Mike said, “Not to mention every ounce of evidence was destroyed and all the priceless artwork stored there. It will be a week before the hot spots die down enough for a forensic examination to begin.”
“Any bodies recovered?” Ben asked.
“Four guards who were near the doors, firing at Menard’s men, and one guard from the second floor.”
Zachery asked, “The Ghost? The Fox?”
Nicholas shook his head. “The last time I saw Kitsune—the Fox—she’d knocked Mulvaney out. He was facedown and unconscious near the doorway where the fire was coming in fast.” He paused for a moment, and added in an emotionless voice, “She was bleeding heavily. She gave me the Koh-i-Noor, then walked back into the flames.” He didn’t mention the gunshot because he didn’t know if Kitsune had used it to kill Mulvaney or herself. He didn’t want to know.
“How’s Lanighan?” Savich asked.
Mike said, “He’s in a secure unit at Hôpital Saint-Antoine. Menard told us he’s retreated into his own mind, chanting sutras. He won’t answer to his name, won’t recognize anyone around him. The doctors don’t know if or when he’ll ever recover.
“All of you now know what Lanighan wanted to do—merge the three stones and heal himself. Become immortal.” She nodded to Nicholas.
He said, “I can’t describe what I saw last night as well as I’d like, but here goes. I saw Lanighan standing in the corner of the big second-floor room, his face lit up, his arms outstretched toward the ceiling, and he was cupping a huge bloody stone in his hands. He looked, well, maybe like he saw something no one else had ever seen before, he looked like he’d been blessed—I know that sounds strange. Really sorry, but nothing more than that.” He paused for a moment, then added, “You remember Lanighan had leukemia as a teenager and went into remission. Recently the leukemia returned. And I, well, I asked the emergency-room doctors to test his blood.” He paused a moment. “His blood work came back entirely normal.”
There was silence, then Savich said, “Are you saying the legend had truth at its core? That reuniting the three parts of the diamond cured him?”
“All I’m saying is he no longer has cancer. Perfect health, at least physically. I can’t tell you more because I don’t know any more.”
Everyone was quiet. Sherlock finally broke the silence. “You said the Fox gave you the Koh-i-Noor. Is it damaged in any way?”
Nicholas said, “Both Mike and I have examined it thoroughly and we can’t see anything wrong with it. It’s in the safe here in the room. I suppose the insurance indemnity folks would like it returned to the Met so it can be replaced in the crown.”
Zachery said, “You bet. Last time I saw the director he was rubbing his hands together, saying he now expects the Jewel of the Lion exhibit will draw twice as many people as they’d planned; it’ll be the event of the century. Hey, it’ll probably be the start of a new legend. Once he hears the details, he’ll probably give you guys a lifetime membership to the Met.”
Nicholas said, “I’m glad someone will benefit from all this—” He waved his hand. This what? he wondered. Waste? Tragedy? He supposed some good had come out of this, but frankly all he could think about was the needless loss—Elaine dead, Kitsune killed in the fire.
Savich said, “Not only will the Met burst its seams with visitors to the exhibit, but Bo still has the contract. The Met has asked him to double the security.”
Sherlock said, “Yep, Bo’s a happy camper.”
Zachery asked them to run through the previous night’s events, then once more, with a dozen questions thrown in. He finished with, “Job well done, people, and thanks, Drummond, for your minor assistance to the FBI.” And he laughed.
Savich said, “Nick, would you mind sticking around for a moment? I’d like to talk to you alone.” The conference room emptied around him.
Nicholas said, “Sure, Savich.” He glanced at Mike.
She said, “I’m outta here; a nice hot shower calls my name.”
When they were alone, Savich said, “I have a proposition for you.”
Up went a black brow.
“Nick, you’ve got talent, and insight, and let’s be honest here, you take crazy, stupid chances and you’re a bit uncaring about your own hide. I also think you’ve got the luck of the Devil, and that’s never something to discount. However, the important thing is you get results.”
