylin said with a sigh. “I've got to jam.”

Jo raised her eyebrows. “Already?”

“We just got here,” Theresa added.

Caylin nodded. “I know. But if I'm going to make Lucien's compound by nightfall, I have to head out now. The map says it's ten miles.”

Caylin had been elected—actually, Uncle Sam did the electing—to infiltrate Lucien West's cult, posing as yet another American backpacking across Asia with a pile of cash burning a big hole in her pocket.

“What kind of toys did Sammy give you?” Theresa asked, referring to the special-ops equipment that they were each issued at the beginning of each mission.

Caylin smiled and held up an object the size of a lipstick.

“That's
it
?” Jo asked.

“That's it,” Caylin replied, zipping up her hooded fleece sweatshirt. “One miniature cell phone for emergency use only.”

“What's the number?” Theresa asked.

“No number,” Caylin said as she pocketed the phone. “It's one-way only. I can call you, but you can't call me. It wouldn't be too cool if you called me and this thing went off in the middle of a prayer circle or something.”

“Guess not,” Jo said grimly. “You be careful.”

“Tell that to Luscious,” Caylin replied. Theresa watched as she went into the computer room and unhooked a mountain bike from the rack. Then she shouldered her backpack, pulled the straps tight, and grabbed the bike. At the door Caylin stopped and turned.

“Later, Spy Girls.”

Jo and Theresa waved, and with a deep breath Caylin left to go infiltrate the compound of Luscious Lucien West. After she was gone, Theresa turned to Jo. “I hate it when we split up.”

“I know,” Jo replied, shoulders slumping. “It's like we're missing a wheel.”

Theresa smirked. “That would make us a tricycle, Jo.”

Jo nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“Nothing—forget it.” Theresa shook her head. “Do you think Cay'll be all right?”

Jo flopped down onto a pile of luxurious pillows and sighed. “She's cut off from her network. She's alone in a foreign country with no knowledge of the language or customs. She's infiltrating the home of a criminal who may or may not be up to something incredibly tacky.” Jo smiled. “Of course she'll be okay.”

•  •  •

Theresa pounded away on the keyboard like Lady Gaga after a bad interview. Try as she might, she couldn't hack into Lucien West's files.

“I'm becoming
extremely
peeved,” she warned the
room. “Nobody needs this much security on their files. Madonna doesn't have this much security.”

Just then Jo sashayed into the computer room. She spun around to show off her freshly unpacked ensemble of ribbed cotton tank top, black leggings, and flowing black kimono with an intricate dragon design. “What do you think of my ‘first-day-in-Kinh-Sanh' selection, T.?”

Theresa tore her eyes away from the screen long enough to look Jo over. “East meets West in a head-on collision. Call the paramedics.”

Jo's hands went to her hips faster than you could say
unsolicited attack.
“Well, we're a walking pile of personal problems today, aren't we?”

“It's our buddy, Luscious,” Theresa said, gesturing at her machine.

Jo came closer and squinted at the screen. “Problem, O Goddess of the Technogeeks?”

Theresa finished a particularly feverish bout of typing and turned to her partner. “It's like Fort Knox, Jo. It's like this Luscious is hiding the next big entry in the burger wars or something. I can't get in anywhere! Auuugh!” She growled and
tapped more keys. Tapped. Growled. Tapped. Then pounded the keyboard in frustration. “And what kind of a name is
Luscious,
anyway? What is he, a professional wrestler?”

Suddenly Theresa's computer let out an angry beep.

Theresa gulped. “Uh-oh.”

Jo stiffened. “What is it?”

It beeped again.

Theresa typed wildly, alternating between her keyboard and her mouse. “Whoa,” she said. “Whoa . . .
whoa!”

Theresa lunged across the desk and yanked the cord out of her modem. Then she kicked the power cord out of the wall. She reclined in her chair and sighed. “That was way uncalled for.”

“What was?” Jo asked, clueless.

Theresa shook her head in disbelief. “I haven't seen anything like that since the CIA,” she said.

“Come on, girl, speak!” Jo growled in frustration. “Anything like
what
?”

“Watch this.” Theresa reattached all her wires and hit the power switch. Her laptop came on, but the screen was blank. No cursor, no intro screen, no nothing.

“What does that mean?” Jo asked with a shrug.

Theresa sighed and slumped into her chair. “It means I got nuked in a big way. The security program on Lucien's network destroyed my computer. Everything's gone. It's useless.”

“Wow,” Jo said, stroking her jaw. “He can do that?”

“He just did.” Theresa shook her head. “This is some serious stuff. Whoever set up Lucien's net is a true ace. This is government-level watchdog programming. And it took a bite out of me. I need a new computer!”

“We'll have to request one from Sammy,” Jo said.

Theresa chuckled. “He'll be happy to hear about that.”

“Did you find anything at all?”

Theresa snapped up the lone printout she could extract from the computer. “It looks like Lucien's corporation has extensive holdings in the city. But the only thing concrete I could find was this.” She handed over the page to Jo. “It's a warehouse down on the waterfront. Supposedly he's going to use it for some future recreation facility. But right now it's empty.”

“Okay,” Jo replied, nodding. “So that leaves us with two questions.”

Theresa ran her hands through her dark hair and blew out an exasperated breath. “Two questions?”

Jo nodded. “One, what would a second-rate religious cult leader need with world-class security on his computer files?”