36

358 East 69th Street

9:00 p.m.

The roast was delicious, as were the carrots and peas and mashed potatoes. A very British meal, Mike knew, and clearly a favorite of Nicholas’s. They’d both cleaned their plates twice, to Nigel’s nodding approval.

Mike found the relationship between the two men fascinating. Nigel was clearly deferential, but proud of who and what he was. Nigel was smart, strong in mind and body, and he kept Nicholas smiling. The two men were close, that was easy to see. She learned they’d grown up together. Nigel’s father, the unflappable Horne, was an amazing, compassionate man, a man who knew exactly what to do and when to do it. She remembered how he’d taken her under his wing when she’d stayed at Old Farrow Hall for Elaine York’s funeral. It appeared Nigel was cut from the same mold, only there was more. She’d bet they’d been together in Afghanistan, and if they had then Nigel knew all the secrets buried in Nicholas’s past.

Nicholas had overruled Nigel’s plan to serve them in the massive dining room with the crystal and china his grandfather had sent over. They’d eaten in the kitchen and Nicholas had insisted Nigel join them. She heard stories about young master Nicholas and his run-ins with the castle ghost, Captain Flounder. She was about to suggest Nigel break out the photo albums and embarrass his master further when Nicholas stood. “That was an excellent meal, Nigel, as always. Thank you. I think we’ll skip the pear tart and the port, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Nigel said. “You will be working now?”

Nicholas nodded, stretched, and rubbed his bruised jaw, the only reminder of the afternoon. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She was clean, too, hair combed, and now wearing one of Nicholas’s white shirts tucked into her jeans. Not exactly her size, but who cared?

“You ready to get to it?” he asked.

“Onward.” They walked up a flight of stairs into a large living room with a vaulted ceiling and black-and-white leather furniture, very modern, and it screamed Nicholas. She pictured Old Farrow Hall, all its ancient antiques. She followed Nicholas through another door, into an intensely masculine library. No modern furnishings in here. It was beautiful, dark wood paneling throughout, a thick Aubusson carpet, similar to the one in Jonathan Pearce’s apartment. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves, only most were still empty. She saw three large wooden crates stacked in the corner, waiting to be unpacked. The modern and the traditional, both suited him.

She leaned against a large leather wing chair that looked like he’d brought it from Old Farrow Hall, and possibly he had. “Tell me when you downloaded the SD files and Pearce’s hard drive, you kept a copy for yourself. And you’re ready to do your less-than-legal voodoo magic on the files.”

“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Me and Zachery both, and he knows, of course he knows. Now, where do we start?”

He held up a small blue thumb drive in the shape of a British police box, waggled it back and forth. “I mirrored his whole hard drive, and the SD card. It’s as if his computer is right here. And the Tardis never lies.”

“As in the call box from Dr. Who?”

“The very same.”

Nigel appeared in the doorway, carrying a silver tray with two big mugs of coffee. “Thank you, Nigel, that’s perfect.” Nicholas took a mug and drank deep, closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed.

She took her coffee, slipped out of her boots, and tucked her feet up under her.

Nicholas sat in the old leather chair across from her, as if he were settling in for a visit with an old friend. “I was telling you I thought there was a connection between Alfie Stanford and Jonathan Pearce. I don’t know if you noticed, but my father’s name was on Pearce’s client list.”

She shook her head. “Once I saw Stanford’s name, I shut it all down and came to find you.”

He drew a deep breath. “I think Stanford’s murder is the key. He’s an incredibly powerful man, on a number of levels.”

“Outside the British government, I presume?”

He grinned at her, sipped on his coffee. “You’re fast. As a powerful man, he naturally has enemies. However, for one of them to get inside 11 Downing Street is difficult to imagine. It would be like a stranger walking in off the street to your White House.”

“An inside job.”

He nodded. “I’m sure as can be that Alfie Stanford’s murder ties into our case as well.” He drew a breath. “The only way we can get anywhere near Stanford’s case is if we can prove whoever killed Pearce also killed Stanford. My father is in a position to help since he’s still part of the British government.”

Mike put down her coffee mug and rose. “Then let’s put them together. If the murders are connected, there’ll be something in Mr. Pearce’s files proving it. Let’s see what we can find.”

Pearce’s files were clean, organized, and easy to follow. He and Mike examined the satellite specs on the computer, and a troubling amount of financial data from various governments around the world. He cross-checked and, yes, Germany was on the list.

Mike pointed. “They keep coming up again and again. I can’t imagine that the German government had Pearce and Stanford killed, so there must be something more tangible to show us the connection. We’re just missing it.”

He clicked open a few more files, felt his heart begin to race. He heard her sharp intake of breath. So Mike saw it, too. “Nicholas, look.”

“Yes, it’s a pattern.” He pointed to the screen, typing one-handed without looking at the keyboard. “Look at this letter from Mr. Pearce—see? Words and lines that don’t make sense.”

“It’s a code,” Mike said. “Can you crack it?”

“I can, but it’s going to take some time. Well, well, would you look at this?”

“Yes, yes, only some of the people he corresponded with have this strange code in their letters.”

He tapped on the keyboard a few more times, moved the mouse around. The files separated themselves and flew about, rearranging on the screen. When they finished moving, she could see fifteen small blue folders, each with a name. But the names themselves weren’t logical, they were jumbles of letters and numbers.

She was nearly plastered against him, as excited as he was. “Will it take you long to sort out who these folders belong to?”

“Too long, far too long. I have a better idea, but I’ll need some help.”

“What can I do?”

“Hand me the phone. Time to go to a higher power. I want to call Savich.”

“Savich? He’s not your boss directly, but he’s certainly part of our chain of command. He might feel like he’s undermining Zachery.”

He stared up at that blond ponytail, her scrubbed face. She looked like she’d be carded for sure for a beer. “Nah, he won’t.”

She picked up his cell and handed it to him, only to have “Born in the U.S.A.” trill from its small speaker.

Nicholas looked at the readout, raised a brow. “And isn’t this something. What is this guy, psychic or something?” When she didn’t smile, he said, “What?”

“As a matter of fact, he is, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Sure thing. Right. Savich? How are you and Sherlock keeping this fine evening?”

37

10:30 p.m.

Savich said, “Sherlock and I are tossing more popcorn to Astro than we’re getting in our own mouths. Now, listen, Nick, you want to tell me why I’ve been asked to sit on a SIRT board about you tomorrow morning?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard.” He looked at Mike, who had an eyebrow raised. “Savich, Mike’s here with me. Let me put you on speaker.”

“Hello, Mike. Now, Nick, I’ve got to say you’ve set a new first-day-as-an-agent record. Are you okay? I heard you’d been shot, glad you at least followed one protocol today and wore your body armor. I trust you’re fine physically?”