I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

the hell was I supposed to do? Tail him to his hotel? Disguise myself as room service and spy on him from there? Why was SO17 even interested in him anyway?
    “Are you okay?” asked a pleasant American voice as I prepared to spill tea down my tenth victim. They make it look so damn easy when you’re flying. Being cabin crew is really hard!
    “Yeah, I’m sorry.” I looked up from the tray into lovely hazel eyes and a perfect, all-American smile. “It’s my first day.”
    He grinned. “Gotta start somewhere. Well—” he peered at my chest, and I realised he was looking at my name-badge (hell cannot know how much I hate that badge and the trouble it gets me into), “—Sophie, I think you’re doing just fine.”
    I gave him a tense smile. “Thanks.”
    He offered me his hand. “I’m Harvey.”
    Like the cocktail? “Nice to meet you.” I handed him his tea, dripping slightly, and moved away. But every time I passed him, he smiled at me, and I started smiling back, feeling like I had a friend on board.
    Which was more than I could say for the crew. Ace hired the biggest bitches—male and female—there ever were, and locked you in a tin can with them. Cruelty! They never said anything nice to me, never helped me out at all, just told me to do stuff and laughed at me when I said I couldn’t.
    “Didn’t you have any training?” one of them asked. He had peroxide hair and could not have looked gayer if he’d been wearing pink and flopping his wrist. He gave me an up-and-down that took in my frazzled hair (no amount of hairspray will hold it), melted make-up, sweat-patches under my arms, and tea stains on my trousers. He sneered, and I snapped.
    I reached past him for my bag and withdrew my wallet with my red pass and warrant card.
    “No,” I said, flashing the card at him, “no training. I’m undercover. I have had a long day, people have been sending me fingers through the post and I found a dead body the day before yesterday. Be nice to me or I’ll show you what kind of weaponry a government agent carries.”
    God, I wished I’d had a camera.
    In fact, I did, and I took out my Nokia and snapped a picture of his face.
    “For my files,” I said, and after that, they couldn’t have been nicer.
     
    We landed at Ciampino airport and I abandoned the crew, rushing away after Wright. He had no luggage to collect and strode ahead out of the little terminal to the taxi rank, where he stood talking to the driver in rapid Italian.
    Shit. There were a lot of other taxis around but I didn’t know the Italian for “follow that car”!
    I stood staring at him as he got in. “Double shit!” I hissed, stamping my foot.
    “Are you okay?”
    It was Harvey, the all-American boy. Out in the sunlight he was tall and sparkling, looking perfectly refreshed after the flight, jacket slung over his arm, tie perfectly in place.
    I let out a sigh. “Do you know the Italian for ‘follow that car’?”
    He grinned, shading his eyes and looking after Wright’s taxi, now waiting to turn off the concourse. “That car?”
    “Yes. There’s a passenger in there who left his camera behind. I want to give it back to him.”
    Harvey stared at me. “You’re a full service airline, aren’t you?”
    “I surely am.” I looked up at him, pleadingly, and he shrugged. “Okay, hop in,” he said, opening the door for me. “I’ll come with you.”
    I stared.
    “We had a chat at the gate,” Harvey said easily. “We’re staying in the same hotel.” He said something to the driver, who nodded. Harvey gave me a little push towards the car.
    I had no choice but to get in, one hand inside my bag, searching for my stun gun. Illegal, hell. Thank God for my red pass which had let me through security without being scanned.
    Though fuck knew how I’d get back through Italian security.
    “So,” Harvey turned to me, flashing his perfect white teeth again, “how are you finding the aviation industry?”
    I hated it. I hated every part of it. People should go back to ships and trains.
    “Oh, I’m loving it,” I said brightly. “Especially the people. They’re all so kind.”
    He nodded. “I guess it takes a special kind of person to do that kind of job.”
    Yes. A complete sociopath.
    “Of course. It takes a lot of patience and understanding, and you have to love working with people.”
    “Have you always wanted to do it?”
    No. Even when I was a little girl and there was still some sort of glamour to flying, before