It hadn’t taken Jeff long to decide on the latter. If Tracy didn’t trust the MI6 officer then Jeff didn’t either. On the other hand, he was concerned for Tracy’s safety. Even more so now that the boys in blue were on the scene.
He longed to intervene, to do something to save Tracy, but he was powerless.
Come on, sweetheart, he willed her. Think of something.
TRACY RECOGNIZED THE FAMILIAR blue and white lights of the British police. She heard male voices, hushed but urgent.
Instinctively, she dropped to the floor. She must have been visible, at least partially, fr
om the window. But something told her the police hadn’t seen her yet. The car engines switched off one by one, and with them the lights. Everything was dark again and eerily hushed. The calm before the storm. Tracy listened. Every sense was on high alert. She felt like a violin whose strings had been tightened till they were about to snap.
How had the police found her? Had someone seen something? A neighbor, perhaps?
She knew Jacob wouldn’t have turned her in, and he was the only one who knew she was here tonight. Her mind raced.
She heard footsteps, walking towards the front door. Other feet were scurrying around the back. Desperately, Tracy looked around for a means of escape. But even if she found one, there was no time! In a matter of seconds the door would burst open. She’d be caught red-handed, arrested. Cameron was right. At best she’d be sent back to the U.S. in disgrace. Or perhaps the CIA would disown her and leave her to rot in a British jail. Save themselves the embarrassment.
Then she would never find Althea. Never learn what happened to Nick.
There was a hammering on the front door.
“Police! Open up!”
Tracy made her decision.
MAJOR GENERAL FRANK DORRIEN was tired. He loathed meetings. If I’d wanted to witter on about mission statements and best practices or waste my evenings on PowerPoint presentations, I’d have gone into business, he thought resentfully as he drove home. It was bad enough having to waste half his day indulging in cryptic “chats” with MI6. But one expected spies to beat around the bush. Officers in the British Army ought to know better. Tonight’s SFCR (Sandhurst Funding Committee Review) had been torture by any other name. It ought to have been banned by the Geneva bloody Convention. All Frank wanted now was a whisky, a bath and his bed.
Two police cars passed him as he turned into his street. He was just thinking how unusual that was, when he saw a third car with its engine running still parked in his driveway. A uniformed officer was standing on his doorstep, talking seriously to a worried-looking Cynthia, who’d obviously just returned home from bridge.
“I’m so sorry, General.” The policeman accosted Frank as he stepped out of the car. “Are the others on their way?”
Frank frowned. “Others? What others?”
“The cadets.” The policeman adopted a conspiratorial tone. “It’s all right, General. The explosives specialist already filled us in.”
Frank was starting to get irritated. It had been a very long day. “Explosives specialist? What the devil are you talking about, man?”
“Captain Phillips. The explosives specialist who let us in to the property earlier. The Captain explained about the training exercise, and how important it was to leave the house untouched, once it had been set up.”
Frank’s eyes widened.
“We do understand that these ‘surprise’ exercises are important, General,” the policeman went on. “Your cadets need to know how to respond to bomb threats in the community, and real terrorists don’t give advance warning. We get it. But this is a residential area. In future we’d appreciate a heads-up if you’re planning this sort of drill. At a minimum we’d like to warn your neighbors.”
“How about warning me?” Cynthia piped up indignantly.
“Old Mr. Dingle across the street thought you were being burgled,” the policeman chuckled. “So did we, when we first arrived.”
Frank Dorrien pushed past the policeman into the house. He ran straight to the downstairs lavatory. The remnants of the tissue box lay in pieces on the floor.
Frank felt the bile rise up in his throat.
Racing back outside he asked the policeman, “When did the explosives specialist leave?”
“About ten minutes ago. Just before your wife got home. She said she was heading back to the barracks but that the others would be on their way shortly. We tried to contact you on your mobile, General, but . . .”
Frank interrupted him. “She?”
“That’s right, General.”