by Tinnean
“You really like it?”
“Are you kidding? When I saw yours in Paris, I was tempted to tell you I couldn’t find it and keep it for my own.”
“I thought you were lusting after it.”
“You’re just lucky I… like you. Otherwise I would have told you it wasn’t there. Oh, fuck, the waffle’s burning!”
I opened the lid and used a fork to get it out. It was a dark brown, too crisp to be eaten. I threw it in the sink that had the garbage disposal and poured more batter into the iron, hoping for better luck the next time.
Behind me, Quinn gasped, and I went still. He had opened his present.
“Mark, I can’t believe this!” He ran his fingers over the carefully crafted display case. In it was an actual 1796 pattern British Light Cavalry saber.
“Its provenance is in the envelope.”
“What?”
“This sword belonged to the last male Sebring in the British line, Captain Charles Sebring. He was killed at the Battle of Badajoz.”
“Badajoz? Of course. The Spanish Campaign! Family legend had it he rode with Wellington!”
“He did.”
“Oh, my!” He took out the envelope and removed the tattered letter that had been written more than a century and a half ago by Charles Sebring’s friend and fellow officer, Danny Weston.
“Yes.” The sword had been in Weston’s family’s possession since the brigade major had been killed in the War of 1812. And that was a story in itself. Maybe I’d save it for Quinn’s birthday.
“Mark, I… I’m speechless! This is a bit of my family’s history…. I can’t thank you enough!”
“You really like it?”
“Mark.” His look asked if I’d lost my mind, but that didn’t matter. He liked it; he really liked it.
XVI
HE INSISTED on bringing the sword with us. “I have to show this to Mother and Uncle Jeff. We knew that the British branch of the family had died out; Charlie died a bachelor, and his younger brother was killed in a hunting accident before he could get his bride pregnant. To have something that has such history attached to it….”
Well, I couldn’t object. I had loaded the Llama Mini-max and strapped it on. I didn’t know how Quinn was able to get the holster made to my specifications, but he was a clever spook. It fit perfectly, and I liked its weight against my ankle. I slipped a spare clip into my trouser pocket.
A man could never be too careful.
But thank God he didn’t even suggest bringing what had been in the big box. It was an English saddle. As far as I was concerned, it was just a saddle, but Quinn was very pleased with it.
Still, he liked the sword I’d given him better.
This time I carried the presents and the dessert and put them into the trunk. Quinn was too involved petting the case his sword was in.
“C’mon, Quinn. Put it in the trunk, would you?”
He sighed and did so, then went back to set the alarm and lock the door. He brushed snow off his hair as he walked back to me. The rain had changed to snow around midday.
“We’re going to have a white Christmas!”
“Looks like it.” I hated to rain on Quinn’s parade, but the dusting we were getting was nothing compared to what we’d get in Massachusetts.
“All set.” He got in the car and buckled up, and I backed out of his driveway. “It’s a good thing I dropped off my gifts at Mother’s last week.” He turned on the radio and found a station that was playing Christmas music. A song about being home for Christmas came on. “There never would have been room in your trunk.”
“You insulting my car, Mann?” I put it in gear and started driving. “That tin can you’ve been driving can barely hold the two of us.”
“You won’t be able to say that about my new car.”
“Trust you CIA spooks to need something with all those bells and whistles.” I’d been with him when he ordered it, and it would be another four weeks before it was delivered.
“Jealous? This heap of yours is at least two years old.”
“This ‘heap,’ as you call my vehicle, gets me where I need to go. Now shut up. I have to concentrate on my driving. You know all the nuts take to the road on holidays.” Plus the snow, as light as it was, would cause havoc.
“Yes, Mark.” He gave me that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth smile and then began humming to the music on the radio. After another ten minutes he said, “Ah. We’re here.”
I put on the turn signal and entered the parking lot of Arlington National Cemetery.
Mrs. Mann arrived shortly after we did. Jefferson Sebring got out of his cream-colored Mercedes, opened the passenger door, and helped her from the backseat.
It had stopped snowing, so I didn’t bother asking Quinn if he wanted to take an umbrella for her. She was wearing a Russian sable coat that, according to Quinn, had been left to her by her mother after she had passed away.
The lynx coat, which had been Nigel Mann’s gift to her on their honeymoon, had been another casualty of the night of her “accident.” I’d seen her face when she realized how damaged the coat was. She’d blinked rapidly, firmed her mouth, and turned her head away, but not before I saw the single tear that fell.
Quinn wanted it repaired, and he wasn’t surprised when I told him I knew someone who could do it.
It had been costly, but the results were worth it. The coat looked brand new. And it was Quinn’s Christmas present to her.
I noticed the bunch of violets pinned to the shawl collar of the Russian sable, and I raised an eyebrow. I knew of only one person who gave her violets.
She saw, brought the flowers to her face, and gave a slight, wistful smile, then took Sebring’s right arm and Quinn’s left, and they walked the path that would lead to her husband’s grave.
In spite of the fact that she needed a little help maintaining her balance, her posture was as erect as ever.
Amazing woman.
A plain granite headstone marked Nigel Mann’s gravesite. It was engraved with his name, his rank in the Army, and the dates of his birth and death.
