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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 Oliver 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.
Colin watched the fake burning logs. He had assumed Emma had told Yank about her plans for the weekend. But assuming anything with Emma was dangerous. “She’s staying at the convent tonight and tomorrow night,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
Yank was clearly surprised. “For old times’ sake?”
“I guess.”
“Kind of like sleeping with an old boyfriend, isn’t it? Never mind.” Yank waved a hand. “Forget I said that. I should get moving, too.”
“You done for the day? Off to plaster nail holes?”
“One more meeting. Then I plaster nail holes. I’m looking forward to unloading this house.” Yank stood but made no move to head back to the revolving doors. “You hold your own with Van Buren. She’ll do right by you. She knows you’re not her private police force.”
“I have always adhered to the principles and procedures of the FBI,” Colin said. “I read the handbook cover-to-cover the other day.”
Yank’s eyes were flinty. “I’m serious, Donovan.”
“Me, too.”
“You’re on my team because I shoehorned you in to keep an eye on you while you got your head screwed on straight. My opinion, you did the bidding of the previous director without enough oversight.”
“Excuse me, I was a deep-cover operative on a sensitive mission to break up a network of dangerous international arms traffickers. I wasn’t doing anyone’s bidding. I’m an independent thinker. It comes in handy when you’re being chased by alligators.”
Yank sighed. “There were no alligators.”
“It was South Florida. I was in the water. There were alligators as well as guys who wanted to kill me.”
“Are we done here?”
Colin was half-serious. Maybe not even half. He got to his feet. “We’re done. Good luck with the house. Will you miss it?”
“More than I will miss my old apartment. It was a daily battle with the roaches.” Yank gave an exaggerated shudder. “Some of those bastards were the size of rats.”
Colin kept his mouth shut. Yank had no sense of humor where roaches were concerned. He hadn’t counted on his wife balking about moving to Boston. Lucy Yankowski’s reluctance to leave her home in northern Virginia had thrown their marriage into turmoil as well as kept her husband in his roach-infested apartment longer than he had planned. Colin had watched Yank slowly come to realize he had made assumptions that could cost him the woman he loved. Whatever he had done to win Lucy back, she was in Boston, getting the keys to their new Back Bay apartment.
“Lucy’s serious about opening a knitting shop,” Yank said.
“Knitting as therapy, maybe.”
“Whatever makes her happy. We don’t have kids. We can afford to live in Back Bay and for her to explore a career change.”
“Glad things worked out,” Colin said.
“Yeah. Any worries about Emma returning to the convent?”
“She’s sleeping in the quarters used for retreats, not in the novitiate.”
“I guess that’s something.” Yank waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. Emma was a novice when I recruited her. It’s not news to me.”
“That’s right.” Colin started out of the nook, away from the fire. “You saw her in her sensible nun shoes.”
“I did.” Yank’s mood visibly lightened as they continued across the lobby. “I’ll see you back in Boston on Monday.”
“Good luck with your meeting. This morning’s meeting was fifty-seven minutes too long.”
“It was an hour,” Yank said.
“First three minutes we stirred our coffees.”
Yank made no comment and headed out through a revolving door. He was better at navigating the treacherous waters of Washington, but he had decided to base his new HIT team in Boston. Colin had never heard him explain why and doubted he ever would.
* * *
When Colin reached his room, he packed and texted Mike: Where are you?
The response wasn’t instant. Hurley’s.
A favorite Rock Point restaurant on the harbor. It meant Mike had left the Bold Coast early. Should I be worried about you?
No.
That was Mike. A man of few words. Kavanagh?
FBI.
Meaning, he was Colin’s headache. Reed Cooper?
My problem.
No argument from Colin. Not yet, anyway. Stay in touch.
This time, there was no response. He hadn’t expected one. Mike had always been taciturn but was more so since leaving the army and moving out to the Bold Coast.
Colin stared out his window at a gloomy alley. Emma would be at the HIT offices at least through lunch. He wouldn’t be interrupting her long weekend on her own if he called.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey, what have you been up to?”
“Just got out of another meeting.”
“Ah.”
He wasn’t sure she believed him. He told her about Mike’s call about the gathering at the Plum Tree. “He’s in Rock Point,” Colin added.
“If the man Oliver spotted in London was Ted Kavanagh, he has his own agenda. We can’t have him spooking Oliver if we want those two Dutch landscapes returned.”
“They’re his last leverage.”
“Exactly. He’ll hold on to them until he knows what’s next. He wants to keep Scotland Yard off his doorstep.”
“He’s never threatened to dump them in the Thames.”
“That’s a plus,” Emma said. “I don’t think he’s worried about getting arrested at this point. It’s more like MI5.”
“Our friends in the British Secret Service.” Colin knew a number of British agents, although not well enough to mention Oliver York. “With Oliver’s contacts and skills, he can maneuver in a wide variety of worlds. Think of the bad guys he could stop. Has MI5 been in touch with you?”
Emma didn’t answer right away. “Sort of.”
“I can see York as James Bond.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Packing. I’ll be back in Boston tonight. You?”
“Leaving for Maine as soon as I can get out of here.
“Say hi to the sisters for me.”
“I will.”
He heard a brightness in her voice—an eagerness to be at the convent again. Many of the current crop of religious sisters had been there when Emma had been Sister Brigid, young, eager, not so much confused as figuring things out. Specifically what things Colin didn’t know. At nineteen, he’d been figuring out how to keep himself in cash and women while he got through college. He’d majored in criminal justice, but he’d never been a deep thinker. He swore Emma had been born thinking deep thoughts.
As he disconnected, he noticed pigeons huddling on a trash can. They looked cold.
What would his life be like if he’d stayed in the Maine marine patrol, or if he had never volunteered for undercover work? Would he and Emma have ever met? They’d grown up a few miles apart from each other but hadn’t met until last September, despite both being with the FBI.
It didn’t matter, he thought. If he’d been a lobsterman, a Maine cop or a bartender at Hurley’s, somehow he and Emma would have met. He knew it in his gut.
They were meant to be together.
He would arrive in Boston after she’d left for Maine, probably while she was singing vespers with the sisters.
He wanted her to enjoy her time at the convent.
He finished packing and headed to the lobby. He had time for lunch, then he would take a cab to the airport and catch his flight.
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