CHAPTER 20
TRACY MIGHT NOT BE a real poker player. But she could certainly do a good poker face.
Two days after the mysterious shooting incident in Montmartre—despite multiple witnesses, both the would-be assassin and the victim he apparently wounded disappeared without a trace—Tracy paid an official visit to the Neuilly crime scene.
“Miss Whitney’s a special advisor to the CIA on Group 99,” Greg Walton explained over the phone to Benjamin Liset, his French intelligence counterpart in Paris. “I trust you’ll give her every assistance.”
Benjamin found he had no trouble assisting Miss Whitney, who turned out to be not only polite, intelligent and attractive, but thin and well dressed, a positive barrage of surprises from an American female.
The same could not be said of Tracy’s colleague from the FBI, Agent Milton Buck, an arrogant, overbearing boor if ever Benjamin Liset had seen one.
“Forensics went over the entire campus, I presume?” Buck asked, in a tone that made it quite clear he presumed nothing of the sort.
“Naturally.” Benjamin’s tone was frosty.
“Why haven’t we seen a report?”
“Because this isn’t your investigation, Agent Buck. I hope I don’t need to remind you but you are here as our guests, solely as a courtesy.”
“Courtesy?” Buck laughed rudely. “I wouldn’t say that’s what you French are known for. I hope I don’t need to remind you that your government has promised the president full disclosure and total cooperation. I mean, let’s face it, Ben, you could use the help, right? What’s it been now, two weeks? And still no leads?”
Tracy watched in an agony of embarrassment as the Frenchman turned and walked away.
“It’s jerks like you that give Americans a bad name, Buck.”
Milton Buck shrugged. “The truth hurts. Just calling it like I see it. Speaking of ‘no leads,’ your latest report on Althea made depressing reading, Tracy. You’re no closer to finding her than when you started, are you?”
Tracy glared at him. “You asked me to look for links between Althea and what happened on this campus.”
“Exactly,” said Buck.
“Well, there are none. I realize you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Agent Buck. But I’m not sure I can simplify that any further, even for you,” Tracy shot back. “How’s the hunt for Hunter going? From what I hear the tumbleweed’s still rolling.”
It was hard not to blurt out to the odious Milton Buck that she’d already tracked down Hunter Drexel; that she’d come this close to confronting him face-to-face; and that the British had too, leaving him and his tragically arrogant agency in ignominious third place. The only person she’d told about what really happened in Montmartre was Cameron Crewe. And even with him she’d left out the part about seeing Jeff.
Because you didn’t see him. You couldn’t have. You made a mistake in the heat of the moment.
“As usual, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Milton Buck said caustically. Leaning in closer, he hissed in Tracy’s ear. “Walton won’t protect you forever, you know. If you don’t come up with something on Althea soon, people are going to start asking questions. Like whether you know more than you’re telling.”
“Like you with Hunter Drexel, you mean?” Tracy hissed back.
Buck looked for a moment as if he might hit her. “Do yourself a favor and forget about Drexel. I’m a senior FBI agent, Miss Whitney. You’re an ex–con artist who’s in danger of outliving her usefulness.”
To Tracy’s relief, a charming Frenchwoman from ballistics interrupted them and led Tracy away for a detailed briefing on exactly what had happened at Neuilly. Getting away from Buck was a joy, but as always after her encounters with him, Tracy felt a dull residue of fear lingering in the pit of her stomach.
He’s loathsome, but he might end up running the bureau one day.
If he does he won’t rest till I’m back in jail and they’ve thrown away the key.
Tracy took copious notes with the ballistics expert, then made her way up to the château that had been the main school building for lunch. She soon lost her appetite, however, when she spotted Major General Frank Dorrien making his way towards her in the buffet line.
“Miss Whitney.” Frank gave Tracy the same blank, robotic smile she remembered from their last meeting in London. The man was about as sincere as a fortune cookie compliment. “I trust you’ve had an informative morning?”
“Thank you. Yes. You?”
“It’s been very interesting.”
The last time Tracy had seen Frank he’d been standing in the street in Montmartre, flapping his arms like a distressed chicken as his quarry, Hunter Drexel, got away, along with his would-be killer. Tracy had decided that the blond with the limp must have been Hunter.