Mata Hari Squad

By Erin L. Jungdahl

Nothing can stop a spy on a mission, except maybe one of her partners.

Miranda Watson wants two things in life: a good bottle of wine and a promotion. Not at her day job, her real job: espionage. The work makes her feel alive but her newest partner is killing her... chances for that coveted promotion.
When she uncovers a contractor blackmailing a politician, Miranda is certain that she's found her ticket to the top. Her partner has loftier concerns. Can they set aside their differences to save a woman's life?

Mata Hari Squad is a spy novel for people looking for Jane Bond. If you like James Bond, Scandal, and Charlie's Angels, you should check this story out today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin L. Jungdahl
• Release date: Mar 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386689041

Erin L. Jungdahl

Erin L Jungdahl (yeah, you read that right “Young-dahl”) wrote a story about cats and dogs the moment she figured out how to write. She went on to write about princesses, mermaids, robots, and spies. Erin lives in San Antonio with her husband and three cats. She is back to writing about cats and dogs and loving every minute of it.

Book preview

1

December 8, 2015

M iranda. Come in, Miranda. You need to meet him by the left boot of the Big Tex statue. Lachelle’s smooth, silvery voice crackled into my earpiece.

I’m not sure she heard my snort over the wind that whipped through the fairgrounds, but I thought the microphone hidden in my necklace at least picked up my sarcasm as I said, Jesus, Lachelle, it’s not like everyone in Dallas uses this landmark as a meeting spot or anything. Can you tell me about the contact?

Despite the early morning chill, Big Tex was swarming with the denim-clad masses in their cowboy hats and dress boots. All Lachelle had told me before I’d left the house that morning was that I would need to meet a guy outside the fairgrounds later. If I had to guess, there were at least three dozen guys milling around Big Tex’s boots. It was impossible to pick an American out of that crowd.

There was a long enough pause for me to wonder if the new earpiece was already malfunctioning, but Lachelle’s voice was clear as she spoke. He’ll be wearing a Central Iowa College ring. But don’t worry, he’s expecting you.

What? I must have said that a little too loudly, because a few people turned to gawk at me. I probably came off a little crazy, having what seemed like a one-sided conversation with myself. Oh well, at least I knew I looked good otherwise. My burgundy sweater dress and tall suede boots were the height of fashion, and my hair had great volume that day.

I lowered my voice and started shuffling toward the base of the statue. A ring? Really? That’s all I have to go on? Well, at least he knows to look for me…wait a second, that’s why you asked about my plans for today’s outfit yesterday!

And I can’t imagine why you didn’t say ‘pants’ with the day you’re going to have. But I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to operate in the field. Anyway, the guy’s new to the country and more than a little skittish. It took forever to get him to talk to me in the chat rooms. I didn’t give him any real names; just answer when somebody calls for ‘Becky Schriver.’

You and your chat rooms. Fine. Now be quiet and let me examine the class rings of every man in the vicinity of Big Tex.

Go get ‘em, Becky.

I took a Liberation Day celebration brochure from a large woman in a pearl-snap button-down and tight-fitting jeans that were tucked into her pink cowboy boots. I pretended to be engrossed in the brochure while I scanned the crowd for anyone who looked particularly American. The history section described the carnival and parade as an annual celebration of the day in 1963 when the Southwestern states seceded from the United States to form the Republic of Presidio. The rest of the brochure’s history section talked about past Liberation Day celebrations and seriously downplayed the events of 1963 and 1964.

I read the pamphlet three times through before I heard the whisper, Becky Schriver?

I turned and saw a short, trim man wearing a black motorcycle jacket and mirrored sunglasses. His chalk-white face was carefully blank, but the way he dragged a hand through his buzzed brown hair made it clear that he was anxious. I noticed a class ring glinting on his right hand and concluded that this was probably Lachelle’s contact.

