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limo driver.”
    Theresa opened her bag and took out her DSLR camera; she often used the powerful telephoto lens as an impromptu, incognito telescope. She put the camera to her eye and scanned the crowd anxiously, her heart pounding when her lens lit on a sign reading Stevens. “I found him!” she exclaimed, pointing to a tiny, shadowy figure in the distance.
    â€œLet’s hear it for the girl with the bionic eyes,” Caylin cheered. “Come on!”
    Her spirits back up and soaring, Theresa grabbed her bags and sprinted toward the limo driver. But an annoying voice in the back of her head kept reminding her of her little screwup in customs. When it comes time for us to really shine, she thought, am I going to be the one who spills the darn polish?
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    The second Jo sank down into the soft leather seat in the back of the limousine, the door shut, the engine roared to life, and the black privacy screen went up. “Privacy, anyone?” she quipped.
    At the sound of Jo’s voice the TV in the back of the limo flickered on.
    â€œWhoa!” Theresa enthused, jumping to check out the setup. She pointed to a tiny patch on the speaker. “Voice recognition mike,” she explained. “Turns the whole shebang on.”
    Uncle Sam’s voice filled the back of the limo.
    â€œYou’ve made it past customs,” he intoned, as a surveillance tape of Caylin putting on her airhead act for Ian came on-screen. “Just barely, I might add.”
    â€œHow in the world did Uncle Sam manage that?” Caylin shrieked, her face flaming.
    â€œNo idea,” Theresa squeaked, clearly flabbergasted.
    Jo’s jaw dropped in disbelief. This spy stuff gets freakier every day, she realized. In fact, it’s kinda creepy!
    Caylin’s image was replaced with a still of Buckingham Palace. “Welcome to London. Where you can shop till you drop at Harrods and Piccadilly Circus.”
    Jo’s eyes lit up with excitement as different shops were shown, rapid-fire, on-screen. “Oooh,” she breathed. “Maybe our mission is to masquerade as incurable shopaholics!”
    That idea flew out the window as footage of a tall, ugly building began to roll. “This is the U.S. Embassy,” Uncle Sam went on. “You’ll be infiltrating the embassy, ladies. The mission ahead is deadly serious. The fate of the world depends on you.”
    Jo gulped. This was not quite what she had in mind for a maiden mission. She shot a glance at her partners, whose gazes were glued firmly to the thick limo carpet. We’re all in this together, Jo thought, grabbing their hands in hers for strength. Theresa squeezed Jo’s hand in response. Caylin met her gaze and nodded in agreement, as if she had read Jo’s mind.
    â€œWatch carefully,” Uncle Sam continued. “The next face you will see belongs to William Nicholson, the American ambassador to the U.K.”
    The image of a ruggedly handsome man in his late fifties filled the screen. Caylin scooted up in her seat and narrowed her eyes as if she were drinking in every line on Nicholson’s time-worn face.
    â€œNicholson is a former media mogul,” Uncle Sam told them. “Born in America, he graduated from Oxford andsoon gained ownership of several newspapers in the U.S. and U.K., as well as a British radio franchise and an American television network. He gave it all up for a life of politics—his countless media outlets and British education helped him earn an ambassadorship to the U.K. The next face you see belongs to his son, Jonathon.”
    Theresa gulped.
    Caylin gasped.
    Jo grinned. The tall, dark, and handsome image that was now gracing the screen had cheekbones for years, shoulders for miles, and thick, dark eyelashes for days. Jonathon Nicholson’s brown eyes seemed to gaze lovingly into Jo’s right through the TV, and the glow coming off his Colgate smile was most