Sidney Sheldon's Reckless (39 page)

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, Tracy 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.

The last time she'd broken in anywhere was at Frank Dorrien's house. Tracy remembered now how triumphant she'd felt that night, finding the hard drive from Prince Achileas's computer, and the first images of Althea—Kate. Those pictures had proved that the general had lied, about Captain Bob Daley and his relationship with the dead prince, and about other things too. They were also still the only known images of Kate. The woman who had killed Nick, and claimed to know Tracy, but who remained as much of a mystery now as she had done when this all started.

With luck, in a few short minutes, that mystery would be solved. Tracy would be talking to Hunter Drexel face-to-face, finally learning the truth. The whole truth.

At last she approached the house itself. Crouching low beneath the height of the ground-floor windows, she flattened herself against a wall, scratching her legs badly on the rose bushes that clung to the villa like thorny limpets. Lights were on inside. Tracy listened. She could hear classical music—a sonata of some sort, coming from deeper within the house—but no voices. The whole place, in fact, was eerily quiet. Peaceful, but not in a good way. There was a faint smell of cooking, garlic and anchovies and lemon coming from a few yards away. Tracy saw that the French doors to the drawing room had been flung wide open to the garden, presumably to allow in the cool evening air.

She approached them cautiously, gun drawn, stealing herself for battle. She didn't want to kill Hunter, but she must overpower him. Hopefully he would talk to her of his own accord. He was a journalist, after all, in another life. A story teller. Not to mention a vain egotist. Those sorts of people invariably liked to talk. But Tracy wasn't about to take any chances.

With one last, deep breath, Tracy burst into the room.

CHAPTER 28

T
HE ROOM WAS EMPTY.

At one end, a fire crackled gently in a vast Baronial fireplace. In front of it lay what looked like a recently discarded newspaper—today's
La Repubblica
—and a half drunk glass of scotch.

The music was coming from farther inside. Tracy followed it, keeping her back to the wall and her weapon drawn, inching her way along a long, parquet-floored corridor. Grand double doors at the end opened onto what looked to be a dining room. Tracy could see a long, rustic refectory table with a centerpiece of brilliant blue hydrangea flowers. Then suddenly, she froze.

There he was.

After all the reported sightings and grainy photographs, all the “what ifs” and near misses, Tracy was finally looking at Hunter Drexel. The blond hair was gone. He had reverted to his usual dark curls. And he looked stockier and healthier than he had in the pictures from Montmartre. Casually dressed in a sweater and jeans, with his back to Tracy, he was carrying a large bowl of salad over to the table like a man without a care in the world. He bore only the faintest traces of a limp and though he appeared to be alone, he was setting places for two.

Just as Tracy wondered
Who's he expecting?
Hunter's voice rang out loudly, bouncing off the ancient walls.

“Is that you, Miss Whitney?” He didn't look up, but continued setting the table. “Please, don't skulk around in the corridor. Come in.”

Tracy moved forward, cocking the safety catch on her pistol with an audible
click.

“You won't need that,” Hunter said blithely, turning around and looking at her for the first time. “I'm unarmed. As you can see.”

He held both arms out wide and smiled guilelessly. Tracy could see at once what had drawn Sally Faiers to him. That fatal, boyish charm.
Poor Sally.

“I've been expecting you. I trust you'll join me for dinner?” He gestured to the seat at the head of the table.

Tracy played along. Lowering her gun, she placed it carefully beside her plate and sat down.

“You've gone to a lot of trouble, Mr. Drexel.”

He gave a little bow. “I try.”

“Will Kate be joining us?”

Hunter's eyebrow shot up momentarily.

He's surprised I know her name.

“Not tonight.”

“Is she here? In Italy?”

Tracy threw out the question as if it were a casual inquiry about the weather. The whole situation was so surreal, she figured she might as well.

Hunter opened a bottle of Château Mouton-Rothschild with a satisfying pop.

“I don't know. The truth is I don't know where she is.”

“But if you did, you wouldn't tell me, right?”

He filled Tracy's glass with a sigh, then sat down beside her. “It's not Kate you want, Miss Whitney. She's not the enemy. I'd rather hoped you might have figured that out by now, especially considering how much the two of you have in common. And what a fan she is of yours.”

Tracy waited silently for him to continue.

“Kate worked for the CIA for many years, as a computer expert back at Langley. She was part of the team that tried to track you and Jeff Stevens, back in your heyday. You didn't know?”

Tracy shook her head. She'd suspected that Althea might be an intelligence agency insider, but it hadn't occurred to her that that might explain the link between the two of them.
She felt like she knew me because she'd tracked me all those years. But I never knew her.
It seemed so obvious now.

“Did Sally Faiers figure it out?” Tracy asked. “Is that why she was killed?”

A dangerous glint flashed in Hunter's eyes.

“I feel terrible about Sally. I loved her.”

But even as he said the words, Tracy clocked him looking at her hooker dress appraisingly. She couldn't figure the guy out.

Seeing her confusion, Hunter said, “There's a lot you don't know, Miss Whitney.”

“But you're going to enlighten me. Right?”

The smile was back, like sun breaking from behind the clouds.

“Let's eat.”

CHAPTER 29

T
HE MEAL WAS DELICIOUS,
some sort of chicken and onion stew with olives and anchovies. To her surprise, Tracy realized she was hungry. She waited for Hunter to eat first before tasting her own food—after all the death and destruction he'd caused, poisoning would not be beyond him—and did the same with her wine. But before long they were both eating and drinking, and despite the gun still resting beneath Tracy's fingers, the tension between them had eased.

“How did you know I would come here tonight?” Tracy asked eventually, being careful to drink water as well as her wine.

“Because I invited you. Well, as good as invited you. Once I was sure you'd shaken off the CIA and the British, I let you know where I'd be. Made sure I was seen by a few of the right people. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.”

Tracy thought,
So Cameron was right. He did want me to find him.

Aloud she said, “I could have shot you.”

Hunter looked perplexed. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Oh, I don't now. Because of Neuilly? All those dead teenagers?”

“I had nothing to do with Neuilly,” Hunter protested.

“British intelligence placed you there. Ours too.”

“Then British intelligence is wrong!” He sounded genuinely horrified. “They've been trying to throw you off the scent, Miss Whitney, and it looks like they've succeeded.”

Tracy looked at him skeptically.

“You didn't come here to kill me,” Hunter said. “You came because you want to know the truth. And I let you come because I want to tell it.”

“A confession?”

He grinned. “You still have me down as the bad guy, don't you?”

Tracy looked away. The truth was, she didn't know what she had him down as.

“I'm a journalist,” Hunter said. “Telling the truth is my job. My problem has been finding somebody I trust enough to tell it to.”