Run Girl: Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers Prequel Novella (13 page)

One of the taxi’s rear doors swung open.

Rachel Whitticker jumped out and started to run. Ingrid watched as the girl pumped her arms, her long legs pounding up and down like pistons. She was running north up the center of the street, toward Trafalgar Square.

Ingrid struggled to her feet. She searched desperately for her purse, finally locating it next to the curb, balancing on a storm drain. Its contents had spilled out. She quickly scooped up the cash and the cell phone and started to run after the escaping girl. Discovering the sidewalk was too busy, she too ran toward the central reservation. The blacktop felt hard and sharp beneath her feet, pain pressing into her bare soles with every step, hampering her movement. Rachel Whitticker was wearing a sensible pair of ballet pumps. The road surface didn’t seem to be bothering her one little bit.

Way into the distance, Ingrid could see the sidewalk on both sides of the street was full of tourists and holiday revelers making their way to the square. She had to get to Rachel before the girl merged with the crowd. Ingrid gulped down more air and accelerated. She didn’t even notice the big red bus until it blasted its horn at her as she scooted across a right hand turn. She missed getting hit by inches and only lost a little of her forward momentum. She glanced up. The girl was just fifty or so yards from the edge of Trafalgar Square. Ingrid forced every last ounce of energy from her tiring muscles.

After a few moments she got the sense she was gaining on her prey a little. She tried to pump her arms faster, but there was no more left in them. Up ahead, she noticed Rachel had stopped, forced to wait for a gap in the traffic to reach the square itself. Every few seconds she glanced toward Ingrid, then from side to side, maybe looking for another escape route. But wherever she looked, the flow of vehicles was relentless. Ingrid knew that pretty soon the lights would change and the girl would be able to sprint into the masses roaming across the square and disappear completely.

But Ingrid still had momentum on her side. She carried on, despite the screaming protests of the muscles in her arms and legs. She was forty yards from the crossing. Thirty. Twenty. Just ten yards out, the signal changed and Rachel started to run. Ingrid had almost closed the distance between them.

Just fifteen feet behind, Ingrid reached out an arm, but the motion slowed her down. The girl remained tantalizingly out of reach. As Ingrid flew across the road she let out a howl of frustration. She should never have let the situation come to this. If she lost her now…

Rachel Whitticker reached the wide, gray-slabbed pavement on the other side of the crossing and then headed toward the big tall column on the south side of the square. She ducked to the right and ran around one of the four massive lion sculptures.

Out of sight.

Ingrid traced her steps and spotted her again just beyond another of the lions.

Rachel started hollering at the tourists to get out of her way, clearing a path for herself, but also leaving a channel clear for Ingrid to follow in her wake. The girl ran between the two ornate fountains and reached a giant Christmas tree decorated with hundreds of white lights. A moment later she changed direction, and started heading east. Ingrid gained another second. She could be no more than ten feet away. Again she stretched out a hand.

This time she made contact with Rachel Whitticker’s long hair. She grabbed a fistful and yanked. The girl stopped dead. Ingrid careened right into her and knocked them both to the ground. Ingrid quickly swiveled around, planted one foot either side of the girl’s legs and sat heavily on her butt.

Rachel Whitticker screamed and wriggled wildly beneath her. A couple of passers-by had stopped and were staring at them. “One glass of champagne too many,” Ingrid said by way of explanation. The two tourists looked at her blankly. Then started taking photographs. Ingrid shook her head in disbelief and held up a hand to obscure her face. When the tourists finally lost interest and wandered away, she loosened her grip on the cell phone she been clutching and quickly found Angelis’ number. The call rang out three, four times.

Come on
!

He picked up on the fifth.

“Where the hell are you?” he barked at her.

More tourists had started to gather to see the spectacle of two women in evening dresses writhing beneath a giant Christmas tree.

“Trafalgar Square. I need a car here. Fast.”

23

The next day Ingrid’s presence was requested at the embassy by the deputy chief of mission, Sol Franklin’s boss. At the time, the phone call had seemed not so much a request as an outright demand. Ingrid had no choice but to comply.

