The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(25)
Nicholas turned down the volume. “We’d best get in touch with Grant’s people. I assume Kitsune knows already—”
“No, she’s off-grid, remember? No communications. She won’t know unless she gets in front of a television, and she’s not the type to be hanging around watching TV on a job. Chances are she’s totally in the dark. We have to go search for him, Nicholas.”
Nicholas scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes, of course we do. Let me contact Blue Mountain, see if I can scare up any new information.”
Five minutes later, Nicholas said, “I have Grant’s boss here, Mike,” and put the phone on speaker.
“Sir? I’m Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with Special Agent Michaela Caine.”
“Wesley Fentriss here. Yes, I know who you are. I also know I have you two to thank for helping Grant out of his last, ah, situation. You’re calling about the disappearance of Broussard’s yacht, right?”
“Yes. We knew Grant was aboard The Griffon. We wanted to ask—”
Fentriss cursed, grumbled about operational security, but Nicholas interrupted him. “You know Grant is our friend, there’s no one I’d trust more with my back, and we were in a tight spot with him not long ago, as you well know. We want to offer our services to help find him. Anything we can do. Our FBI team, Covert Eyes, is at your disposal. We’re in Rome, we can be wherever you are in a couple of hours if we leave now.”
Silence, then Fentriss said, “Very well. Grant says if it hadn’t been for you and your people, neither he nor his wife would be walking the earth.
“We’re lucky, we’re staging from Rome. I was here on another business matter already. Come to the British Embassy. Via Venti Settembre. I’ll have someone meet you. Thirty minutes.”
Fentriss hung up, and Nicholas said to Mike, “We’re only ten minutes away. Let me call down to the desk, tell them we won’t be checking out right away, have them hold the room and call us a car, then we can head over there.”
She was already pulling her damp hair back into a ponytail. “I hope this is all a mistake, and Grant and his team are okay. I hope—” She swallowed. She was afraid, as afraid as she knew Nicholas was.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T-MINUS 70 HOURS
The British Embassy
Rome
Mike thought the front of the British Embassy looked like a ship, with its triangular prow and double staircases. She told Nicholas, who said, “Of course it does. Don’t forget, Mike, England enjoyed hundreds of years of naval superiority.” He pointed across the room. “Over there. If I’m not mistaken, there’s someone from Blue Mountain.”
The “someone” was a young woman who looked lethal despite being dressed in loose palazzo pants and a cropped blazer. Chic, and dangerous, Mike could see the outline of her weapon on her hip. When she spoke, it was pure, unadulterated British girl’s school.
She stuck out her hand, shook theirs. “Poppy Bennet. I’ll take you to Mr. Fentriss. He’s hot under the collar, so don’t be surprised if he blows up at you instead of saying hello. Grant’s team has been out of touch for ten hours now, no check-ins, no GPS signals. We’ve been trying to back-channel with the Malaysian government but they don’t want to talk. They’re claiming The Griffon found a long-lost shipwreck that has them and the governments of Indonesia and India all up in arms and fighting for jurisdiction. We’re only concerned about finding our people. Sorry, I’m talking too fast. I’ve had a lot of caffeine. You’re Drummond and Caine, right? Of course you are, I recognize you. Grant had his little escapade last month with you. He referred to you as his saviors and friends. Right. Come with me.”
They stopped at the desk to show their credentials, then Poppy hurried them up the gallery stairs to the second floor. “We’re operational on a separate issue in Kosovo. A team got caught on a K&R—kidnap and ransom—but of course you know what K&R stands for, sorry. They were pulling a client out of Syria when it went south, so the boss flew in to handle the negotiations himself. Two teams in trouble in a day, that’s a record for us.”
Blue Mountain had set up shop in one of the embassy’s ornate ballrooms. There were portable screens all over the walls with a bevy of operators on headsets typing and talking. Satellite imagery of Kosovo on the main stage, another set of screens showed satellite images of endless stretches of blue water.
Fentriss, gray-haired, steel-eyed, square-jawed, looking every inch the retired full general he was, stood to the side, arms crossed over his broad chest. He said without preamble, “We’re looking for them everywhere, using Grant’s insertion as a jumping-off point. The ship isn’t showing up on radar, isn’t showing up on the satellites, which is a miracle considering how big the bloody thing is. Upwards of four hundred feet, The Griffon. Hard to imagine its simply disappearing, which is why we’re afraid she went down.” He stuck out his hand, shook theirs. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. Grab a headset so you can hear what’s happening. I’m going to attend to my other disaster for five.”
He switched headsets and stepped away, started barking orders.
Poppy said, “Here you go.” She handed them headsets, donned one herself, but left one ear open in case they had questions.