Tracy left Jacob Bodie’s Bond Street gallery feeling confident and well prepared.
THE NEXT NIGHT, SITTING in the pitch dark outside Frank Dorrien’s house in a rented car with the engine switched off, all her confidence had deserted her. Tracy was as frozen with fear as she had been on the Bellamy job, and every job since.
What the hell am I doing here?
There’s a plane ticket waiting for me at Heathrow. If I leave now, I’ll still have time for dinner before takeoff. Maybe a nice, relaxing glass of red wine.
But it was too late for that now. Tracy was here. The decision was made.
She opened the car door.
In black overalls, gloves and boots and with a cap pulled low over her head, she was close to invisible as she approached the house. Not that it mattered. The entire street was deserted. The Dorriens’ neighbors were all at home watching the Strictly Come Dancing final on TV, their curtains firmly drawn.
Tracy’s heart was beating so loudly, she could hear nothing else. She’d forgotten quite how nauseous adrenaline made her.
She was at the front door now, Bodie’s copied key in her hand. Once she opened it she was committed.
Cameron Crewe’s voice rang in her ears.
You won’t find proof!
You’ll be arrested, Tracy.
Tracy slipped the key in the door and turned the handle.
The alarm exploded into life. No bells were ringing yet, but the system was beeping loudly, very loudly, like an angry bee calling back to its hive for reinforcements. Any minute now there would be sirens and lights and . . .
Shit! Where the fuck is the keypad?
Flustered, Tracy felt desperately up and down the wall. Finally she found it, hidden behind a hanging coat. Thank God! Heart hammering, she keyed in the code.
Nothing happened.
Damn it! Her hands were shaking. In her panic, she must have got the numbers in the wrong order. Tracy knew she only had twenty seconds to disarm the system. Jacob had been very clear about that. Ten of those seconds must have passed already, at least.
Sweat poured down Tracy’s back like a river. She didn’t care about being caught for herself. Her own life, her own safety, meant nothing to her anymore. But she had to know what Frank Dorrien was hiding. She had to put the pieces of this puzzle together, for Nicholas’s sake.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she typed the code in again, slowly this time, whispering each number as she pressed.
Five. Three. Five. Six.
The beeping stopped.
Tracy laughed. For the first time since she opened her eyes this morning, she began to relax.
Frank Dorrien’s house was small and neat and orderly and a little bit soulless, at least to Tracy’s way of thinking. There were no family photographs on display, no flowers, no novels or newspapers left casually on a side table. It was more like an office than a home. There was also far too much brown, heavy furniture, nothing colorful or feminine or light. Although perhaps things looked worse in the gloom? Frank and Cynthia had left a few lights on downstairs—no energy saving going on in the Dorrien household. No doubt Frank thought that was for hippies and lefties, but the illumination was patchy at best. Upstairs, everything was pitch-dark.
As black as the general’s heart, Tracy thought. As black as my world without Nick.
She headed to the master bedroom. This, too, was a dull space, as uninspiring as any corporate apartment. There was a simply upholstered Habitat bed with plain white linen, a chest of drawers with a carved, Chinese box on top and some built-in closets with mirrored doors. A lone cushion in the shape of a sausage dog, propped up against the pillows, was the only sign of humor or personal taste of any kind. Clearly, General Frank was as controlled and uptight at home as he was at work.
The safe was exactly where Jacob said it would be, at the back of the large master closet. Tracy didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, but the safe seemed a good place to start. She entered the code and this time there were no mishaps, no alarms or lights or warning signals. The thing popped open as obligingly as a hooker’s legs, as Jeff used to say.
Why must she always think of Jeff at times like this? Irritated, Tracy focused on the job at hand.
Gingerly removing the safe’s contents, item by item, she examined each one with her flashlight.
The general’s will.
Deeds to the house.
A string of pearls that Tracy’s expert eye could see immediately were of more sentimental than material value.
Twenty thousand pounds in cash.
