Chapter 2 #2
After the initial surprise of Alastair’s nuptials had worn away, their reasons for the match became clearer—it wasn’t about love, for either of them.
He had wealth and position here in Cairo—something Lucy wanted—and they were both willing to grant each other the freedom to do whatever they wanted. Love whomever they wanted. Discreetly.
London society had rejected the scandalous divorcée—she had been briefly married to a distant cousin who had inherited her father’s earldom—but Alastair had helped her find social standing in Cairo once again.
And, in exchange for that, Lucy provided Alastair with yet another source of information.
A useful one, at that. Lucy had always excelled at schmoozing with the upper crust.
Alastair crossed one ankle over his knee and sipped from his own teacup. “Do I dare ask who was following you here from Luxor?”
“Alice has gone missing,” Jack said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Prescott Federline had her working in Ur with Woolley’s team—or that was her cover anyway—and now Prescott can’t find her.”
Alastair grimaced. “Alice? In Iraq?”
Jack nodded.
“Did you know she was in this part of the world?”
Jack shook his head.
Alastair’s teacup clinked against its saucer. “That’s unfortunate.”
Staring at the teacup in his own hands, Jack drew a slow breath.
Maybe he should let himself be more affected by the news of Alice than he’d been by the news of Kit, but the fact was, he’d spent a lot longer mourning the loss of that relationship.
Seven years younger than him, Alice had followed him around everywhere as a child. Adored him.
But all that had ended a few years after Prescott had come into their lives. Somehow Prescott had wormed his way in, become the “father she’d never had.” Which wasn’t difficult because their own father, Frank, had been a drunk and gambler who’d died when they were young.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then set the cup to the side on a small end table. “The bigger news is that he claims Kit is alive. That Kit was with Alice when she vanished.”
Alastair raised a brow. “Your Kit?”
The words were ironic. His. As though Kit had ever really been his. They’d had their moments. And for a few short weeks after they’d reconnected during the war, Jack had let himself be deluded by the idea that they might finally have a chance.
But he’d been there when she’d been killed—or so he’d thought.
And if she hadn’t died, how could she have possibly gone back to work for Prescott? She’d sworn she never would. Changed her name. Broken Jack’s heart. All to escape her father.
When Jack didn’t answer, Alastair frowned. “How did Federline find you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m assuming he wants you to find Alice and Kit.”
“Something like that.” Jack leaned back and popped his elbow on the armrest, then rested his head against his fist. “Kit’s the only one who ever ran from him successfully.
He won’t say as much, but my guess is that he’s desperate if he’s coming to me.
He offered me Kit’s field notes as evidence that she’s alive—and because I think he wants me to decode them. ”
“But?”
Jack leveled his gaze at Alastair. “But I won’t work for him. No matter what the prize is.”
Alastair gave him a sympathetic nod. “That’s a rather vexing dilemma.
Those field notes might be the best chance you have.
Though I applaud your morality, however much I may disagree with your methods.
Wouldn’t it be better to take his offerings and cut your ties with him once you’ve found the girls? ”
Jack laughed bitterly. Trust Alastair to speak so plainly.
He was right, of course. Working with Prescott, getting those field notes—and any other information Prescott might have—was the easiest way for him to try to start a search for Alice and Kit.
“I won’t do it,” he said simply. He gave Alastair a pleading look.
“That’s why I’m here. I need your help. You have a few contacts in Iraq, don’t you?
Or Syria. I know things are tense in Iraq since they got their independence, but I’m sure there are still some British officers you’re friendly with—”
“British government officials will be of no use to you. Do you know how many times they’ve hounded me for your information? Surely you know how much they want you, Jack. Noah too. They won’t give you an ounce of help without expecting something in return.”
He’d been afraid of that. Jack flexed his sun-roughened knuckles. “The State Department has done their best to recruit me too.”
Alastair nodded, clearly unsurprised. “It’s a pity you don’t think of pulling Noah into this, come to think of it.
He might be more useful to you than I am in this case.
He spent a good deal of time in Iraq during the war.
Likely still has contacts there. And he’s friendly with Woolley from their time in the Arab Bureau. ”
“Ginger would kill me. But I’ll admit that’s crossed my mind.” Jack removed the hat from his head and set it on his knee. “But Prescott’s watching me. He knows that I’ll be looking even if I won’t do it for him. That’s why he came to me in the first place.”
“Could you go directly to Woolley? He may be able to assist you.”
“Maybe—I haven’t ruled it out yet. But I’m sure whatever he knows he’s already told Prescott. And if Prescott came up short, then I might not have much better luck.”
A few beats of silence passed between the two men, then Alastair sighed.
“If that’s the case, then you need to consider the potential consequences.
Maybe Kit—and Alice—don’t want to be found.
Or whatever information they have is so dangerous that it cost them their freedom or their lives. It could cost you yours too, Jack.”
Jack held his gaze. “I’ve already thought of that.”
Alastair nodded. “I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t warn you.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. He scribbled something, tore the sheet from the notepad, then folded it in half.
He paused, then gave Jack a once-over. “You should think of going to a tailor. Or at least getting a new suit. That one looks almost twenty years old.”
“It is twenty years old,” Jack grumbled. He’d lost so much weight in the desert that none of his older suits fit him.
“Well, you may want to fix that. If you’re going to be a part of society again—even if it’s just while you search for Alice—you’d best be trying to blend in.”
Standing, Alastair crossed the room toward him and held out the paper.
“There’s a man named Alain Roche. French official, born in Palestine from an influential Catholic family, and he’s very friendly with British espionage personnel.
Stays at Shepheard’s. Give him this paper and he’ll talk to you.
He has deep connections in Syria and Iraq. ”
Jack reached for the paper, but Alastair held it back. Jack raised a brow. “What?”
“Just … be careful, old friend. I said he was well connected—not that I trusted him.”
Jack snatched the note. “Trust never was your strong suit.”
Alastair smiled. “And that’s why I’m still alive. Never forget that fact. Good luck.”