The brow was still up. “You’re very kind.”
Savich grinned. “No, I’m not kind at all. I’m being entirely selfish here. I want you, Nick. Would you consider leaving New Scotland Yard and joining the FBI?”
Nicholas nearly spewed out the coffee he’d just drunk. “What? You want me to join the American FBI?”
“Yes. You’d have to go through the proper channels to apply, but with your spook and cop experience, your facility with languages, and your computer skills, you’re a match with what we’re looking for. You’re thirty-one, only a year over the average age for our entrants.
“You work well with our agents, and you’ve scored a big win recovering the Koh-i-Noor. I’ll even put in a good word for you. You’ll have to go through the academy at Quantico like all the other agents. It won’t be easy, and I can’t guarantee you won’t wash out.”
Nicholas said, “After all that, it would be a shame to blow the landing, wouldn’t it?”
Savich laughed. “I can’t promise, but I think I could get you assigned to the New York Field Office. It seems to me you’d be a good fit there, and from all the signs, Zachery thinks you’re a pretty handy guy to have around. I’d want you to work with my teams in Washington, D.C., as well, on a case-by-case basis.”
It was finally sinking in. The FBI. Nicholas Drummond, a cop with New Scotland Yard—the American FBI. He said slowly, “I hadn’t thought about another life-changing move, Savich. I really appreciate what you’ve said, but I’ll have to think about it, long and hard.” Only he didn’t, he realized, he really didn’t.
“All I can ask. Hurry, though. The new academy class starts soon. Now, you and Mike get home safe. And again, congratulations.”
Call ended, Nicholas sat back on the sofa, staring out at the Parisian sky. Rain had begun to fall. He hoped it would help put out the warehouse fire.
The American FBI.
Mike came into the living room. “Yeah? So will you be the first Brit in the FBI?”
“Agent Caine, were you eavesdropping?”
“Sure. Did you know he was going to ask you to come aboard?”
He shook his head.
“Will you? Will you come join us?”
He laid his arm along the back of the sofa. “What do you think, Mike? Do you want me to join you?”
She gave him a long look. He looked like he’d been in a major-league brawl and he’d won, just barely. He didn’t look at all like Mr. Aren’t I Great. What he looked was tough and dangerous and tired, and beneath it all was a deep well of excitement, and perhaps a dollop of uncertainty.
She said slowly, “Well, Dillon is right. All in all, you’re not a bad cop. You’ve got a pretty good brain. Trust the academy to train you up, make you into a real agent. Then yeah, maybe I could deal with having you in New York.”
“I’m blushing. You and Savich, both of you heaping all these compliments on my head.”
She joined him on the sofa and took one of his battered hands in hers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the queen makes you a knight or something.”
He felt the warmth of her flesh as she cradled his hand. It felt good. He realized she smelled like jasmine and wild grass again. He said, “Well, fact is, even though I hate to admit it, I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
She cocked her head to the side and regarded him thoughtfully. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we? If you come to New York, I wouldn’t say no to having you as a partner.”
/> “You’re saying if I join the FBI, you’d have my back?”
She patted his bruised cheek. “Stitches and all.”
99
Farrow-on-Grey, England
Old Farrow Hall, Drummond estate
Tuesday morning
Nicholas turned onto the drive leading to his family home, Old Farrow Hall, or OFH, as everyone hereabouts called it. In the spring and summer the branches of the ancient lime trees intertwined above like a secret tunnel. In mid-winter, everything was naked sticks and branches—alien, yet still achingly beautiful, at least to him.
Once through the ancient stone gate, another half mile and the hall itself loomed before him, three stories of four-century-old red brick with stone quoins, gables, and turrets. Home. He pulled into the roundabout, the gravel crunching under his tires.
A small man with a tonsure of gray hair circling his head stood by the open door, dressed in a fine gray morning coat, crisp white shirt and tie.
