The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(31)

Fentress said, “You know what this means. If anyone can hack into the system and locate my operatives when they’re meant to be off-grid, the trackers are a major operational security risk.”

Nicholas said, “It’s a good thing we aren’t just anyone, sir. I understand your rationale. The wrong person gets a hold of this information, it would compromise your teams.”

“Exactly. I often ask myself why there’s always a downside. Now, I have to deal with the Kosovo situation, going there directly. Thank God it’s a damn sight closer than Malaysia. Poppy will go with you and liaise with operations in Kuala Lumpur, get you a team, and anything else you need. Go find my people.” He paused a moment, then shook their hands. “Thank you. I’m trusting you with their lives.”

Nicholas said, “We’ll find them. And thank you for providing the ride. Saves us a lot of time getting our own jet here.”

They watched Fentriss march off the plane, took their seats. A few minutes later, they were taxiing, and then in the air.

Once they were settled, laptops and phones open and tapped into the plane’s secure encrypted network, Poppy said, “Tell me, what can I do to help?”

Nicholas said, “Are you an operative, or are you admin?”

The look she gave him should have set his hair on fire.

“Right, operative. In that case, I’ll need you to run me through how the teams are comprised, what your emergency protocols would be in this kind of situation, everything you can think of that will help us intercept him. Where will Grant be making his way to if he’s simply out of touch? Assuming the boat went down but they were able to get into life rafts, what’s the first thing he’s going to do?”

Poppy said, “Find a way to communicate, obviously. And if Grant’s down, another team member will be leading things. Assuming we’re in a worst-case scenario, that is.”

She flipped out a laminated map on which she’d made a series of X’s.

“This is what’s known as the Strait of Malacca. Here”—she pointed to a large red X written in grease pencil—“are the last known coordinates of The Griffon. You’ll notice this yellow X is where the EMP transmission came from. There are at least five nautical miles between the two, heading toward the Indian Ocean. They were sailing north, out of the Strait. Why? I don’t know.”

Nicholas stared at the map. “Hook us up with search and rescue out of Kuala Lumpur. Once Adam gets back to us with the coordinates, we’ll pass them along so they can get a head start. Make sure they have a chopper ready for us, too.”

Poppy frowned. “You’re going out there?”

“If they haven’t been located when we land? Yes, we are.”

She played with the map, drew two thunderbolts to the west of the ship’s last knowns. “This is a major storm, Nicholas. It’s very possible the winds will take it to official typhoon levels later today. To fly into that kind of storm is suicide.”

“So make sure it’s a sturdy chopper.”

Mike groaned. “A very sturdy chopper. We don’t have the best luck with them.”

“Not exactly true,” Nicholas said. “It’s not usually us who has the problem.”

Poppy said, “I’ll make it happen, though for the record, I think you two are nuts to want to fly out into the middle of the ocean in a storm of this magnitude. What else?”

“Specs for The Griffon. We’ll need to know how many crew were aboard, how many life rafts, whatever means of escape they’d have if the ship were to go down. And if Broussard has what he believes is the Holy Grail, pulled from that old shipwreck—the Flor de la Mar—anything and everything on that, too, if you please.”

“You got it.” She turned to her own computer and started typing away.

Mike said, “I want to learn more about this Jean-Pierre Broussard character.”

Poppy snapped her fingers and pointed at Mike’s tablet. “I thought you would. I’ve sent you the dossier. It includes video and transcripts of various interviews. If you want more, holler.”

“Thanks, Poppy.”

Nicholas said, “I’m going to do some recon on how Grant works, see if I can figure out what he’s thinking. You study up on Broussard.”

Mike saluted him. “Sir, yes, sir, Sir Nicholas, sir.”

Poppy’s head popped up. She raised a brow. “Is she being facetious?”

Mike said, “Nope. Nicholas was knighted a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, I remember, and you were damed as well, Michaela. I think that’s the best part. So I’m flying with royalty, what a deal.” She stood, curtsied, making them both laugh.

“Actually, Poppy,” Mike said, “Nicholas technically already is royalty—his grandfather is a viscount. I’m just a sheriff’s daughter from Omaha.”

Poppy said, “Who’s been royally damed. I need to hang with you two more. Maybe I’ll get a sash of my very own.”

They settled in to their work, Nicholas and Poppy discussing the operational aspects of Blue Mountain, Mike researching Jean-Pierre Broussard.

He wasn’t hard to find. The Galactus website had a series of slick, well-produced videos showing the progression of the company as it grew into a private space powerhouse. The videos were narrated by Broussard himself. He was handsome, larger than life, rich as Croesus. He’d wanted to be an astronaut himself, had started Galactus to reshape the way both businesses and private citizens accessed space.