Sidney Sheldon's Reckless (19 page)

She'd needed to cry and she'd needed to sleep. Thanks to Gunther Hartog, she'd managed both.
Thank you, Gunther darling.
Her body felt wonderful, her mind alert. But there was no time to enjoy these novel sensations, not if she were going to catch Sally Faiers before she left the
Times
offices for her lunch.

Leaping out of bed, Tracy pulled on jeans and a sweater.

Ten minutes later she was in a black cab, heading for Wapping.

CHAPTER 15

S
ALLY FAIERS WAS RUSHING
for the tube when a waiflike woman approached her.

“Sally!”

“Yes,” Sally said uncertainly. The woman said her name as if she knew her but Sally was sure she'd never seen her before. The huge, sad green eyes, high cheekbones and tiny, birdlike body that was closer to a child's than a grown adult's were all striking enough that she would have remembered them. “Have we met?”

“No. My name is Tracy Whitney.”

Was that supposed to mean something?

“I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” Sally looked at her watch. She didn't have time for guessing games with tiny women. Her boiler was on the blink and the annoying people from Eon were due at the flat in half an hour to fix it. “If it's about a story you can call the news desk.” She fumbled in her pocket for a card.

Tracy said, “It's about Hunter Drexel.”

Sally froze.

“Not here,” she whispered. Scrawling an address on a piece of paper, she handed it to Tracy. “It's a café, off East Street market. I'll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

T
HE CAFÉ WAS GRIMY,
with steamed-up windows. It smelled of frying bacon and strong PG Tips tea and its clientele seemed to be made up entirely of Polish builders. Tracy loved it immediately.

“Your local?” she asked Sally.

“Not anymore. I was a student in this area. Briefly.” Sally wasn't in the mood for small talk. “Who are you?”

They ordered tea and Tracy told her, the edited version. That she was working with the CIA counterterrorism division dealing with the threat from Group 99. “Specifically I'm trying to track down an American woman believed to be one of their leaders. We think she played a part in Captain Daley's murder and in Hunter's abduction.”

Sally looked skeptical. “So you're a CIA agent?”

“Not exactly.” Tracy heaped sugar into her tea. “I work with them, not for them. I guess you could say I'm a consultant. Of sorts.”

“How did you find me?” Sally asked. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a Dictaphone and placed it on the table, pressing the record button as Tracy looked on. “Just a precaution. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” said Tracy. “General Frank Dorrien gave me your name.”

“Ah.” Sally rolled her eyes. “The general.”

“You're not a fan?” Tracy asked.

Sally smiled. “Is anyone?”

Tracy smiled back. “Mrs. Dorrien, perhaps?”

I like this woman,
Tracy and Sally thought simultaneously.

“So what did General Frank tell you?” Sally asked.

“Just that you've been asking questions about him and about Prince Achileas's suicide. And that you and Hunter Drexel were close.”

“Hunter's close to a lot of women,” Sally said archly.

“Not that he would trust to chase down a story for him. While he's on the run from Group 99 and the U.S. government, and probably in fear for his life,” said Tracy.

Sally looked at her admiringly.

“He's alive, then? He's contacted you?”

Sally focused on her tea. She liked Tracy Whitney instinctively, but her instincts had been wrong before. And she'd sworn to Hunter that she wouldn't breathe a word about their contact to anyone.

Sensing her hesitation, Tracy said bluntly, “If Group 99 finds him before we do, they'll kill him. Whether Hunter believes it or not, we're trying to save his life. But we need your help, Sally.”

A heavy silence descended over the table. Finally, Sally broke it. “OK. Yes, he's alive. Yes, we've spoken. But I don't know where he is. And even if I did I wouldn't tell you.”

“What's he working on? His story.”

“I don't know.”

“You must know something,” Tracy pressed her. “He asked you to look into Frank Dorrien, didn't he? Why?”

“I swear to you, I don't know.” Sally ran a hand through her dirty-blond hair in frustration. “Hunter would rather die, literally, than let anyone else in on his scoop. Even me. I know he suspected the general of having a hand in the Greek prince's death. That's why he asked me to check him out.”

