The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(16)

It was even more. He felt energized, young, completely healthy, strong, virile. It was amazing. And holding the Grail, acknowledging the incredible power in his hand, he raised his face and prayed his thanks to heaven.

Would the stone somehow speak to him? He waited, but there was nothing, simply the pleasant warmth and vibrations. He had questions, of course. Would the stone need to remain with Emilie to keep her well? Could he cut off a sliver of the stone for her to keep to ensure her continued health? He didn’t know. But he knew all would come clear, he mustn’t be impatient. And after Emilie was healed, what would he do? Could he use the Grail for the greater good? Was it possible to bring peace to the world using its power? But perhaps the stone only granted his single greatest desire, and selfishly, it wasn’t world peace. There was so much to think about, but only after he’d gotten the Grail to Emilie. He wondered then if after he presented her with the stone, he would once again be a middle-aged man with an aching knee, and continue on every man’s steady march to mortality.

He called, “I’m coming out. Throw me a rope. Gather the crew. I wish to speak to them.”



Devi stood at the railing watching Jean-Pierre disappear inside the strange elongated metal sphere. All the men were talking, speculating, wondering what was happening inside. Some were afraid, others pacing with excitement, others holding their breaths, not wanting to believe, but—

She watched Jean-Pierre climb out and stand tall on the scaffolding. He had a huge grin on his face. In his hands, he held an ugly black box that looked older than time itself. He looked ready to burst with excitement. She had the oddest feeling he somehow looked younger, stronger. But how could that be? He waved to her to join him. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs: “We found it! We’ve found the Holy Grail!”

Her fingers trembled as she sent the text. No choice, no choice.

He has it.

Nevaeh’s reply came almost immediately.

You know what to do. Your sister’s life depends on your actions now. We will be there soon.

Devi knew what to do, yes. With a prayer for her sister Elina’s safety, she went to share in her lover’s celebration.





CHAPTER TEN


T-MINUS 86 HOURS

The Griffon

Strait of Malacca

Off the Coast of Sumatra

July 24

The dinner menu was exquisite, planned by Jean-Pierre specifically to celebrate his success. A sherry-laden turtle soup, heaping trays of cold shrimp, crab, and lobster, plates filled with chunks of feta cheese, black olives, focaccia bread, and bowls of olive oil for dipping. Succulent lamb slowly turned on skewers with eggplant and tomatoes, Grand Marnier soufflés rose in the ovens.

Devi, dressed in a flowing ocean-blue dress, her hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head, hurried toward the galley. She had one chance to save her sister Elina’s life, only one chance to disable the ship and all the men and women on it. Normally, the kitchen crew would have their meal in the galley before serving, and that would have been a problem for her. But tonight, they would join in the festivities—Jean-Pierre’s orders.

She had no doubt she could deal handily with the crew. It was the security Jean-Pierre had hired that scared her. Two men, two women, all with watchful eyes and semiautomatic rifles slung across their chests. One in particular, their leader, Grant Thornton, a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man, seemed to follow her every move, and it wasn’t lust she felt from him. It was distrust. No, that was absurd, she was feeling so guilty about what she had to do she was projecting her feelings onto him. Still, she wanted to avoid him at all costs.

Devi was quite aware she was beautiful, just as she knew the crew liked her, even though they knew she belonged to Broussard. She liked them, too, truth be told, which only increased her guilt.

Focus, she had to focus. She had to make sure they all ate the feast.

She had three targets—the soup, the wine, and the water. Thankfully, Jean-Pierre was a wine connoisseur. He loved big, bold reds that needed to decant and breathe. The water would be in the butler’s pantry with the wine—easy enough to access. The soup was more problematic. She needed to distract the chef, a French graduate of Le Cordon Bleu named Lola. Jean-Pierre took her everywhere with him. Lola predated Devi by ten years, and would probably postdate her, as well. As far as Devi knew, Lola was the only crew aboard who didn’t like her, and she didn’t know why. Devi was always polite to her, always deferential, always complimented her cooking. It was as if Lola knew she wasn’t to be trusted. Well, she had a plan for Lola, too.

Devi took a deep breath and walked into the galley, shoulders back, head high. She belonged there, had every right to check on things. She’d made a point of visiting the galley several times over the past few weeks so she wouldn’t draw notice being there tonight. The smells were redolent of garlic and onions and the tang of good sherry. She was so afraid she wanted to vomit. One false move could lead to failure and the bitch would kill Elina.

Lola’s sous chef, Frederick, smiled at her, then turned back to the stove to stir his sauce. The other six people in the galley were much too busy with the final dinner preparations to do more than nod to her.

Devi’s first stop was the butler’s pantry. As she expected, several decanters of wine alongside pitchers of both sparkling and still water stood waiting. There was so much of everything—it looked like preparations for the kind of party Jean-Pierre threw for his megarich friends, business moguls who came to the boat to talk deals or to celebrate, rather than a party for his crew. But again, this was a special celebration.