Emma didn’t buy his act. “As always.”
“I’ve picked up a few tidbits. Late antiquity bridges the classical era and the Middle Ages, around the time the proverbial shit hit the fan with the Roman Empire, at least in the west. It lasted from the fourth century to the end of the sixth century. That’s AD, or CE, as we say these days. But you know all this.”
“It’s a fascinating era.”
“I guess so. The party was relatively small, maybe forty people.”
“How did you know about it?”
“I still have contacts in London,” he said. “Getting the invitation to the Sharpe open house stirred me up, I guess. I’d hoped to go out on a high note and I went out on a dead end. That’s the way I looked at it. Anyway, I’m at this London tea party, and no sooner did I help myself to fancy tea than lo and behold, who do I see? Want to guess, Emma?”
“You go ahead, Gordy.”
He grinned at her. “I hope that’s my training you’re putting to use. I ran into an MI5 agent I know, a guy as knowledgeable as anyone in law enforcement and intelligence on the illegal antiquities trade and its connections to terrorism and terrorist funding.”
Emma sat straight. Gordy had her interest now. “Did you speak with this agent?” she asked.
“Sort of. He marched over to me and told me to drink my tea and then pack my bags and head home. I told him I only had one bag. He laughed.”
“Most people appreciate your sense of humor.”
“Yeah, right. More like he humored the old fart who doesn’t know enough to stay home and play golf. He wouldn’t tell me why he was sniffing around at a fancy London party—denied that’s what he was doing.” Gordy settled back on his heels and narrowed his gaze on Emma. “I thought you might know what his interest was.”
“Why would I know?”
“Because your pal Oliver York was there, too.”
And there it is. Emma remained very still. “Keep going.”
“English mythologist. A wealthy loner with a tragic past. He witnessed his parents’ murder at their London apartment when he was eight years old. The killers kidnapped him, but he escaped. They’re still at large thirty years later.” Gordy’s voice wasn’t without compassion. “Awful business.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known York?” Gordy asked.
“Not long. Gordy—”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay. I don’t know anything that wasn’t in the papers. He got mixed up in an investigation into a private security firm this winter. You almost got killed. You already knew him by then, though, didn’t you?”
“Sort of. Keep talking.”
Gordy paused, studying her.
“Is Oliver York working with MI5, Emma?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Instinct. The MI5 guy is a real bastard. If he’s got York by the short hairs for some reason...well, it’s no wonder York is doing MI5’s bidding. But what could British intelligence have on a lonely mythologist?”
Tons, Emma thought, but she didn’t respond to Gordy’s question. Given his experience as a federal agent, he would know she couldn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. For a decade, he had chased a serial thief who’d broken into museums, businesses and private homes in a dozen different cities in Europe and the US, making off with a fortune in artwork. Wendell Sharpe, Emma’s grandfather, had also hunted for the thief, who had especially enjoyed taunting the world-renowned art detective. Last fall, while on an unrelated case, Emma had helped identify the thief as eccentric English mythologist Oliver York. Oliver had never admitted his guilt, and he would never face arrest and prosecution for any of his brazen heists—in part because of lack of evidence, but mainly because he’d agreed to help the United Kingdom’s Security Service, popularly known as MI5.
“I guess I wouldn’t answer that question, either,” Gordy said. “Oliver York’s London apartment—the same one where he witnessed his parents’ murder—is a short distance from Claridge’s. He also owns a farm in the Cotswolds. Again, though, I’m telling you something you already know, since he’s your pal.”
“Oliver isn’t my pal.”
“Is he one of your grandfather’s eccentric pals?”
“You’d have to ask him. Did you speak with Oliver at the party on Sunday?”
“No, I didn’t. He saw me and took off in the opposite direction. Coincidence, maybe.”
Emma doubted it. “What else, Gordy? I can’t get worked up about MI5 and an English mythologist showing up at a high-end London party.”
“Your parents were there.”
Now this was news, Emma thought, containing any reaction. She could see he was gauging her response as the experienced agent he was. As a member of HIT, short for High-Impact Target, she worked on investigations focusing on elusive criminals with virtually unlimited resources. But she had only a little over four years on the job. Gordy, retired just a year, had decades.
“I haven’t talked with them in a few days,” she said.
“We said a quick hello while the MI5 agent was looking daggers at me. They’re living in London now, I understand. It’s temporary?”
“A year. That’s what they say, at least. The idea was that a dramatic change of scenery would help my father with his chronic pain.”
Gordy winced. “Terrible. A simple fall on the ice and his life is changed forever. Your brother had to pick up the reins of the family business sooner than he expected. I hear old Wendell is retiring, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Emma got to her feet. “Gordy, if you’re here because you want me to give you information, you’re wasting your time. I appreciate any information you want to give me, but it’s a one-way street.”
