“Gregor, wait here, please.” I bypassed
Director Holmes’s secretary and walked into his office. He was
raising a cup of coffee to his lips, as was the man who was with
him.
Director Holmes rose to his feet jerkily,
and drops splattered over his tie. “Portia. You’re early! That’s to
say…It’s so nice to see you again.” He’d danced with me at the
Bosnia-Herzegovina ball, and after making a heavy-handed pass which
I’d shot down, he’d apologized and vanished in the crowd. When I
spotted him again, he was at Wexler’s side. “Would you care for
coffee? Or tea?”
“Nothing. Thank you.” There was no need for
me to be rude.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
Because I hadn’t wanted him aware I was on
my way.
I looked pointedly at the other man.
“How do you do, Mrs. Mann.” He got to his
feet and straightened his tie, giving me what he no doubt
considered a charming smile. “I’m Eric Jameson. I’m Director
Holmes’s personal private executive administrative assistant.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh, yes. I …uh…I’m a great admirer of your
late husband. He did some…uh…really interesting work. I’m
especially intrigued by that escapade in Berlin in the early ’60s,
when he crossed swords, so to speak, with the KGB. Did you know
Sidorov actually intended to kidnap him?”
Of course I was aware of that, since I was
the one who’d interfered with the kidnapping. Was Jameson
deliberately trying to delay my talk with Edward Holmes, perhaps to
give the DCI time to regroup?
“How could she know, Eric?” Holmes snapped.
“She wasn’t there!”
Jameson scowled and gritted his teeth.
“Why don’t you return to your office and
look further into that matter we were discussing? We’ll continue
our conversation later.”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Mann.”
I nodded curtly and watched as he left.
“Your husband left some large shoes to
fill.” Holmes gave a weak smile.
“Indeed. Now, suppose we get to the matter
at hand?”
“I’m sorry to bring you out here under these
circumstances.”
“What, exactly, are the circumstances?”
He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair.
“A number of our younger officers are missing. We believe that a
rogue antiterrorist organization called Prinzip is behind it. In a
joint undertaking with the OIG, Quinton Mann went to Paris in
search of them.”
“Might I ask how the OIG became involved in
this?”
“One of General Kirkpatrick’s people is also
missing, and the General asked Mann to find him.”
I didn’t like to throw my weight around,
but, “Perhaps I need to have a word with RJ.”
The director wiped his brow. “Mann was
supposed to be in touch with David Cooper, his contact here at
Langley. Cooper has informed me that he hasn’t heard from him in
twelve days.”
I sank down in the chair vacated by Eric
Jameson. “I believe I’ll have that cup of tea now.”
“Yes, of course.” He thumbed his intercom.
“April, tea for Mrs. Mann.”
Within seconds she hurried in. “It’s Earl
Grey, just the way you like it!”
“Thank you, April.” I accepted the cup and
took a sip, a little disturbed that my preferences appeared to be
common knowledge at Counterintelligence Threat Analysis. But at
this moment there were other, more important things that worried
me. “You’re telling me that Quinton was abducted while on
assignment in Paris.”
“I didn’t say that. We…er…we really don’t
know what’s happened to him.”
“I see. But he’s been out of touch for
twelve days. Suppose you tell me what the Company is doing to find
my son.”
“The CIA isn’t the only organization that’s
lost operatives. The French, the British, the Israelis. I’ve been
told that even the WBIS has taken a hit.”
“I imagine that won’t bode well for whoever
is doing this.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve heard that Trevor Wallace is very
protective of his agents.” More so than the CIA, it appeared.
“Whoever is doing this will pay dearly.”
“How have you heard that? What do you know
of Trevor Wallace?”
“Really, Mr. Holmes. That’s neither here nor
there. Now, this is very illuminating, but it doesn’t answer my
question. What is the CIA—”
“Portia, you have to understand. This is a
very delicate situation. An international incident could be started
if we don’t tread cautiously.”
“So what you’re saying…” Or more to the
point,
not
saying. “…is that the CIA is going to do
nothing.”
“Our hands are tied! The
administration—”
I rose to my feet and put the cup carefully
on his desk. The temptation to hurl its contents at the DCI’s head
was almost too great. I walked out of his office.
