“Mom, I like the thought of having Day as my half-brother, don’t ever worry about that, but I wouldn’t have married him. You know that.”
Natalie laughed again. “I wasn’t talking about Day, Perry. I was talking about Special Agent Davis Sullivan. It’s amazing, isn’t it? Neither of us would have met him if it hadn’t been for that drug addict Jitterbug who wanted to steal my new Beemer.” She raised her glass. “Davis, here’s to your weakness for Starbucks coffee and all the good things that came out of it.”
There was another round of toasts. Natalie said, “Perry, I was thinking you and Davis might enjoy visiting London together, maybe even come back with me next week. It’s time I returned to the best job in the world. Ambassador to the United Kingdom. I always loved the sound of that.”
Perry studied her black leather boots before she looked up and grinned at Davis. “Actually, Mr. Hot Shot, Mom and I already talked about this. So what do you say?”
“I don’t know,” Davis said. “I mean, I’ve heard all you can do is talk football, ride a Hog, wear black biker boots that send a man’s heart into overdrive, make the best guacamole inside the Beltway—”
Perry burst out laughing. “I don’t know about the overdrive business.”
Sherlock said, “Sounds to me like she’s a guy’s dream come to life, Davis.”
Savich said easily, “It’s all right with me, Davis. You’re due a week, I’d say.”
Natalie said, “It’s March, so of course the days will be rainy and chilly, lots of wind, but if you’re lucky, there’ll be a couple of days of gorgeous sunshine tossed in. There’s a lot to show you, Davis, like the London Eye, and Perry would love to be your tour guide. I have lots of room, as Perry knows.”
Sherlock was looking down at Astro, wagging his tail fast as a metronome set on high. She tossed him a bit of pepperoni as she heard the toilet flush upstairs. Sean was up. She knew he’d hear the conversation and creep down the stairs to see what was happening. She rose. “I’m going to get Sean, and you can tell him about this humongous Ferris wheel in London.”
Savich said, “When he hears about it, he’ll want to sit on your lap on your flight back to London, Natalie.”
“Why don’t the three of you come to London with Perry and Davis? Maybe Hooley will be well enough in another month to come as well.”
“With Connie,” Perry said.
Sherlock said, “What a wonderful idea. Dillon, can you imagine Sean at the top of the Eye?”
Savich pictured it clearly in his mind. “He’ll think it’s better than a video game. He might even decide he wants to be English when he grows up.”
Perry said, “Did you know there’ll be three NFL games in London this fall? Maybe I can get the Post to pick up the tab and send me over. I can’t wait to see in person how the Brits react to American football. Think of the interviews with the man on the street.”
Sean appeared at the dining room door, holding his mother’s hand. “Oh, wow, a Ferris wheel?”
EPILOGUE
FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia
Graduation Day
May
Sherlock and Savich sat, with Sean on Savich’s lap, beside the eighth Baron de Vesci, Nicholas Drummond’s grandfather. Nicholas, Sherlock had told Sean, was about to become the first Brit in the FBI, since his American mother had birthed him in the United States. Nicholas’s father, Harry Drummond, and his mother, Mitzie, sat beside them. Excited conversations of families and friends of new agents buzzed around them, all here to witness the new agents graduate and receive their creds and become special agents. It wasn’t long before Sean was leaning toward the baron. “Papa said you were a baron. What’s a baron?”
The old man with his beak nose and big ears gave Sean a startled look, then smiled and leaned close. “It means I get to eat dessert whenever I want.”
Sean whispered, “Even jelly beans?”
“Even jelly beans,” and the baron gave a gruff laugh. Sean thought he smelled like oatmeal and strawberries, and that was good. He leaned close again. “Let me tell you about Gargantua the octopus.” Sean proceeded to explain to the baron the intricacies of his new video game starring Gargantua, Captain Nemo’s pet octopus, each tentacle with a special talent. “Gargantua needs my help,” Sean whispered, “or Benito the Shark sucks all the ink out of his tentacles and leaves him helpless.”
