The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(107)
He grabbed the bags, then dropped them to the sidewalk. He took Nicholas’s hand to hold him still, and examined him closely. He finally said, “Well, you’re alive and walking, that’s something.”
“Nigel, I’m more than alive. Stop fussing. I really am fine now.”
“Well, neither of you look fine. Let’s get you inside, I’ve made tea, or perhaps something with a bit more bite would be more appropriate for the situation.”
Mike gave him a hug. “Really, I look worse than I am, and Nicholas looks better than he should. What would be more appropriate?”
Nicholas said, “I hope you’re talking about Talisker, beginning with a double.”
Nigel looked them up and down—Mike back in the boot to help her ankle heal faster, bruises on her jaw and a black eye, and Nicholas with his arm in a sling, beard stubble, looking battered. He shook his head at the two of them. “Come inside and let’s get you set up. The library, I think, the light’s good right now. Then, once you’re settled, I suppose you’ll tell me what you’ve been up to these past few days? I’ve spoken to Gray and Adam, of course, but I want to hear it from your mouths.”
“I can tell you faster than Nicholas. We stopped a bomb exploding in Sri Lanka, we received über thanks from the President, we were debriefed and discharged from the hospital in Colombo, Blue Mountain flew us back to Lyon where we handed over the Holy Grail—yes, that’s what I said—to Jean-Pierre Broussard. Broussard left the hospital and flew immediately to Paris and to give the Grail to his dying daughter. He called earlier, deliriously happy, said she was well again. So yes, the Holy Grail is very real. Broussard thanked us until I finally had to tell him to go replace his magnificent treasure-hunting yacht, if he could talk the insurance company into footing the bill.
“Then we met with Grant, who was going to go home to Kitsune and tell her the whole story, well, maybe, parts might stand even her hair on end, and finally Nicholas and I boarded a plane home, courtesy of the CIA. I bet Mr. Zachery is going to love that. The end.”
Nicholas’s laugh was pathetic, but he tried. The doctors had told him the bullet wound would ache every once in a while. He wondered how long he’d be tied to a desk.
He said, “Talk about succinct. Just a bit more. In between calls with the White House, the CIA, the FBI, and a host of other people, all who wanted to either congratulate us or dress us down, we did manage to catch some sleep. All in all, we’re alive and plan to stay that way.”
Nigel said as he shepherded them inside and into the elevator, “Of all things, a CIA agent was here yesterday. He dropped off some papers he said you’d need to sign when you got home. His name was Mills, and he looked like he’d been through a war like you two. He limped. He looked around the house, said he might have known you were rich since you were such a prick. He said though that since you’d saved the world a lot of grief and suffering, he wouldn’t hold your prickness against you.”
Nicholas laughed. “So I’m a prick? He‘s an idiot. You said Vinny looked pathetic? He was limping? Serves him right, even though I’m glad he’s up and about. What’s this paperwork?”
After Nigel settled them in Nicholas’s library, Nicholas on one of the leather sofas, Mike beside him, he handed them the papers Mills had brought to the house.
He was back quickly, carrying a tray with a steaming pot of tea on it, a full bottle of Talisker, and two shot glasses that didn’t go very well with the Royal Doulton china cups.
Nicholas opened the package from Mills as Mike poured them each a double shot of Scotch whisky. The tea wasn’t touched, but Mike did say, “Pretty cups, the Gorgeous Rebecca would like them.”
They toasted each other, slugged down the whisky nonstop. Mike gasped for breath, felt fire all the way to her belly. Nicholas, curse him, was grinning at her. “Another one, please.”
She poured them both another shot while Nicholas read the papers. He burst out, “Bloody hell, you’re not going to believe this, Mike. The bloody CIA, namely Carlton Grace, wants to pay me for my program that, I must say, very elegantly erases a computer’s hard drive in a nanosecond. Remember the one I erased in Lyon before we jetted off to Sri Lanka? And that idiot Vinny was foaming at the mouth? That’s what he’s talking about. I guess Vinny went whining to Grace. Ah, here’s a note from Grace at the bottom. ‘Dear Agent Drummond, you sell the CIA this program and we will consider our two agencies even.’ ”
Mike drank down the rest of her whisky, wheezed a bit, then yelled, “Even? Did that CIA yahoo really have the gall to say we’d be even? As soon as my ankle’s well again, I’m going down to Langley and give him a piece of my mind. Well, no, I need all my brain, but I could go down and punch him out.”
Nicholas tried not to laugh, it hurt too much. He managed to get out, “Alas, you did get to fly in a jet and get refueled in midair, all thanks to Mr. Grace, CIA.”
She poured them another shot. “Yeah, so pulling five G’s was a really big deal, but still—we kept that idiot Al-Asaad—Vinny—alive, doesn’t that count for something?”
Nigel stuck his head in the library. “I have a roast in the oven, I’m going to check it now. Dinner is at seven o’clock. You two get some rest and then I’ll feed you and you can fill in all the very fine details I’m sure you neglected to tell me.” He eyed them, said, “Or, the two of you can continue drinking that amazing Talisker and I’ll simply put both of you to bed when you pass out.”