Mrs. Mann released her brother’s arm, and Sebring stepped back to join Ludovic Rivenhall and me.
I could hear her soft tones and Quinn’s deeper ones, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. She clung to her son’s hand.
“They’re bringing Nigel up to date on what they’ve done this year. They’ve done that every year since his death,” Rivenhall murmured.
I wondered if Quinn would tell his father about us.
Sebring examined me carefully.
“Vincent.”
“Sebring.”
“We haven’t met before.”
“No.”
“I’ve heard about you, though.”
“Can’t believe everything you hear.” I gave him a grin.
“Especially if you hear it from Jonathan Drum II? I was acquainted with his father. He was a good man.” He shook his head and changed the subject. Or maybe he got to the subject he’d intended to discuss all along. “I’ve wanted to have a word with you for some time.” He waited for me to say something, and when I didn’t, he continued. “Thank you for what you did.”
I wasn’t expecting that. I’d thought, if anything, he’d been about to warn me off his nephew.
I cleared my throat. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re WBIS, Vincent,” he said dryly. “Of course you’ve done something.”
“Oh, you mean getting Quinn back from Paris when the CIA wouldn’t? Hey—”
“Don’t say it was nothing, because I’ll have you know that it was something, especially to this family.”
That wasn’t what I’d been about to say, but he was on a roll, so I kept my mouth shut.
“However, that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“Oh?” I waited to hear what else he had to say.
“I was referring to what you did for my sister after the… accident. When Bryan and Tony come to town for the Ne
w Year, they’ll want to thank you also.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.” I wasn’t going to admit to anything. I’d promised Mrs. Mann that I wouldn’t get caught, and I hadn’t. The scandal that had erupted around Senator Wexler, forcing him into retirement, had been uncovered by someone with no discernible ties to the WBIS. “Thanking me for something I haven’t done is useless, don’t you think?”
Rivenhall nudged his partner with his shoulder. It might have been a secret outside the family, but I’d had little trouble learning that the two men had been together for years. They were practically an old married couple.
The corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “Let it go, Jefferson.” His accent was faintly British. “It’s obvious you’re going to get nothing from him.”
“Jefferson.” Mrs. Mann and Quinn were slowly coming toward us. “We’re ready to leave now.”
Sebring hurried to his sister’s side and let her take his arm.
XVII
QUINN was quiet on the drive to Great Falls. He found a classical station on the car radio—I didn’t even know the Dodge could pick up stations like that—stretched out his legs, and crossed his ankles. A quick glance at his face showed me an unreadable expression.
“Quinn?”
“Not now, Mark. If you don’t mind?”
Well, yeah, I minded like hell, but I decided I’d let him brood. An additional Christmas present. Later I’d get what was bothering him out of him.
We pulled up in front of his mother’s Tudor home and parked behind his uncle’s Mercedes. Novotny came hurrying out to help Mrs. Mann into the house.
“Really, you’d think I was a toddler just learning to walk!”
“Listen, Breezy, behave or Santa will take back all your gifts.” Her brother was on her other side.
“Very well, I’ll let you help me, but not because of your threat. Santa knows I’ve been very good, unlike some I could name.”
They continued their banter up the walk, but when they came to the shallow steps, Novotny scooped her up and carried her into the house. Mrs. Mann didn’t say a word of protest.
Quinn gave me a look that I had no trouble interpreting: he wanted me to stay behind. “Ludo, would you mind giving us a hand with these?”
“Love to, dear boy.”
We stacked Sebring’s gift, as well as Novotny’s, in Rivenhall’s arms.
“Be careful of the dessert!” I warned him as I placed it on top.
“Of course. I’m sure you can manage those two.”
Once Rivenhall had started toward the house, “Damn Wexler!” Quinn said in a low, strained voice. “God damn his soul to eternal hell for what he’s done to my mother!”
“You don’t think his public humiliation was enough? His wife is going to be in a sanitarium for a lot of years, his aide”—now sadly deceased—“not only had a shitload of kiddie porn on his computer but was also selling highly confidential, top-secret information to a foreign power, and what’s most important to the senator, he no longer has the access to power that he’s always craved.”
“No.” Quinn looked into my eyes. “I thought it would be enough, but seeing Mother like this, needing a cane to get from one point to another, no matter how short the distance, unable to ride, unable to dance, unable to climb a fucking set of stairs….” His expression was clearly readable now, colder than I’d ever seen it. Yeah, this was the Ice Man with a vengeance. “No, it’s not nearly enough.”
“What about the civil suit?” I’d been following it, but he didn’t have to know that.
“My lawyers say it’s worse than useless. I’ve instructed them to press forward, if only to waste Wexler’s time and money.”
“It’s gonna cost you.”
“Fuck the cost!”
His reaction didn’t surprise me. “The outcome?”
“The judge will throw the case out eventually. Wexler knows that. He doesn’t even show up in court.”
“Okay.” I rested my hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Wexler thinks the worst has happened to him. He’s going to learn differently.”
Something like this shouldn’t be delegated. I’d take care of it myself. I thought about my conversation with Max. After the New Year, I’d pay a visit to former Senator Wexler’s fair state and look him up.