“Gregor, we’re done here.”
He paced along beside me.
“Portia!” Holmes caught up with us near the
Wall of Honor. “You’re being unreasonable!”
“
Mrs. Mann
.” I corrected once again.
“I refuse to stand for this, Director. Nigel Mann is a star on this
wall.” A janitor was dusting the stars, industriously running a
cloth over each one as if his hope of heaven hung on how well he
did his job, and I couldn’t help thinking the Company cared more
for the stars than for the son of one of the men so honored. I
curled my fingers into a fist but kept my tone cool. “I will not
see my son there as well.”
“I’m very sorry, Portia…Mrs. Mann.”
If he said I was acting like a woman, I
would forget I was a lady and punch him.
He reached for my arm, shying back when
Gregor stepped forward, making his presence known. “Oh…er…”
This was Novotny, the FBI agent, and he had
his game face on.
Holmes scowled at him, attempting to stare
him down?
It was an idiotic move, and I would
have smiled if the situation hadn’t been so dire.
Giving it up as a hopeless case, Holmes
turned back to me. “At this point there’s nothing I can do—”
“My son is one of the best you have. If you
will do nothing to find him, then I
shall
!”
“You can’t! It could be deadly! You don’t
understand what’s involved, how things are done here! You’re a
civilian! And a woman!”
He was spouting rubbish, and I had no desire
to hear anything further. I turned on my heel and left him standing
there.
Gregor strode out beside me. “Mrs.
Mann—”
“Wait until we’re in the car.” Once the Town
Car was back on the road, I said, “Let me have the car phone,
please.”
“What’s going on, Portia? Holmes’s secretary
looked terrified.”
“Quinton’s missing, and the CIA is sitting
on its collective asses and doing nothing.”
“Goddammit!”
“My thoughts precisely.” I dialed the number
for Shadow Brook and put it on speaker. “Ludovic, it’s Portia. Is
Jefferson there?”
A few seconds later, my brother came on the
line. “Portia, how are you?”
“I’ve been better, Jefferson. I need a
favor.”
Although he had been retired from a desk job
at the Company for almost ten years, he still kept in touch with
former field officers. He listened intently as I repeated what DCI
Holmes had told me.
“Holmes is an idiot. This wouldn’t have
happened if Bryan hadn’t been put into the position of having to
resign. Useless administration. All right, listen, I know of a good
man, Benjamin Monroe. He was Black Ops before he came to the
Company. He’s freelance now. I’ll see if he’s available. Where are
you?”
“In the car. We’re on our way back to Great
Falls. Gregor?” He rattled off the mile marker. “Did you hear that,
Jefferson?”
“Got it. Okay, Gregor, don’t speed. Portia,
I should have this firmed up by the time you get home. Monroe will
find Quinn for you, I promise.”
“Jefferson…if I lose my son…” I drew in a
breath, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. “I will cause
such a scandal the CIA will
never
recover!”
“No, Portia.
We’ll
cause a
scandal.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what family is for.”
* * * *
I met with Benjamin Monroe later that
evening. He was a big, dark-skinned man, probably about six
feet-six inches and weighing at least two-hundred-twenty-five
pounds, all of it solid muscle. He was gentle when he took my hand
to shake it, almost as if he were afraid he might crush it.
He seemed like a good man, competent in his
field.
I was not, however, overjoyed to hear it
would take a number of days, possibly even a week, for him to
locate my son.
“My contacts are good, Mrs. Mann, but you
have to understand it’s just going to take a little time.”
“Do you also understand they’ve had him for
at least twelve days now?” I couldn’t voice my greatest fear—that
if he weren’t already dead, in another seven days he could well
be.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I didn’t bother telling him not to call me
“ma’am.” “I’m going with you.”
“I assure you that isn’t necessary.”
“Do you want a demonstration of my ability
to shoot a gun?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Sebring told me how good you
are.”
“Then I go with you.”
He turned to Gregor. “Novotny…”
“Don’t look at me.” Gregor shrugged. “I’m
going too.”
Monroe ran a hand over his shaved scalp,
finally giving in. “Okay. I’ll get in touch with some people I
know, and get back to you.”
