“Head injuries can be dangerous, Mr. Hambly. If you lost consciousness—”
“I’ll check with my doctor. Thank you again.”
Naomi had no more desire to deal with the authorities than he did. Once she gave them her name, her situation could unravel fast from there. She wouldn’t even have to mention the FBI agent who had joined her for breakfast a twenty-minute walk away. Then if Kavanagh found out what she had been up to that morning...
An elderly farmworker arrived, identifying himself merely as Johnny as he took over Martin Hambly’s care.
Relieved and reassured, Naomi left them and headed to the track, turning back toward the village. She had resisted glancing at the locked door inside the dovecote, but she didn’t want to make too much of it. Oliver York was a wealthy man. If he was in fact an art thief, he had plenty of places to conceal his misdeeds.
* * *
Naomi wasted no time on enjoying the bucolic scenery on her walk back to the pub. She ducked through the courtyard—not a chicken in sight now—into her room. Her wet, muddy pants and socks were definitely not appropriate for Heathrow. She peeled them off and dumped the pants and socks in the trash. She didn’t have time to rinse them off and find a plastic bag to stuff them in for her flight. She cleaned the mud splatters off her jacket and boots as best she could. She had planned to wear her jacket on the plane but decided to pack it instead. She didn’t want to risk anything interfering with her getting home to Nashville tonight.
She wished she had time for another shower but washed up at the sink, making sure there wasn’t so much as a speck of mud on her. She didn’t know if the dovecote counted as being on a farm—a definite red flag at customs—but better safe than having to explain.
Did Hambly really not remember what had happened to him? Should she have rung the police?
Her reaction had been normal, nothing any other tourist out for a walk wouldn’t have done. Probably countless people had a peek at the dovecote. Nothing provocative in doing that, and, in any case, the injured Hambly might think she’d ventured off the public track because she’d heard him.
Her new clothes weren’t as comfortable as the ones heaped in the trash, but they would do. She zipped up her suitcase, scanned the room for anything she might have missed and headed out, shutting the door behind her.
She debated mentioning her encounter at the York farm at checkout but only for a fleeting moment. It was madness, really, to say a word about it.
She was fast coming to regret her detour to the Cotswolds.
When she emerged from the pub and saw Reed Cooper leaning against the hood of a sleek, dove-gray car, there was no question anymore. Kavanagh, Hambly and now Cooper?
She should have stayed in London.
“Hello, Naomi,” Reed said, his middle Tennessee accent not as pronounced as hers. “I’m your ride to Heathrow.”
“You canceled my car?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
That was Reed. “You’re presumptuous,” she said.
He stood straight, wearing an expensive suit with no overcoat despite the cool temperature. “Hop in or you’ll miss your flight.”
He went around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Naomi eased past him. He took her suitcase, and she slid into the car. What other choice did she have? The bus? Hitchhiking?
Reed shoved the suitcase into the backseat. She watched him circle around to the driver’s side. She had bonded with him in Afghanistan because they were both Tennesseans and Vanderbilt graduates. He was from a prominent old-money Nashville family who had expected him to go into business, and she was from a small town east of Nashville, the older daughter of an army reservist killed in Iraq her freshman year in college and a seamstress who had loved and hated him and still missed him terribly. Reed was seven years older than Naomi—he had graduated by the time she stepped onto the beautiful Vanderbilt campus, dreaming of a life very different from the one she was leading.
She wondered what Reed’s hopes and dreams had been as a college freshman, but she had never asked. He had risen to captain in the army and now was launching his own small team of private operators to provide security for people like her volunteer medical professionals.
On paper, maybe, she and Reed should have been romantically involved, but they never had been—despite Mike Donovan’s suspicions. Mike wasn’t jealous and possessive. To the contrary. He’d just drawn the same erroneous conclusions about her and Reed that others had.
She needed to put that out of her mind.
“You’re still presumptuous,” she told Reed.
“You left a trail.”
“I haven’t been trying to cover my tracks.”
“That’s good. Relax, Naomi. I’m saving you money.”
“You’re not here to save me money.”
“That’s true.” Reed leveled his gray eyes on her. “We need to talk.”
“About what? English chickens?”
He didn’t look amused. “About your plans for the weekend.”
“Barbecue and bourbon at my favorite Nashville bar. Beyond that, I don’t know yet. It’s been a busy couple weeks.”
“How would you like to come to Maine?”
She wasn’t as taken aback as she could have been. “Maine is Donovan country,” she said, as if he didn’t know.
Reed smiled now. “So it is,” he said, starting the car.
6
Washington, DC
Thursday, 8:00 a.m., EST
Colin Donovan hated meetings, but a meeting at FBI headquarters first thing in the morning with his immediate boss and the director was its own special hell. He knew Matt Yankowski well, but he was just getting to know Mina Van Buren, newly confirmed and not necessarily a fan. Van Buren and Yank had a history. Not a good one, from what Colin had been able to gather.
He was in a suit—his Washington suit, he called it. Dark gray wool, white shirt, red tie. The small meeting room was devoid of anything that would remind him he was in Washington. He could have been anywhere, except for the company he was keeping. He sat between Yank at one end of the table and Van Buren at the other. They both had just gotten in and looked cold, although by Colin’s standards, it was a mild morning.
