“I don’t know. But I went to visit Bob’s wife, Claire, and asked about her. She said her first name was Kate. She was an American, a friend of Achileas’s. She thought maybe a girlfriend.”
“That seems unlikely,” said Cameron.
“Very,” agreed Tracy. “But ‘Kate’ was close enough to be asked on that picnic. So what was their connection?”
Cameron assumed this to be a rhetorical question.
“Take a look at these.”
Tracy brought up a string of emails, around thirty in all. Cameron instantly noticed the famous red balloon logo at the top of each one.
“No.” He looked genuinely shocked. Pulling up a chair, he sat beside Tracy and started reading the notes. “Why on earth would a wealthy, connected, royal Greek kid get involved with Group 99? He was the walking embodiment of everything they hate.”
“I can think of lots of reasons,” said Tracy. “Rebellion. A desire to piss off his parents. Or maybe he actually believed in what they stood for? He didn’t ask to be born rich or royal after all.”
Cameron looked skeptical. “Maybe he was funding them? He could certainly afford it.”
“Maybe,” Tracy agreed excitedly. “And maybe the woman in that picture is Althea. Maybe she got him involved. Maybe she helped to channel the funds. And maybe Frank Dorrien knew about it, and . . .”
“Whoa. Hold on there.” Cameron put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “That’s a whole lot of conjecture. Are you sure you aren’t putting two and two together and making seventeen?”
Turning off the computer, Tracy turned to face him.
“Perhaps. But the point is, I’m putting two and two together. There is a link here, Cameron, a whole bunch of links in fact. Frank Dorrien doesn’t want anyone to find them. And the CIA are right behind him on that, trying to scare me off. Why?”
Without thinking, Tracy found she had put her hand over Cameron’s. It was a long time since she’d been this physically close to anyone, never mind an attractive man. Once again desire and guilt competed for her attention.
Guilt won. Tracy pulled back.
“If this is Althea,” Cameron said, “it’s the only picture anyone has of her.”
“I know,” said Tracy.
“Have you shown it to Greg Walton yet?”
“No. Only to you.”
Cameron flushed with pleasure. He liked that Tracy came to him first. Only to you. She looked incredibly sexy tonight, her green eyes alight with intelligence and purpose.
“Are you going to show Walton?”
Tracy thought about it.
“No,” she said at last. “Not for the moment anyway. The truth is, I don’t trust the CIA. Not fully. And I know for a fact that they don’t trust me.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Cameron said. “They’re spies. It’s their job not to trust people.”
“I’m not taking it personally. I’m just not prepared to work for them blind. I think they already know why Hunter Drexel didn’t get into that helicopter.”
“You do?”
Tracy nodded. “It was something to do with this story he was working on. Something to do with fracking. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Achileas’s family wanted to sell land to Henry Cranston, land rich with shale gas. Now Achileas and Cranston are both dead. The U.S. government has a huge vested interest in fracking. We’re talking about a multibillion-dollar business, vital to American interests.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Cameron reminded her.
“You’re lucky you haven’t been hit so far,” Tracy told him. “Group 99 aren’t the only ones who want a share in those billions, a piece of that pie. People will kill for that sort of money.”
“Nobody’s going to kill me.”