Jacob gave a satisfied smile. “I have my ways, dear girl. Although I must say I’m thrilled to have impressed you. It’s not easy to impress the great Tracy Whitney.”
Tracy wanted to say that the “great” Tracy Whitney had died a long time ago. If she ever really existed. But she didn’t.
“What about the general?” she asked.
“He’ll be at the barracks, don’t you worry,” said Jacob. “He’s a workaholic. Almost never gets home before ten.”
Tracy didn’t like that almost. Not one bit.
“And this Tuesday he definitely won’t be back early,” Jacob reassured her. “There’s a review meeting for all the senior officers up at the military academy. Dorrien’s leading two of the sessions.”
Tracy left Jacob Bodie’s Bond Street gallery feeling confident and well prepared.
THE NEXT NIGHT, SITTING in the pitch dark outside Frank Dorrien’s house in a rented car with the engine switched off, all her confidence had deserted her. Tracy was as frozen with fear as she had been on the Bellamy job, and every job since.
What the hell am I doing here?
There’s a plane ticket waiting for me at Heathrow. If I leave now, I’ll still have time for dinner before takeoff. Maybe a nice, relaxing glass of red wine.
But it was too late for that now. Tracy was here. The decision was made.
She opened the car door.
In black overalls, gloves and boots and with a cap pulled low over her head, she was close to invisible as she approached the house. Not that it mattered. The entire street was deserted. The Dorriens’ neighbors were all at home watching the Strictly Come Dancing final on TV, their curtains firmly drawn.
Tracy’s heart was beating so loudly, she could hear nothing else. She’d forgotten quite how nauseous adrenaline made her.
She was at the front door now, Bodie’s copied key in her hand. Once she opened it she was committed.
Cameron Crewe’s voice rang in her ears.
You won’t find proof!
You’ll be arrested, Tracy.
Tracy slipped the key in the door and turned the handle.
The alarm exploded into life. No bells were ringing yet, but the system was beeping loudly, very loudly, like an angry bee calling back to its hive for reinforcements. Any minute now there would be sirens and lights and . . .
Shit! Where the fuck is the keypad?
Flustered, Tracy felt desperately up and down the wall. Finally she found it, hidden behind a hanging coat. Thank God! Heart hammering, she keyed in the code.
Nothing happened.
Damn it! Her hands were shaking. In her panic, she must have got the numbers in the wrong order. Tracy knew she only had twenty seconds to disarm the system. Jacob had been very clear about that. Ten of those seconds must have passed already, at least.
Sweat poured down Tracy’s back like a river. She didn’t care about being caught for herself. Her own life, her own safety, meant nothing to her anymore. But she had to know what Frank Dorrien was hiding. She had to put the pieces of this puzzle together, for Nicholas’s sake.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she typed the code in again, slowly this time, whispering each number as she pressed.
Five. Three. Five. Six.
The beeping stopped.
Tracy laughed. For the first time since she opened her eyes this morning, she began to relax.
Frank Dorrien’s house was small and neat and orderly and a little bit soulless, at least to Tracy’s way of thinking. There were no family photographs on display, no flowers, no novels or newspapers left casually on a side table. It was more like an office than a home. There was also far too much brown, heavy furniture, nothing colorful or feminine or light. Although perhaps things looked worse in the gloom? Frank and Cynthia had left a few lights on downstairs—no energy saving going on in the Dorrien household. No doubt Frank thought that was for hippies and lefties, but the illumination was patchy at best. Upstairs, everything was pitch-dark.