Читать книгу Sidney Sheldon’s Reckless - Сидни Шелдон, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 10

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘HE RAN’?”

President Jim Havers held the phone away from his ear in disbelief.

“He ran, sir,” General Teddy MacNamee repeated. “Drexel refused to get into the helicopter.”

There was a long silence.

“Fuck,” said the president.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘HE RAN’?”

The British prime minister rubbed her eyes blearily.

“I don’t know how many other ways to say it, Julia,” the President of the United States snapped. “He wouldn’t get in the chopper. He ran into the fucking forest. We’re screwed.”

Julia Cabot thought, You mean you’re screwed, Jim.

Her mind raced as she tried to figure out the best way to play this.

“I’ve already had the Bratislavan president on the line, screaming blue murder,” President Havers ranted on. “The UN secretary General’s asked me for a statement as a matter of urgency.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing yet.”

“What will you tell him?”

“That Drexel wasn’t there. He’d been moved. But that they successfully took out a bunch of terrorists.”

“Good,” Julia Cabot said.

“I can count on your support?”

“Of course, Jim. Always.”

President Havers exhaled. “Thank you, Julia. We need a joint intelligence meeting. To figure out where we go from here.”

“Agreed.”

“How soon can your guys be in Washington?”

“I think, under the circumstances, Jim, it makes more sense for your guys to come to London. Don’t you?”

Julia Cabot smiled. It felt good to have the upper hand with the Americans for once. Right now she was the only friend Jim Havers had in the world and he knew it. She must play her cards for all they were worth.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jim Havers said gruffly.

“Wonderful.” Julia Cabot hung up.

EXACTLY ONE WEEK LATER, FOUR MEN sat around a table in Whitehall, eyeing one another warily.

“Good of you to come, gentlemen.” Jamie MacIntosh rolled up his shirtsleeves and leaned forward, smiling amiably at his American counterparts. “I know you must both have had a difficult week.”

“That’s an understatement.” Greg Walton of the CIA looked desperately tired. He resented being summoned to London, especially at a time when his beloved agency was being ripped to shreds by Congress back home. But he made an effort at politeness. Unlike his FBI colleague, Milton Buck.

“I hope you have something important to add to this operation,” Buck snarled at Jamie MacIntosh. “Because frankly we don’t have time to waste on handholding you Brits.”

Sitting beside Jamie MacIntosh, Frank Dorrien stiffened. “Well, quite,” he said sardonically. “After the mess you made of what should have been a perfectly simple rescue mission, based on our entirely accurate intelligence, I imagine you want to devote as many man-hours as possible to training your own men. Heaven knows they need it.”

Milton Buck looked like he was ready to throw a punch.

“All right, that’s enough.” Jamie MacIntosh glared at Frank Dorrien. “None of us have time for chest beating. Let’s leave that to the politicians. We’re here to combine our resources and share information on Group 99 and that’s what we’re going to do. Why don’t I start?”

Greg Walton leaned back in his chair. “Great. What have you got?”

“For starters, we’ve got a name for Captain Daley’s killer.”

Walton and Buck looked at one another in shock. “Seriously?”

Frank Dorrien pushed a file across the table.

In the top left-hand corner was a photograph of a handsome, dark-skinned man with a strong jaw, long aquiline nose, and hooded, distrustful eyes. There was a detached air about him and a certain watchful hauteur, like a bird of prey.

“Alexis Argyros,” Jamie MacIntosh announced. “Codenamed Apollo. One of Group 99’s founder members and a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work. Grew up in foster care in Athens. Possibly abused. A high school dropout but brilliant with computers and obsessed with violent video games from his early teens. Hates women. Sadist. Narcissist. All this is from his social worker’s reports.”

“Criminal record?” Greg Walton asked.

“Oh yes. Petty theft, vandalism, arson. Two years in youth custody for rape. And he was suspected in a hideous case of animal cruelty where a cat and kittens were burned alive.”

“You only get two years for rape?” Greg Walton asked.

“The Greeks can’t afford to run their prisons,” Jamie MacIntosh said matter-of-factly. “Not since austerity. Anyway, we believe Argyros was the man who pulled the trigger in Daley’s execution video. He was running the camp you raided, and his star is on the rise within Group 99. For months now he’s been trying to steer the group towards more violent methods, battling against the moderate elements within 99. Argyros appeals to disaffected young males in the same way that the jihadist groups groomed boys in the west after the Syrian war. He offers them a purpose and a sense of belonging, wraps it all up in a pretty parcel of social justice—”

“And then murders people,” Greg Walton interrupted.

“Precisely. We are fearful that Captain Daley’s death may mark the beginning of a new era of global terror. It’s an enormous pity you didn’t kill Argyros when you had the chance.”

“How do you know we didn’t?” Greg Walton asked.

This time Frank Dorrien answered.

“Because we’ve picked up internet traffic between Apollo and an unknown contact in the US Alexis Argyros is alive and well and he’s out there looking for Drexel, just like we are. Make no mistake. Group 99 want Hunter Drexel dead.”

“And you know all this how?” Milton Buck demanded sourly. A stocky, handsome, middle-aged man with dark hair and what ought to have been a pleasing face, Buck successfully concealed whatever charms he may have had beneath a thick veneer of arrogance.

