Callan said, “Is she related to Carlton Grace, by chance?”
“Yes, she’s his niece. You remember her father, also an undercover expert. He was killed when she was a girl.”
“Yes, I remember Paul and I remember mourning him.”
“Well, her uncle Carl raised her. She’s been with the agency six years. She’s very good, might even prove to be better than her old man one of these days, maybe even better than her uncle, and he was incredible in the bad old days.”
As Callan listened, she walked to the window and looked out at her city. Since the power went down, it had quickly emptied. It looked surreal, a painting of a city without movement, without people. A dead city. She’d nearly forgotten there was a blackout, being inside the White House, where everything still ran smoothly.
“Temp, does anyone other than the FBI know about this?”
“No, only the FBI. Carl Grace told me Savich, Drummond, and Caine were speaking this afternoon with Vanessa. Small world, turns out Vanessa knows Agent Caine from school. Carl said it went well. They won’t speak to the press, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“And Spenser believes she’s dead?”
“Yes, no way for him to know she’s not. We’ve kept it all very quiet.”
Callan said, “Do you think he would be upset were he to find out she’s still alive?”
“I’d say so, after shooting her in the chest and leaving her in the fire, along with his own BFF, Ian McGuire, a minor IRA bad guy he’s been working with for a very long time. McGuire tried to protect her. It was a major betrayal, Callan. You know how some people feel very strongly about betrayal.”
“Who else from the group have we identified?”
“Other than Zahir Damari, the only other major player is a computer guy named Andrew Tate. As for the rest of the group, Vanessa thinks they’re very likely gone from the country by now. So we have Matthew Spenser, Andy Tate, and Zahir Damari on the loose. Yorktown, Callan, that’s got to be the target, and you, of course. Will Zahir Damari try to take you there? It sounds plausible.”
Callan looked at her watch. It was a few minutes past nine o’clock. “Call up someone you trust in the media. If we hurry, we can make the eleven p.m. news. We’ve got to draw Matthew Spenser out as soon as possible. Don’t worry, Vanessa Grace won’t be in that hospital room. Assign another of your people to play her. Get it on the news, Temp, get it on the news right away. Vanessa Grace is now officially bait.”
A pause, then: “Callan, it’s good to know you haven’t lost your chops.”
62
KNIGHT TO E4
Sherlock passed the lasagna to Mike. “A good thing the power came back on as you guys pulled into the driveway. It’s Dillon’s special sauce, which I have to say, being the recipient for lo these many years, is well nigh the best ever made.”
Savich said, “It’s my grandmother’s recipe, actually, with only a few additions.”
Nicholas said, “Savich, could I give Cook Crumbe your recipe?”
“Cook Crumbe runs the kitchen at Old Farrow Hall,” Mike said to Savich, who’d cocked his head. “This ancient shack where Nicholas was born.”
“That’s good, Mike. How many bedrooms, Nicholas?”
He thought about that, then said, “I really don’t know. Now, about the sauce, I think my mother would love it. As for my grandfather? You’ve met him, Mike, you never know. But it’s worth a try.”
“Papa didn’t make the garlic bread,” Sean said, “Mama did. She’s good at garlic bread, and she likes me to tell everyone.”
Laughter, and it felt good.
When dinner was finished, Nicholas played four rounds of Super Spaceman Spiff with Sean, and lost every round.
Sean studied his face. “You aren’t losing on purpose, are you, Uncle Nicholas? I mean, I beat you fair and square, right?”
“Yes,” Nicholas said, “I did lose on purpose. I’m trying to be nice.”
Sean said, “You will not lose on purpose this time. Do you promise?”