Sidney Sheldon's Reckless (5 page)

Buck leaned forward aggressively.

“And just who are you to tell us what's acceptable, General? Has it occurred to you that maybe we didn't trust the British with this intelligence? After all, your men have been dropping like flies lately.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Think about it. First a Greek royal dies on your watch, General,” Buck said accusingly, “a young man who just happens to be a personal friend of Captain Daley. Then, only days later, Daley himself is killed, which let's just say is out of character for Group 99, up to this point. Now, you may say there's no connection between those two events—”

“Of course there's no connection!” Frank Dorrien scoffed. “Prince Achileas died by suicide.”

Milton Buck raised an eyebrow. “Did he? Because the other possibility is that Group 99 have someone embedded within the British military. Maybe someone at Sandhurst, or in the upper echelons of the MOD—also the subject of a Group 99 attack, if you remember.”

“As were the CIA!” Dorrien shouted back. “Prince Achileas was gay. The man hung himself out of shame, you cretin.”

“What did you call me?” Buck got to his feet.

“That. Is. ENOUGH.” Greg Walton finally lost his temper. “Sit down, Milton. NOW.”

Greg was the senior man here. He hadn't flown thousands of miles to watch his FBI colleague and General Dorrien go at each other like a pair of ill-disciplined dogs.

There was also something about the tone the general used to talk about the Greek prince that put Greg Walton's back up. Greg was also a homosexual. He found the general's lack of compassion for the dead boy both distasteful and disturbing.

“Whatever has happened in the past, in terms of sharing information, has happened,” he said, looking from Buck to Dorrien and back again. “From now on we have direct orders from the White House and Downing Street to cooperate fully with one another and that's what we're going to do. This is a joint operation. So if either of you have a problem with that, I suggest you get over it. Now.”

Frank Dorrien looked to Jamie MacIntosh for support but there was none forthcoming. He shot a last look of loathing at Milton Buck and sat back in his chair, sullen but compliant. Buck did the same.

“Good. Now, as it happens we do have one other important development to share with you,” Greg Walton went on. “Have either of you ever heard of an individual named Tracy Whitney?”

Frank Dorrien noticed the way Milton Buck tensed up at the mere mention of this name.

“Never heard of her,” he said.

“Tracy Whitney the con artist?” Jamie MacIntosh frowned.

“Con artist, jewel thief, computer wizard, cat burglar,” Greg Walton elaborated. “Miss Whitney's résumé is a long and varied one.”

“That's a name I haven't heard in a long time. We thought she was dead,” said Jamie. He explained to Frank Dorrien how, along with her partner Jeff Stevens, Tracy Whitney had been suspected of a swath of daring crimes across Europe a decade ago, conning the corrupt rich out of millions of dollars in jewelry and fine art, and even extracting a grandmaster from the Prado in Madrid. But neither Interpol nor the CIA nor MI5 had ever been able to prove a case against her. “I dread to think the man-hours and money we wasted trying to outsmart that woman.” He sounded almost nostalgic. “But then overnight it seemed, she vanished and that was that. Jeff Stevens is still knocking around in London I believe, but he seems to be retired.” Jamie turned back to Greg Walton. “I'm baffled as to what Tracy Whitney can possibly have to do with all this.”

“So are we,” Greg admitted. “The day after the failed raid in Bratislava, we received an encrypted message at Langley from Althea in which she referenced Tracy Whitney.”

“More than referenced,” Milton Buck jumped in. “The two women clearly knew each other.”

“What did the message say?” Jamie MacIntosh asked.

“It was a taunt, basically,” Walton replied. “ ‘You guys will never catch me. I'm going to outsmart you just like Tracy Whitney did. I'll bet you Tracy could find me. Why don't you have Agent Buck call her in . . .' That kind of stuff. She clearly knew Tracy, but it was more than that. She knew the agency's history with Tracy. She knew that Agent Buck had had dealings with her.”

