Sidney Sheldon's Reckless

He would be gracious in victory. After all, he still needed to win Tracy over. It wouldn’t do to gloat.

  He saw her leaning forwards, reaching into her purse for something. A phone.

  Sliding into the seat beside her, Jeff waited for her to look up, then froze in horror.

  “Are you all right?” A woman he had never seen before looked at him quizzically. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Jeff stared first at her, then at the phone in her hand. It was Tracy’s phone. The one he’d given her at the fondue restaurant less than twelve hours earlier.

  “That phone. Where did you get it?” he asked numbly.

  “I have no idea,” the woman frowned. “It’s not mine. I found it just now. Someone must have dropped it into my bag by mistake.”

  Jeff’s heart began to pound. Just then his own phone buzzed with a text.

  He wrenched it out of his pocket.

  Only one person had this number.

  Sorry darling, Tracy wrote. Enjoy Rome. T. x

  Frantically, Jeff accosted a passing guard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in broken French. “There’s been a mistake. An emergency. I have to get off the train.”

  The guard smiled. “I am sorry, Monsieur. The train will not stop until the border.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, Monsieur. You do not understand. If you need to see a doctor, we have one on board.”

  Jeff slumped down in his seat.He didn’t need a doctor.

  He stared at Tracy’s text for a full minute before getting up stiffly and walking into the empty train corridor to make his next call.

  FRANK DORRIEN WAS DEEP asleep when his phone rang.

  “I lost her.”

  Jeff Stevens’s voice woke Frank instantly, like a glass of ice water in the face.

  The general sat up in bed. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Never mind that,” Jeff said. “Tracy’s in danger. Real danger. I need your help, Frank.”

  CAMERON CREWE STOOD IN front of his son’s grave.

  It was a sweltering New York day, dank and humid and without the faintest whisper of a breeze. Sweat poured down Cameron’s back, but he barely noticed.

  The cemetery of St. Luke’s Church in Queens was an unassuming square plot of land, much of it overgrown and weed-ridden, a tangle of rusty crosses and faded headstones. Many belonged to children. Forgotten children, it seemed. And yet there was something peaceful about the place, something beautiful and secretive. Cameron came here often, tending to Marcus’s stone, a clean but simple marble slab.

  So did Charlotte, Marcus’s mother, although she hadn’t been recently. In fact, according to the police, Charlotte’s mother, Cameron’s ex-mother-in-law, had officially reported her daughter missing last week. Cameron had promised to let the detectives know if he heard anything from Charlotte.

  He hadn’t.

  He hadn’t heard from Tracy either, not in more than two weeks. Everyone seemed to be disappearing, drifting out of Cameron’s life as suddenly as they had once drifted into it.

  Everything passes.

  Nothing is forever. Least of all love.

  Cameron’s phone rang. He scowled at the intrusion. He must have forgotten to turn it off.

  “Yes?” he snapped.

  “We have a lead.”

  It was a man’s voice. A voice Cameron hadn’t heard in a long time. Too long.

  “Where?”

  “Italy. The Lakes.”

  “How soon can you be there?”

  “Tomorrow. I need funds.”

  Cameron gave a cynical snort. Don’t you always?

  “I’ll wire you another hundred thousand.”

  He hung up, trying to recapture the peace he’d felt a few moments ago, trying to feel Marcus’s presence. But it was gone.

  Mopping the sweat from his brow, Cameron turned and walked wearily back to his car.

  TRACY SMILED AS THE Airbus 300 soared up into the blue.

  Poor Jeff. Eight hours on a train with no hope of rescue!

  By now he’d no doubt found the most attractive woman on board and started chatting her up relentlessly. Anything to distract himself from being outwitted.

  But he had been outwitted. They all had.

  Tracy sipped her champagne gleefully.

  The day of reckoning had come.

  CHAPTER 27

  LAKE MAGGIORE WAS LIKE a dream, a postcard image come to life. Tracy was staying in a small pension just moments from the shore. Every morning, after a delicious breakfast of fresh berries, local yogurt and sweet bread rolls that were a specialty of the house, she wandered down to the lake and swam. More often than not she was the only bather. The clear blue water was all hers. She felt like a queen, oblivious in those glorious moments to reality.