That was unexpected. Twenty grand was a lot of money for a family of modest means to keep at home, stuffed into a dirty envelope. But Tracy put her curiosity aside for now. She didn’t have time to waste wondering where Dorrien might have come by such a sum, or what he intended to do with it. Instead she looked through everything again, carefully separating each banknote and each sheet of the legal documents, forcing herself to slow down so she didn’t miss anything. But it was no good. She was right the first time.
There’s nothing of Achileas’s here.
Tracy relocked the safe and looked at her watch. It was still only 6:45 P.M. Plenty of time before Cynthia Dorrien got back from her bridge game.
Tracy retraced her steps back downstairs to Frank’s study.
The general’s desk was as orderly as everything else in the house, clean as a whistle and perfectly devoid of clutter. Infuriatingly, his computer was gone. He must have taken it with him to tonight’s meeting at the barracks. Tracy couldn’t get a break tonight.
She started opening drawers, looking for papers, photographs, a thumb drive, anything.
Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
There has to be something here, she told herself. There must be something in this house.
Tracy searched each room in turn. At first she was methodical, closing kitchen cupboards behind her, replacing carpets that she’d peeled back, covering her tracks. But as the minutes ticked by, then the hours, she grew more and more frantic, pulling paintings down off walls, sweeping piles of books onto the floor.
She was on the point of giving up when she found it. Of all places it was in the loo. A tissue box beside the washbasin felt heavier than it ought to. Tracy ripped it apart like a wild woman, pulling out the precious hard drive like a diver plucking a pearl from its oyster.
She stared at the little black square for a moment, overwhelmed that after so much disappointment she’d actually found it. This is it. This has to be it.
I did it!
There was no time to stop and celebrate. Stuffing the drive deep into her rucksack, Tracy stepped back into the hallway. She was almost at the front door when the beams from a car’s headlights suddenly blinded her.
Shit!
Tracy froze. She heard the unmistakable noise of an engine drawing closer, then idling and finally switching off. The headlights went off.
Cynthia Dorrien was home.
Worse, she wasn’t alone.
PARKED A FEW YARDS down the street, in an unremarkable Ford Transit, Jeff sat in the darkness, watching the police arrive.
Things had gotten complicated the moment Jeff realized that Tracy was hitting General Dorrien’s house. Then again, things always got complicated with Tracy.
Should he tell Jamie MacIntosh what she was planning? Or keep it to himself?
It hadn’t taken Jeff long to decide on the latter. If Tracy didn’t trust the MI6 officer then Jeff didn’t either. On the other hand, he was concerned for Tracy’s safety. Even more so now that the boys in blue were on the scene.
He longed to intervene, to do something to save Tracy, but he was powerless.
Come on, sweetheart, he willed her. Think of something.
TRACY RECOGNIZED THE FAMILIAR blue and white lights of the British police. She heard male voices, hushed but urgent.
Instinctively, she dropped to the floor. She must have been visible, at least partially, fr
om the window. But something told her the police hadn’t seen her yet. The car engines switched off one by one, and with them the lights. Everything was dark again and eerily hushed. The calm before the storm. Tracy listened. Every sense was on high alert. She felt like a violin whose strings had been tightened till they were about to snap.
How had the police found her? Had someone seen something? A neighbor, perhaps?
She knew Jacob wouldn’t have turned her in, and he was the only one who knew she was here tonight. Her mind raced.
She heard footsteps, walking towards the front door. Other feet were scurrying around the back. Desperately, Tracy looked around for a means of escape. But even if she found one, there was no time! In a matter of seconds the door would burst open. She’d be caught red-handed, arrested. Cameron was right. At best she’d be sent back to the U.S. in disgrace. Or perhaps the CIA would disown her and leave her to rot in a British jail. Save themselves the embarrassment.
Then she would never find Althea. Never learn what happened to Nick.
There was a hammering on the front door.
“Police! Open up!”
Tracy made her decision.
