Reckless

“That’s quite all right, Billy. Show her up.”

Cameron barely had time to change his shirt and splash on some cologne before Tracy burst through the door, a ball of nervous energy.

“Hi.” Peeling off her wet trench coat she tossed it on Cameron’s expensive B&B Italia couch where it dripped excessively onto the suede. “I’m sorry I didn’t call in advance. I needed to see you.”

Cameron was thrown by how happy this statement made him. “No need to apologize. You can come by any time. Can I get you a—”

“I need you to see this,” Tracy interrupted him, pulling the black hard drive out of her pocket and waving it in front of Cameron. “Where’s your computer

?”

“In my study. But slow down, Tracy. This is General Dorrien’s?”

“No. It’s Prince Achileas’s.”

“But you broke into the home of an MI6 agent and stole it?”

“I didn’t steal it. I retrieved it,” Tracy corrected him. “Frank Dorrien stole it.”

“I’m not sure that’s the way British intelligence will look at it. Or the CIA for that matter.” Cameron ran a worried hand through his hair. “Greg Walton recalled you, Tracy. He specifically instructed you to stay away from Dorrien.”

“Yes. And did you ever wonder why?”

“No. Not really. But I’m sure he had his reasons. I can’t believe you actually did it. You went and burgled the guy’s house!”

“Computer,” said Tracy.

Still frowning, Cameron led her through into the study.

He watched as Tracy sat down, uploaded the drive and began tapping away, writing code into his computer at a ridiculously rapid rate, her long fingers flying across his keyboard like a swooping flock of birds.

“What are you doing?”

“Retrieving files,” Tracy said, not looking up. She was wearing a dark blue cashmere dress that softened her slender frame and her hair was swept up messily at the back. She smelled faintly of irises. Cameron felt a rush of desire shoot through him. “Frank Dorrien’s smart,” Tracy said. “He erased these pretty good.”

“But I take it you’re smarter?”

“Naturally.” She grinned. “Let’s start with the pictures, shall we?”

A large cache of fairly soft core gay porn was interspersed with pictures of Achileas himself, engaged in various sex acts with another, unknown man.

“So he was gay.”

“Or bi–very curious indeed,” quipped Tracy.

“Yeah. That’s six hard inches of curiosity right there,” said Cameron.

Tracy said, “He may have been being blackmailed. I found twenty thousand pounds cash in the general’s safe.”

“Which would support suicide,” Cameron reminded her.

“Right. But that’s not all. Look at this.”

Tracy clicked open images of Achileas relaxing at a picnic with Bob Daley. He was playing with Daley’s children. Bob’s wife must have taken the pictures. The two were obviously close. In one of the shots, at the far right of the picture, another woman could be seen. Standing off to the side with her back to the group, apparently looking down at a river, she was tall and slender with long dark hair cascading around her shoulders.

“Achileas knew Bob Daley well,” Tracy said. “And so did she.”

“Who is that?” Cameron asked.