Last night’s call from Emma and this morning’s call from Mike were on his mind. His fiancée and his older brother. FBI agent. Former Special Forces soldier. Emma had an art thief worried about an unauthorized FBI tail in London. Mike had guys he knew in the military coming in from London.
It didn’t help that Oliver York was inviting Finian Bracken, Colin’s Irish priest friend, out to the Cotswolds.
What the hell was Finian doing in England, anyway?
Not calls Colin had needed before talking about a deep-cover mission with his superiors.
He grinned at the two of them. “Washington’s supposed to get a couple inches of snow this weekend. Would you like some tips on snowshoeing?”
“I don’t want to know how to snowshoe,” Yank said, with barely a trace of a smile.
“I already know how, but I don’t like cold weather,” Van Buren said. “I tolerate snow only when I have no other choice.”
Yank looked like central casting’s stereotypical pick for a senior FBI agent—tall, gray-streaked dark hair, handsome, born in a well-pressed coat and tie. He had flown down to Washington yesterday and was staying at his house in the Virginia suburbs, now, finally, up for sale.
Van Buren looked like Judy Dench, if a younger version. She was in her late fifties, a former federal prosecutor who made no secret she had differences with her predecessor as FBI director. So far, she wasn’t shutting down HIT, Yank’s special unit, and she wasn’t relegating Colin to former undercover agent. From what he had seen so far, she was an efficient, no-nonsense type who did what she had to do to get the job done, whether it was testifying before Congress or hauling him and Yank to Washington to discuss a possible future undercover mission.
“Snowshoeing,” Van
Buren added, shaking her head. “I discovered a number of surprises when I came on board here. You’re one of them, Agent Donovan. I expected surprises. I didn’t expect you.”
“Agent Donovan was necessary,” Yank said.
Colin sat forward. “Was? You planning to feed me to the seagulls?”
Another thin smile from Yank. Van Buren snorted. “It’s too damn cold to feed you to the seagulls.”
“Pretty, though, isn’t it? The Washington skyline outlined against the clear blue sky. The cold sharpens things.”
Van Buren eyed him as if trying to decide if he was being serious or sarcastic.
Yank opened a folder on the table in front of him. “Donovan’s a wiseass, but he’s one of the best deep-cover agents you have.”
“Perhaps the cold also sharpens people’s sense of humor.” Van Buren settled back in her chair, as if she were about to take a nap, but her eyes were intense, focused on Colin. “How are your wedding plans coming along, Agent Donovan?”
Her question caught him by surprise, but he kept any reaction under wraps. Look scared, nervous, irritated or eager beaver, and these two would eat him alive. “Fine.”
“Have you settled on a date?”
“First Saturday in June.”
“A lovely time to get married. Agent Yankowski mentioned that the ceremony will be at the convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I understand they have beautiful gardens. The foundress, Mother Linden, was friends with Agent Sharpe’s grandfather.”
“So I’m told,” Colin said. He didn’t like the direction of this conversation.
“And your Irish priest friend is performing the ceremony? Father Bracken?”
Van Buren was asking him questions to which she already knew the answers, but Colin decided not to point that out to her. Being an experienced prosecutor, she would know exactly what she was doing. “That’s the plan,” he said.
“How nice. The priest he’s replacing for a year will return in June, won’t he?”
“Father Callaghan. Also the plan.”
“Presumably Father Bracken will return to Ireland once Father Callaghan resumes his post.” Van Buren sounded hopeful. “The whiskey distillery he owns with his twin brother, Declan, is doing well. My husband and I tried a Bracken whiskey over the holidays. Excellent.”
“Fin would be pleased to know you liked it.”
“He’s your family’s priest,” Van Buren said. “That means he’s your priest, too.”
“He’s my friend,” Colin said.
“Have you confided in him?”
“Confided what?”
“Anything.”
“I’ve been burdened by this time in sixth grade—”
Van Buren waved a hand. “I withdraw the question.”
“Why are we talking about Father Bracken?” Colin asked.
“Small talk.” She smiled. “I’ve never been good at it.”
It wasn’t small talk but Colin didn’t argue.
The FBI director folded her hands on top of the folder open in front of her. “An independent thinker is critical for undercover work, in my judgment, but it can have its downside. You don’t really know for sure how you will react until you’re under, do you? On a real assignment, with real people who would harm you. It can take a toll. That’s why we have rules—rules the independent-minded can sometimes chafe at in their desire to do the work.”
She waited but Colin didn’t fill the silence with commentary. What was there to say? He had done difficult assignments in the past four years. He’d come out alive. He hadn’t compromised investigations or prosecutions. The bad guys were in prison or on the way there.
Van Buren unfolded her hands and sat back in her chair, her gaze on him. “I’m told you’re the best, and I’ve read your file.”
But she hadn’t seen him in action, Colin thought. She didn’t know if the file was padded—if she could trust her predecessor’s last days at the desk she now occupied. Colin trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him if Mina Van Buren wasn’t sure about Yank, she sure as hell wasn’t sure about him.
