“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.
Turning to the two intelligence officers, he hissed, “Get Tracy Whitney back here. She’s causing too many waves.”
“Yes, Sir.” Greg Walton stood up. “It’s already done.”
“And keep her on a tight leash from now on.”
As Walton and Buck left the room, they heard the president putting on his warmest, most conciliatory voice.
“Julia!” Havers was practically purring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
CAMILLA AND RORY DALEY lived in a handsome Georgian rectory on the outskirts of one of Hampshire’s most sought after villages. The immaculate gardens and grounds sloped gently down to the River Test, where generations of Daleys had enjoyed exclusive rights to some of the best trout fishing in the country. Inside, polished parquet floors liberally scattered with antique Persian rugs led into spacious, elegant rooms, with original sash windows, generous fireplaces and traditional English furniture. Two Turner watercolors hung on the drawing room walls, above a Knowles sofa on which two rather scruffy wire-haired dachshunds slept soundly at opposite ends.
All in all, Tracy thought, it was quite the most charming, upper-class, English country house she’d been in since Gunther was alive. Clearly Captain Bob Daley’s parents were paid up members of the top 1 percent, if not the top 0.1 percent.
“Are you sure I can’t get you a cup of tea, Miss Arkell?” Lady Daley asked, for at least the third time. Tracy had adopted a perfect, cut-glass English accent and introduced herself as Harriet Arkell, an author, researching a biography on their son. She felt bad lying to the sweet, elderly couple. But she knew that the moment she mentioned the CIA, or the Daleys heard an American accent, they would be on their guard. Years living in England had taught Tracy that the English upper classes were far more forthcoming among those they perceived to be one of their own.
“It’s very kind of you but I’m fine, thank you,” Tracy said. “I won’t intrude too long. I really only wanted to clear up a few minor points about Bob’s time at Sandhurst.”