Run Girl: Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers Prequel Novella (11 page)

“Why is the FBI involved?”

“It’s standard procedure in the circumstances,” Angelis said.

“And I’m still not clear exactly what your role is in all this.” Hollingsworth narrowed his eyes and stared up at Angelis through the thick locks of blond hair that had fallen back across his forehead.

“Advice and support.”

“And has this young woman actually done anything wrong?”

“She’s missing from home.”

“Are you even certain Eugene’s girlfriend is the girl you’re looking for?”

“We have a pretty good idea,” Ingrid said, unable to be more categoric, given the false trails Rachel had already left.

“I’m not sure that’s good enough. You have no jurisdiction here. I’m beginning to come around to Eugene’s point of view. Perhaps small government does make sense.” He leaned back in his chair. “It seems to me neither Eugene nor his young lady have committed any crime. Why not let these two young lovebirds have a little time together?”

“Don’t you want to help reunite a family with their missing daughter?” Ingrid couldn’t understand why Hollingsworth had decided to be so obstructive. Maybe it had something to do with how much he was getting paid to have Barclay as his assistant.

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

“Quite old enough to know her own mind.” Hollingsworth stood up. His shirt was half hanging out of his pants, his large belly spilling over his waistband. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have rather a busy schedule. Veronica will show you out.”

The secretary made sure she didn’t walk past her boss as she slipped around the desk and strode toward the door. She escorted them into the elevator. As she pressed the lobby button, she smoothed down her crumpled skirt.

Ingrid edged a little closer to her. “I had a boss like that once.”

Ms Tipton didn’t respond.

“It wasn’t until five of us lodged official complaints that anything was actually done. I guess it’d be difficult for that to happen here.”

Tipton continued to hold her tongue.

The elevator doors opened and as Ingrid and Angelis stepped out into the foyer, the secretary wished them luck in finding the missing girl. The doors closed again before Ingrid had a chance to respond. They got as far as the reception desk when Angelis’ phone started to ring. He answered quickly, listened intently for a few seconds, then hung up.

“No sign of anyone at Barclay’s flat. The team will stay there, just in case he tips up later. He’s switched off his mobile phone too.”

“Dammit. There has to be something we can do.”

“Frankly, I’m all out of ideas.”

Just as they started to head for the exit, Ingrid heard someone call her name from the other side of the foyer. She turned to discover Ms Tipton standing next to the elevator. Ingrid hurried over to her.

“Eugene is going to the fundraiser this evening,” she told Ingrid in a whisper. “He asked me to get a ticket for his girlfriend.”

Angelis joined them.

“Can you give me the details?” Ingrid retrieved her phone from her purse, ready to punch in the address and time of the event.

In the same quiet voice, Ms Tipton provided the information. Once Ingrid had returned her phone to her purse, the secretary said, “I am doing something, by the way. About my… situation. He’s not going to get away with it for much longer.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling.

“I’m very glad to hear that.”

“Thanks for your concern.” With that, the elevator doors opened and Tipton slipped inside.

Angelis checked his watch. “My God we’re going to be cutting it fine.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve got to get you kitted out in a ball gown.”

“What?”

Angelis stopped walking and turned to her, he took a little bow. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ball?”

19

Ingrid wriggled uncomfortably in the silk upholstered chair of a private suite in Harvey Nichols department store. She was wearing a toweling bath robe over her underwear and felt horribly exposed. She silently cursed Sol Franklin for agreeing to Angelis’ stupid scheme to lift Rachel Whitticker straight out of the fundraising ball.

“It makes a lot of sense,” Sol had said. “We can keep an eye on her movements up close and you and Nick can blend right in as the best looking couple at the ball. Plus you’ll be able to choose exactly the right moment to apprehend her. No fuss, no mess.” He’d sounded as if Angelis had written his script for him.

Ingrid was beginning to think they’d ganged up against her.