“And did he?” Tracy tried to make the question sound casual.

Sally shook her head. “No. It was suicide. Like I told Hunter, there
is
no dirt on this guy. And I mean none. He may not be warm and cuddly, but Frank Dorrien's as clean as a whistle. The man's never gambled, barely drinks, never been disciplined, never cheated on his wife. I wouldn't mind betting his shirts are all perfectly color-coded in his closet. He's rude and a bit weird, maybe, but being OCD and a stickler for good form doesn't make you a killer.”

“No, it doesn't,” Tracy agreed. “But Hunter still suspects him?”

“He suspects him of something,” Sally said. “I don't think even he knows what exactly. One of Hunter's problems is his stubbornness. When he gets an idea in his head, it can take a lot more than facts
—
or in this case a complete and utter lack of facts
—
to change his mind. It's the same way with his gambling. Once he's playing his hand at poker, or he's put his money on a horse, it's as if, for him, the outcome is already decided. He must win, so he will win. It's as if he thinks he can make something true by believing it hard enough.”

Tracy remembered that Cameron Crewe had told her something very similar about him.

“Not a good trait for a journalist,” she observed.

“No,” Sally agreed. “Hunter has his strengths. But he can be willfully blind when he wants to be.”

“Do you know why he ran from his rescuers?” Tracy changed tack abruptly.

Sally shook her head. “I mean clearly he didn't trust them. But if you're asking why, I have no idea.”

“And he never mentioned Althea to you? Or anyone else in Group 99?”

“No.” Sally drained her mug of tea. “The weird thing is, they are trying to kill him.” She told Tracy about Hunter's near miss with Apollo, being careful not to let slip any locations. “But I get the strong sense that this story he's writing goes way beyond Group 99. It's something big. Big enough for your friends at the CIA to want to bury.”

Tracy considered this, chewing on her bacon sandwich in silence. Suddenly Sally said, “Do you know why Hunter and I broke up?”

“Another woman?” Tracy hazarded a wild guess.

Sally smiled. “That didn't help. But the straw that broke the camel's back was actually his gambling. We owned a place together, a lovely garden flat in Hampstead. Most of the money came from my parents. Hunter remortgaged it behind my back to pay off a poker debt.” She laughed but there was no happiness in the sound. “I love him. But he is
so
dishonest, it takes your breath away. I lost that flat, and honestly, he wasn't even sorry about it. He just kept saying it was ‘only' money, ‘only' bricks and mortar. You're wondering why I'm telling you this, aren't you?”

“A bit,” Tracy admitted.

“The thing is, Hunter and I
are
close. But I've never understood him. I'm probably the last person you should ask about his motivations. I never know what he's going to do next.”

Tracy paid the bill and they walked out onto the street. They swapped numbers, and promised to stay in touch.

“Does anyone else know you've heard from Hunter? Or about him running from the SEALs?”

Sally shook her head. “No one. I'm only telling you because, honestly, I'm scared. All Hunter cares about is his stupid story. But like you said, if Group 99 find him, they'll kill him. Whatever it is that he doesn't want your lot to find out, I don't believe it's worth dying for.”

“You really do love him, don't you?”

Sally pulled her coat around her shoulders forlornly. “Unfortunately, yes. I do. He's an asshole and a player. Totally toxic. But there literally is no one else like him. Once you've loved someone like Hunter, it ruins you for normal, stable men.” She laughed, embarrassed. “You probably have no idea what I'm talking about.”

An image of Jeff Stevens's face popped, unbidden, into Tracy's mind.

“Oh, I do,” she told Sally. “Believe me. I absolutely do.”

T
RACY WAS WOKEN AT
six the next morning by a phone call from Greg Walton.

“We've had complaints.”

Tracy rubbed her eyes.
Good morning to you too.
“What sort of complaints?”

“Serious complaints. From the British Home Office. According to them you were uncooperative and obstructive in yesterday's meeting.”