The baron studied the little boy’s face as he listened, surely Agent Savich’s in twenty years, and remembered his own son Harry telling him stories at five years old. When Sean asked, the baron leaned close and whispered that he liked the seventh tentacle the best—who wouldn’t want to be able to swim with a propeller of his own?
Sean didn’t think much of that choice, but he nodded and enthusiastically embarked on Gargantua’s latest adventure.
The baron’s left knee hurt, but then again, every part of him hurt occasionally, only to be expected when someone approached the age of dirt. He heard Mitzie giggle at something Harry said and knew she was excited and worried and happy for her son, and what mother wouldn’t be? Nicholas had become an excellent man, all Drummond he was. He’d been a fine boy; well, not to put too fine a point on it, when he’d hit his teenage years, he’d been wild, occasionally reckless, but there was always a brain at work in there to pull him back from the biggest follies—or sometimes it was his father’s brain, but Mitzie would always give Nicholas the credit.
The baron knew something had happened to Nicholas in Afghanistan. Whatever it was, he’d left the Foreign Service and come home and signed up for Scotland Yard. Nicholas hadn’t spoken of it and the baron hadn’t brought it up because he knew a man had to live according to his own rules and find his own peace.
He realized Sean Savich was still telling him a story, and he patted his cheek. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said to Sean. “I want the fourth tentacle. I want to see even in the dark.”
Sean’s dark eyes glistened. “Something’s going to happen,” Sean told the baron. Savich leaned down and whispered, “Yep, things are getting started, so listen up and watch. Don’t yell at Nicholas when you see him. Wait, then wave when he looks over here.”
Sherlock looked past Sean to Nigel, Nicholas’s butler, his own father the Drummond family butler since the flood. Nigel had told her about the beautiful brownstone his lordship the baron had purchased for Nicholas in New York City. He’d rubbed his hands together. “Imagine,” he’d said, “I will have a floor entirely to myself.” He’d smiled down at Sherlock from his great height. “The kitchen is a marvel. Ah, the meals I shall prepare for Master Nicholas.”
Sherlock wondered how Nicholas would keep focused and adjust to life in New York with an English butler at home waiting to hand him tenderly into his smoking jacket. He’d been immured for four months in this vast American complex called Quantico, wearing khaki and dark blue polo shirts. She bet the thought of it made the fastidious Nigel shudder. She wondered if in the distant future, when Nicholas became the Baron de Vesci, he’d remain in the FBI. Who knew? She’d learned never to second-guess life. She looked over at Davis and Perry, who sat close by, holding hands, speaking quietly. She’d heard Davis say before they’d sat down in the auditorium, “I can’t wait to see how the Brit fits in with those crazy cowboys in the New York Field Office.” And he’d added to Perry, “Savich’s dad had a wild rep back in the day.”
Savich took Sean’s hand when a hush came over the more than five hundred people in attendance, families and friends, husbands and wives and children of all the FBI graduates. The air was electric, everyone was excited, including Sean, waiting for the new agents to come down the aisle and take their seats.
When the forty-eight new agents filed in, straight-backed and serious, their eyes so bright they lit up the auditorium, families pointed and waved, children called out and applause rang out, loud and sustained.
Savich glanced at Nigel as he watched Nicholas confidently stride in with the other graduating age
nts, looking happy and smart in the lovely suit Nigel had prepared for him. Nicholas turned and nodded to all of them, never breaking stride. Savich squeezed Sean’s hand to keep him quiet. He heard Sean whisper to his lordship, “There he is, sir, there he is. Do you think he’ll be like my papa someday?” Sean shook his head. “No, that’s impossible.”
Savich wondered if someday Sean would be in this auditorium waiting to be named a newly minted special agent of the FBI and asking himself that same question. It was a sobering thought.
The dark blue curtains remained closed on the stage. After a short pause, the curtains opened upon a dozen people sitting on stage, among them Mr. Comey, director of the FBI; the chaplain; the class supervisor; and the special guests. One of the guests was Nicholas’s uncle Bo Horsley, once the SAC of the New York Field Office. Bo looked very pleased with himself, Sherlock thought. As for the old baron, he was staring at Bo like he was the unprincipled marauder who’d seduced his grandson away from England.