“Yeah. I get it.” He picked up an index card that had fallen onto the floor and set it back on the sofa. “You heard Alessandro Pearson died about two weeks ago? Funeral was a week ago Tuesday. He had a heart attack and fell down the stairs near his apartment. Heart attack is what killed him, though. He was eighty-eight. He had a good run.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, I heard.”
“Old Wendell was at the funeral. I didn’t realize they were friends.”
“He consulted with Alessandro a few times.”
“Archaeologist specializing in ancient mosaics. I thought your grandfather steered clear of antiquities.”
“He does these days. Look, it seems you should be talking to him instead of me.”
“Relax. I’m just curious. I’m at a party celebrating an antiquities show with MI5, this Oliver York character, your parents and a few other people, and everyone’s buzzing about Alessandro Pearson’s death.”
“He was a respected expert in antiquities.”
“Know anything about ancient mosaics stolen recently in London, Emma?”
It was a calculated blurt. Despite his disheveled appearance and obvious fatigue and aches and pains, Gordy had clearly come to this meeting prepared. He watched her closely.
“No,” she said. “What do you know?”
“Not much. I overheard rumors at the tea party. Word is several sixth-century Byzantine Christian mosaics, possibly illegally obtained, were stolen a few weeks ago from an unnamed London collector. I’m no expert on mosaics but I did some quick research. Mosaic art flourished from the time of the ancient Greeks through the fall of the eastern Roman Empire—what we commonly refer to as the Byzantine Empire—in the fifteenth century. Sort of fell out of favor during the Renaissance.” He steadied his gaze on Emma. “Interesting, isn’t it? A mosaic expert dies and these rumors surface.”
“Are you suggesting the FBI should get involved?”
“No.” Gordy rolled his left shoulder, as if to work out a muscle spasm. He breathed, shuddering. “I kinked up on the plane yesterday.”
“Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. You don’t know anything about these stolen ancient mosaics?”
Emma saw no reason not to be straight with him. “I haven’t heard a peep.” She sat down again. She wished she’d had him meet her in the conference room instead of her office. He would be taking in everything, from the way she’d unloaded the files onto the sofa to the tidiness of her desk and her choice of artwork—or lack thereof. “Where are you off to now?”
“No firm plans yet. It’s only Thursday. I don’t have to be in Maine until Saturday. Are you going to be at the open house?”
“I’ll stop in, yes.”
“When do you head up there?”
“Later today.” She didn’t elaborate on her plans. “You have my cell phone number. Let me know if you need anything while you’re in Maine.”
He leaned toward her, his gray eyes serious, his skin more ashen with the light from her desk lamp hitting his face. “Emma, do we have an active investigation involving stolen ancient mosaics? We meaning the Bureau.”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
A bit of color returned to his face. “Figured I’d try. What about your fiancé? Is he going to be at the open house?”
Gordy’s question took Emma by surprise, but she knew it shouldn’t have. He would have checked with his contacts for her latest news, and her engagement definitely fit under that heading. “We’ll see. Do you know him?”
“Of him. Colin Donovan. A rough-and-tough type. Good for you, Emma. Engaged to be married, wedding in a few weeks, member in good standing of an elite FBI unit. Quite a change from your days with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, isn’t it?”
She noted the edge to his voice but made no comment.
“The paths started and abandoned in life,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been a nun before you joined the FBI?”
“It wasn’t a secret. It was just something I didn’t talk about.”
“And you never reported directly to me,” he added, almost knocking over folders stacked on the arm of the sofa. “I only found out a few months ago. I had to hear it through the vine. You think Wendell would have said something. We were in touch when you were in the convent.”
“I doubt it was relevant.”
“I guess. You’ve never riled easily. Those years as a postulant and novice must have helped. It’s true Yank recruited you out of the convent?”
“Yes. I never professed my final vows.”
“Whatever that means. The Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I like that.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “They specialize in art education, preservation and conservation and have a beautiful convent on the Maine coast. Life could be worse.” He eyed her, as if he were trying to picture her as a nun. “Sister Emma.” He wrinkled up his face. “That’s a hard one to wrap my head around. Except Emma wasn’t your name as a nun, was it? Didn’t you have to take another name?”
“I was known as Brigid then.”
“Good Irish Catholic name.”
Emma inhaled deeply. “Anything else?”
He grinned. “I like the impatience. I’d have threatened to throw me out the window by now. Do the good sisters work on restoring ancient mosaics?”
“I don’t know. They primarily work on pieces that can be safely transported to the convent.”
“They don’t fly out to archaeological digs?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Fair enough. Is Oliver York coming to the open house?”
Another blurt designed to throw her off her stride. “As I said, I’m not involved with the open house, up to and including the guest list.”
“But you’d know.”
She got to her feet. She wanted to maneuver Gordy out of the small confines of her office. He was fishing. He wasn’t even trying hard to hide it. She nodded toward the door. “Agent Yankowski’s office is straight ahead if you want to stop in on your way out.”
