by Tinnean
“Quinton’s missing, and the CIA is sitting on its collective asses and doing nothing.”
“Goddammit!”
“My thoughts precisely.” I dialed the number for Shadow Brook and put it on speaker. “Ludovic, it’s Portia. Is Jefferson there?”
A few seconds later, my brother came on the line. “Portia, how are you?”
“I’ve been better, Jefferson. I need a favor.”
Although he had been retired from a desk job at the Company for almost ten years, he still kept in touch with former field officers. He listened intently as I repeated what DCI Holmes had told me.
“Holmes is an idiot. This wouldn’t have happened if Bryan hadn’t been put into the position of having to resign. Useless administration. All right, listen, I know of a good man, Benjamin Monroe. He was Black Ops before he came to the Company. He’s freelance now. I’ll see if he’s available. Where are you?”
“In the car. We’re on our way back to Great Falls. Gregor?” He rattled off the mile marker. “Did you hear that, Jefferson?”
“Got it. Okay, Gregor, don’t speed. Portia, I should have this firmed up by the time you get home. Monroe will find Quinn for you, I promise.”
“Jefferson…if I lose my son…” I drew in a breath, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. “I will cause such a scandal the CIA will never recover!”
“No, Portia. We’ll cause a scandal.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what family is for.”
* * * *
I met with Benjamin Monroe later that evening. He was a big, dark-skinned man, probably about six feet-six inches and weighing at least two-hundred-twenty-five pounds, all of it solid muscle. He was gentle when he took my hand to shake it, almost as if he were afraid he might crush it.
He seemed like a good man, competent in his field.
I was not, however, overjoyed to hear it would take a number of days, possibly even a week, for him to locate my son.
“My contacts are good, Mrs. Mann, but you have to understand it’s just going to take a little time.”
“Do you also understand they’ve had him for at least twelve days now?” I couldn’t voice my greatest fear—that if he weren’t already dead, in another seven days he could well be.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I didn’t bother telling him not to call me “ma’am.” “I’m going with you.”
“I assure you that isn’t necessary.”
“Do you want a demonstration of my ability to shoot a gun?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Sebring told me how good you are.”
“Then I go with you.”
He turned to Gregor. “Novotny…”
“Don’t look at me.” Gregor shrugged. “I’m going too.”
Monroe ran a hand over his shaved scalp, finally giving in. “Okay. I’ll get in touch with some people I know, and get back to you.”
“ASAP, Mr. Monroe.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He left, and I turned to Gregor.
“We’re going to the firing range.”
“Okay.”
* * * *
We’d just returned from the range when Mark Vincent called, requesting to see me; I agreed.
“Not a good idea, Portia!” Gregor insisted.
“I think it is. I doubt he knows that Quinton is missing, but he might have some idea of what’s going on in Europe.”
“Okay, but I’m going to frisk that son of a—” He coughed and blushed. “Sorry.”
“Gregor, this is hardly the time to worry about your language.”
“Right. I’m still going to frisk him to within an inch of his life.”
“Very well.” Whatever made him happy. I was aware of the pistol under his arm, and that he would have no qualms using it. Of course, if he did, I’d have to make sure the body wasn’t discovered. Shadow Brook was a decent-sized property. We could bury it in the Christmas tree plantation; it would never be found.
I went upstairs, changed into a simple black dress, and wound the black pearls Nigel had given me for our last anniversary around my neck.
Once again Mark Vincent came into my home, and I joined him in the room where “Harriman Patterson” had first interviewed me.
“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?”
“Your son is missing.”
I’d been about to sit down, but that brought me up short. “I beg your pardon?”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re planning on traveling to Europe to find him.”
“Why am I not surprised you’re aware of my plans?”
“I’m the best, ma’am. Let me get right down to brass tacks. 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.”
“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. Please prepare tea. We’ll have it in here. You’ll have it with us.”
“Por-Mrs. Mann—”
“Please.” I waited until he left the room. Then I asked, “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?”
“Of course,” he said, as if how could it be anything else?
“I don’t believe that for one moment, Mr. Vincent.” His brows met in a Vee above his nose, but I continued before he could respond. “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.”
“Not a chance, ma’am.” And he grinned. I’d heard tales of that particular expression, and I wasn’t surprised it caused people to back away. However, having read some of his background information, I merely tilted my head and met his eyes. The grin vanished, and he scowled, but he still refused to answer me.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re a very obstinate man. In that you’re a good deal like Quinton.”
“Quinn? You’re kidding! He’s a—” He coughed. “What I was going to say is he’s got too much class.” He must have felt he’d said more than he’d intended, because he continued, “But…uh…you know him better than I do.”
