It still stung. Jeff had roundly outsmarted Tracy on that occasion, presenting Gunther Hartog with the famous Goya masterpiece that Tracy had painstakingly procured in a brilliant con that had been months in the making. Back then the rivalry between them had been fun and exciting, a foreplay of sorts, although neither of them recognized it at the time. Now, everything was very different. This wasn’t a game. This was real. And Group 99 wasn’t a gallery or a rich collector. It was a terrorist organization. Innocent people were being kidnapped and tortured and murdered. Government systems were being hacked. Children were being shot to death, all in the name of a group that had once stood for justice and equality, for righting the world’s wrongs.
The violence had started with Bob Daley’s brains being splattered across a screen. And it was still going on. Althea was still out there, Hunter Drexel was still missing. There was no end in sight.
The waiter cleared their salads and returned promptly with the entrees. Jeff took a bite of mouthwateringly tender steak before turning back to Tracy.
“You do realize I’m not doing this just because MI6 asked me to,” he said, refilling Tracy’s glass. “I had my own agenda.”
“Which was?” Tracy looked up at him questioningly. “Let me guess. There’s a Renoir in a château somewhere you need to liberate? Or a Fabergé egg collection desperate for a new home?”
“No,” said Jeff. “I came here to protect you.”
Tracy frowned. “I don’t need protection. I can take care of myself.”
“I disagree.” Jeff sipped his wine. “From what I’ve seen you’ve made some dangerous friends recently.”
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Oh, I think you know. Do you realize how many of Group 99’s actions in the last six months have ended up benefiting Crewe Oil? Directly or indirectly?”
“Not you as well . . .” Tracy muttered darkly.
“I mean it,” said Jeff. “Think about it. How well do you know this guy? I mean really know him.”
“Well enough to know that he’s a good man,” Tracy shot back angrily. “This is Frank Dorrien talking, Jeff, not you.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? Well let me ask you a question. Has it ever occurred to you to ask why the General’s so keen to prove a link between Group 99 and Cameron Crewe? Could it be to take the heat off himself?”
Now it was Jeff’s turn to frown. “The heat? What heat?”
“Frank Dorrien’s using you, Jeff! He’s in this up to his neck. Starting with Prince Achileas’s suicide. That was a cover-up if ever I saw one.”
“Maybe it was,” admitted Jeff. “But you’re wrong about Frank. He’s a decent man.”
“Decent?” Tracy’s eyes widened. “He ransacked the kid’s room after he died. Stole his computer. That much I know for a fact. He’s a liar, a sexist and a homophobe, not to mention anti-American. And I think he’s a killer.”
“That’s ridiculous, Tracy.”
“Is it?”
“Yes! I know Frank Dorrien. You don’t.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I know Cameron Crewe. And you don’t. Cameron’s a decent man, Jeff. More than decent. He’s one of the best.”
“I know you want to believe that, Tracy,” Jeff said, trying and failing to block the images of Tracy and Cameron together in Hawaii out of his mind.
“I don’t want to believe it. I do believe it. And if you don’t it’s either because Frank Dorrien’s poisoned you against him, or because you’re jealous!”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Tracy regretted them. The last thing she wanted to do was to make things personal between her and Jeff. To open up a door to the past, their shared past. But that was exactly what she’d just done.
Reaching across the table, Jeff took her hand.
“I came to look for you, you know. After Nick died. When you called me in London. I got the next plane out.”
“I know,” Tracy croaked.
“Then why did you run?”