“That’s okay. Yank knows I’m here. He can poke his head out of his office if he wants to see me. He’s got work to do, and we didn’t part on the best terms. We never saw eye-to-eye on his idea for this team. I’m not convinced I was wrong but results speak for themselves. Water over the dam now. I’m retired. A dinosaur.” There was no self-pity in his tone. “I should get moving. I might go see the penguins at the aquarium, or I might skip the penguins and drive up to Maine in time to take old Wendell out for a pint.”
“I’m sure he’d like that,” Emma said, her tone neutral.
Gordy started past her but stopped abruptly. “I hoped you’d level with me, Emma.”
“That’s a two-way street, Gordy.”
“I always believed there were no secrets between us. I should have known better. You’re a Sharpe, after all.”
“Sorry the fishing expedition didn’t work out for you.”
He laughed. “I had that coming. You’re tougher than you used to be. Maybe you had a little of Sister Brigid left in you when you worked with me. Or is the smart remark your fiancé’s influence?” He winked at her. “I bet you complicate his life.”
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Emma said.
“Another careful answer.” Gordy pointed a finger at her. “That’s good, Emma. Be careful, because your grandfather will burn you if you aren’t. Mark my words.”
“Can you find your own way out?”
“Not a problem.”
“Take care, Gordy. You know how to reach me should you need to.”
“And you know how to reach me.”
She gave a curt nod. “Yes, I do.”
“Good to see you, Special Agent Sharpe.”
* * *
After Gordy left, Emma texted Oliver York and her parents, asking them to get in touch, and then she went into Matt Yankowski’s office. His windows overlooked Boston Harbor, glistening in the morning sun. Yank had her sit on a chair facing his desk and he didn’t interrupt her report on her brief, odd meeting with the retired agent.
When she finished, Yank grimaced. In his midforties, he was a good-looking, straight-arrow, buttoned-down agent out of central casting—except nothing about him was that simple. It was a lesson Emma had learned early in the four-plus years she’d known him. “Do you have anything on these stolen mosaics?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
Yank’s eyes narrowed. “But?”
“It’s entirely possible Alessandro Pearson’s death triggered the rumor mill. Something to do with his estate, maybe. Wild imaginations. I don’t know.”
“Could York and MI5 be creating the rumors to stir the pot?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Right now I wish your brother and grandfather hadn’t put Gordon Wheelock on their guest list. Do you know which one of them had that bright idea, when and why?”
“I don’t.”
“But you’re going to ask,” Yank said.
“I’m heading up to Maine after I’m done here.”
He heaved a sigh. “Did you know about this London party?”
“No.”
“But your parents were there as well as Oliver York. I was afraid his name would come up when I heard Gordy Wheelock had an appointment with you. Does York know Gordy investigated the thefts?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What about Gordy—does he know Oliver’s the serial art thief he and your grandfather chased for years?”
“I don’t think so, but that’s only a guess. Gordy’s certainly suspicious of my relationship with Oliver.”
“He’ll figure it out, then.”
“I would bet on that.”
“Was Oliver at this party because Gordy was, or was it the other way around and Go
rdy was there because of Oliver?”
“I’ve already texted Oliver asking him to get in touch with me.”
“You said please, since he’s a British citizen protected by MI5?”
Emma shrugged, ignoring Yank’s sarcasm. “Whatever it takes.”
Yank looked pained. “I was hoping we were done with him for a while.”
“Same here.”
“Yeah. I ran into Gordy before he left. He invited me outside for a cigarette. Sarcastic SOB. He knows I don’t smoke. I said no. He never approved of HIT. He wrote a letter to the director articulating his disapproval. No love lost between us, but there’s no question he was one of the best.” Yank pushed back his chair and rose. “When I’m done with this job, I’m going quietly. I’ll go for long runs on the Esplanade, take up tai chi and help Lucy run her knitting shop.”
Emma got to her feet. Lucy was Yank’s wife, a psychologist who’d been reluctant to move from their home in northern Virginia. She’d finally agreed to move north and was adapting to Boston life, moving into a Back Bay apartment and opening a knitting shop. She and Yank had no children, and he was convinced she would go back to psychology. Colin was, too, but Emma wasn’t. Lucy Yankowski was getting into yarns, needles, knitting patterns and classes.
“Oliver’s an expert in tai chi,” Emma said finally, with a slight smile.
Yank scowled as he came around his desk. “Do we have a bored retired agent on our hands who’s trying to connect dots that don’t connect because he wants to feel relevant, or is Gordy Wheelock on to something?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“I’m not asking for certainty. I’m asking for your gut take on what he’s up to.”
Emma tended to be analytical and objective, gathering bits and pieces of information and evidence and letting them point her in the right direction. Gut takes were Colin’s strength, given his training, experience and natural instincts, and an asset in his work as an undercover agent.
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