I brushed my long, dark bangs behind one ear and settled into the role of an over-awed female, complete with breathy voice. Did somebody call for Becky Schriver?

His thin lips pressed into a cautious smile as he looked me up and down. The way his gaze lingered on the skin between the top of my calf-high boots and the bottom of my sweater dress prompted me to tug at the hem of my dress. My fidgeting must have given him a strange shot of confidence, because he walked closer and started speaking at a normal volume. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Becky. Your profile picture doesn’t do you justice.

I’m told it’s better to under-promise and over-deliver… I trailed off and bit my lip to prevent myself from asking Lachelle then and there exactly what picture she had posted.

All the same, my earpiece crackled to life. If you’re waiting for me to give you a name, I don’t have a name for him and, trust me, you do not want to say his screen name out loud in that crowd.

I almost let out a huff of irritation, but thought better of it. The strange man’s eyes lingered on my chest with no sign of moving any closer to my face, and I had to remind myself that veteran field agents did not begin their missions by punching their contacts in the throat.

He took my silence for awe and started laying on the melodrama. For your safety, it’s better if you don’t know my name.

So what should I call you…Wildcat?

What?

Isn’t that the mascot for the Central Iowa College?

His cautious smile widened to reveal he had dimples. Sure, let’s go with Wildcat. Now, Becky, I need to lay down a few ground rules. Let’s take a walk.

Wildcat offered me his arm and I took it. We left the crowd by Big Tex behind us and started strolling down a footpath lined with restaurant stalls. The aroma of barbecue mixed with fried candy bars was so intense that I about needed an antacid just walking by everything. We passed families stuffing their faces with funnel cakes and children clutching arcade prizes, but Wildcat stared straight ahead.

His voice was soft, though not quite a whisper. It was clear that he didn’t want to be overheard as he said, We’re not acting on behalf of the United States of America. The USA can’t afford to be seen as interfering with a neighboring country and member of the G14 to this degree.

So…like why are you doing this? I asked, trying my hardest to sound like an airhead; I wanted him to think I was both slow and sympathetic instead of judgmental.

That question was all it took to turn the soft-spoken man into a starry-eyed idealist. His chest puffed up and he started waving his free hand to emphasize his words. Because this country is illegal! The traitors took advantage of the country’s preoccupation with the Vietnam War, stole American nuclear weapons, and then had the gall to seek a place within the international community!

Keep your voice down! Anyone could hear us and report us to the Presidian Guard, I whispered fiercely.

My concern was less for his safety and more for my self-preservation. Lachelle had found this guy in one of her stupid chat room trawls and insisted that we needed to intervene lest he be successful in his attempts and prompt the Republic of Presidio to crack down on American immigrants like Lachelle’s father and me as a result. I had agreed because it would be markedly more difficult to do our jobs as members of the Ladies in Blue with even more stringent national security and border regulations in place.

Wildcat took a deep breath and looked around to see if anyone might have overheard his passionate rant. When he was satisfied by his scan, he started talking in an even lower voice than before. As I was saying, we can’t be seen as agents of the United States of America. Our mission here is to bring the government to its knees. My associates have planted a bomb in the pavilion where the Prime Minister and his cabinet will be standing in half an hour. When I receive the signal, I will hit the detonator and a new age will begin.

Why are you sharing all this with me? I wasn’t even acting there. I wanted to know what kind of idiot would just hand over such sensitive information at the drop of a hat.

He looked at me like I had asked him what was the sum of two and two. He sighed and answered, Because you’re going to be our distraction.

Come again? I almost dropped character in alarm. Lachelle had mentioned nothing about playing bait. I was going to kill her when I got home.

You’re going to distract the Prime Minister’s bodyguards when they’re supposed to be performing a perimeter check.

That’s suicide. Do you know how seriously those guys take their jobs?

Don’t worry, your sacrifice will be for the greater good.

Correction, I was going to kill Lachelle if I lived to see the other side of this mission.