MAJOR GENERAL FRANK DORRIEN was tired. He loathed meetings. If I’d wanted to witter on about mission statements and best practices or waste my evenings on PowerPoint presentations, I’d have gone into business, he thought resentfully as he drove home. It was bad enough having to waste half his day indulging in cryptic “chats” with MI6. But one expected spies to beat around the bush. Officers in the British Army ought to know better. Tonight’s SFCR (Sandhurst Funding Committee Review) had been torture by any other name. It ought to have been banned by the Geneva bloody Convention. All Frank wanted now was a whisky, a bath and his bed.
Two police cars passed him as he turned into his street. He was just thinking how unusual that was, when he saw a third car with its engine running still parked in his driveway. A uniformed officer was standing on his doorstep, talking seriously to a worried-looking Cynthia, who’d obviously just returned home from bridge.
“I’m so sorry, General.” The policeman accosted Frank as he stepped out of the car. “Are the others on their way?”
Frank frowned. “Others? What others?”
“The cadets.” The policeman adopted a conspiratorial tone. “It’s all right, General. The explosives specialist already filled us in.”
Frank was starting to get irritated. It had been a very long day. “Explosives specialist? What the devil are you talking about, man?”
“Captain Phillips. The explosives specialist who let us in to the property earlier. The Captain explained about the training exercise, and how important it was to leave the house untouched, once it had been set up.”
Frank’s eyes widened.
“We do understand that these ‘surprise’ exercises are important, General,” the policeman went on. “Your cadets need to know how to respond to bomb threats in the community, and real terrorists don’t give advance warning. We get it. But this is a residential area. In future we’d appreciate a heads-up if you’re planning this sort of drill. At a minimum we’d like to warn your neighbors.”
“How about warning me?” Cynthia piped up indignantly.
“Old Mr. Dingle across the street thought you were being burgled,” the policeman chuckled. “So did we, when we first arrived.”
Frank Dorrien pushed past the policeman into the house. He ran straight to the downstairs lavatory. The remnants of the tissue box lay in pieces on the floor.
Frank felt the bile rise up in his throat.
Racing back outside he asked the policeman, “When did the explosives specialist leave?”
“About ten minutes ago. Just before your wife got home. She said she was heading back to the barracks but that the others would be on their way shortly. We tried to contact you on your mobile, General, but . . .”
Frank interrupted him. “She?”
“That’s right, General.”
“Captain Phillips . . . was a woman?”
Now it was the policeman’s turn to look confused.
“Yes, Sir. But surely you knew that? If you ordered the exercise?”
Slowly, painfully slowly, the penny began to drop.
Jeff Stevens drove away, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
Darling Tracy! He smiled to himself. You’ve still got it.
HUNTER DREXEL GAVE TWO hard, animal thrusts and climaxed.
The girl underneath him, Claudette, rolled over onto her back, smiling up at him languidly.
“Encore une fois?”
Hunter shook his head. He was far too exhausted to screw her again, or do anything other than sleep. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman, even longer since he’d been with a professional. He’d picked up Claudette at the Crazy Horse, where she was a dancer. At 500 euros a night her rates were steep, but well worth it. She was also clearly prepared to work hard for the money. If only Hunter weren’t too shattered to take advantage of it.
He’d taken a big risk coming to Paris. There was much more chance of his being recognized in a cosmopolitan city like this one. But if he was going to publish this story before Group 99 put a bullet between his eyes or the CIA spirited him off to some torture camp somewhere, he needed help. Sally was doing her best but that only went so far, and it was far too dangerous for Hunter to go to London. He had friends in Paris, journalists and subversives, who could help him. And the poker was outstanding.
Drifting into sleep, a parade of images danced before his eyes.
Sally Faiers, naked in his bed.
The Navy SEAL holding his hand out in the Chinook in Bratislava. “Get in!”
Bob Daley smiling at him, right before his head was blown off.
Apollo standing in the dark alleyway in Riga, smiling down the barrel of his gun.
Waking with a start, Hunter leaped out of bed and pulled Claudette’s right arm painfully behind her back. The little bitch was rifling through the pockets of his pants, trying to rob him!
