Mistress of the Game

chapter Thirty-Four

THE PASSENGERS OF US AIR FLIGHT 28 STREAMED INTO THE arrivals hall at Providenciales Airport in Turks and Caicos looking exhausted. It was almost two-thirty in the morning local time. Mothers with bags under their eyes as big as their suitcases cuddled fractious babies while their husbands struggled with the luggage. The Interpol officer studied them all. He was looking for one baby in particular.

"There they are."

Emerging through the double doors, the trio was instantly recognizable, despite the silk cravat that the man wore over his nose and mouth. The Interpol officer remembered his brief.

Swedish female, thirty-one, blond, with newborn infant. White-haired male, six foot one. (Someone had f*cked up on that one. This guy couldn't have been more than five nine on a good day.) Minimal luggage.

Flanked by three colleagues, the officer stepped forward. He put a hand on Greta Sorensen's shoulder. Two other officers seized her companion, while a policewoman reached for the baby.

"Excuse me, miss. Sir. We'd like a word."

The man lowered his cravat to reveal a face crisscrossed with deep wrinkles. The guy must have been in his seventies at least. When he spoke, it was with a pronounced European accent.

"Is something the matter, Officer?"

"You're not Gabriel McGregor!"

Paolo Cozmici smiled. "Indeed I'm not. Didn't the airline tell you?"

"Tell us what?"

"That I'd be flying in Mr. McGregor's stead. It's quite aboveboard, I can assure you, Officer. It's the blasted paparazzi, you see. They follow Gabe and Lexi everywhere. It got so bad with the wedding that they decided to leak false honeymoon details to the press, to throw them off the scent."

"To throw the press off the scent?" The Interpol officer rolled his eyes. Was this guy for real?

"That's right. US Air was most helpful about it all." Paolo looked pleased with himself. "Greta and I are decoys! Isn't it fabulous?"

Oh yeah. It's fabulous, all right.

"Sir." The female officer tapped her boss on the shoulder.

"Not now, Linda." He turned back to Paolo. "So you're telling me if I called US Air's head office right now, they'd know all about this little scam of yours?"

"Absolutely." Paolo chuckled. "I thought it was rather ingenious."

"Sorry, sir," said the policewoman. "But I really think you should take a look at this." She passed him the swaddled bundle that Greta Sorensen had obligingly handed her a moment before. The Interpol officer's eyes widened. Jesus Christ.

There was no baby.

Inside the tightly wrapped pink blankets was a life-size plastic doll.

Gabe felt a sharp bump as the plane's landing gear hit the runway. In his arms, the real baby Max was screaming her head off.

"She'll be fine in a minute," said the attendant helpfully. Catherine Blake had only recently been hired to work on Gabe and Lexi's private jet. She wanted her new boss to like her. "I'll get her a bottle of something. Once she starts to swallow, her ears'll pop."

"Will they? Okay," Gabe shouted back over the din. "Let's give that a try."

Rocking his daughter in his arms, he wished Lexi were there. She'd know what to do.

"How long till we take off again?"

"Not long, sir. We should refuel in forty minutes or so. The pilot will let you know our next takeoff slot."

"Okay."

Gabe sighed. He just wanted this whole thing to be over.

When the second plane landed in Turks and Caicos an hour later, the Interpol officer was there to meet it.

"Jennifer Wilson?"

"Yes, sir?" The blond woman smiled politely.

"Would you take your dark glasses off, please, ma'am."

"Certainly."

She was pretty. Definitely a looker.

But she was no Lexi Templeton.

Nor was she a criminal mastermind. Jennifer Wilson was just a secretary who'd worked for Kruger-Brent for years. Lexi Templeton had picked a name she knew for her alias. But that was no big surprise. Most people did. The original Jennifer Wilson had no idea what she was getting into when she accepted Gabe's offer of a free, all-expenses-paid vacation. A reward for her long, loyal service.

"Am I in some sort of trouble?" Jennifer Wilson's face crumpled with anxiety. The policeman looked pissed

"No, ma'am." The Interpol officer sighed. "But someone sure as hell is."

Interpol blamed the local police. The local police blamed the FBI. Why had nobody checked with the airline? Everybody blamed John Carey, the schmuck in Maine who'd let Lexi slip through his fingers.

On a conference call in the early hours of the morning, the senior FBI agent in charge of the case mused aloud.

"You've just pulled off one of the biggest financial frauds in U.S. history. You have one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. You're on the run with your equally recognizable husband and your newborn baby. Where the hell do you go?"

From somewhere on the other side of the world, a lone voice echoed down the phone line.

"Somewhere that has no extradition treaty with the United States."

"Preferably with white-sand beaches, palm trees and a decent five-star hotel," piped up another joker. Everybody laughed.

The FBI agent was silent for a moment. Then he laughed, too. It was staring him in the face.

Of course.

I know exactly where they are.