Chapter 6

SIX

" C an someone tell me what the hell happened?" Michael Stone growled.

Seated in his home office, Conrad, Zara, and Brigit stared back at him. His wife looked shell-shocked, and he was going to wipe the deck with Truman Gunn when he caught the bastard, the thought of their impending conflict fueling his anger.

No one volunteered an answer. Michael interlaced his fingers on top of the desk so he wouldn't wing his paperweight at his director of Operations. "I thought you had it under control."

“Funny, I did, too." He shot a pointed look at Zara.

Laying in front of the hearth, Pongo, Michael’s Rottweiler, gave Conrad a huff. The animal had never liked him, no matter what Flynn tried to bribe him with.

Good dog .

Zara lifted her hands, palms up, in resignation. "I thought you wanted me to keep an eye on him, not incapacitate him."

Brigit jumped to her feet and marched to Michael. "I think you're the one that has some explaining to do. Why were you harassing Truman?”

"I wasn't harassing him. I thought he might have insight into the disappearance of your ring.”

She jabbed a finger on his desk. "Why would he know anything about it, and why would you bring that up at our reception? Can you not take a couple of hours off to just be my husband? Do you have to turn everything into a mission?”

Michael held her furious gaze, even though he wanted to point a finger at Conrad and throw him under the bus. Flynn had assured him that Truman's connection to a known jewelry thief was the key to finding the stolen ring and bringing the culprits to justice.

DC was packed with criminals, but nothing that happened here went unnoticed. The local gangs were as cliquey as the politicians, and a piece of that worth had to pop up somewhere.

“The return of your jewelry is important to me,” Michael said.

"Do you have a profile on Emma Grant?" Conrad asked.

The misdirection worked, and Michael was somewhat grateful for it. Brigit slipped into psychologist mode in the blink of an eye as she turned to him. "Emma Grant? Catherine Owens’ daughter?"

Conrad gave a sharp nod. “We believe Grant is involved in several recent thefts, and one may be your ring. That’s why the task force crashed the party—they were looking for her.”

"But Catherine is the Mastermind behind the Alice in Wonderland Gang. Emma was a bystander at best.”

“Is that your professional assessment?”

Brigit narrowed her eyes at him. “One of Truman’s on-the-book missions crossed paths with a Scotland Yard investigation into the gang. He asked me to help him create a profile of her, but he wanted it off the books. It was not an official request from JOE. He didn’t believe she was guilty of anything other than being Catherine’s daughter until he discovered one of the missing items Scotland Yard was searching for in Emma’s purse.”

JOE stood for Jolly Ol’ England. At some point, Brigit had consulted for all of its intelligence agencies as well as Homeland Security.

“You won't mind sharing it with us," Conrad said.

Nothing specific changed in his wife's demeanor, but Michael inwardly cringed. She took her job as seriously as he did his and her friendship with Truman even more so.

At least Conrad had taken the heat off him. “We want to help Truman," Michael insisted, although at the moment, the term ‘help’ could have multiple definitions. Help him get his face punched. Help him end up behind bars. “He's knee-deep in trouble for taking off with her. The more we know about them, the more likely we’re able to clear up any confusion about what's going on."

She whirled on him, hands going to her hips. Her curvy, sexy hips that he had the feeling he wasn’t going to see naked anytime soon. “What exactly is going on? I think you better start from the beginning and fill me in."

His job required him to be secretive and keep many things to himself. He wasn't a man to divulge information or facts about a person or situation unless vital.

Seeing the fire in her eyes and the grim set of her mouth, he considered this to be one of those vital moments. Otherwise, he’d most likely be sleeping on the couch for the rest of his God-given life.

Pongo raised his head as if offering to share his bed.

Michael started from the beginning and laid it all out, reiterating the fact Truman had purposely evaded the FBI with Emma who wanted her for questioning. "It doesn't look good for him, Brige. They believe she's involved with the Bradshaw diamond theft and her father's disappearance. She ran. If she was innocent, why would she do that? Because he aided her escape, he's guilty by association. Anything you can give us to help clear his name or figure out what's going on would be appreciated."

He tried to keep his voice neutral, using a combination of a professional and personal tone. He couldn't push her too far one way or the other, and he hoped playing the friendship card would make her feel less guilty for breaching Truman’s confidence.

A long, pregnant pause ensued, but finally, she tapped her foot several times and marched to the door. "I'll send you the report.” She stopped and glared back at him. "And then I'll be back so we can finish this discussion."

They waited until she disappeared. Conrad kicked back, crossing his feet at the ankles and pinning his arms behind his head. "I thought you were going home after our discussion," he said to Zara without looking at her.