I think I managed to keep my expression pretty neutral while I came up with a plan, because he didn’t say anything more. We approached the pavilion where the Prime Minister and his cabinet would later watch the festivities. The pavilion had a prime viewing point for watching the parade. After what must have been every marching band in Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Louisiana, Arizona, and California, a convertible Lincoln Continental rolled down the road with very unflattering caricatures of John F. Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy in the back seat. The actor playing John had been made up to look as if he had been riddled with bullet holes, and Jackie was liberally spattered with fake blood.

That's just sick. Wildcat sneered and I didn't have to pretend to agree with him.

A troop of clowns wearing Lyndon B. Johnson masks danced behind the gruesome convertible. Wildcat's reaction to the depiction of LBJ was muted to the point of almost finding it amusing if the twist of his lip was any indication. His expression darkened as soon as he saw a Lee Harvey Oswald lookalike riding on a sedan chair waving a sniper rifle above his head. Following Lee Harvey Oswald was a float with living statues dressed and painted to look like Anton Cox, Samuel Madison, Connery Crichton, David Gables, and the other local politicians and businessmen who’d rallied the Southwest into secession and founded the great republic of Presidio.

Who are those people? Wildcat asked.

Their names aren't especially important, but basically they knew that LBJ would fight tooth and nail to bring his home state, Texas, back in line, so they cut a deal with the military. Some enterprising politicians from Texas pointed out that the military personnel stationed in the Southwest could take advantage of the strategic placement of nuclear weapons to found and lead the Presidian Armed Forces. It was either that or likely die in a civil war after which the survivors would be the first to get shipped off to Vietnam where they would most certainly be killed. The local military presence almost unanimously decided to stick around to build the Presidian military. And that's how Presidio got away with secession without getting into a Confederate-style civil war. The placement of the nuclear weapon played a pretty big part in that calculation.

Every single one of those weasels should have been put in front of a firing squad.

Well, LBJ had a weakened military and a choice. If he wanted to maintain support for his Great Society legislation, he needed the remaining war hawks in Congress to continue to back him. The hawks wanted troops to stay in Vietnam to fight communists. The hawks weren't thrilled by the antics of the Southwestern politicians, but at least the founders of Presidio were avowed anti-communists. To fight to bring the Southwestern states back in line, LBJ would have had to draw the troops out of Vietnam, let the communists take South Vietnam, pit brother against brother, risk nuclear war, and lose support for the Great Society. In the end, LBJ made immigration between the US and Presidio illegal and placed a number of economic sanctions on Presidio. He got his Great Society, the hawks got their Vietnam War, and Presidio got its start.

Wildcat yawned; apparently his interest in politics and idealism didn't include an appreciation of political economy. He checked his watch and glanced over to the Ferris wheel. I followed his gaze and spotted an orange rag falling from the highest point of the ride.

That's our signal. We have ten minutes to get into position. Go flirt with the bodyguards—they're in that little tent off to the side of the pavilion.

I put a hand on his shoulder as he started to walk away. Wait, what? What are you going to do?

I'm going hide so they don't put two and two together.

He shrugged my hand off and didn't look back as he walked off toward a turkey leg truck. I padded silently after him, pulled a tranquilizer gun out of my purse, and shot him in the back as we approached the back of the truck. Wildcat sank to the ground and his eyes were drifting shut as I dragged him to lean up against the back wall of the truck. A person coming out of the neighboring food truck looked on in concern.

I smiled and angled my body to block the bystander’s view while I dug through Wildcat’s pockets for anything that could be a detonator. He’s fine, just hit the beer a little too early. His friend is expecting him.

The person made a sympathetic oohing sound and didn’t linger. When I found his cellphone and a hefty, pen-sized cylinder with a button on one end, I shoved them in my purse and made my way back to the pavilion.

Even though I had fewer than ten minutes to figure out how I was going to find and disarm the bomb, I still found time to hit the talk button on my necklace and hiss, Lachelle, you psychotic bitch, you let him believe that I was ready to die for his delusions?