“ASAP, Mr. Monroe.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He left, and I turned to
Gregor.
“We’re going to the firing range.”
“Okay.”
* * * *
We’d just returned from the range when Mark
Vincent called, requesting to see me; I agreed.
“Not a good idea, Portia!” Gregor
insisted.
“I think it is. I doubt he knows that
Quinton is missing, but he might have some idea of what’s going on
in Europe.”
“Okay, but I’m going to frisk that son of
a—” He coughed and blushed. “Sorry.”
“Gregor, this is hardly the time to worry
about your language.”
“Right. I’m still going to frisk him to
within an inch of his life.”
“Very well.” Whatever made him happy. I was
aware of the pistol under his arm, and that he would have no qualms
using it. Of course, if he did, I’d have to make sure the body
wasn’t discovered. Shadow Brook was a decent-sized property. We
could bury it in the Christmas tree plantation; it would never be
found.
I went upstairs, changed into a simple black
dress, and wound the black pearls Nigel had given me for our last
anniversary around my neck.
Once again Mark Vincent came into my home,
and I joined him in the room where “Harriman Patterson” had first
interviewed me.
“I’m pleased to see you again, Mr. Vincent.
However, I am pressed for time, so if you wouldn’t mind stating
your reason for wanting to see me?”
“Your son is missing.”
I’d been about to sit down, but that brought
me up short. “I beg your pardon?”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re
planning on traveling to Europe to find him.”
“Why am I not surprised you’re aware of my
plans?”
“I’m the best, ma’am. Let me get right down
to brass tacks. You want to find out what’s happened to your son.
You intend to hire Benjamin Monroe, former Black Ops, former CIA,
to accompany you to Europe. Don’t. I’ll handle the whole thing.
I’ll find your son and bring him home to you.”
“Why would you do that, Mr. Vincent?”
“I have the contacts—”
“As do I. Please don’t treat me as if I were
stupid. I am well aware of your reputation in the intelligence
community. Gregor. Please prepare tea. We’ll have it in here.
You’ll have it with us.”
“Por-Mrs. Mann—”
“Please.” I waited until he left the room.
Then I asked, “Why are you doing this? What is Quinton to you?”
“Your son is an excellent operative, ma’am.
It would be this country’s loss if anything happened to him.”
“So this is strictly professional
courtesy?”
“Of course,” he said, as if how could it be
anything else?
“I don’t believe that for one moment, Mr.
Vincent.” His brows met in a Vee above his nose, but I continued
before he could respond. “The WBIS and the CIA have nothing to do
with each other. What you’re doing could very well result in your
dismissal from the WBIS.”
“Not a chance, ma’am.” And he grinned. I’d
heard tales of that particular expression, and I wasn’t surprised
it caused people to back away. However, having read some of his
background information, I merely tilted my head and met his eyes.
The grin vanished, and he scowled, but he still refused to answer
me.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re a very
obstinate man. In that you’re a good deal like Quinton.”
“Quinn? You’re kidding! He’s a—” He coughed.
“What I was going to say is he’s got too much class.” He must have
felt he’d said more than he’d intended, because he continued,
“But…uh…you know him better than I do.”
“Who knows who better?” Gregor asked as he
wheeled in the tea trolley.
“We were discussing Quinton’s temperament.
Mark thinks he’s too much a gentleman to be obstinate.”
“
Quinn
? Jesus—sorry…uh…Mrs. Mann. Do
you remember when he was eight and Nige—Mr. Mann objected to the
horse you wanted to give Quinn for his birthday?” Gregor helped
himself to a sandwich and a cup of tea, and stood to the side where
he could keep a close eye on Vincent.
“Yes. Quinton dug in his heels until Nigel
finally agreed to watch him ride Jack Be Nimble.” I remembered how
terrified my husband had been.
“He’s so little, and that horse
is so big!”
But Quinton had taken Jack over the jumps very
handily, and Nigel had acquiesced.
Biting back a small smile, I indicated the
two tea pots. “Earl Grey, Mark? Or perhaps you’d care for
Darjeeling?”
“Earl Grey, please.” He sounded disgruntled.
Better the devil he knew?