When she arrived at four p.m., she was greeted at reception by two Diplomatic Security agents: a man and a woman both dressed in regulation black suits and white shirts. They escorted her, in silence, to the fifth floor. She was led into a room very similar to the one she and Lucille had been left in just the day before. This time, however, no one had demanded she give them her cell phone and the door remained unlocked. She settled back on one of the couches and, with nothing more meaningful to do, took the opportunity to delete all the old emails from her phone. As she first scanned, then deleted the old emails, she let her mind drift.

The last twenty-four hours had been the most exciting she’d experienced in years. For her, that kind of adrenalin rush was impossible to achieve any other way. She had been entrusted by a superior officer with a time critical and highly classified task. Despite the odds being stacked against her, she’d delivered. As far as Ingrid was concerned, the sense of satisfaction that came with the successful conclusion of a mission just couldn’t be matched.

The night before, Rachel Whitticker had been whisked away in a black limousine, not to the embassy, as expected, but to an unknown location, leaving Ingrid to catch a ride from Trafalgar Square with Angelis. As soon as she’d settled herself into the back of the embassy sedan, she’d asked him about the change of plan.

“They’re taking her straight to Paris,” he’d told her. “Skipping the London day trip cover story entirely. It turns out the peace talks will be continuing until well after midnight. If the Secretary of State wants to contact her granddaughter when she eventually emerges, we’re going to make sure young Rachel is tucked up safe and sound in her hotel room, ready to take that call.”

“Will the talks be resuming tomorrow morning?” Ingrid asked.

“That’s the scheduled final session. When everyone hopes a breakthrough will happen. Thanks to your efforts, that’ll be the only thing Secretary of State Whitticker will have to think about.”

“What has Barclay been told? Does he even know Rachel’s true identity?”

“Doesn’t seem that way. Maybe he’ll never find out.”

“He will if Rachel follows through with her plan to piss off her parents.”

“Not our concern, this round of negotiations will be over by then. Nothing Rachel does from now on will be able to jeopardize them.”

Ingrid let out a long sigh.

“Does it seem rather an anti-climax?”

“Not at all, I’m glad we pulled it off.”

“Less of the modesty. You pretty much resolved the situation on your own.” He smiled at her. “Bloody well done you.” He lifted his hand toward her right knee, let it hover there for a moment, then withdrew it. “I’d say a celebration is in order.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“I insist. A little late supper and a nightcap.”

Credit to Angelis—he’d behaved impeccably. After supper he’d escorted her to her hotel room, the only sign of his previous flirtatiousness a gentle peck on the back of her hand.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Ingrid jumped slightly, brought back from her memories of the night before with a bump. She shoved her phone into a pocket and stood up. “Come in.”

The door opened. “They’re ready for you now,” the Marine standing in the doorway told her.

“They?”

“Would you follow me, please?”

Ingrid did exactly as she was told and followed the Marine to the elevator. They traveled one floor up to the sixth. He led her along a rosewood paneled corridor and into a very grand room at the far end. Waiting for her inside were Sol Franklin and Nick Angelis. She greeted them both with a formal handshake and spent a moment taking in the surroundings. There was plush cream carpet covering the floor, an enormous desk opposite the door with two silk upholstered chairs on the right hand side. The American flag was proudly attached to the wall behind the desk.

“Is this the ambassador’s office?” Ingrid asked Sol.

“It is.”

“Am I going to meet her?”

“Actually Ambassador Byrne-Williams is out of the country until later this evening.”

“Oh.” Ingrid glanced around the room again. “So what am I doing here?”

“There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.”

A moment later, almost as if he’d planned it that way, the door opened and a half dozen security agents entered the room. In their wake was Rachel Whitticker, who gave Ingrid a subtle wave. Behind her was a tall, red haired woman wearing a regulation dark suit and bright white shirt. She didn’t look secret service. The cut of her jacket seemed far too expensive for someone on a government pay grade.

“One of Fortnum’s finest,” Angelis murmured in Ingrid’s ear. “She won’t let Rachel out of her sight.”