“Good morning, Master Nicholas. Hurry in, now, the rain is coming down harder.”
“Morning, Horne,” Nicholas said, and stepped into the central core of the old hall. “You’re looking well. Nigel sends his best.”
Horne’s expression at the mention of his beloved son didn’t change, since age-old precepts of decorum prevented it, but he did allow a full-bodied “Ah.”
Nicholas pulled the hamper from behind his back. “Can you sneak this in for me, Horne? I don’t want Cook Crumbe seeing I’ve brought pastries from Fortnum and Mason for my mother.”
Horne’s nose twitched. “Of course. No sense in upsetting her. Your mother and his lordship are waiting for you in the breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Horne. I’ll head there straightaway.”
He passed through the grand entrance hall and made his way toward the back of the house to what had been labeled the breakfast room by some ancestor centuries ago. He smelled cinnamon and apple and cardamom. Cook must have made apple tarts for breakfast, his favorite. All hail the prodigal son. He hoped they wouldn’t kick him out.
The long, narrow breakfast room gave onto the sweep of the back lawn. A row of six tall windows overlooked the lower garden and the labyrinth, a fetching scene, even with the rain scoring down the glass. A fire crackled in the grate; the room was a bit too warm, but that was the way his grandfather liked it. Nicholas didn’t mind, not today.
His grandfather, Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was ensconced at the head of the table in the master’s hand-carved chair, his buttocks cradled by a decades-old crimson velvet cushion thicker than Nicholas’s fist. He was halfway through a bowl of Cook Crumbe’s solidly bland Scottish porridge, welcomed his grandson with a swirl of his spoon, his voice gruff. “Nicholas, my boy. About time you joined us. You’re late.”
“The score of vehicles I nearly ran off the M11 getting here wouldn’t agree with you.”
The baron wheezed out a laugh.
“Good morning, Mother. I like that jumper you’re wearing, matches your eyes.”
The old man harrumphed, spooned in more porridge. “The demmed thing doesn’t match her eyes at all.”
Mitzie Drummond laughed as she lightly laid her hand along his cheek, leaned up, and gave him a kiss. “Good morning, darling.”
“Where’s Father?”
Mitzie said, “On a call, talking to the Home Office about some nonsense in the Middle East he shouldn’t have to worry about.” She shook her head, the perfectly maintained blond bob swinging forward. “He had tea, said he needn’t have anything more.”
Nicholas turned to Horne. “Would you ask him to join us, please? I have some news I’d like to share.”
Mitzie narrowed her eyes at him.
“What sort of news?”
“Let’s wait for Dad, shall we? What’s been happening round here?”
Mitzie took the hint and began filling him in on the leak in the West Wing roof, and how she was certain Gwynne Willis, the town butcher’s wife, was slowly poisoning her abusive husband—served him right—and she was having trouble with her moral compass since she’d just as soon see the husband belowground. Did she have proof of this? She nodded, sadly, but said no more.
A few minutes later, Harry—Harold Mycroft St. John Drummond—joined them. He was taller than his son, fit and lean, a full head of black hair, distinguished gray at the temples. Nicholas stood and shook his father’s hand in greeting. He took his seat and poured some tea.
His father’s every motion was done with economy and purpose, like his grandfather, Drummond hallmarks. He was a man of infinite calm, which made him an excellent diplomat, and a man of common sense and reason. He was not, like his son, with his impatient, impulsive American blood, a man who ever leapt before looking carefully at the terrain beyond.
Properly fortified, Harry leaned back in his chair. “What’s this news then, Nicholas?”
Nicholas also poured himself a cup of hot tea, stirred in milk and a bit of sugar. Liquid courage. He took a sip and said, “I’ve decided to join the FBI.”
Dead silence, all eyes staring at him. Well, he had their attention. There was more dead silence.