“Mark, I want to be there.”
“I work alone, baby.”
“I want to be there.” His mouth had a stubborn set to it.
“Listen, Mann—”
“No, you listen, Vincent. She’s. My. Mother. She was in my car. That should have been me in that hospital bed.”
And it would have.
If Wexler hadn’t become so obvious in his pursuit of Portia Mann that his wife couldn’t help but be aware of it, if Mrs. Wexler hadn’t had the tires of Mrs. Mann’s Town Car slashed, if Quinn hadn’t given his mother his car because he knew I’d driven my own and would give him a lift home….
So many ifs.
“Okay, Quinn. But I give the orders. And if you don’t follow them to the letter—To. The. Letter—I won’t have any qualms about decking you and handling it on my own. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Now take your sword and Rivenhall’s present. I’ll get my gift to your mother, and we can go in.”
Novotny met us at the door.
“Want to search me, Novotny?”
“Don’t tempt me.” He gave me a hard stare. “Let me take your coats. You can put the presents in the morning room and then go wash your hands. Dinner is ready.”
XVIII
THE day had ended and we were driving home, to my condo. We’d decided to spend the night there, and I’d drive Quinn home in the morning.
“Did you have a good time, Mark?” He was drawing idle patterns on my thigh. I shifted a bit and spread my legs and just smiled at him.
It was the best Christmas I’d ever had.
I turned my attention back to the road. “They were impressed with the Llama Mini-max, weren’t they?” I’d casually put my feet up on an ottoman and my trouser leg had ridden up, revealing the subcompact.
“Yes, Uncle Jeff was put out that Ludo hadn’t given him something like it in their time together.”
I laughed softly. It had been amusing to see someone his age being almost cranky.
“He and Ludo were pleased you liked the watch.”
“Yeah. It’s a beauty.” We were idling at a light, and I shot my left cuff to reveal the watch in the light of the dash. Not only did it tell time, but it also had a built-in CPU storage hard drive and a built-in USB cable to transfer files. It was compatible with Windows, Linux, and Mac. Most of these babies had 32MB of memory. This one had a gig.
The light changed, and we drove on.
“Mother loved the portrait. I thought she was going to cry.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know. Mother, Father, and I, the three of us together. How did you manage it?”
The portrait had been done in oils. Quinn’s mother was seated in a Queen Anne chair, one hand on her knee, her legs neatly folded to the side and crossed at the ankle. Quinn stood beside her. His hand was on her right shoulder, and her left hand rested on his. Nigel Mann was behind them, and his hand covered both his wife’s and his son’s.
It had taken a bit of looking to find a snapshot of his father that was perfect for the pose I’d wanted. “I had a formal photograph of you and Portia.”
I’d called her “ma’am” one time too many during dinner, and she’d paused in the act of raising her wine glass to her lips. “Mark, I think you had better call me ‘Portia’.”
I’d opened my mouth to say something, and she’d stared at me, so I conceded the field to her. “Yes, Portia.”
“I knew someone who would do it justice.” He was quite talented, and most important, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“It was the perfect gift. They all were. My sword….” There’d been quite a stir
over it, and I’d grown uncomfortable with their gratitude for finding a piece of Sebring history. “Mother’s portrait, Gregor’s socks….”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, giving a snort of laughter, “I could really see how he enjoyed them.”
“Come on, Mark. You saw his face.”
I had. I thought his eyes were going to bug out of his head. My gift to him had been a pair of thick-soled white sweat socks with red lettering. One said, Big Bad Gregor’s Sock, and the other said, Big Bad Gregor’s Other Sock.
“He was pleased with the socks.”
“As much as I was pleased with the s’mores mug he gave me?” The mug was made to look like a gigantic marshmallow with chocolate chips for eyes and a graham cracker for a nose. I took my eyes from the road for a second. “I don’t drink hot chocolate, Quinn.”
“Don’t be so literal; you can drink coffee from it.”
“Y’know what, baby? I’ll save it for you to use when you stay over.”
“Now, now. You know Gregor wanted that mug for you.” He laughed. I liked hearing him laugh. I smiled myself, then cleared my throat.
“Your uncle and Rivenhall seemed to like their gifts.” I’d been a little busy and hadn’t had time to do much research.
“Trust me, Mark; they did like them. That gift basket with all those English delicacies—Ludo’s been in this country more than twenty years, and he’s often bemoaned the lack of British… um… goodies.” There was a grin in his voice.
I’d gone on the ’Net and found a place that ordered directly from the UK and would put together a basket of jams and marmalades, custards, treacle, Marmite, digestive biscuits, Cadbury Curly Wurlies and White, not forgetting Cadbury Chocolate, Buttons, and teas of every variety, even that Earl Grey that Portia was so fond of. It was a good choice; Rivenhall favored it also.
“And Uncle Jeff… That scale model kit of the USS Constitution was a great idea. The brass and pewter fittings, the rigging, the battle flag from 1812 with fifteen stars and fifteen stripes—I’m not going to ask how you knew he’s always had a thing for that ship.”
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down…. “Lucky guess, baby.”