You're not going to die, you already have the detonator.

I don't think that's how bombs work.

Then quit bitching and disarm the bomb already if you’re so worried about it.

How do I disarm the bomb if I don't know how to find it?

Look for a briefcase.

What?

I'll bet you five bucks it's a briefcase they have hidden near the Prime Minister’s seat.

That did sound about right considering the sophistication of Wildcat’s language. I walked up to the pavilion and was predictably stopped by one of the security guards stationed by every pillar.

Before he could ask what I was doing, I launched into air-headed girlfriend mode. Sir, I’m meeting my boyfriend; he has our admission tickets to see Prime Minister Ortiz. I see him over there—can I please go to him?

The security guard raised a bushy eyebrow and looked around. What’s your boyfriend’s name?

Connery Crichton III.

All right, wait here while I check to see if he's on the list.

When his back was turned, I made a beeline for the platform where the Prime Minister would be seated. I didn’t see anything suspicious next to the chairs on top of the platform, but there was a space between the top of the platform and the ground. That gap was large enough for a suitcase, so I dove to the floor and started crawling underneath the platform before anyone could stop and question me.

Sure enough, there was a black briefcase all by itself. I fished out a pair of leather gloves from my coat pocket and opened the briefcase. In the dark, it was hard to see little but the display panel, but I pulled out my cellphone and used its light to find the wires.

My earpiece crackled to life. Cut the red one.

How the hell could Lachelle see what I was doing? She hadn't given me any body cameras that morning…

I hacked your cellphone’s cameras for situations like this. Cut the red wire and get out of there before the Prime Minister arrives.

I cut the red wire and started scooting toward the edge of the platform, only to stop when a band started playing the national anthem, Grand Canyon Triumphant.

There was no escaping while the Prime Minister and his guests arrived, so I settled in until the speeches and national anthem were finished. I pulled the cylinder and Wildcat’s cellphone out of my pocket and started taking them apart. I didn't want to keep them on my person in case someone realized that I was hiding under the platform or caught me on my way out, but I didn't want to leave them in working condition in case Wildcat and his associates rallied. Once I ran out of pieces to break, I started looking for an opening to make my getaway.

Security guards were posted every few yards, and I was willing to bet that they were all armed. If I could just get past the guards on the east side of the pavilion—there weren't any tents nearby—I could saunter off like nothing had happened. I took a bolt from the broken-down cylinder and rolled it in the opposite direction that I was getting ready to go. The movement of the bolt should have caught their attention; they would be busy trying to figure out where it had come from and not watching the exits.

Like dominos, the security guards started shuffling around at the sight of another guard moving. I took advantage of the confusion and beat a path toward the clearing to the east of the pavilion. The whole time I worried that one of the guards would look in my direction and I’d end up at the bottom of a security guard dog pile. Thankfully, that fear didn't come to light, and soon I was freely walking down the main drag well past the pavilion. But I wasn't going to take any chances.

I walked over to a man who was by himself and tapped him on the shoulder. Excuse me, may I walk with you? I'm trying to get away from a weirdo my friend set me up with, and I don't think he'd bother me if I was with someone.

The man's eyebrow quirked in concern, but he nodded. We started walking together and he stayed quiet as we headed back toward Big Tex. I tried to engage him in conversation once or twice, but he didn't give me more than a one-word answer until we were by the statue.

Are you going to be okay here?

I blinked, surprised that he’d spoken without being prompted. Yes, this should be fine. Thank you for helping me out.

No worries. Next time tell your friend to give you a call in the middle of the date so you have a convenient way out.

Whatever I expected from that man, it hadn’t been dating advice. I swallowed to give myself a minute to remember how to speak. That's a pretty good plan. I'll remember that for next time.

He smiled and waved goodbye before disappearing back into the crowds. I took a deep breath and headed for my car.