“I’ve been accepted to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s twenty weeks of immersion training. I’ll probably be assigned to the New York Field Office with the same people I worked with to find the Koh-i-Noor.”
He looked around the table at the shocked faces. “Well, say something.”
Harry studied his son’s face. “You already changed direction once when you left the Foreign Office for New Scotland Yard. You are certain you wish to make another change?”
“I’m sure.”
Harry sat back and looked at his dark-eyed, dashing son. He took after his mother, with his handsome face, his spirit, his bullheadedness, traits that made Harry proud, and profoundly worried on occasion. Nicholas had spent his entire career avoiding any hint of favoritism, of nepotism, striking out on his own from the very beginning. His son had courage, and honor, which made him, his father thought, a fine example of Drummond blood. And sometimes he was a wild hair, doing something so unexpected it left one speechless, something Harry recognized in his own father.
His mother was biting her lip. “You’ll move to New York? When will we see you?”
“I’ll come home as often as I can, I promise.”
She shook her head. “I always knew your uncle Bo would drag you into his den of thieves.”
Nicholas said mildly, “It’s not the old Wild West, mother. It’s your country, too.”
She waved an elegant hand. “Of course it is, Nicholas, it’s simply too far away for my tastes.” She sighed. “I suppose this is a wonderful opportunity for you, but—” She didn’t finish; instead, she came to give him a hug, and he relaxed. This, telling his family, was the part he’d dreaded. Penderley hadn’t fought him at all, even wrote him a glowing recommendation. Nicholas suspected Penderley was probably happy to get him out of his hair more than anything else.
He stole a look at his grandfather, who appeared to be ignoring all of them, still studiously eating his oatmeal. He was eighty-three, his back ramrod-straight, his eyes still the rich Drummond brown, always sharp and assessing. The only real acknowledgment of his age was his thinned hair, and, well, not to belabor it, but his ears and nose seemed to grow bigger each passing year.
Nicholas was the grandson of a baron; there were no two ways around it. The heir twice removed, as Penderley had sometimes called him if he was feeling jovial. There were responsibilities to come in his future, but not now. His grandfather was hale and hearty, his father as well.
No, not now.
Finally, his grandfather put down his spoon and met his eyes. “Don’t forget where you come from, Nicholas. This is your home, and it always will be.” He said again, “Don’t forget.”
Nicholas smiled. “Never.”
EPILOGUE
Farrow-on-Grey, England
Friday morning
They walked in unison out of the thirteenth-century Norman church, a slow march in step with the beatings of their hearts, hands clasped in front of their belt buckles, the heavy coffin on their shoulders. Nicholas felt the edge of the wood digging into his neck, a last connection to Elaine York, and it was pain. At least the pain reminded him he was alive when so many others weren’t.
He’d seen Mike sitting in the middle of the church, her head covered with a ridiculous confection hat she’d told him she’d found near Harrods in London. She’d laughed, adding that the enthusiastic saleswoman had assured her it was just the thing for a stylish funeral. Elaine would have loved it, since she couldn’t wear hats and was wildly jealous of women who could. Elaine’s mother, who looked rather marvelous in hats, sat with her companion near Mike. She now had a much-needed $200,000 safe in her bank. Kitsune had seen her friend done rightly by, at least.
Nicholas thought she understood what was happening, though he wasn’t really certain. She’d been mentally clear, though, when, taking his big hand in her small ones, she’d said to him, “Please bury my daughter here, Nicholas, in Farrow-on-Grey. She loved it so.” And then she’d sort of faded away, back into the soulless prison in her mind.
Nicholas looked over the top of the coffin at Ben Houston, his head bowed, grief pouring off him, and he felt his own throat close.
Elaine was being buried as a decorated officer, with all honors, as she deserved. Her friends and fellow officers from London were here, all still in shock, not really understanding what had happened, since she was in New York to be a minder, not a police officer. And Penderley, silent, bearing the weight of Elaine’s coffin on his shoulders.