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” Hunter hissed at her, turning her to face him. “Putain.”
“Asshole!” the girl shot back in English. “I know who you are.”
Hunter’s face darkened menacingly. All of a sudden, Claudette’s stomach liquefied with fear. She’d gone too far. This man was dangerous. Very dangerous. He’d seemed so handsome in the club, so charming. But the look in his eyes now was cold as ice.
Hunter muttered darkly. “Tu connais rien. Je pouvais te casser. Comme un poulet. Tu comprends?”
She nodded mutely.
“Get dressed and get out.”
He released her, watching in satisfaction as she grabbed her clothes, terrified, and ran.
CAMERON CREWE WAS ABOUT to go to bed when the doorman buzzed his apartment.
“What is it?” he asked curtly. He was in no mood for visitors.
“I’m sorry, Sir. But there’s a lady here to see you.”
“A lady?”
“Yes, Sir. A Miss Whitney. She says it’s urgent.”
Cameron’s bad mood evaporated like a puddle of rain in the sun. He hadn’t heard from Tracy since their phone call of a few days ago, and had fully expected her next call to be from a police cell. In fact she was here, in New York, on his doorstep.
“That’s quite all right, Billy. Show her up.”
Cameron barely had time to change his shirt and splash on some cologne before Tracy burst through the door, a ball of nervous energy.
“Hi.” Peeling off her wet trench coat she tossed it on Cameron’s expensive B&B Italia couch where it dripped excessively onto the suede. “I’m sorry I didn’t call in advance. I needed to see you.”
Cameron was thrown by how happy this statement made him. “No need to apologize. You can come by any time. Can I get you a—”
“I need you to see this,” Tracy interrupted him, pulling the black hard drive out of her pocket and waving it in front of Cameron. “Where’s your computer
?”
“In my study. But slow down, Tracy. This is General Dorrien’s?”
“No. It’s Prince Achileas’s.”
“But you broke into the home of an MI6 agent and stole it?”
“I didn’t steal it. I retrieved it,” Tracy corrected him. “Frank Dorrien stole it.”
“I’m not sure that’s the way British intelligence will look at it. Or the CIA for that matter.” Cameron ran a worried hand through his hair. “Greg Walton recalled you, Tracy. He specifically instructed you to stay away from Dorrien.”
“Yes. And did you ever wonder why?”
“No. Not really. But I’m sure he had his reasons. I can’t believe you actually did it. You went and burgled the guy’s house!”
“Computer,” said Tracy.
Still frowning, Cameron led her through into the study.
He watched as Tracy sat down, uploaded the drive and began tapping away, writing code into his computer at a ridiculously rapid rate, her long fingers flying across his keyboard like a swooping flock of birds.
“What are you doing?”
“Retrieving files,” Tracy said, not looking up. She was wearing a dark blue cashmere dress that softened her slender frame and her hair was swept up messily at the back. She smelled faintly of irises. Cameron felt a rush of desire shoot through him. “Frank Dorrien’s smart,” Tracy said. “He erased these pretty good.”
“But I take it you’re smarter?”
“Naturally.” She grinned. “Let’s start with the pictures, shall we?”
A large cache of fairly soft core gay porn was interspersed with pictures of Achileas himself, engaged in various sex acts with another, unknown man.
“So he was gay.”
“Or bi–very curious indeed,” quipped Tracy.
“Yeah. That’s six hard inches of curiosity right there,” said Cameron.
Tracy said, “He may have been being blackmailed. I found twenty thousand pounds cash in the general’s safe.”
“Which would support suicide,” Cameron reminded her.
“Right. But that’s not all. Look at this.”
Tracy clicked open images of Achileas relaxing at a picnic with Bob Daley. He was playing with Daley’s children. Bob’s wife must have taken the pictures. The two were obviously close. In one of the shots, at the far right of the picture, another woman could be seen. Standing off to the side with her back to the group, apparently looking down at a river, she was tall and slender with long dark hair cascading around her shoulders.