“Our methods are none of your concern,” Frank Dorrien snapped back. “We’re here to share intelligence, not tell you how we came by it. Now, what do you have for us?”

Milton Buck looked at Greg Walton, who nodded his approval. Buck pulled out an old-fashioned Dictaphone voice recorder and put it on the table.

“While you’ve been unmasking the monkey,” the FBI man sneered, “we’ve been focused on the organ grinder.”

Jamie MacIntosh sighed. He was starting to find Milton Buck’s posturing deeply irritating.

“Your man Apollo may have pulled the trigger,” Buck went on, “but he was following orders from above.”

He pressed PLAY. A woman’s voice filled the room. It was American, educated, soft and low and the sound quality was excellent, as if she were sitting right there with them.

“Is everything ready?”

A man’s voice answered. “Yes. Everything has been done as you instructed.”

“And I will see it on live feed, correct?”

“Correct. You’ll be right there with us. Don’t worry.”

“Good.” The woman’s smile was audible. “Have him deliver the speech first.”

“Of course. As we agreed.”

“And at nine p.m. New York time precisely, you will shoot him in the head.”

“Yes, Althea.”

Milton Buck hit STOP and smiled smugly.

“That, gentleman, was the authorization for Captain Daley’s execution. The woman on that tape, who goes by the codename Althea, is the real brains behind Group 99. We’ve been tracking her for the last eighteen months.”

“We already knew about Althea,” Jamie MacIntosh said dismissively, to the FBI man’s visible annoyance.

“But you didn’t know she’d directly ordered Daley’s assassination. Did you?” Greg Walton countered.

“No,” Jamie admitted. “What else have you got on her? An ID?”

“Not yet,” Greg Walton admitted, a little uncomfortably.

“You’ve been tracking this person for eighteen months and you still don’t know who she is?” Frank Dorrien asked, disbelievingly. “What do you know?”

“We know she channels funds to Group 99 through a complicated network of offshore accounts that we’ve mapped extensively,” Milton Buck snapped.

“We have some unconfirmed physical data,” Greg Walton added more calmly. “Witnesses at various banks and hotels we believe she’s used have suggested she’s tall, physically attractive and dark haired.”

“Well that narrows it down,” Frank Dorrien muttered sarcastically.

Milton Buck looked as if he were about to spontaneously combust.

“We know she orchestrated the attack on the CIA systems and the blackout of the stock exchange servers on Wall Street two years ago,” he snarled. “We know she personally arranged the kidnap and murder of one of your men, General Dorrien. All in all I’d say we know a hell of a lot more than you.”

“How long have you had this recording?” Jamie MacIntosh asked.

Greg Walton shot Milton Buck a warning look but it was too late.

“Three weeks,” Buck said smugly. “I played this to the president the day after Daley was killed.”

A muscle on Jamie’s jaw twitched. “Three weeks. And nobody thought to share this information with us sooner?”

“We’re sharing it with you now,” Greg Walton said.

Frank Dorrien slammed his fist down hard on the table. Everybody’s water glasses shook.

“It’s not bloody good enough!” he roared. “Daley was one of ours. With allies like you, who needs enemies?”

“Frank.” Jamie MacIntosh put a hand on the old soldier’s arm, but Dorrien shrugged it off angrily.

“No, Jamie. This is a farce! Here we are spoon-feeding the Americans valuable intelligence, detailed intelligence, actually providing them with the exact location of their hostage. And all the while they’re sitting on vital information about Bob Daley’s killer? It’s unacceptable.”

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 indicating 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.

“I’d love one, darling,” Frank called back.

One day, this would all be over.

One day they could all return to normal.

BUNDLED UP AGAINST THE BITTER NEW York wind in a full-length mink coat and matching hat, her Tiffany diamond drop earrings sparkling like stalactites in the dazzling winter sunshine, Althea ran a black, gloved hand along the top of the gravestone, lovingly tracing a finger over the one-word inscription.

Daniel.

“He’s dead, my darling,” Althea whispered. “Bob Daley’s dead. We got him.”

Watching the Englishman’s skull explode across her computer screen had been gratifying. But it hadn’t brought Althea the closure she’d hoped for. She’d come to Daniel’s grave today in hopes that it might bring her some peace.

It hadn’t.

Perhaps it’s because he isn’t really here? The simple marble slab was just a memorial. Nothing lay beneath it. Thanks to them, Althea would never know where her beloved Daniel really lay, or whether he had even been buried. They had stolen that comfort from her, just as they had stolen everything else.

That’s why I don’t feel closure, she realized suddenly. Captain Bob Daley was just the beginning.

I must destroy them all.

Just as they destroyed me.

Althea wondered why the CIA hadn’t called in Tracy Whitney yet.

It was vital that Tracy be a part of this. Her message had been crystal clear on that point. Why were they waiting?

If that moron Greg Walton didn’t act soon, she’d be forced to take matters into her own hands. As the icy wind bit into her cheeks, Althea hoped it didn’t come to that.

Wrapping her mink more tightly around her, she turned and walked to her waiting limousine.

It was nice to be rich.

But it was even nicer to be powerful.