City of Spies by Nina Berry Page A

with a zsh sound at the beginning of the word instead of a y . He gestured for them to follow him and they fell in as he led them through the airless, bustling airport. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    Pagan said, “Cavellini. That’s a beautiful name. Is it Italian?”
    Carlos’s smiled widened. “There is an old saying. A Porteño—that is what we who live in Buenos Aires call ourselves—a Porteño is an Italian who speaks Spanish, lives like a Frenchman and wants to be English.”
    They tucked themselves into the backseat of his big black car as Carlos and a porter loaded their luggage. Beyond the airport were green fields, but as they drove, the gray smudge of a city lurked on the horizon.
    â€œThey weren’t kidding when they said it’s summer here,” Pagan said, rolling her window down to feel the wind in her hair.
    Half an hour later they pulled up in front of a ten-story building that looked like something from a movie about Paris in the 1920s, with flags from a dozen countries waving over the grand entrance. The entire neighborhood reminded Pagan of Europe, with grand boulevards, green parks and many-storied gracious buildings dotted with window boxes and fancy decoration over the doorways.
    â€œThe Alvear Palace Hotel,” Carlos said. “Finest in the city.”
    â€œWhich barrio is this?” Mercedes asked, folding up a map she’d been studying. She’d read two books on Argentina before the trip, and had agreed to do a report for her social studies class at school when she got back. Pagan, as usual, was going in blind.
    â€œWe’re in Recoleta,” Carlos said. “North of the city center, where there are many colleges, museums, churches and fine homes.”
    Devin wasn’t waiting for them inside the ornate hotel lobby, either. The place had a sort of between the wars grandness and Pagan half expected to find Devin there chatting with girls dressed in sparkly flapper dresses, like something out of The Great Gatsby . But no matter how hard Pagan scrutinized the gold-bedecked marble columns, the red brocade benches or the high-ceilinged archways, he did not appear.
    â€œWhere the hell is he?” she muttered to Mercedes as Carlos ordered the bellboys to take their luggage and walked soundlessly along the thick Persian carpet to hand their passports to the hotel clerk.
    Mercedes shrugged. “Maybe his flight was delayed.”
    Pagan shook her head, irritated. “His flights are only late if he wants them late.”
    â€œWill you require the car this afternoon, señoritas ?” Carlos asked.
    Pagan exchanged a look with Mercedes. They were both exhausted from the trip. “Thanks, Carlos. I’ll see you down here tomorrow morning to go to wardrobe fittings.”
    As he touched his cap and walked off, the hotel clerk, a thin woman with ash blond hair and sharp blue eyes, was writing their information down on some cards. She looked up, pushing an official smile onto her lips. “ Buenos tardes , Señorita Jones. We’re so delighted to have you staying here for the next few weeks. We have the suite ready for you and your maid.” Her eyes flicked to Mercedes briefly, dismissively, then back to Pagan.
    Heat rose up from Pagan’s heart. Beside her, Mercedes got very still.
    â€œMy maid?” she asked, as if not quite understanding, although she understood all too well.
    The woman nodded. “Did you not want her in the same suite?”
    â€œDo you mean my sister?” Pagan blinked innocently and linked her arm through Mercedes’s, leaning into her warmly. Mercedes’s whole body was rigid, but she didn’t push Pagan away. “Did you hear that, sis? She thinks you’re my maid. What would Daddy have thought of that?”
    The clerk’s eyes got wide, first with surprise, then with disbelief. Pagan and Mercedes were close in height, one skinny, the other