Greg Walton filled his British counterparts in briefly on the operation a few years ago to track down and catch the Bible Killer. How Tracy and Jeff Stevens had both resurfaced at that time, and Tracy had formed an uneasy alliance with both Interpol and the FBI to bring Daniel Cooper to justice. “Agent Buck here ran the operation. It was a success, but it would be fair to say that Milton and Tracy's relationship was”—he searched for the right word—“tempestuous. Althea knew that.”

“I see,” Frank Dorrien said archly. “So perhaps it's
you
with a Group 99 informant on the inside?”

The comment was aimed at Milton Buck, but Greg Walton replied. “Anything's possible, General. At this point we're keeping all our options open. ”

Jamie MacIntosh asked, “Have you contacted Miss Whitney? I'd be curious to know what she has to say about all this.”

“Not yet,” said Walton. “We want to broach the subject face-to-face. Tracy has a bad habit of disappearing when she gets spooked. If she knows about Althea in advance, she might just run.”

“We'd be with her right now if we hadn't been railroaded into flying here to meet with you instead,” Milton Buck added ungraciously. “We're wasting valuable time.”

“You know, Tracy used to have something of a Robin Hood complex herself,” said Jamie, ignoring the jibe. “She and Jeff only ever stole from people they believed deserved it. And she was quite the whiz with computers. I believe international banking was her forte. I wouldn't be entirely surprised to learn that she and Jeff were involved with Group 99.”

“I doubt that,” Greg Walton said. “I can't speak for Jeff Stevens. But Tracy Whitney's changed. She was an invaluable asset to us last time. I think we can trust her.”

Frank Dorrien frowned but said nothing. He did not like the sound of Tracy Whitney, not one little bit. The woman was a professional thief and liar. Hardly the sort of person they needed on the team.

“I don't think Group 99's the link. My guess is that these two women go back way before that,” Greg Walton went on. “Althea might have known Tracy in prison. Or through Jeff Stevens. She might have been one of Jeff's lovers, or a rival con artist, or even someone Tracy and Jeff targeted in their heyday. We know she's wealthy, after all. There are a million possibilities. Hopefully once we speak to Tracy in person, she can shed some light.”

“Anything else we need to know at this stage?” Jamie asked, in a tone that suggested the meeting was coming to a close.

“I don't think so.” Greg Walton stood up to leave. “Nothing material. Finding Hunter Drexel and bringing him home safely remains the official focus of our operation. But identifying Althea is our most important strategic mission. We're hopeful Miss Whitney can help with that. Of course, it would be nice to get this guy Argyros's head on a plate too. Maybe you fellows can take the lead on that?”

Jamie MacIntosh nodded.

The two Americans walked to the door.

“One last thing, Mr. Walton,” Frank Dorrien called after them.

“Yes?”

“Hunter Drexel. Why do you think he refused to go with his rescuers? Why did he run?”

Greg Walton and Milton Buck looked at each other briefly.

Then Walton said with a straight face. “I have no idea, General. But when we find him, believe me, that'll be the first question we ask.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, JAMIE
MacIntosh received a call from the prime minister.

“Can you work with them?” Julia Cabot asked, once Jamie had debriefed her on his meeting with the Americans.

“Of course, Prime Minister. Frank's not a fan of their FBI chappie. But they provided some very useful information.”

“Do you trust them?”

Jamie MacIntosh laughed. “Trust them? What a quaint idea! Of course I don't trust them.”

Julia Cabot grinned. “Jolly good. Just checking.”

“They're lying through their teeth about Drexel,” said Jamie.

“You think they know why he ran?”

“I think they know, and I think they'll do anything to stop
us
knowing. I would dearly like to find Mr. Drexel before they do and learn what it is they're hiding.”

“Well,” Julia Cabot said, “we'll just have to make that happen then, won't we?”

“CAN YOU WORK WITH
them?” President Havers's voice sounded tight with strain.

“Yes, Sir,” Greg Walton said. “Agent Buck got off on the wrong foot with one of their guys. But the meeting was constructive. MacIntosh is a reasonable guy.”

“Tread very carefully, Greg,” the president warned. “There are places we want MI6 sniffing around and places we don't.”

