Her certainty on that point was unshakable, so much so that even the CIA therapist had begun to think Tracy might be right. Instead of talking, Tracy had made work her therapy, immersing herself psychologically in the classified files on Althea.
After multiple briefings and hours spent poring over every thread of evidence, both electronic and physical, Tracy now knew as much about Althea as anybody in the world.
Except who she is.
Or how she knows me.
Or why she’s involved with Group 99.
Or whether she really did murder my son.
Tracy was itching to get out there and look for her. But until the Geneva bombing there had been no new leads.
Now, however, suspicious e-traffic intercepts strongly suggested that Althea was physically in Switzerland when the Cranston bombing took place. She may even have attended a meeting at a Private Bank in Zurich two days prior to the attack. The CIA were still trying to get their hands on CCTV footage from that meeting, as well as permission to interview the banker in question, although so far with no success.
“Trying to get information out of the Swiss is like trying to get a straight answer from a lawyer,” Greg Walton had complained yesterday. “Seriously, you’d think we were the enemy.”
Tracy raised an eyebrow. “Imagine that.”
Greg Walton grinned. “What happened to the trust, eh, Tracy?”
The two of them had developed a good working relationship, friendly and respectful. This was partly because Milton Buck had been too immersed in the hunt for Hunter Drexel—who at this point appeared to have disappeared off the face of the earth entirely—to show up to meetings. And partly because the only thing on earth that mattered to Tracy Whitney was finding out the truth about what happened to her son. For that she needed Greg Walton, just as much as he needed her.
“I can fly tonight if you need me to,” she told Greg now.
“I think it would be a good idea. If you’re up to it.”
“I am.” Tracy smiled.
“Good.” Greg smiled back.
In a classic white silk blouse and black cigarette pants, with her newly dark hair tied back and her skin glowing from a combination of drug-induced sleep and enforced healthy eating, Tracy looked terrific today. Poised. Beautiful. Well.
“You can pick up your ticket at the airport,” Walton told her. “Remember, you don’t officially work for us. That may give you more wriggle room with the Swiss.”
“Got it.”
“See if you can charm them. Failing that, see what . . . alternative channels . . . you can come up with to find Althea.”
Tracy nodded. This she could do. “Alternative channels” was her specialty. At least, it had been once.
“I know you’ll be resourceful.” Greg Walton handed her a written file with the word “Classified” printed on the cover. “Some light reading for the plane. Good luck, Tracy.”
“YOU SET ME UP!”
Alexis Argyros, aka Apollo, held the phone away from his ear. Althea was screaming at him, hissing and spitting with impotent fury like a snake beneath his foot. How the tables had turned!
It felt wonderful.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he answered, when she finally fell silent. “Our Swiss brothers organized this. I had nothing to do with it. I’m too busy hunting our friend, Hunter. Or had you forgotten about him?”
“You had everything to do with it! Are you saying it’s just coincidence that this happened here, while I’m in the country?”
“Not everything revolves around you, Althea.”
A few months ago he would never have dared to speak so boldly. But now? Now he had the power.
Sensing his enjoyment, Althea fired back. “You’re sick, Apollo. Everybody knows it. You had Henry Cranston murdered because it aroused you to see him die.”