Run Girl: Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers Prequel Novella (8 page)

Ingrid was relieved to discover the taxi was still waiting for them when they pushed through the little blue wooden gate and back onto the street. Fumes from the taxi’s exhaust pipe were condensing in the freezing December air.

They walked the twenty or so yards back to the dark blue mini-van in silence. Ingrid was still too mad at Angelis to speak to him. Adam Oxley hadn’t deserved that kind of treatment. He was only trying to keep a promise to his friend—however misplaced that loyalty was. She hoped he’d get over the traumatic experience without any lasting effects. But it was quite possible the kid would suffer from some kind of post traumatic stress.
Poor bastard
.

Before they’d left him sitting in a daze at the table, his clothes completely drenched, Ingrid had insisted Oxley call his parents. His mom agreed to come pick him up later in the day. Hopefully he’d be able to get himself together before she arrived.

They reached the taxi. Angelis opened a rear passenger door and stood aside. Ingrid ignored him and clambered into the car using the other door.

“Oh, please. How long do you intend to keep this up?” he asked.

Ingrid squeezed her hands into tight fists and concentrated on her breathing. She was so close to screaming at him she was concerned the taxi driver would throw her out of the car if she really let rip.

Angelis climbed into the taxi and slammed his door. “I only did what I had to. Call Sol Franklin if you’re feeling so squeamish—I’m sure he’ll back me up.”

Ingrid snatched down as deep a breath as she could then said, “And where exactly did it get us? We’re no nearer finding her than we were an hour ago.” She glanced at her watch. It was already a quarter before three. The sky was darkening. It looked like a storm was heading in their direction.

“We know we should head for Cambridge. It’ll take no time at all in the chopper.”

“Do we?”

“She has a connection there.”

“According to Adam Oxley.”

“I really don’t think he was lying to us.”

“No—but she lied to him.”

“What?”

“She ‘absolutely adores’ Cambridge? She’s never set foot in the country before. And why would she want to visit her dad’s friends? She hates anything to do with the guy.”

“You think she gave Oxley false information so that he’d pass it on to us?”

“She’s smart—we’ve established that. Why not throw anyone who might be looking for her off the scent?”

“Devious bloody cow.”

“We can’t risk going to Cambridge. We don’t have time to squander on wild goose chases.”

“I am very well aware of that fact—but thank you so much for reminding me.” He grabbed the back of the driver’s seat and leaned forward “What are you waiting for?”

The taxi driver shrugged. “You’re seriously considering flying in that?” He wagged a finger at the windshield and the gathering dark clouds beyond. “Rather you than me.” He started the engine and quickly pulled out into the empty road.

Angelis got out his phone and tapped the screen two or three times. Then he drummed his fingers on his knee as he waited for someone to pick up. “Hi, yes, it’s me. Found anything interesting? Nothing at all? Well, dig a little deeper. See if you can find any connection to Cambridge. Call me back if you find anything. No matter how seemingly insignificant.” He made another call. “Anything?” he said without introduction as soon as his call connected. “Keep me posted.” He shoved the phone in his pocket. “Seems our girl is rather a whizz at covering her tracks electronically. Unfortunately. Plus there’s no news on the five star hotel front.” He pushed a hand through the thick mop of hair piled on top of his head. “So… if not Cambridge, where?”

“I can’t believe she’d cross the Channel from France and want to be any place except London.”

“And you’re basing that theory on what exactly?”

Ingrid dropped her voice to a whisper, aware the taxi driver might be listening in. “Trying to think like the eighteen-year-old granddaughter of the Secretary of State.”

“Well that’s where you have the advantage over me. My feeble imagination can’t quite make that leap. So, what conclusions have you reached?”

Before Ingrid could answer, Angelis’ cell phone started to trill. She couldn’t deny she was relieved at the interruption. She’d come up with no concrete theories at all. Being outsmarted by a teenage math genius wasn’t a feeling she wanted to get used to.

“Sol, tell me you have some good news.” As he listened to Sol Franklin’s reply, Angelis’ expression grew more serious.

“What’s happened?” Ingrid asked him when he finally hung up.

“The end of today’s session of peace negotiations has been brought forward by two hours. We now only have until ten p.m. to find her.”