“Of course, Sir. Understood. We'll keep them under control.”

“What about Tracy Whitney?”

“We'll keep her under control too.”

“Good. Just make sure you do. Good night, Greg.”

“Good night, Sir.”

MAJOR GENERAL FRANK DORRIEN
was at home in his living room, watching President Havers on television.

Sitting in the oval office with the American flag behind him, in an expensive dark suit and silk tie with his silver-gray hair slicked back, Havers looked like what he was: the most powerful man in the world.

“A week ago, the United States struck at the heart of a group of terrorists who wish to destroy our way of life. Group 99 had already brutally murdered a British hostage, Captain Robert Daley. We had reason to believe that their second hostage, the American journalist Hunter Drexel, was about to meet the same fate. We also had intelligence indication that Mr. Drexel was being held in the same camp, in Bratislava, where Captain Daley was killed.

“A carefully planned, covert operation took place, based on that intelligence. And yes, that operation did involve American troops briefly entering Bratislavan territory. The United States makes no apology for this action. Although it appears Mr. Drexel was moved by his captors to another location following Captain Daley's death, we established that both men
had
been held in Bratislavan territory—contrary to that country's denials of harboring terrorists. Moreover, our mission was not in vain. Scores of terrorists were killed, the same individuals responsible for Captain Daley's barbaric murder. Regrettably six American servicemen also lost their lives.

“Make no mistake. The United States remains committed to fighting the terrorists who threaten our citizens, and our security,
wherever
we may find them. And whatever their so-called motivations, or justifications for their actions might be. Now, there may be folks who criticize us for that. But that has always been, and remains, the policy of this administration. Group 99 are not harmless. They are not freedom fighters or champions of the poor. They are terrorists.

“We remain confident that, working with our British partners, we will locate Mr. Drexel imminently. And in the meantime his captors should know this: You can't run. You can't hide. We will find you and we will destroy you.”

Major General Frank Dorrien winced and turned off the television. Havers was so dishonest, it made Frank's teeth ache. Of course, most politicians were. But the Americans were such spectacularly
glossy
liars. Virtuosos of insincerity. Masters of misrepresentation.

How he despised them!

Frank's thoughts turned to Hunter Drexel, the man for whom all these lies were being told. The United States had risked near total diplomatic isolation for a man who had not only run away from the soldiers sent to rescue him but who, by all accounts, was a typical, entitled journalist, interested only in his story and loyal to no one but himself. A gambler and inveterate womanizer, Hunter Drexel had left for Moscow with a string of broken hearts, angry editors and unpaid creditors in his wake. Men like that didn't deserve to be rescued. To have brave, honest, loyal men risk their lives to save them.

Major General Frank Dorrien was big on loyalty. Loyalty to family, to religion (Frank was brought up staunchly Church of England and considered himself a conservative with a very capital C), to his country. But above all, Frank Dorrien believed in loyalty to the British army.

Frank would gladly die for the British army.

He would kill for it too.

In Frank Dorrien's world, one did what one had to do. One did one's
duty,
whatever form that took. Recently, duty had taken Frank in some unexpected directions. He'd been forced to make some difficult decisions. Distasteful decisions. But never once did he question his actions, or second-guess his superiors. That was not the soldier's way.

The army was Frank Dorrien's life. He had his wife, of course, Cynthia, whom he loved. And his opera, and his roses, and the Church choir, and his books on Byzantine history. But these were all fruits of the tree. The army
was
the tree. Without it, Frank's existence would be nothing but a meaningless series of days, without order or discipline or purpose.

What was the purpose of men like Hunter Drexel? Or libertines like Group 99, revolting communists even before they started butchering people? Or women like Tracy Whitney, a thief and con artist who, for some inexplicable reason, Jamie MacIntosh appeared actually to admire?

Not for the first time, Frank Dorrien wondered about the dissolute world in which he now found himself working.
Intelligence.
Never had an industry been more ineptly named.

Still. Duty called.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Frank?”

Cynthia Dorrien's voice drifted in from the kitchen, reassuringly normal and sane.