  Flipping on to her back, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky, the Monte Rosa looming over her like a benevolent giant, Tracy imagined that she were someone else entirely. A princess, floating in a fairy-tale kingdom. Or a restless soul, newly arrived in paradise.

  Was Nicky somewhere like this? Tracy hoped so. She felt close to him here, peaceful and calm. Which was odd, given the reason she had come here.

  An old friend had tipped her off about Hunter Drexel resurfacing in Northern Italy. Antonio Sperotto was a gentleman thief from Milan, specializing in stolen ecclesiastical masters. He was also an inveterate gambler.

  “Your man turned up at a poker game at Rocca Borromeo,” Antonio informed Tracy. “At least I assume it’s your man. He’s going by the name of Lester Trent, and nobody’s ever heard of him.”

  “Were you at the game?” Tracy asked.

  “Not personally, no. A friend was there. Evidently Mr. Trent relieved one of the Agnellis of more than two hundred thousand euros. Caused quite a stir, I can tell you.”

  “Did this friend of yours talk to him?” Tracy asked. “What else did he find out?”

  Antonio Sperotto chuckled. “My dear, these things aren’t like book clubs. This is serious poker. There’s no chitchat. Although apparently one of the Borromeo daughters wandered in at one point, which distracted some of the men.”

  “But not your friend, I take it?” Tracy teased. Antonio was so gay he would have made Liberace look macho. Most of his friends fit the same mold.

  “Giovanni can appreciate beauty, darling, in all its forms,” Antonio pouted. “But no. I suspect he was more distracted by the frescos. Did you know the Borromeo frescos are the oldest examples of nonreligious, Lombard Gothic work still in existence? They were painted in 1342, but the colors gleam as if it were yesterday!”

  Tracy didn’t know. She was more interested in Lester Trent.

  “Trent appreciated the young lady,” Antonio told her. “Although rumor has it he generally prefers his playmates a little further down the social scale. He likes professionals.”

  “Hookers?”

  “That’s what I hear,” Antonio said. “Apparently he’s had a string of girls ferried over to the place where he’s staying.”

  Tracy thought about Sally Faiers, her love for Hunter and her loyalty. Sally had gone to Belgium to try to help Drexel and had been shot to death for her troubles. And now here he was, with Sally barely cold, already screwing around. In between planning his next act of murder on behalf of Group 99, no doubt.

  Bastard.

  “Where’s he staying?” she asked Antonio.

  “In a stunning medieval villa, the Michele, on another of the private islands. It’s owned by the Viscontis, a local aristocratic family. He must have rented it from them.”

  “Visconti,” Tracy muttered. “I feel like I’ve heard of them.”

  Antonio shrugged. “They’re rich. Not quite in the Borromeos’ league, but not short of a bob or two either. She owns a fabulous collection of diamond jewelry, one of the largest in Italy.”

  “That must be it.” Tracy grinned.

  A look of worry crept over Antonio Sperotto’s face. “You’re not goi
ng to try anything foolish, are you, Tracy?”

  “Me? Never.”

  “This Drexel chap sounds like very bad news.”

  “He is,” Tracy said seriously. “But he knows things, Antonio. Things I need to know.”

  “For God’s sake be careful.”

  “I will.” Tracy hugged him. “I promise.”

  The next step was to figure out how to get access to the Villa Michele, without alerting Hunter, or anyone else, to her presence. So far Tracy had seen no sign of MI6, the CIA or Group 99, but she knew for a fact that all three were devoting considerable resources to finding out what she already knew. It was only a matter of time before they showed up at the Lakes. Tracy needed to finish this before that happened, and before Drexel took off again.

  Unfortunately, accessing the Visconti’s villa proved harder than Tracy had anticipated. Partly because the house itself was a fifteenth-century fortress, with four-foot-thick, unscalable walls designed to keep out centurys’ worth of marauders. And partly because it was situated on a small island, really just a rocky outcrop, in the extreme southern end of the lake. This meant it was close enough to the shore that anyone approaching by boat would be clearly visible from both of the major five-star hotels in town, as well as a good smattering of private homes along the lakefront. Not to mention the fact that the local police station faced the property almost directly, as if it were daring somebody to try and break in.

