by Tinnean
“Bonne chance, Pete.”
X
I WAS restless. Most of it was because the man Stanley had sent to Berlin had been unable to find anything. He was still looking, although now in Bratislava.
But some of it was because for the past twelve nights I’d been sleeping alone.
Quinn had told me he’d be back in eight days at the most. He’d been gone twelve days now. It was too long.
As great as technology was, sometimes a little hands-on snooping really turned up the skinny. It was time for Dwayne J. Lester, janitor extraordinaire, to pay a visit to Langley to dig up some information.
XI
I WAS industriously wiping down the frames along the wall of the corridor that housed the offices of the senior deputy directors. Each photograph, document, and award brought me closer to Quinn’s office.
Finally I was there. It was dark and had the closed, stuffy odor of unused rooms. With Quinn out of town, his personal assistant had used the opportunity to take some time off.
Even so, I didn’t have a lot of time.
A quick search of his assistant’s desk revealed nothing.
There was a whole bunch of nothing in his desk, as well. On his desk, though—that was another ball of wax.
I turned on his computer, slid a disc in the CD-RW drive, and then started copying all the files on his hard drive. As each disc filled up, I slipped it into a thin CD wallet and replaced it with another blank one. When it was done, I yanked up my shirt, slid the wallet into the back of the twill work pants that were part of Dwayne’s uniform, and tucked my shirt back in.
No one would be any the wiser. And I’d check them out as soon as I got home.
I eased out of Quinn’s office and made my way down the corridor. Voices approached, and I slouched, making myself appear shorter. As I polished the glass of a frame, I hummed an old Tammy Wynette tune about divorce under my breath.
A tall man rounded the corner, and I recognized him as the man who’d been with Quinn at the morgue the night I’d gone there to arrange the autopsy of that shit Sperling, who’d blown up my apartment. Quinn had seemed shaken. “Seemed,” hell. Afterward he’d told me he had whacked the crusts off the sandwich he’d made me rather than stick the knife into me.
David Brendan Cooper. That was this guy’s name. Known as DB to his friends.
Cooper was speaking earnestly with a brunette who appeared vaguely familiar. Where had I seen her before?
I moved closer and picked up on their conversation. “—was the last time he checked in, Syd, shortly after he landed in Paris. This really isn’t like him.”
I hummed a few more bars. Someone in the CIA was apparently playing hooky, being a very naughty boy. I wondered if he’d get detention.
“DCI Holmes insisted he stay in contact!” Cooper was gnawing on his lower lip, obviously trying to bring his nerves under control.
“I don’t like it, David.” This Syd woman smoothed her hair back, the epitome of calm. Too bad she wasn’t a man. She’d do well in the WBIS.
Abruptly I remembered where I’d seen the spook in the skirt before: at Mikey Shaw’s funeral. Well, I’d expected the CIA to have someone inside; Shaw was their mole, after all, but I’d thought it would be one of the nondescript men in their nondescript suits who had been paying their respects.
“Neither do I. Quinn would never ignore orders like that.”
Quinn? They were talking about my—about Mann?
“What does Director Holmes want us to do?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Cooper definitely wasn’t happy.
I frowned. Did he want to be more than a friend to Quinn? He wasn’t going to live long if he did.
“Let’s go find Lyn….” He looked over his shoulder, and his gaze slid right over me. Then it whipped back, and I went very still and offered a tentative smile.
“Afternoon, suh. Ma’am.”
“Do I know you?”
I jerked my chin toward the nametag that was clipped to a breast pocket. “Cleanin’ crew, suh.”
“I’ve seen you before, but not for some time.”
“No, suh.” Shit. The last time I’d been here in this disguise had been about a year and a half ago. He was better than I gave him credit for. “My mama passed on. I had… um… compassionate leave? Is that the word I’m looking for?”
“Sorry to hear that”—he peered at my nametag—“Lester. My condolences.”
“Thank you, suh.” But he had taken the female officer’s arm and was urging her down the corridor. Their heads were together, and I was unable to hear the rest of what they were saying.
My fingers tightened on the cleaning cloth. I needed to get in touch with Pete again. He’d had nothing when I’d contacted him the other day, but the situation was so fluid, maybe he had something for me now.
Maybe that something would be about Quinn.
I trotted down the stairs to the lobby floor. It was time for Dwayne to clock out. I’d casually make my way to my locker, change, and haul ass out of Langley.
I was walking down the corridor that contained the Wall of Honor, a wall of stars for the men and women of the Company who had given their lives in the line of duty, when a woman’s voice drew my attention, and I came to a halt.
What was Quinn’s mother doing here?
Wielding my dustcloth, I eased over as unobtrusively as I could in order to overhear.
“I refuse to stand for this, Director.” Portia Mann’s voice was tight with controlled anger. “Nigel Mann is a star on this wall. I will not see my son there also.”