"I should have." She stood and made her way to the fireplace, petting Pongo before lifting a picture of Michael and Brigit from the mantle to examine it. "I was curious about the woman in yellow good old Tru had mentioned. I thought I'd chat her up a minute and see if she gave off any criminal vibes."

“Did she?" Conrad asked.

"Not a one. And then Truman caught up with her and I eavesdropped on their conversation. She said she needed to talk to Congressman Athens about her father. She didn’t say why, but when she insisted she was no thief, she was sincere.” She replaced the photo and turned to Michael. “I know why the Brit helped her run.”

“Why?” he and Conrad asked in unison.

“It was written all over his face when he looked her.” She gave a dreamy smile. “He’s in love .”

Michael and Conrad shared a kill me now look. If Brigit or Julia needed help evading the police…

Well, it went without saying. Guilty or not, love made you do stupid things for the right reason.

Brigit marched back in. “The analysis I did on her is in your inbox. Let me remind all of you that just because Emma grew up in a family of thieves does not predicate her being one. There is nothing in her school personality tests or history that suggests she would steal a pack of gum, much less valuables.”

"Yet, she grew up in an environment where heists were common, and the results of those provided a certain lifestyle," Conrad argued. “It was a common, everyday occurrence in her world. What makes you think she would walk away from that?"

"I grew up with Charles Morgan for a father," Zara interrupted. "The last thing I wanted to do was become an investment banker or have anything to do with the finance world."

Brigit gave her an appreciative nod. "While some children embrace their parents’ vocations, an equal or greater amount reject them. Assuming she's a criminal because her mother was is like assuming your future son or daughter will become the next great spy, simply because you think you were the best.”

Conrad was unfazed. “First of all, there's a reason they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Secondly, if my kid decides to become an undercover operative and work for the CIA, he or she will be the next GOAT of the spy world." He gave her a reckless grin. "And also? I am the best. No past tense.”

Zara cleared her throat. "I'm not sure how you ever get your head through doors, Director."

She had no idea just how big Conrad’s head and ego were, but Michael did. Truth was, Conrad had earned his stripes, and he wasn't wrong.

“What about Gunn?” Conrad switched gears, bringing them back on track. “We need his profile, too.”

“No.” Brigit rounded on him. “That's privileged information.”

Michael avoided that particular conversation by opening his laptop and logging into his secure email. He clicked on the attachment from her and opened the file while Conrad risked getting his balls cut off by arguing.

"Under the circumstances," the man said, "that information could be valuable in helping us help him. That is what you want, isn’t it, Doctor? To resolve this and make sure he doesn't end up with his ass in a sling?"

"I think it's already there,” Zara said.

Brigit’s fists went to her hips, and she gave them a withering glare. "Don't insinuate that you want the information in order to help him. You think he's guilty of…something, and you're looking for a way to get inside his mind."

Conrad stood, keeping a casual air, but Michael knew he was anything but. His voice came out low and controlled. "He’s guilty of running from an FBI task force.”

She didn't back down. “And he must have a good reason for it. Do I need to remind you that he's the one who put Emma behind bars in the first place? If he's aiding and abetting her now to avoid that task force, there must be a valid reason. The smart thing to do would be to gather additional information from the Bureau before you go chasing an MI5 operative with more commendations in his folder than you have. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Look beneath the surface."

Michael hit print, and his machine came to life. “Grab that copy of Grant’s profile," he said to Conrad.

His landline buzzed with an internal call. Michael hit the speakerphone button. “What is it?"

His bodyguard, Brad Kinnick, answered. "Julia is here."

Julia Torrison had been in this house as many times as her husband. Since when did Brad announce her? "Well, send her in."

"She's brought company.”

"Who?"

Kinnick cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "An FBI agent.”

In the background, Michael heard a male voice pipe up. "Technically, ex-Scotland Yard, mate. I’m only a consultant for the task force.”

Brigit’s attention zoomed in on the phone, her face brightening. "Ian? Is that you?"

Conrad snatched up the printed profile, scanning it before tucking it inside his jacket. Zara resumed her seat on the sofa, laying her head back and closing her eyes. “Bloody hell. I’m never getting home.”

"Sorry to bother you this late," Ian said. "I know you've had a rough night, but I was wondering if I could follow up on a few details. Time is of the essence, you understand."

"Of course," Brigit said. "Brad, send them in."

Michael cut the connection and raised a brow at her.

She shrugged. “What? Ian Bastian is a friend and a superior agent.”

Julia had left the party to speak to her contacts at the Bureau after the Feds had crashed it. Apparently, Bastian had caught up with her, and she’d invited him over.

“I’ve already given Special Agent Pearson my statement,” Michael said under his breath.

