Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(98)

“Did she take a connecting flight out of London?”


“No. Not that day. She cleared customs.”

“Under what name?”

Antoine looked at the paper in his hand. “Sarah Grainger. She used a British passport.”

“Terrific work,” said Jean. “I want the British police on high alert.”

“I’ve already spoken to our office in London.”

“Not just at Heathrow. I want her picture at all the airports, and the Eurostar and the ferry ports. Dover, Folkestone, all of them. I don’t believe Cooper’s in London. Chances are she’s already left England and I want to know where she went next and when.”

“Sir.”

Antoine Cléry left the room. Jean Rizzo felt elated. It was the first piece of good news he’d had in days.

I’m going to find you, Tracy.

I’m going to find you, and Jeff Stevens and Daniel Cooper.

And then I’m going to end this thing, once and for all.

THREE DAYS PASSED.

Nothing happened.

Elation gave way to anxiety and finally to despair. Tracy had come to London and evaporated. No trace of her had surfaced, as Sarah Grainger or any of her other alter egos.

The staff members at Interpol’s London office defended themselves to Jean Rizzo.

“Do you know how many passengers pass through Heathrow every day? Almost two hundred thousand. And you expect people to remember one woman’s face? She could be flying under any number of identities. Eighty-two airlines use Heathrow, Jean, flying to a hundred and eighty destinations. And that’s assuming she flew out of Heathrow. Forget needle in a haystack. She’s a speck of dust in the Royal Albert Hall.”

While he waited, increasingly desperately, for a positive sighting of Tracy, Jean redoubled his efforts to solve Daniel Cooper’s riddle. Tracy had done it by herself, after all. Then again, maybe Tracy knew something he didn’t. Some secret that only she and Cooper, and possibly Jeff Stevens, shared?

The chess angle was taking him nowhere fast. He spoke to players and chess clubs and to the editor of New In Chess magazine, the most widely read and respected publication in the game.

“There are as many outdoor venues for chess matches as there are stars in the sky, or grains of sand on a beach,” the editor told him. “All you need is a board. As for official championships, those always take place in indoor venues. The WCC—World Chess Championship—is the most prestigious, of course. But ‘where masters meet’ could be a reference to any number of matches or competitions.”

Jean refocused his attention on the “six hills” clue. He contacted the local police in Hertfordshire, England, and had staff at the long barrows site shown Daniel Cooper’s picture as well as Tracy’s. No one had seen them, or reported anything suspicious. Nor had any significant chess matches been held in the area in the past ten years.

The police in Six Hills, Georgia, clearly considered the whole thing a joke. “A riddle? Sounds like somethin’ out of Batman. We don’t get too many hostage situations down here, but if we see your fella, we’ll be sure and let you now. You want us to look out for the Penguin too?”

Jean was irritated, but didn’t dwell on it. Cooper was almost certainly still in Europe. Although it was technically possible to enter the United States with a hostage in tow, there was no need for him to make his life that difficult.

Sylvie called him. “It’s Clémence’s birthday tomorrow. She’ll be seven.”

Jean winced. “I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you. I bought a present from you and wrapped it. It’s a camera.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“You’re taking her and Luc to the movies tomorrow afternoon at four.”

Jean balked. He had less than four days to find Daniel Cooper and the trail was almost cold. “Sylvie, I can’t. I have to work. I—”

“I booked the tickets already. It’s her birthday, Jean. She wants to see you. Be there.”

CLéMENCE AND LUC WERE in a state of high excitement.

“Can we have ICEEs?”

“Can we have Pick ’n’ Mix?”

“As it’s Clem’s birthday, can we have popcorn and Pick ’n’ Mix?”

“Can we see it in 3-D?”

Jean experienced a familiar feeling of happiness combined with the guilt that he always felt in his children’s company. They’re so sweet. I should see them more.

Against their mother’s express wishes, he bought both of them an enormous bag of candy and settled down between them in the dark theater. The movie was formulaic, a lazily written cartoon complete with a wisecracking sidekick and an improbably proportioned if feisty heroine.


Tracy would make a great heroine, he thought. Bullheaded and brave. Intelligent but impulsive.

His mind drifted back to the case. He’d spent the morning watching CCTV footage provided by London’s Transport Police, showing Tracy clearing customs and emerging into the arrivals terminal at Heathrow four days ago. She was wearing a head scarf and glasses, which did a good job of concealing most of her face. Her demeanor was casual and relaxed. She neither hurried nor dawdled and she never looked over her shoulder or behind her as she walked toward the tube.