“That's absurd.” Tracy cast her mind back to her conversation with Jamie MacIntosh and Frank Dorrien at MI6 yesterday, trying to think of anything she said or did that might be construed as obstructive. “They asked me to interview a journalist, a contact of Hunter Drexel's, and I did that. Who complained, Greg?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“It does to me,” Tracy said hotly. “It was Frank Dorrien, wasn't it?”

“Like I said, that's not the issue.”

“He made it clear yesterday he didn't trust me.” Tracy could feel her anger growing. “But you know what? The feeling's mutual. He's more involved in all this than he lets on. Hunter Drexel doesn't trust him.”

“How do you know that?”

Tracy filled Greg in on yesterday's meeting with Sally Faiers. He was excited.

“That's huge, Tracy. Great work. We'll have the Brits subpoena her phone records.”

“No, don't,” Tracy said hurriedly. “Let's keep them out of this for now. Sally trusts me. If she feels she's being used or spied on, she'll shut down. She dislikes General Dorrien almost as much as I do.”

“Hmm.” Walton didn't sound happy. “I don't know about that . . .”

“You won't find anything anyway. Hunter Drexel's a pro. He's bound to be on disposable phones.”

“All right. We'll leave it for now. But stay close to her. And remember, General Dorrien's on our side. You're there to find Althea, not to investigate the general.”

“But what if the two are connected?”

“They aren't, Tracy.” A note of firmness had crept into Walton's voice. He quickly replaced it with a warmer, more flattering tone. “I'll be sure to tell the president about your great work over there. Believe me, he'll be delighted to learn that Drexel's still alive at least. That's a lot more than we knew yesterday.”

“Hopefully it's only the beginning. There's a lot more I need to do here. Althea's not part of MI6, I'm sure of that. But . . .”

Greg Walton cut her off. “Actually, Tracy, I'd like you back in the States by tomorrow, Thursday at the latest.”

“What? Why?” Tracy was bewildered.

“Agent Buck has some potential new leads.”

“What new leads? The best leads we have are right here in London.”

“Buck will fill you in when you get back here,” Greg Walton said, in a way that made it clear Tracy's return was a command, not a suggestion. “Like I said, we're grateful for what you've achieved. But diplomatically it's important you come home.”

“OK,” Tracy said, deadpan.

Walton seemed relieved.

“There'll be a ticket waiting for you at the BA desk at Heathrow.”

“Right.”

“Good job again.”

Walton rang off.

Tracy sat in bed for a long time, staring at the phone in her hand.

Something's wrong.

Someone wants me gone.

Is it General Frank Dorrien? Good old, upright, squeaky clean Frank?

She started to get dressed.

GREG WALTON HUNG UP
the phone. He was seated in the Oval Office, across the desk from the president; Agent Buck of the FBI sat beside him.

President Havers looked at Walton. “So he's alive?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“But we don't know where?”

“No, Sir. Not yet.”

President Havers stared bitterly past his intelligence chiefs to the framed picture of himself on the wall above their heads. It had been taken on his inauguration day, less than a year ago. He must have aged a decade since then, thanks to Hunter Drexel.

Havers's reelection campaign would begin in earnest in a few months' time. Some of his big donors had already written checks. But others, including Cameron Crewe, were hesitating, waiting to see how the Group 99 crisis resolved itself. The situation in Europe was as tense as it had been in decades. The president needed a win and he knew it.

“What about Whitney? How much does she know?”

“She knows nothing,” Agent Buck sneered. “She's a tool. Nothing more.”

President Havers hoped Buck was right. Tracy Whitney had proved useful in tracking Althea to London and in getting a lead on Hunter Drexel. But her skills of deduction could be extremely dangerous if she wasn't kept in check. She was already showing an unhealthy interest in the unfortunate events at Sandhurst Academy. Not to mention antagonizing British intelligence into the bargain.

A secretary stuck her head around the door.

“So sorry, Mr. President. But I have the British Prime Minister on the line. I don't think she's too happy.”

President Havers sighed deeply. Since the disastrous Bratislavan raid, Julia Cabot was the only friend he had left in Europe. He needed her.