“I’m very sorry, Portia. At this point our hands are tied. There’s nothing I can do….”
That was the CIA for you. They’d let their operatives swing in the wind.
Her eyes narrowed. “My son is the best you have, Director Holmes.”
I polished the glass that shielded a picture of the president from a couple of administrations ago. That’s right, Mrs. Mann! You tell the son of a bitch!
“Portia—” She raised an eyebrow, and he hastily cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mann. I assure you—”
“If you will do nothing to find him, then I shall!” The atmosphere around her almost sizzled with her anger, but she was still every inch a lady as she turned on her heel and left. Gregor Novotny, who had been standing at her elbow, saying nothing, staring stonily at Holmes, fell into step beside her.
Mrs. Mann…. No. I couldn’t have her getting involved. She might have been a whiz when it came to cracking codes, but in my line of work, she was strictly an amateur. If Quinn’s mother got caught up in this, if she turned up as collateral damage, it would destroy her son.
DCI Holmes spat out a particularly nasty word, one even I didn’t use. He turned with military precision and stalked away, and I overcame the temptation to deck the asshole.
I got out of Langley as easily as I had gotten in and drove to my apartment. I ran up the shallow steps, opened the front door, and took the stairs two at a time to the attic floor.
The ladies on the first floor were entertaining. It was too early for Matheson to be home from the WBIS—he’d actually moved in with Theo after they’d returned from Cambridge—and Theo hadn’t gotten out of the habit of sleeping late. I saw no one, and no one saw me.
I emptied the CD wallet onto my computer desk and started transferring the data. It didn’t take long, not as long, in fact, as it had taken me to burn the CDs. Then I set a program running that would extract the information I needed. I keyed in the parameters, hit Enter, and went into the bathroom to peel off the latex appliances before washing away all evidence of Dwayne J. Lester.
By the time I was dressed, the computer had printed out a number of pages that contained some of the information I needed. I scanned them quickly.
Son of a bitch. Quinn had gone to Paris looking for his own people, putting his life on the line, because that was the kind of man he was.
My mouth dry, I picked up my phone and dialed Portia Mann�
��s phone number.
He’d gone using the name Leonard Burroughs.
Novotny answered.
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Mann, please. This is Mark Vincent.”
XII
PEOPLE had a skewed viewpoint of me. They thought I was some rabid sociopath, and I fostered that belief. It helped to keep them off-balance. They never knew how I would react in any given situation.
I had no idea what Portia Mann really thought of me, if she thought of me at all. The first time I had met her had been at the beginning of the year. That had been before Quinn had bought me dinner for my birthday and then had given me the most amazing birthday present in the men’s room of Raphael’s.
I’d been growing increasingly more… obsessed with the need to learn more about her son than what was in the files and had made an appointment to interview her as an old schoolmate of his. It had gone off well. She’d spoken freely and allowed me to snap some photos, and I’d left, with her none the wiser.
However, when I’d run into her at the embassy ball a couple of months later, she’d known. Quinn must have told her that it hadn’t been Skip Patterson who’d listened as she told stories of her son’s younger years, before Exeter. I’d denied it, of course, but she hadn’t believed me.
Now as I drove to Portia Mann’s beautiful Tudor home, I determined the tack I would take: I’d portray myself as simply a concerned colleague.
I wondered if she’d believe me this time.
I strode up the walk to the impressive front door, pressed the doorbell, and waited. From within, I could hear chimes announcing my presence.
The door opened, and Novotny stood there. His sharp gaze ran over me from the tips of my shoes to the stray grays in my hair. “Vincent. Or should I address you as Mr. Patterson?”
I ignored that question as beneath me. “Mrs. Mann said she’d see me. Are you going to keep me standing here, air-conditioning the whole neighborhood, or let me in?”
His upper lip curled in a sneer, but he stepped aside and let me enter. “I’ll have to ask that you leave all electronic equipment here in the foyer.”
It must have burned his butt that I’d wiped the surveillance tape clean the last time I’d been there. I handed him a little device that hummed and whirred but actually did nothing. I had no intention of allowing him to record this meeting. The real device was a thin, flat rectangle the size of a matchbook that was concealed in the hollow heel of my shoe.
He extended his hand. “Your cell phone and your weapons as well.”
I handed him my phone and the Glock from under my left arm. He put them into a small console table by the door.
“Backup piece?”
I pulled up my trouser legs, revealing I wasn’t packing my clutch piece. “Like what you see?”
For a second I thought he was going to have a coronary, but then he got himself under control and locked the table.
As if that could stop me from getting them if I needed to.
He gestured for me to hold out my arms. I matched his sneer and did. He patted me down more competently than a simple butler would know how and then stepped back.
“This way.” He led me into the same room at the back of the house where I’d interviewed Portia Mann as Skip Patterson. “She’ll be right with you. Don’t touch anything, Vincent. I have no use for the WBIS, and I’d like nothing better than an excuse to shoot you.”