“Who knows who better?” Gregor asked as he wheeled in the tea trolley.
“We were discussing Quinton’s temperament. Mark thinks he’s too much a gentleman to be obstinate.”
“Quinn? Jesus—sorry…uh…Mrs. Mann. Do you remember when he was eight and Nige—Mr. Mann objected to the horse you wanted to give Quinn for his birthday?” Gregor helped himself to a sandwich and a cup of tea, and stood to the side where he could keep a close eye on Vincent.
“Yes. Quinton dug in his heels until Nigel finally agreed to watch him ride Jack Be Nimble.” I remembered how terrified my husband had been. “He’s so little, and that horse is so big!” But Quinton had taken Jack over the jumps very handily, and Nigel had acquiesced.
Biting back a small smile, I indicated the two tea pots. “Earl Grey, Mark? Or perhaps you’d care for Darjeeling?”
“Earl Grey, please.” He sounded disgruntled. Better the devil he knew?
I poured and handed him the cup, amused to see the delicate china almost engulfed in his big hand.
“Thank you, ma’am. With a little milk, please?”
The last time he’d been here, he’d taken it plain. “Did Quinton tell you that’s the way he likes to take Earl Grey?”
He gave me an easy smile. “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?”
“Come, come, Mr. Vincent. I am quite aware that you have been living in Quinton’s townhouse for some time now.”
“You’re under a misapprehension, ma’am. I have my own apartment.”
I wanted to smack him. “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!”
He’d taken a sip of tea, but now he started to cough, and it spewed out of his mouth. I offered him a napkin, and he blotted the moisture from his mouth and hand.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mann. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Quinton was not pleased when you ran off to Cape Cod in March.” As a matter of fact, I couldn’t recall seeing him quite so troubled. “I’d hoped you had ironed out your differences.”
“I didn’t run off! I had a fu—” His face turned red as he endeavored to hold back the word. “Excuse me, a funeral to go to.”
I found it interesting that Mark Vincent, in spite of being the man he was, also tried to shield my ears from profane language. “I’m so sorry, Mark. Someone with whom you were close?”
“No. It was just my old lady.” He said it so casually that I had the impression they had been estranged for a long time.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I repeated.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. Mrs. Mann, not every mother can be like you. You did a fantastic job raising your son. Quinn loves you very much.” He scowled once again and put down his cup and saucer before surging to his feet. “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 & Wesson he favors and blow very big holes in them.”
“Including you, Mark?” I could tell from the look in his eyes that he would expect nothing less. I rose as well. “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 the Venona Project was not all I did before I married Nigel Mann.”
I extended my hand, and he took it, but when he would have released it, I refused to let him go.
“He’s WBIS, Portia!” Gregor was upset. “How can you trust him?”
“In this case, I think there’s no question of me not trusting him.” Certain I’d gotten my point across to the man standing before me, I let his hand go. “Please sit and finish your tea.”
He sat and tried one of the sandwiches. “You made this, Novotny? It’s good!”
“I should have put arsenic in it!”
Mark curled his lip at Gregor, and I raised my cup, using the action to conceal my amusement. After I’d taken a sip, however, I said, “I have one request, Mark.”
“Other than that I find your son, ma’am?”
“Yes.” I was willing to make a bargain with the devil if it would see my son returned safely and in one piece, but oddly enough, I trusted him to do as he vowed. “Stop calling me ‘ma’am’!”
* * * *
I contacted Monroe and told him I wanted him to stand down for the time being.
“Ma’am—”
“I’ll let you know within the next two days if the trip to Europe is going to be necessary.”
“We’re wasting time!”
“Have you made any headway in discovering where my son is?”
“Well…no.”
“All right. Continue looking for the location of Prinzip. Meanwhile, I’m taking responsibility for this, Mr. Monroe. I’ll be in touch.”
Within three hours, Jefferson and Ludovic arrived, and I gazed at Gregor reproachfully.
“He’s Vincent, Portia! He’s WBIS! And the surveillance tape was blanked again!”
“Are you out of your mind, Portia? Gregor is right. The man is dangerous!” Jefferson paused in his tirade to kiss my cheek. “Bryan and Tony will be here as soon as they can get a flight out of LAX.”
“What can I do to help?” Ludovic murmured as he also kissed me.
“Nothing, I’m not out of my mind, and there really isn’t any need for them to fly out here.”
“Of course there is. Quinn is our only nephew—”
“And may I remind you who it was who encouraged him to join the CIA?”
That made Jefferson uncomfortable, and he actually fidgeted for a moment before rallying. “But to get Mark Vincent involved—”
“I did not get him involved, Jefferson. He did that entirely on his own.”
“And you’re going to let him try to find Quinn?”