  Despite these obstacles, within twenty-four hours, Tracy had a plan.

  But before she took the final step, there was something she had to do.

  BACK AT THE GUESTHOUSE, Tracy called Cameron’s private number from her new Italian phone. She was diverted straight to voicemail.

  That’s odd. He must be traveling.

  She hung up.

  She had called him to say goodbye. And to apologize. And to tell him she loved him. But none of these were things one could say to a recorded message.

  Perhaps it’s for the best.

  Just as she was turning off her phone, it rang.

  “Tracy?” Cameron’s voice was heavy with worry. “Is that you?”

  Tracy hesitated. She was already regretting calling him but it was too late now.

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  “Thank God. I’ve been out of my mind. At least one of you is OK.”

  “One of us?”

  “Charlotte’s gone missing,” Cameron blurted. “My ex-wife. I’ve had the police here and . . . anyway, none of that matters. Where are you?”

  Tracy took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter where I am. I’m safe.”

  “You’re not safe! And it does matter.”

  He sounded utterly desperate. Tracy felt terrible.

  “I called to say goodbye,” she blurted. “And thank you. And I wish you happiness.”

  “Stop.” Cameron’s voice became stern. “Tracy, listen to me. We can talk about ‘us’ later. But right now I believe you are in grave danger. You’ve found Drexel, haven’t you?”

  Tracy was silent.

  “If you’ve found him, trust me, it’s because he wants to be found. It’s a trap, Tracy.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “I have to go.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Tracy, wake up!” Cameron said desperately. “It’s a trap! Hunter wanted you to find him.”

  “And why would he want that?”

  “Because he knows you’ll try to confront him alone. And when you do, he’ll kill you.” Cameron’s tone softened again. “Please, darling. Tell me where you are. Tell me where Drexel is. I won’t tell Walton or Buck, I swear it. I’ll help you myself. Just don’t do this alone.”

  Tracy’s eyes welled with tears. She looked at her watch. In six more seconds he’d be able to trace the call.

  “Goodbye, Cameron. And good luck.”

  She rang off, ripped the battery out of her handset and hurled it into the fire.

  “YOU’RE LATE.”

  Frank Dorrien scowled at Jeff Stevens. They’d agreed to meet at the Café Italia on Locarno’s Piazza Grande at noon. It was now 12:03.

  “Hardly.” Jeff glanced at his Patek Philippe and sat down. In linen trousers and a loose, short-sleeved shirt, topped off with a panama hat, Jeff was perfectly dressed for the warm weather. Unlike the general, who’d turned up in a twill shirt, a heavy tweed jacket and brogues with socks.

  Jeff thought, If the man got any more English they’d put him in the British Museum.

  “What do you mean ‘hardly’? Late is late,” Frank snapped. “You do realize it’s entirely your fault we’re in this situation as it is? Time is running out, Jeff.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry won’t save Tracy. Or any of the other people Drexel and his Group 99 cronies are right now planning to kill.”

  “Jesus, Frank, I get it, OK?” Jeff’s voice was breaking. “I fucked up. I thought Tracy and I . . .”

  He left the sentence hanging.

  Frank Dorrien took a sip of his tea and grimaced. It was lukewarm and disgusting, like every cup he’d had since he got to Italy. Unconfirmed sightings by British agents of Alexis Argyros near the Italian Lakes had been enough for James MacIntosh to fly Frank out there.

  If Apollo was in Northern Italy, chances were that Drexel was there too. Although the Greek Group 99 leader was a target in his own right.

  Ironically it was Frank Dorrien who had insisted that Jeff Stevens be brought along too.

  “Absolutely not.” Jamie MacIntosh was still smarting over Jeff’s ill-advised decision to disappear with Tracy. “Mr. Stevens has made it quite clear where his loyalties lie. And it’s not with us.”

  “I don’t care about his loyalties,” Frank said bluntly. “He’s still our best chance of finding Tracy Whitney. And she’s still our best chance of finding Drexel.”