The agents took up positions at the corners of the room and either side of the large desk.

Ingrid stared expectantly at the doorway. Just a second later a woman dressed in a navy blue wool Chanel suit glided into the room. Sol Franklin hurried to greet her.

“Madam Secretary,” he said, and guided her toward Angelis and Ingrid.

“It appears I owe you a great debt,” the Secretary of State said.

Ingrid glanced first at Sol, then at Rachel Whitticker. “Ma’am?”

“Oh, it’s all right. No need for secrecy now. I found out all about Rachel’s little adventure earlier this afternoon. My daughter-in-law informed me.” She gave her granddaughter a stern look. “I also know exactly what you did to save the day.”

Sol was beaming and nodding enthusiastically at Ingrid like a proud dad.

“I was just doing what was requested of me.”

“It’s hardly the way you expected to spend your time in London.”

“No, ma’am, it certainly wasn’t.”

“I’m glad you were around. I hope you don’t mind being summoned here like this. When I found out what had happened, I wanted to thank you personally.” She held Ingrid’s right hand in both of hers. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Ingrid was painfully aware just how moist her palm was. She wanted to apologize for it, but decided it was better to say nothing. She’d never met anyone she admired quite as much as Jayne Whitticker before. The woman had fought for equality in the sixties and seventies, been a leading light at the United Nations in the nineties, and was now brokering peace in a war torn region of Africa. Ingrid was just grateful her hand hadn’t started to tremble as well.

“Given what she put you through, you might be interested to hear Rachel has been grounded for the next month.” Although the Secretary of State was glaring at her granddaughter, a faint smile played around her lips.

Ingrid wondered exactly how long the grounding would be enforced.

Jayne Whitticker shook Angelis’ hand and swiftly turned on her heels. Ingrid watched her glide back out the room, followed by her granddaughter, her granddaughter’s bodyguard, the Diplomatic Security agents and Nick Angelis. A few moments later Ingrid was standing alone in the ambassador’s office with Sol Franklin.

“She really did want to thank you personally. It was her idea. Took a little organizing, I’ve got to admit. But we got there in the end, huh?”

“It was worth every second.” Ingrid blew out a breath.

“So, how was your introduction to the Legal Attaché program?”

“Quite a roller coaster ride.”

“I’d be lying if I told you it was quite that exciting around here all the time. But we have our moments.”

Ingrid’s work at the VCAC had been a little like treading water in recent months. She hadn’t felt a sense of achievement for some time.

“How’d you like the idea of maybe taking on another case?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We have a vacancy here in the criminal division. You seem like the ideal candidate for the job.”

Ingrid blinked. She had been standing there anticipating a little speech from Sol Franklin about the need for absolute discretion regarding Rachel Whitticker’s European adventure, not a job offer.

“I’ve discussed it with the chief of mission. He’d need to meet you before any final decision is made. But I’ve been singing your praises so loud, his approval would pretty much be a formality.”

“I… I… ah…” Ingrid really didn’t know how to respond.

“Your plane doesn’t leave till this evening. You’ve got a little time to consider it.”

Ingrid thought about what was waiting for her when she got home: a cold apartment, an empty refrigerator and a fiancé who she hardly ever saw. But she couldn’t leave her post at the Violent Crimes Against Children program at such short notice.

“Thank you for the offer, I really appreciate it. But—”

“Don’t turn me down flat. Take some time to really give it some thought. Talk it over with your fiancé.”

The thought of discussing an overseas posting with Marshall wasn’t one she relished. He’d already been putting pressure on her to pick a date for the wedding.

Sol Franklin must have seen the internal conflict flicker across her face. He said, “You could even take on the job on a short term, temporary basis. Three to six months, maybe, see how you like it.” He really did seem eager to have her work there.

“OK—I won’t turn you down now.”

Sol grinned at her. “Good! Great!”

“But I’m not making any promises.”

“Why not take a little time out this afternoon? See the sights. Do a little shopping. Let the idea percolate at the back of your mind.” He started to move toward the door. “We should get out of here. The ambassador’s secretary might get a little pissed otherwise.”