Reckless

“I just told you, they tried to kill me,” Hunter said. “What else did you find out?”

“This is all hearsay. But it looks like the Brits are anxious to find you before the Americans do. Your man Frank Dorrien, in particular, doesn’t trust the CIA.”

“We have something in common after all,” Hunter quipped.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sally said. “The picture I get of Dorrien is of a highly disciplined, deeply conservative man. He disapproved of Prince Achileas. Evidently the boy was gay. General Dorrien may not have killed the boy but he certainly bullied him. You could argue that he drove the poor kid to suici

de.”

Hunter wasn’t sure he’d call the privileged Prince of Greece a “poor kid” but he took Sally’s point.

“Achileas did know Bob Daley. They weren’t friends exactly, but they seemed to get along. General Dorrien knew both men, and liked Daley.”

“Bob was easy to like,” said Hunter. This wasn’t the news he’d been hoping to hear about Frank Dorrien. It meant he was going to have to rethink some things. But it was interesting nonetheless, especially the part about the British being on the hunt for him too.

“Hunter?” Sally’s voice sounded very far away suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me what you’re working on. Send me your notes, anything, as backup.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You almost got killed tonight,” Sally reminded him. “If you die, do you want this story to die with you?”

“No. But I’d rather it died with me than with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Hunter said, “It’s not me they’re all trying to bury, Sal. It’s the truth. I can’t put you at risk.”

“I’m putting me at risk,” said Sally.

“Thanks for the help.”

Sally thought about asking him not to hang up, but she knew it would be pointless.

After he rang off she slumped back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

What the hell are you up to, Hunter Drexel? What’s this really all about?

She wondered how differently things might have turned out between them if she’d ever been able to trust him.

FRANK DORRIEN WAITED UNTIL his wife was sleeping soundly before creeping out of bed.

Downstairs in his study, he turned the desk lamp on low and switched on Prince Achileas’s laptop. There’d been very little time after the boy died to go through his room. But the Greek’s MacBook Air was vital. Frank had slipped it into his briefcase while the Prince was still swinging. He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt.

MI6 had retrieved scores of deleted emails, many of them encrypted.

Frank Dorrien had read them all.

His upper lip curled with distaste now at the pornographic images in front of him. All were of deviant young men in various stages of sexual abasement. What was wrong with the world? Disgusting.

A female journalist had been sniffing around the barracks in the last few weeks, asking questions. No doubt another bleeding-heart liberal who expected the British army to conform to civilian rules, while somehow magically keeping the country safe from harm. Didn’t people realize there was a war on? Not a war between nations, but a war of ideologies, a war of right and wrong?

Frank Dorrien was aware of Miss Faiers. For now he had bigger fish to fry. But he would not tolerate anyone who tried to come between him and his duty. Miss Faiers had better watch her back.

Turning his attention back to the emails, Frank stared transfixed at the top left-hand corner of Achileas’s last deleted message.