“I don’t think it’s a matter of letting him.” And I prayed to God it wouldn’t be a matter of “trying.”
“Monroe would have done the job.”
“Benjamin Monroe told me it could take as much as a week. Mark Vincent promised me forty-eight hours at most. Not to take anything away from your man, Jefferson, but Quinton doesn’t need good, he needs the best.”
“Okay, fine. But I’m telling Ben to stay on standby, and if you haven’t heard anything from Vincent by tomorrow, we’re going in to get Quinn out ourselves!”
“Jefferson, I’m not in my dotage. I already told Mr. Monroe that.”
He kicked the leg of a table, and I sighed.
* * * *
Chapter 32
Five hours later, Tony and Bryan put in an appearance as well.
“You really didn’t have to interrupt your honeymoon, Tony.”
He cleared his throat. “Family always comes first.”
But Cara Mia was his family now. I let the subject drop.
“Gregor, why don’t you put together something light?” I suggested. “Whoever wants to eat can help himself.”
This was a repetition of the time Jefferson had been missing, but because it was my son, it felt even worse.
I didn’t sleep—how could I, knowing that in spite of Mark Vincent’s easy confidence, Quinton could well be dying? Instead, I made a long-distance phone call to a Surrey address, only to learn that Folana was out of the country, so I left her a message. Then I made sure I was packed, in case we did have to leave, and repeatedly paced the length of Nigel’s study.
* * * *
Within twenty-four hours I received a phone call from Quinton, and my knees threatened to buckle beneath me from the relief.
“I promise you I’m fine, Mother. I should be home tomorrow.”
“I’m so very glad to hear that, Quinton.” I wondered how much I could believe those words, and he must have heard that in my voice.
“Truly, I’m just a little tired. I’m so sorry you had to worry.” No doubt he remembered that weekend in 1980, when we’d waited to hear Jefferson’s fate. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I’ll see you for our ride on Sunday.”
“Certainly. And perhaps you can persuade your friend to join us?” I wanted to express my gratitude to Mark Vincent in person.
“Uh…” He sounded a little nonplussed. Oh, dear. They hadn’t broken up again, had they? But of course I couldn’t ask him over an unsecured line.
“Get some rest.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too. Good-bye.”
Making sure all signs of tears were gone, I went to find my family.
Tony looked up sharply, and then something in his bearing relaxed. “Quinton’s all right?”
I nodded. “He’s all right. He’ll be home within another twenty-four hours.”
“Y’see? I knew it!”
“Yes, Gregor.”
“And he didn’t really need Vincent to get him out of it, did he?”
“Quinton couldn’t go into details, but…within the timeframe Mark set, Quinton has been freed. So. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to make some coffee.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Tony said. “We’ll come give you a h
and.”
I knew Gregor and my brothers. What they were actually going to do was find some privacy to swear.
I went up to my bedroom, and after placing another long-distance phone call—and again I had to leave a message—I did a little swearing of my own before I lay down and slept for twenty hours.
* * * *
I woke to all hell breaking loose in my home. I belted on the long, blue silk robe Alyona had had made for me for my last birthday and went down to the kitchen.
Bryan noticed me standing in the doorway, and he got a cup, filled it with coffee, and handed it to me. “Sorry we woke you.”
“Thank you.” I added cream and sugar and took a cautious sip. “What’s going on?”
“Vincent called,” Gregor snarled.
My heart clenched. “What’s wrong?”
“Apparently Quinn was more battered than he let on. Vincent said he’s keeping him in Paris for another twenty-four hours.” Tony refilled his coffee cup.
“Yeah, well, I say we fly to Paris, just to make sure Vincent isn’t keeping him there under duress.”
“Gregor, why would he do that?”
“How the hell should I know? He’s Vincent! He does whatever the hell he wants!”
I patted Gregor’s shoulder, amused not only by his language, but also by the fact that no one called him on it. “By the time we got a flight out and reached Paris, Quinton would be ready to come home. I know you have his best interests at heart, but it would be a waste of time and resources. Now, if you’ve got nothing better to do, go visit Langley and harass Holmes. I’m going back to bed.”
* * * *
Chapter 33
Mark called on the thirty-first. “I’m bringing Quinn home. Air France.” He gave me the flight number. “Scheduled arrival at Dulles is at three. Make sure you check that it’s on time.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
“Okay. I gotta go. Quinn’s trying to shave, and all I could find was a straight razor. If I don’t keep an eye on him, he’ll wind up cutting his throat.”
“I heard that!” my son’s voice called in the background.
“Aren’t you supposed to be shaving? Get it in gear, Mann, or you’re walking home. Bye, ma’am.”
I hung up, smiling and shaking my head.