The taxi quickly reached the dirt track next to the field where the helicopter was waiting for them. As soon as the pilot saw them arrive, the rotor blades started up. Angelis shoved a handful of bank notes at the driver and jumped out of the cab. This time he made no attempt to open Ingrid’s door.

At least he was learning.

The downdraft from the helicopter chilled Ingrid to the bone. She was used to sub zero temperatures back home—you don’t get raised on a Minnesota hog farm without enduring a little discomfort come wintertime—but somehow this cold seemed to penetrate deeper. Maybe she was getting soft. Too many years in an air conditioned environment with a steady ambient temperature of seventy-two degrees could do that to an agent.

The pilot handed them each a pair of large green headphones and, once Ingrid and Angelis had clamped them onto their ears, he ordered them to buckle up. “This weather is filthy. It’s coming in from the North Sea, so I’m hoping we can outrun it. But be prepared for a bumpier ride than on the way out.”

When they’d reached their cruising altitude, Ingrid noticed Angelis finally release his grip from the sides of his seat. His knuckles were not so much white as translucent. “You OK?” she asked him.

“Me? Never better.”

“Good—let’s get back to…” She glanced toward the pilot. Whatever they said to one another, he’d be able to hear too. She made sure not to use any names. “Let’s get back to the matter in hand. Maybe we’re approaching this from the wrong direction.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We need to try to work out what has brought her here. If not a fellow math genius, then what? Or rather, who?”

“You think she’s planned a romantic liaison?”

“Hey, I know you’ve got great art galleries and theaters in London, but I don’t think they’d be enough of a draw for her to plan something as meticulously as this. I think she’s here to meet somebody.”

“We’re screwed then.” Angelis said. “When it comes to acts of love, people behave completely irrationally.”

“Love?”

“Come on, it might be difficult for you, but try to cast your mind back to when you first fell for your chap. What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“Good god—your fiancé—who else?”

It took Ingrid a moment to summon an image of Marshall Claybourne in a full charm offensive. It had certainly been a while. When they’d first gotten together, Ingrid’s fiancé had wooed her with his unending devotion and tireless attempts to do sweet little things for her that might make her happy. But for the last year or so, ever since he proposed, in fact, they’d been so wrapped up with work they barely even noticed one another. “How do you know about Marshall?”

“I have studied your personnel file in detail.” He flashed a smile at her. “Wouldn’t you have crossed rivers and scaled mountains just to be with your chap and to hell with the rest of the world?”

She frowned at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re immune to Cupid’s arrow.”

“Just make your goddamn point.”

“We can’t hope to preempt anything she does. We’ve got no chance.”

“She’s been pretty methodical about things up till now. I don’t see any reason why she’d stop.”

“Good grief, where’s your sense of romance?”

The helicopter suddenly dropped forty feet without warning. The straps across Ingrid’s shoulders dug hard into her flesh.

“Sorry folks,” the pilot said. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I think the storm might just have caught up with us.”

Angelis’ face drained of color. He looked like a man who might start regretting his three course lunch.

“Hang on in there, buddy,” Ingrid said, surprising herself with her sympathetic tone.

“I think that’s the kindest you’ve been to me all day. If I’d known the threat of projectile vomiting would get that kind of response, I might have shoved a finger down my throat.”

“Don’t get used to it. Sympathy can wear off pretty damn fast.”

“OK—for the sake of argument—let’s say she’s here for some romantic encounter, but let’s also assume she’s not so head-over-heels in love that she’s lost all sense of perspective. What could she have planned?”

“Tell me more about her background.”

Angelis handed Ingrid his cell phone. “All the files are on there. Read them for yourself.”

“In this turbulence? It’ll make me throw up faster than anything. Give me a precis.”

“OK.” Angelis shoved the phone back in his pocket and closed his eyes as the helicopter dropped another dozen or so feet straight down. “She went to the best school her grandmother’s money could buy. She had ballet, skiing and riding lessons. And, reading between the lines, more freedom to experiment with sex and drugs than any teenager could dream of. I don’t know why she’s so angry at her parents. They pretty much let her do what she wanted.”