After a hurried discussion, it had been agreed between the three of them that, in order to keep the whole incident from the Secretary of State, they should locate the girl, reunite her with the original French bodyguard and concoct some tale about a day trip to London that lasted much longer than Rachel had planned. That way hopefully no one at the embassy in Paris would be blamed for the incompetence of the French security company and Rachel wouldn’t fall out with her grandmother. But they had very little time to pull it all off. Especially if Rachel Whitticker didn’t agree to the scheme. If the girl put up any resistance, then the plan was pretty much dead in the water.

“Miss Skyberg, thank you for your patience.” The heavily made-up assistant with the bleached blond hair appeared at the fitting room door with three full-length dresses over her arm.

They all looked hideous.

Ingrid wanted to scream at her—it wasn’t
Miss
Skyberg, it was
Agent
Skyberg—and she was feeling anything but patient.

“Your husband not around to give you a second opinion?”

“He’s not my husband.”

“Oh I’m sorry. It’s just that you seemed so well suited, I presumed you’d tied the knot already.”

Ingrid had to stop herself grimacing at the suggestion. She glanced at the dresses and actually felt a little nauseous. She hated shopping for clothes. She hated shopping, period. In her opinion, if something couldn’t be easily ordered online, it wasn’t worth having.

“I’ve got these three and I’ve identified half a dozen others, if these ones don’t suit.”

Ingrid had already tried on and rejected four dresses. She was tempted to just grab the first dress from the assistant’s arm and tell her she’d take it. But she still had a little pride in her appearance. She didn’t want to end up looking like a clown.The assistant hung up the dresses in the fitting room and stepped outside.

“Just ring the bell here when you’re in the first one and need a bit of help with the zip.”

Ingrid reluctantly got to her feet and selected the least worse option of the three. It was black and backless, but mercifully had no sparkling fake diamonds stitched onto it. It also had shoulder straps—at least she wouldn’t feel as if she were permanently slipping out of it. She closed the the fitting room door, took off the robe and stepped into the dress, unable at first to even glance at the 360 degree mirrors. She took a deep breath and raised her gaze. She exhaled. It really didn’t look that bad. But there was no way to judge it properly from this distance. She reached up and yanked open the door and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Nick Angelis was sitting on a silk covered chair right outside. He smiled slyly at her. “My word, Agent Skyberg, you do scrub up well. You look like a fairytale princess.”

“Screw you, Angelis.”

“Until, of course, you open your mouth.” He stood up. “Stop the search,” he said, turning to the assistant. “We have found the perfect dress. All we need now are shoes, hair and makeup.”

Right on cue, a woman with a flawless, perfectly matte complexion appeared at the outer door, armed with a plastic transparent toolbox of cosmetics.

“Are you sure about this?” Ingrid asked Angelis.

“Absolutely—this one sets off your curves in all the right places.”

“I wasn’t talking about the dress, goddammit!”

“No?”

“What if this whole fundraising ball is just another false trail that she’s left us? What if we’re doing exactly what she wants us to be doing? Meanwhile she and her Republican boyfriend are laughing at the stupid government employees.”

The makeup woman and shopping assistant threw each other a puzzled glance.

“Just discussing work,” Angelis said by way of explanation.

“You work together?” the assistant said. “How lovely is that? You must really get on well with one another. If I spend more than a couple of hours with my other half we’re at each other’s throats. Holidays are a complete nightmare.”

“We work together, period,” Ingrid clarified. “He’s not my husband, or my boyfriend… or even my friend.”

Angelis’ face took on an exaggerated hurt look. “She can be so cruel sometimes. But it doesn’t stop me hoping she’ll come around one day.”

“Ahhhh,” the makeup woman and assistant purred in unison.

Good grief
.

Ingrid thought she might throw up. If she could have run right out of there and headed for her hotel, refusing to emerge until they found her somebody else to work with, she would have in an instant. But for what remained of this mission, she knew she was stuck with him, for better or worse. Thank God she would never have to see him again once it was over.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.

“Veronica Tipton seemed pretty certain they’d be there.”

“So she’s been duped too. My God, Nick, can’t you see it’s possible we’re being played here? Again.”

He smiled at her.

“What? What did I say that’s so amusing?”