  In the end, reluctantly, MacIntosh had agreed. The Americans had lost control of Tracy Whitney completely. Having Jeff Stevens on their team, combined with this new intelligence on Argyros, put MI6 in the driving seat once again.

  If only we knew where we were going, Frank Dorrien thought bitterly.

  “Argyros has gone to ground, for the time being at least,” he told Jeff. “Right now our priority has to be finding Tracy.”

  “Agreed,” said Jeff. “Where do you suggest we start?”

  There were times when Major General Frank Dorrien could cheerfully have strangled Jeff Stevens.

  “Where do I suggest . . . ? You’re the one who’s supposed to be able to outthink her, remember? Although after her little stunt on the train I’d say that theory’s seriously in doubt.”

  Jeff looked miserably at his shoes.

  “Think, man. Drexel’s here, somewhere. Tracy finds him. She thinks she’s the only one who knows he’s here, but she’s wrong. Argyros is right behind her.”

  “Or ahead of her,” said Jeff. “Maybe Argyros has already found Hunter.”

  “Maybe. And maybe he’s killed him. Or maybe, he never had any intention of killing him. Maybe he’s here to meet Hunter as a compatriot. A friend. A co-conspirator. Maybe they’re planning their next Neuilly together.”

  Jeff shivered. “Let’s hope not.”

  “But Tracy doesn’t know this,” Frank continued. “She thinks she’s alone.”

  “Right.”

  “So what’s her plan? What would her next move be?”

  Jeff closed his eyes, praying for inspiration. To his astonishment as much as Frank Dorrien’s, it came.

  Sitting up suddenly, he said, “I have an idea.”

  TRACY SHUT OFF THE speedboat’s engine as she drew up to the Villa Michele’s outer wall.

  She was dressed in sky-high platform heels, fishnet stockings and a skintight black Lycra dress that left little to the imagination. Her breasts, not usually her best asset, looked enormous this evening and very much front-and-center thanks to her amply padded bra. As it was not the sort of outfit that allowed one to conceal a gun easily, Tr
acy carried a small quilted purse, a cheap Chanel knockoff made of shiny, wipe-down plastic.

  She felt cold, uncomfortable, and ridiculous. But her getup had done its job. The old man at the dock who’d rented Tracy the boat hadn’t given her a second glance, still less asked for any ID. All the girls who went to the villa as Mr. Trent’s guests paid cash on return. Hookers were good customers, regular, reliable and they rarely needed the boat for more than a couple of hours.

  Tracy fit right in.

  When she reached the Viscontis’ island, the old man had explained, Tracy was to moor the boat by tying a heavy rope onto a large iron ring, bolted to the private harbor wall. Arriving in pitch-darkness it took her a while to locate said ring. When she did, it looked like something out of a medieval dungeon, rusted and creaking and huge. By the time she’d secured the boat, her hands were freezing and rubbed raw, and there were dirt and rust stains on her palms.

  A real whore would have wet wipes in her purse, Tracy thought. All I have is a pistol, a new cellphone, a recording device and some wire.

  Jumping out of the boat onto the thin strip of grass at the base of the wall, she wiped her hands as best she could on the turf. To her right, a set of steep stairs led up to a wooden door, that in turn led into the formal gardens and then to the villa itself. A CCTV camera directly above her head looked blindly out over the lake into the darkness. Tracy slipped beneath it to the foot of the stairs and began to climb.

  She’d come prepared to pick the lock, but she found the wooden door had been left open. Cameron Crewe’s voice rang in her ears. He wants to be found. It’s a trap!

  Maybe it was true.

  If so, Hunter Drexel should be careful what he wished for.

  Tracy’s heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed the manicured, Italianate garden. She waited for alarms to go off, for a spotlight to suddenly catch her or guards to come running, roused from their drunken slumbers. The crunch of her feet on the graveled path sounded deafeningly loud to her own ears as she weaved her way in and out of the shadows of the poplars. According to her research there were no dogs at the villa. But Tracy still half expected to hear the heavy, panting breaths of slavering Dobermans, intent on ripping her limb from limb. She’d spent half of her adult life breaking and entering expensive homes, but the adrenaline never left her.