The MC was the assistant director of training, McCauley Mitchell, a man Savich knew would be sharp and smooth and funny. Graduating special agents had to be one of his favorite duties, judging by how he introduced guests, counselors, then the class spokesperson. Following a brief silence, the director of the FBI walked to the lectern, tall and serious, a small smile playing on his mouth as he looked down from the stage to the new agents. He nodded. “Will the graduating class please stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me—” He administered the oath of office and said, “Congratulations, you are now special agents of the FBI.”
The applause was loud and long, and Sean tried to whistle through his teeth.
When Nicholas was presented with the top academic award, Sean’s cheer was loud and clear. “Yea, Nicholas! My mama was the top shooter! She’s right here!”
There were belly laughs from the stage, a few craning heads, and applause. Sherlock rolled her eyes and shook her head at her son.
When Nicholas’s name was called, it was his uncle Bo Horsley who presented him with his badge and credentials from the small wooden cred holder, hugged him, gave him a big smile, and announced into the mike: “Nicholas Drummond—New York.”
The FBI chaplin gave the benediction, and the assistant director of Training announced that photos would be taken and cake and punch would be served in the Hall of Honor. “I hope it’s chocolate,” Sherlock heard Sean tell the baron.
Outside the main auditorium, they watched Nicholas pick up his mother, whirl her around, and give her a big kiss. He shook his father’s hand, clapped Nigel on the shoulder, and turned to his grandfather. “I’m honored you came, sir. Isn’t this a phenomenal place?”
The baron said grudgingly, “The oatmeal at the hotel wasn’t bad,” then he drew Nicholas tightly to him. “I’m proud of you,” the old man said.
The two men were of a height, Savich thought, and both were impressive. One with a long, rich tapestry of a life behind him and the other, well, from what he knew about Nicholas Drummond’s background in the Foreign Service, he’d already lived enough for two lives, and now he was embarking on a new one.
When Nicholas shook Savich’s hand, he said, “Looks like I didn’t wash out.”
“I’d say you nailed the landing,” Savich said. “I rather thought you would. Congratulations, Nick.”
“You’ll make a fine cowboy,” Davis told him, and shook his hand. One of Nicholas’s eyebrows shot up, and Savich laughed. “You’ll soon learn what he means.”
Nicholas kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Bummer, as you Yanks say, but I wasn’t the top shooter, not nearly as good as you.”
Sean stuck out his hand and patted Nicholas’s arm. “That’s all right, Nicholas, my papa says Mama can shoot out the heel of a shoe.” He paused for a moment, then spit it out. “Papa said he didn’t want me to yell it out so I couldn’t, but he won the top smart award, too.”
Nicholas smiled down at the little boy. “Would you like to win it, too, one day?”
Sean looked at his father, looked oddly adult in that moment, and announced, “I’ll try.”
Nicholas stilled, cocked his head to one side, and turned slowly toward Special Agent Michaela Caine, his future partner at the New York Field Office, the agent who’d been at his side for the incredible three days chasing across Europe after the Koh-i-Noor diamond. Sherlock smiled. Mike was smart, funny, and, best of all, she was a rock.
Nicholas was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Fact was, Sherlock thought, she looked gorgeous, her hair pulled back from her face with two gold clips, showing her fine cheekbones. She was conservatively dressed in an elegant dark blue suit, a stylish white blouse, heels on her feet that brought her nearly to Nicholas’s eye level. Her eyes sparkled and she was wearing a huge smile that included everyone.
“I didn’t want to miss Nicholas’s ceremony, but there was work—” She threw up her hands. “Congratulations, Nicholas. Welcome to the FBI, and, better still, welcome to New York.”
He walked slowly to her, studying her face. He stuck out his hand and she shook it, never looking away. “I heard you managed to snag one of the awards. What was it for? Top lamebrain stunt?”
Nicholas gave a whoop and hugged her. “Hi, partner,” she said, and patted his shoulder.
Sean called out, “I don’t want Nicholas to go to New York, Papa.”