2

December 9, 2015

Iwas reading a local news story about the arrest of an American man at the Liberation Day Festival in Fair Park when I heard a soft knock on the door of my cramped office.

Once I minimized the news window and pulled up a half-finished museum donor newsletter, I barked, Enter.

The door didn’t open right away, so I got up to peer out the narrow window to the side of my door. Sue was standing outside with a cardboard box in her plump arms, tossing her head to get the hair of her straight red bob out of her face. I sighed and took half a step forward to wrench the door open for her.

She blinked at me for a minute before speaking with her drawling spin on the twangy accent that marked her as a member of Dallas’ upper crust. Hi Miranda, sorry to bother you…

Sue kept talking but I stopped paying attention; she had a habit of nattering on and on without getting to a point. I probably could have gone on a coffee run without missing anything important. I considered it. I glanced at the cardboard box and took in the potted pink hydrangea, lightly used office supplies, and framed pictures before something occurred to me: Was Sue leaving?

Jordan finally proposed, and I told Clarissa there was just so much to do with the wedding that I just didn’t have two weeks to spare—

Wait, is this your last day?

Yep, this is the end of my museum fundraising days.

After eight years of working at the museum, I had seen many women like Sue quit as soon as the engagement ring slid over their first knuckle. That was pretty common in Presidio, but I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t transitioning her duties to colleagues, instead of making social calls on her walk to the parking garage…and then it dawned on me.

Clarissa and I already divvied up my contacts, but I wanted to give you Bunny’s file in person. She’s a darling woman, but she thinks her personal mission in life is to play cupid for her friends and relatives. She’s trying to get one of her nephews to settle down, and since you’re single…anyway, she has all that oil and gas money, and the museum loves to see her write big, fat donation checks, so…you know.

Oh, I knew Bunny; after eight years of working at the Dallas Museum of Contemporary Art, I knew the queen of the Dallas social scene better than I’d have liked to. There was no point in arguing with Sue over the assignment, so I kept it civil. So, we can’t lose her. Great. Thanks for the heads-up, Sue. Best of luck to you and Jordan.

Sue dropped her cardboard box next to the kentia palm by my door and wrapped me in a hug. I tried not to cringe at the smell of her tuber rose perfume and halfway returned the hug. Growing up with five older brothers in the more remote reaches of Wyoming, I was more inclined to punch a person out of affection than hug them, but the women in Presidio were crazy about physical affection. Sue was certainly no exception, but she let me go after about a minute. She was all smiles as she picked up her box and said, We’re having a little engagement party before Christmas. Watch your email for the invitation!

I smiled back and waited until Sue had rounded the corner at the end of the hall before closing my office door with enough force to make the leaves of the palm tree rustle. Now, I didn’t slam the door; I was a grown woman in control of my emotions. I didn’t throw tantrums at work. I took a deep breath and straightened my navy sheath dress and cream silk blazer. Bunny Madison-Gables was going to be a huge pain in the ass. She just didn’t know any other way to be. But if Sue and Clarissa thought I was going to be the one to humor her and keep her donations flowing into the museum coffers, they were sorely mistaken.

My desk phone started ringing and I picked up right away. Dallas Museum of Contemporary Art, Fundraising Department; this is Miranda Watson speaking.

A moment passed in silence before I heard her signature delicate cough. Hello Miranda, it’s Bunny Madison-Gables. Little Sue Renee Baker got engaged last night, and she told me right away that you’d be the one helping me with all my ideas for the museum. We should have lunch, darling. When are you free?

I could feel my heart rate spike. How could she know Sue had literally just walked out of the door? I started flipping through my day planner while hemming and hawing as I tried to think of an excuse, any excuse, to get out of lunch with that dreadful old woman. "Ohhh, it’s a really busy time of year. You know the gala’s about a month away, and there’s just so much that goes into making that happen. Tell you what, let me see if I can move