“Gregor, it’s all right.” Mrs. Mann entered the room, her walk a smooth, elegant glide. Not a hair was out of place, not a wrinkle in the classic little black dress she wore. A string of glossy pearls encircled her throat, but the only jewelry she wore on her hands was a wedding band and an engagement ring. “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?”
Novotny moved to stand behind her, his arms folded across his chest. His hands were empty, so I knew he wasn’t about to shoot me or throw a knife at me just then, much as he might want to. I dismissed him and turned my attention back to Quinn’s mother.
“Your son is missing. You’re planning on traveling to Europe to find him.”
Both she and Novotny stiffened, but she was the one who recovered first. “Why am I not surprised you’re aware of my plans?”
“I’m the best, ma’am.”
She made a little noncommittal sound and studied my eyes. “You’re not sitting.”
“Neither are you.”
Novotny snorted. “One doesn’t think of Mark Vincent and manners in the same thought.”
“I’ve been sadly maligned.” I returned his glower with an injured look that was patently false.
Mrs. Mann’s smile was faint but amused. She smoothed her skirt under her and sank gracefully onto the loveseat.
I took the wingchair opposite her. “Let me get right down to brass tacks, Mrs. Mann. I know 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.”
Novotny growled under his breath, but the woman opposite me remained composed. “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.” Her eyes remained on mine as she spoke to him. “Please prepare tea. We’ll have it in here. You’ll have it with us.”
“Portia—”
“Please.”
He gave me a hard glare but obeyed her.
She waited until he left the room. “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?”
I relaxed infinitesimally. It had worked; she’d bought it. “Of course, ma’am.”
“I don’t believe that for one moment, Mr. Vincent. 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.”
I gave her a bland grin. “Not a chance, ma’am.” The Boss was out of town again, and I had delegated myself to do this job. I might get killed doing what I was going to do, but I would never be fired over it.
She sighed and shook her head. “You’re a very obstinate man. In that, you’re a good deal like Quinton.” Novotny wheeled in a little cart that held tea and cucumber sandwiches, just like the last time. Not that I would admit to there having been a last time. He took a sandwich and a cup of tea and retired to a corner of the room. Mrs. Mann gestured toward the two tea pots. “Earl Grey? Or perhaps you’d care for Darjeeling?”
“Earl Grey, please.” At least I knew what to put in that tea. “Thank you, ma’am. With a little milk, please?”
She burst into laughter. “Did Quinton tell you that’s the way he likes to take Earl Grey?”
I kept my expression blank. “Your son and I don’t make a habit of talking about tea, ma’am.”
“What do you talk about, if you don’t mind my asking?” She handed me the dainty teacup.
“I don’t understand why you think Quinn—why you think your son and I would have anything to talk about.”
“Come, come, Mr. Vincent. I am quite aware that you have been living in Quinton’s town house for some time now.”
“You’re under a misapprehension, ma’am. I have my own apartment.” I raised the cup to my lips and took a sip. It wasn’t bad. Was I starting to develop a taste for it?
Portia Mann frowned at me. “Have you and my son broken up again? When I told him he should be the one doing the discarding, his doing a vanishing act was certainly not what I meant!”
I choked on the mouthful of tea. She handed me a napkin, and I dried my lips and my hand, then blotted the drops of tea that had sprayed onto my trousers.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mann. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Now her gaze was reproachful. “Quinton was not pleased when you ran off to Cape Cod in March. As a matter of fact, I can’t recall seeing him quite so perturbed. I had hoped you had ironed out your differences.”
What was with it with the Manns? “I didn’t run off! I had a fu—” I hastily cleared my throat. “Excuse me, a funeral to go to.”
She sobered. “I’m so sorry, Mark. Someone with whom you were close?”
“No. It was just my old lady.” I stared at her in shock. She’d distracted me by using my first name. That was the only reason why she could have gotten me to admit that.
She was looking saddened. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry.” I put the cup down and leaned forward. “Mrs. Mann, not every mother can be like you. You did a fantastic job raising your son. Quinn loves you very much.”
I rose to my feet. I had to get out of there. I thought I’d had myself under control, but I was saying things I’d never allow under ordinary circumstances.
“Please let me deal with this, ma’am. This is what I do. And if anything happened to you, Quinn would come after whoever let it happen with that Smith and Wesson he favors and blow very big holes in them.”
“Including you, Mark?”
Especially me. My mouth tightened, and I said nothing.
She stood. “Very well. However, if I haven’t heard from either you or Quinton within the next forty-eight hours, I will come after you. Deciphering codes for Project Venona was not all I did before I married Nigel Mann.” She held out her hand. I shook it, but when I would have released it, her fingers continued to grip mine.
Novotny stepped forward, reminding me he’d been in this room the entire time. “He’s WBIS, Portia! How can you trust him?”