“Don’t worry, Sean,” Sherlock said, patting his hand. “You’ll see Nicholas again, I promise.”
Read on for a sneak preview of the next exciting installment of the Brit in the FBI series featuring Nicholas Drummond:
THE LOST KEY
1
FBI New York Field Office
26 Federal Plaza
7:25 a.m.
Nicholas Drummond
What in bloody hell have I done?
Nicholas Drummond reported for duty at the FBI’s New York headquarters smartly at 7:00 a.m., as instructed. After twenty minutes with human resources, he felt a bit like a schoolboy: stand here, walk there, smile for your photograph, here’s your pass, don’t lose it. It was worse than the FBI Academy, and with their strict rules, the uniforms, the endless drills, more like his training at Hendon Police College with Hamish Penderley and his team.
The administrative realities of moving from New Scotland Yard to the FBI in New York were decidedly less romantic that the initial prospect had been. Three months earlier, Dillon Savich, head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., had encouraged Nicholas to make a new home in the FBI and he’d accepted. It was now May, with graduation from Quantico and the FBI Academy two weeks in the past, and he was officially an FBI Special Agent, and technically at the bottom of the food chain.
Again.
Twice he’d done this. The first time he’d left the Foreign Office to work for the Metropolitan Police in London. He’d survived those days and he’d survive these too.
And even better, you don’t have Hamish Penderley to ride you now, making you do tactical drills at 5:00 a.m. Zachery’s a very different sort. So buck up.
Nicholas knew he should have started out in a small Bureau office in the Midwest, gotten his feet wet, but Dillon Savich had gotten him assigned to the New York Field Office, as promised, working directly for Supervisory Special Agent Milo Zachery, a man Nicholas knew and trusted, with Special Agent Michaela Caine as his partner.
When at last they issued him his service weapon, he felt complete, the heavy weight of the Glock on his hip comforting, familiar.
Freshly laminated and now armed, he’d been walked to the twenty-third floor, led through the maze of the cube farm, and ushered into a small space, blue-walled with some sort of fuzzy fabric, the kind Velcro would adhere to, with a brown slab of wood-grained Formica as a desktop. There was a computer, several hard drives, two file trays labeled In and Out, and a chair.
The cubicle was so small, he could easily touch each side with his arms outstretched, and that allowed the tiniest
bit of claustrophobia sneak in. He needed more monitors and more shelving, and maybe he’d soon feel at home. Once in the zone on his computers, the close quarters wouldn’t be a problem.
He dropped his briefcase on the floor next to the chair, stashed a small black go bag in his bottom drawer, and took a seat. He spun the chair around in a circle, legs drawn up to avoid crashing. Small, yes, but it would do. He didn’t plan to spend much time sitting here anyway. Part of the deal he’d made with Savich meant Nicholas would be working ad hoc with him at times, running forensic point on cases in Washington. From what he’d experienced over the past few months while working with Savich and Sherlock and Mike Caine, he was in for a ride.
A low, throaty voice said near his ear, “Needs a bit of sprucing up, don’t you think? I know, how about your photo of the queen, front and center?”
Speak of the devil.
“The queen is hanging happily over my bed in my new digs.” He bent his head back to see Agent Mike Caine looking down at him, smiling widely. She was wearing her signature black jeans and motorcycle boots, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her badge hung on a lanyard around her neck, and her black-rimmed reading glasses were tucked into her blouse pocket.
“I wonder why I didn’t smell you first.” And he leaned up, sniffed. “Ah, there it is, that lovely jasmine, like my mum. Hi, Mike, long time no see.”
“Yeah, yeah, all of two weeks since your graduation. You all settled into your new digs? By the way, where are your new digs?”
He didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want to tell anyone, it was too embarrassing. Fact was, he’d lost a big argument with his grandfather about the location of his new home. He shrugged, looked over her shoulder at several agents walking by. “All settled in. A fairly nice bed in an okay place over there,” and he waved his hand vaguely toward the east.
She cocked her head at him, and he said quickly, “You look pretty good after being on your own for four months. When can we get out of here?”