Nina Berry: City Of Spies

Pagan Jones is back!

Celebrating her escape from East Germany and the success of her new film, teen starlet Pagan Jones returns to Hollywood to reclaim her place among the rich and the famous. She’s thrilled to be back, but memories of her time in Berlin—and elusively handsome secret agent Devin Black—continue to haunt her daydreams. The whirlwind of parties and celebrities just isn’t enough to distract Pagan from the excitement of being a spy or dampen her curiosity about her late mother’s mysterious past.

When Devin reappears with an opportunity for Pagan to get back into the spy game, she is eager to embrace the role once again—all she has to do is identify a potential Nazi war criminal. A man who has ties to her mother. Taking the mission means that she’ll have to star in a cheesy film and dance the tango with an incredibly awful costar, but Pagan knows all the real action will happen off-set, in the streets of Buenos Aires.

But as Pagan learns more about the man they’re investigating, she realizes that the stakes are much higher than they could have ever imagined, and that some secrets are best left undiscovered.

Praise for The Notorious Pagan Jones

“Blends the blinding spotlight of Hollywood, the sexy world of espionage, and a smattering of real-life events and figures to create a fast-paced spy thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Well-paced historical thriller. Scary in all the right places,

with a strong setup for the sequel.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Fast-paced and furious, this work will be a certain hit with those who love historical fiction, Hollywood, and stories of redemption.”

—School Library Journal

“A well-plotted balance of Hollywood glitter and international political conspiracies during the Cold War, and the historical backdrop is meticulously set. Pagan is a smart, charismatic heroine given depth by her struggles with alcoholism.”

—Booklist

“With a hint of Hollywood glam, mystery and a time period unique to the YA genre, Berry treats readers to a can’t-miss story. She finds a winner in Pagan, creating a Marilyn Monroe–like teen actress with a tale that will appeal to younger and older fans alike.”

—RT Book Reviews

www.mirabooks.co.uk

NINA BERRY was born in Honolulu, studied writing and film in Chicago, and now works and writes in Hollywood. She is the author of the Otherkin series and The Notorious Pagan Jones. When she’s not writing, Nina does her best to go bodysurfing, explore ancient crypts or head out on tiger safari. But mostly she’s on the couch with her cats, reading a good book.

For Paul “Doc” Berry.

Father, writer, teacher.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

Praise for The Notorious Pagan Jones

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

QUOTES

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Acknowledgments

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

Hollywood is wonderful. Anyone who doesn’t like it is either crazy or sober.

—Raymond Chandler

We dance tango because we have secrets.

—Marilyn Cole Lownes

CHAPTER ONE

Chatsworth, California

December 15, 1961

MILONGA

A tango party

Going to Frank Sinatra’s after-party was a mistake. But it wasn’t the raucous laughter coming from darkened dens, the half dozen nearly naked women splashing in the fifty-foot swimming pool or Frank and Dean Martin fighting over Angie Dickinson that bothered Pagan Jones.

No, the trouble for Pagan came from the gentle clink of ice in a tumbler and the quiet sloshing of Scotch, vodka and rum. It came from the overstocked bar in every room, dozens of tiny paper umbrellas discarded on tables and the bright scent of cut limes.

Pagan clung to Thomas Kruger’s muscular forearm with one hand, a bottle of Coke in the other, as they wound their way into the half-lit, high-ceilinged house with its glass walls and low-slung black leather sofas.

Thomas had been a big star back in his home country of East Germany before he and his family escaped to the West. Here in Hollywood he wasn’t a star yet, but he was tall, blond and ridiculously handsome, with comedic timing that made casting directors swoon. He and Pagan had bonded as friends for life during a movie shoot and a secret, breathless escape from East Berlin back in August.

“My first big Hollywood party,” he whispered to her, trying not to stare at the sparkling company lurking in every corner of the house. “That’s Jack Lemmon!” He stared at the dapper, Oscar-winning actor, who, pool cue in hand, was playfully holding it up to his eye like a telescope, pointing it at a petite blonde actress with the world’s tiniest waist. She aimed her own cue back at him like a rifle, sticking out her tongue. “He’s playing billiards with Janet Leigh! From Psycho!”

“If you get too overwhelmed, imagine them naked,” Pagan said, an in-joke they’d shared many times whenever actor nerves overwhelmed them. She caught a powerful whiff of Scotch as two men tottered past, drinks in hand. Suddenly she needed to breathe anything other than alcohol-soaked air. “Let me show you the rest of the estate.”

They stepped out onto the long, roofed arcade beside the pool. The cool night air banished the scent of liquor, but not her longing for it. Above, the quarter moon was a silver barrette clipped into the clouds.

“Sorry,” she said, knowing Thomas would understand. “It’s my first big party since the night we danced on top of the Hilton in West Berlin. Don’t let me get too close to the booze.”

He put a hand over hers. “Of course.”

She didn’t say it, but the real problem with parties like this was how fun they were. Here everyone was an adult, and anything was permitted so long as you did it with style. Sinatra’s parties were secret and exclusive, and once you were in, nobody but Frank himself could question you.

Pagan hadn’t attended a Hollywood party since the car accident where she’d driven drunk off Mulholland Drive, killing her father and little sister, and this was her first party of any kind since her last drink, back in August. She’d forgotten how much she craved the rampant creative juices fueled by a gathering of talented people, ramped up by alcohol, music and laughter. Random couples danced entwined in dark corners; heated debates became sudden duets.

Before she stopped drinking Pagan had attended many get-togethers like this one, some in this house, and she’d danced on top of a piano or two. She and her now ex-boyfriend Nicky Raven had been buddies with Nancy Sinatra and her husband, singer Tommy Sands, and Nancy’s father, Frank, had taken Nicky under his wing, tried to win him away from his record contract to record with Sinatra’s label.

But that was a lifetime ago. Nicky was married, for crying out loud. His wife was due to have their baby in a few months.

Pagan watched Thomas tug on his beer, eyes wide as he took in the sleek modern marvel of Farralone, Sinatra’s current digs hidden high on a hill where no one ever complained about the noise, and all the beautiful, famous faces inside it.

“Was that Marilyn Monroe?” Thomas asked, glancing over his shoulder to watch a platinum-blond head disappear into the darkness at the edge of the grassy lawn.