"Bastian may have insight into Gunn and Grant," Conrad countered, ever calculating and shrewd. “He may be a way for us to keep a handle on the investigation."

Pongo rose and faced the door, alerted to their visitors by a commotion in the hall. Michael told him to stay as Julia and Bastian entered.

Julia planted a kiss on Conrad's cheek. “Brigit, I hope you don’t mind us showing like this, but I figured you were still awake.”

Michael stood as Brigit waived off Julia’s concern and introduced Bastian to them. Once they were done shaking hands, she said, "Ian and Truman worked together to break up the Alice in Wonderland gang and put the members behind bars."

Bastian was in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. Around five ten or so, he looked fit under his shirt and tie, but circles were clear under his eyes—he hadn’t slept much in a while.

Michael indicated one of the visitor chairs. If he played this right, he might gain more information about Truman than his wife was willing to cough up. “What can we do for you, Agent Bastian?”

And more importantly, what can you do for us ?

Bastian adjusted his tie as he sat, offering a tired smile. “Ian, please. Officially, I’m not, well, an agent, per se. Just a consultant. The FBI brought me in after I retired from the Yard, and I’ve enjoyed my work with them, but I have no desire to return to the field in a full-time capacity.”

"Can I get you a drink?" Brigit asked. "Some water?"

Liquor might help loosen his tongue. "I have a full bar if you need something stronger," Michael added.

"No, thanks. I've already had too many energy drinks."

Michael waited. Drawing Julia to the sofa, Conrad continued to play it casually, even as he zeroed in on every movement Bastian made.

"I'll get to the point," the man said. "I hate to do this, but Brigit, I have to ask. Have you heard from him?"

Her face paled. She took the other seat across from Michael, shooting him a glance across the desk. "I haven't spoken to Truman since it all went down."

"He ditched his phone at the reception,” Conrad said from behind them.

Any good spy would. Flynn knew it, Michael knew it, Bastian knew it.

Ian swiveled to glance at him. “From what we can tell, Ms. Grant doesn’t own one. But”—he met Brigit's eyes and leaned toward her—“if he's going to contact anyone, I think it will be you."

"I wish that were true,” she said, completely convincingly. "Unfortunately, he and I are not as close as we used to be. With me moving here and his continued undercover work, we've barely spoken in the past year. "

Bastian sized her up, offering a friendly smile. "I was afraid of that. When he spoke to you at the reception, did he seem normal? Did he mention being in the States for any reason other than to attend your party?"

"He was the same Truman I've always known, teasing me about my clothing. He told us he was going to spend his time at the hotel pool reading.”

Bastian nodded. “You didn't pick up on anything off about his bearing or personality? He obviously meant to do more than spend time lounging at the pool.”

Michael bristled. Why did it sound as if Bastian was suggesting Brigit had missed something in her brief conversation with Truman that should have been a red flag?

She shook her head, either not noticing the insinuation or ignoring it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

"He didn't mention his current assignment?"

Michael felt something inside him snap to attention. Across the way, Conrad sat taller.

"What assignment?" Michael asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say.” Bastian gave him a knowing look that spies and law enforcement understood. "I'm not supposed to know about it, in fact. A contact back in England shared it in confidence with me. I don’t know the details, but I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on it."

Brigit glanced at him. Michael shook his head. Whatever it was, he was going to find out, and he was pleased to see Conrad already pulling out his phone and shooting off a text. Probably to Del, their tech guru, who was so much more than an office minion or common hacker. "I can assure you we haven't been apprised of any mission that Gunn might've been on."

Bastian stood and buttoned his jacket, nodding. "I should get going. I've already bothered you enough." He took Brigit’s hand as she rose as well. “If he should reach out to you, you'll let me know?"

She gave an ardent nod. “Yes, of course. Let me show you out.”

The moment they disappeared from view, Conrad left the sofa and began running his hands along the sides and seat of the chair Bastian had occupied.

“What are you doing?" Julia asked.

He shushed her and used his phone’s flashlight to eyeball the chair. Michael stood and leaned over the desk to watch. If there was one thing Conrad was good at, it was espionage. Because of that, he was equally as good at detecting it when it was being used against them.

To Michael’s ire, he detached something from the crease between the cushion and main frame and held it up. Michael left the desk and grabbed Conrad’s cell to hold the light on it.

What he saw made his gut tighten and his already overactive anger rise like lava in a volcano, ready to explode. A micro pellet with nearly invisible Velcro-like prongs that could easily attach to any fabric stared back at him like an alien eyeball.

Damn it all to hell. Brigit’s friend and Truman’s mentor, the illustrious Ian Bastian, had just bugged his office.