“Your life is more complicated than it used to be, isn’t it, Agent Donovan?”
“Yours, too, Director.”
She cracked a smile. Colin was positive. It didn’t last, but it gave him hope. In his world, a serious mission required a judicious sense of humor, moments of levity that made everything else not just easier but possible.
Federal prosecutors and another agent or two would be joining them. The meeting was in relation to a new undercover mission, one that had arisen out of his previous mission—a dangerous, months-long investigation that had succeeded but also had created a vacuum in the world of illegal arms trafficking.
It wasn’t an unforeseen consequence.
Jokes and talk of weddings, priests and snowshoeing ended as the conference table filled up. Colin wondered if any of the people who had joined the meeting had sent an agent to London to check on Oliver York. Because of him. Because they wanted to know if his life was becoming too complicated to put him undercover again.
* * *
Seventy minutes later, Colin told Yank about the calls from Emma and Mike. Yank had joined him on the walk from FBI headquarters to the inexpensive hotel where he had spent far too many nights over the past few weeks.
The senior FBI agent visibly gritted his teeth as Colin finished relaying the latest Sharpe and Donovan goings-on. “The Plum Tree? I’m supposed to get worked up about Mike’s old army buddies showing up at a Maine country inn called the Plum Tree?”
“It has its own plum orchard,” Colin said.
“Of course it does.” Yank turned up the collar on his overcoat. “Think this Cooper sent his man to Rock Point to snoop on your family?”
“To get the lay of the land, anyway.”
“They left it to your mother to tell Mike. That would piss me off.”
“Mike wasn’t happy about it,” Colin said.
“Imagine that.”
Colin wasn’t happy about it, either. “Do you know Ted Kavanagh?”
Yank shook his head. “Not personally, no. Nothing says he can’t meet with these guys on his own time. Why, what else is going on?”
Colin slowed at a wide intersection. He hadn’t told Yank about Emma’s call. He did now, keeping his recap as succinct as he could. “I’m wondering if this guy York saw could be Kavanagh. York didn’t give much of a description.”
“He’s bound to be paranoid.”
“He strikes me as very observant. He’d have to be to get away with stealing art and taunting Wendell Sharpe for a decade.”
“Ten to one the guy he saw in the park is a London stockbroker. Even if we show him a photo of Kavanagh, there’s no guarantee he won’t say it’s his guy just to spin us in circles.”
“York says the guy he saw argued with a woman.”
“Naomi MacBride?” Yank was silent as they approached Colin’s hotel. “We have coincidences and conjecture. Not my two favorite things.”
They entered the hotel and sat in a quiet nook by a gaslit fire. Colin watched a blue flame. He preferred wood fires, but this wasn’t bad. “It occurred to me the director could have put someone on York without telling us.”
“We wouldn’t be here if she felt that was necessary. Either one of us.”
It was a fair point. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“No. Same reasoning. You wouldn’t be here if I felt that was necessary.” Yank settled back in his chair. “While we’re in the world of coincidence and conjecture, what if this Reed Cooper asked Kavanagh to look into what Mike’s been up to since leaving the army? If Cooper wants to recruit him, it makes sense he would want to know about any issues that could blow back on his company. Figure out if Mike has any baggage that needs to get sorted.”
“Never thought of myself as baggage.”
“Never? Seriously?”
Colin appreciated the moment of levity, but it was short-lived. “Why would Olive
r York turn up on a background check on Mike—even if it includes me? I know my name would pop up because of the murder in Boston in November, but it’s not widely known that the British mythologist Oliver Fairbairn who was caught up in the investigation is also Oliver York.”
“These are security types,” Yank said. “They could find out. Even if they did, it doesn’t mean they’ve figured out York is an international art thief. Being in the middle of a high-profile murder investigation that involved you and Emma could be enough to raise a red flag about Mike and get them digging a bit more.”
“What’s Kavanagh’s role, then?”
“He doesn’t have to be currying favor with Cooper over a future job. He could just be helping out an old friend.”
Colin loosened his tie. “I like the stockbroker idea better.”
“I don’t blame you. What about Finian Bracken? Think he accepted York’s invitation to visit his farm?”
“Knowing Fin? Yes. Without question.”
“I don’t like the idea of him and York getting together, even if it’s for a fox hunt in the English countryside.”
“I don’t see Fin on a fox hunt.”
“Drinking whiskey and checking out old tombstones, then. Are you going to get in touch with him? He’s your friend.”
“And do what—tell him to go back to Ireland?”
“It’s a start.”
Colin didn’t disagree. He’d considered his options after learning about York’s plan last night. He, too, would prefer his Irish priest friend and the British art thief keep their distance.
“I need to check out of my room,” he said. “I’m flying back to Boston this afternoon.”
“Emma’s leaving this afternoon for her long weekend in Maine,” Yank said, not as casually as he might have meant to. “Are you meeting her?”
“That’s not the plan.”
“What’s she doing in Maine? Wedding things?”
“She’s having lunch with my mother on Saturday.”
“That could be interesting,” Yank said, without elaboration.
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