“That’s the first time you’ve used my Christian name.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Ouch!”

“Are we wasting time we don’t have to spare going to this fundraising thing?”

“We have his flat under surveillance, the tech guys have come up with nothing new.”

“But shouldn’t we at least formulate a plan B, if they’re not there tonight?”

“That’s precisely what we don’t have time for. We have to give this our best shot. It’s the only game in town.”

The makeup woman dumped her toolbox noisily on a nearby table and took a step closer to Ingrid. “If I don’t make a start soon, you won’t be going to the ball at all, Cinders.”

Ingrid closed her eyes and prayed the ordeal would be over quickly.

20

Ingrid and Angelis arrived at the white stucco Georgian venue on Whitehall a little after seven-thirty. Ingrid could only hope that the operation would go smoothly. She’d called Sol Franklin from the car. He’d assured her she had his full support to apprehend the missing teenager “using reasonable force.” She hadn’t asked him to elucidate. If Angelis’ performance with a bucket of water was anything to go by, she and Franklin had a whole different definition of the word reasonable.

The chauffeur—an embassy driver, complete with smart cap and dark gray uniform—pulled into the curb. As he started to get out of the car, Angelis stopped him and climbed out himself. He scooted around the back and yanked open her door, extending a hand. Much as Ingrid wanted to ignore it, she wasn’t sure how stable she’d be on the uneven sidewalk in such high heels. She grabbed his hand and levered herself up. By the time she had straightened up, she was almost as tall as him.

“Allow me to tell you again how beautiful you look this evening, Ingrid.”

“You can say it again, but I can’t promise I won’t throw up all over your tuxedo.”

He stepped back from her, his gaze tracking down from her head to her pointed silver shoes. “Exquisite.”

“For God’s sake let me get inside. I’m freezing out here with no jacket.” She wrapped her black silk shawl closer to her. “It’s got to be below zero tonight.”

Angelis held out his arm. Again, uncertain of her hold on vertical, she accepted the assistance. This operation had better succeed. Already she was feeling mildly humiliated by the experience.

“Oh bollocks and bloody bugger,” Angelis suddenly exclaimed under his breath. He nodded toward the entrance of the grand building.

There was a tight scrum of photographers standing just outside. The plump man Angelis had had the altercation with that morning in Grosvenor Square—it seemed impossible that it had been the same day—was standing at the head of the pack.

“If he recognizes us and informs his reporter chum, we’ll never keep this operation under wraps,” Angelis said. “We should probably go into the building through the kitchen.”

But it was too late. The fat photographer was pointing his long lens straight at them.

“We do look a little different than we did earlier,” Ingrid said, hopefully. She couldn’t face the prospect of hobbling any further in her shoes than she had to.

“He’s seen us now anyway. Let’s brazen it out.” Angelis marched Ingrid to the entrance and straight inside without comment from the photographer. The burly man checking the invites at the door waved them through without question.

“One of your colleagues from Fortnum’s?” Ingrid asked as she was glided into the warmth and bright lights of a plushly decorated lobby. It looked a little like a five-star hotel.

“Not exactly.” Angelis handed the two gold-embossed invitation cards to a man in livery. “Ex-military. I served with him in Iraq.

“I never asked—how much back up do we have here tonight?”

“You think it’s not something we can handle between the two of us?”

“You’re telling me there’s no back up?”

“Containment is key, remember. More personnel means a greater risk of the details getting out.” He dragged her along the thick red carpet and through a porticoed arch into an enormous ballroom. Tables were ranged all the way around the edges of the room. Most were occupied. A handful of brave souls had taken to the dance floor. Either they were exhibitionists or they’d started drinking much earlier in the day. Ingrid glanced at some of the diners, looking out for Rachel Whitticker. Waiters were weaving between the tables, delivering the first course. Ingrid was suddenly ravenous.

“Care for a dance?” Angelis asked, his hand outstretched.

“I’ll pass if it’s all the same to you.”

“That’s not an option, I’m afraid. The only way to check all the tables without arousing suspicion is via the dance floor. So I suggest we strut our stuff.”