“Maybe she was craving something else—like discipline and boundaries. Maybe she’s angry at her parents for not providing the structure she needed.”

“Craving structure and discipline? God help your kids when you have them.”

“But what if she wanted to use this trip, in part, to get back at her parents? To piss them off in some way? What might she get up to that would piss them off? Or what kind of person might she be seeing that would upset them the most?” Ingrid thought about it for a moment then quickly rattled through a list of unsuitable boyfriends. But she and Angelis quickly rejected them all: Rachel Whitticker’s parents would probably have welcomed anybody into their home, regardless of race, religion or gender.

The pilot’s voice crackled through their headphones again. “You might want to check your seat belts are secure,” he told them. “Maybe grip something tight too. It might make you feel a
 
bit safer.”

“I guess this is like a stroll in the park for you, huh?” Ingrid asked him, the edge of panic in his voice alarming her a little.

The helicopter lurched sideways, as if it were a tiny bug that had been swatted by an angry giant.

“Oh, not so much,” the pilot replied. “Just got back from three years in the Gulf states. Don’t get this kind of weather there. Just the odd sandstorm. And we don’t fly anywhere near those things.”

Angelis gulped so noisily, the pilot must have heard him.

“Don’t worry though. I’ve practiced in a simulator.” He sniffed. “Although it’s never quite the same in reality.”

Ingrid glanced at Angelis. His eyes were shut tight. She tried to peer through the pilot’s windshield, but all she could see was gray rain. Visibility had to be down to twenty or so feet.

Though her stomach was turning cartwheels, and saliva was gathering beneath her tongue, Ingrid couldn’t help feeling a slight buzz. She hadn’t had this much adrenalin coursing through her veins since her very first drugs bust.

15

Nick Angelis’ motorcycle was waiting for them when they touched back down at the heliport in Battersea. Because of the weather, the trip back from Essex took twenty minutes longer than on the way out.

They were running out of time.

“Where to now?” Angelis asked her.

“Call your company—find out if they’ve come up with any new leads.”

“They’d call me if they had even a crumb of intel that may prove useful.” He checked his phone. “No missed calls. No text messages.”

It was a quarter before five. The sky was dark and the December chill was intensifying. Ingrid felt it was up to her to take control. Neither Nick Angelis nor his company had helped track down the missing teenager one little bit. She seriously doubted Angelis’ claim that Fortnum’s intel was second only to Mossad’s. She hoped to hell that the CIA and MI5 wouldn’t have been outsmarted by a resourceful eighteen year old. “You’re certain Rachel Whitticker has never been to the UK before?”

“Positive.”

“But her grandmother has, presumably, plenty of times.”

“Sure.”

“Where does she stay during her visits?”

Angelis put in another call to his company. He hung up after less than a minute. “Whenever she visits London, she stays at the Paramount on The Strand.”

“Why don’t we head there?”

“Based on what?”

“The girl looks up to her grandmother, doesn’t she? Respects her choices, her tastes maybe?”

“We believe that’s the case.”

“So maybe she’d want to stay at the same hotel.”

“Do you know what a room costs at the Paramount?”

Ingrid had no clue.

“It would have completely blown her budget.”

“How long to get there on the bike?”

“With a following wind, fifteen minutes.”

Given how much time they’d already squandered, Ingrid decided another half hour out of their day was worth the gamble. “Let’s get going then.”

After running a dozen or so red lights and performing so many illegal maneuvers that at times Ingrid was forced to close her eyes, Angelis parked the bike on the sidewalk right outside the Paramount Hotel. The liveried doorman approached them, his arm raised, his brow furrowed and his mouth open. But one withering look from Angelis stopped him in his tracks.

“We’ll get this valet-parked for you, sir.”

Angelis pressed a five pound note into the man’s hand.

They hurried through the revolving doors and stepped into another world. Ingrid was overwhelmed by a landscape of black and white marble, colored glass light fittings suspended on thick metal chains from the ceiling, and an array of oil paintings hanging on the mahogany paneled walls. Angelis grabbed her arm and led her to the reception desk. A perfectly groomed middle-aged man smiled up at them both. His smile quickly disappeared as soon as Ingrid flashed her badge at him.