Chapter Eighteen

Nomad

Growing up, Nomad's unusual childhood exposed him to a plethora of languages that he tucked under his belt—some more fluent and others more at a survival level—he thought that was probably why his commanders tapped him for Delta Force assessment.

Born Algernon Leeland Kesling—yeah, that was a mouthful—Nomad renamed himself when he was in high school.

Moving from country to country, embassy to embassy had been a life he'd liked.

Nomad's father's work meant he often took off at a moment's notice, sometimes for extended periods. His dad was unreliable when it came to a presence in his life but was never undependable with his love and concern.

His parents' devotion to each other, him, and his twin brother was probably why being a nomad was adventurous instead of disorienting.

It had been like having family scattered around the world to have his parents in the diplomatic (or so he'd thought) profession.

Nomad's last assignment - providing close protection to the group of legislators in Türkiye - felt like old home week. It had been 30ish years, but he knew the woman who sat in the front room. She used to sneak him pieces of candy, and she'd bring her pet rabbit for him to play with. Nomad knew that she wouldn't remember him—after all, he'd been five years old at the time—but Nomad looked enough like his dad that he could tell she was trying to place him.

Nomad had noticed that front-room assistants at the various embassies had a remarkable knack for remembering names and faces. Knowing it would continue to bother her, Nomad had decided to reintroduce himself before the team left to fly back to the United States.

As Robert Burns observed, "The best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry."

Plan B: Nomad's mother kept copious notes about people and connections. He'd call her and get the right name and home address to send the lady a note with his memories of her kindness to a young kid.

Having added that task to his mental to-do list, when Nomad made the DIA-sanctioned call to ask his mom for help getting into the ball, Nomad had decided to lead with Ankara since they weren't on a secure line, and he couldn't just say what he wanted to say.

He talked about missing the embassy life and the fun he'd had going to the balls to dance. She'd know that was bunk. But his mom could read between the lines.

The conversation wended lazily into the "Hey, by the way …"

And by the end of their call, Nomad had concluded that his mom would find some way to get him into that ball, even if it meant he was going in as catering staff. Of this, Nomad had no doubt. But the means to that entree wasn't tip of the tongue; his mom would have to make some calls.

"Love you, Mom. And thanks for this."

"Yes, all right. But I'm extracting a price. I want to see you for your birthday this year."

"If it's in my power, I'll be there," Nomad promised. "But with my job, I never know. You remember this from Dad, right? The apple and the tree thing?"

"I appreciate your trying. Okay, lovebug, let me get going on this. I'm six hours behind you. People in Europe will go to bed soon."

Later that night, a message dropped: Frau Leitner, high tea at 16h tomorrow (Friday). And the address.

Landing in Vienna that Friday morning. Nomad set off on his mission development tasks. He had about thirty-six hours before the ball. So far, he'd been to the tailor to have his tails properly fitted and shoes purchased. There were little details, the correct cuff links, and pocket litter he needed to gather. Even if he ended up sneaking into the manor house—now used as a venue for weddings, galas, and receptions—he'd still need to transform himself into a persona that might entice Elena Sava onto a yacht.

Nomad drove a high-dollar sports car past the Viennese American Embassy on his way to Frau Leitner's house. Unfortunately, few luxury car options were left with all the glitterati coming into the city for the ball. Yes, the car fit the profile he'd be trying to sell. But whoever rented this car didn't truly understand the concept of six foot six. Once Nomad had wedged himself in, he realized how little flexibility he had in the driver's seat. Even with a powerful engine, there would be no tactical driving possible in this thing.

Fortunately for him, none would be needed.

As Nomad drove toward the high tea, he was surprised that he knew exactly where he was. He'd been in this city as a seventeen- and an eighteen-year-old, one of their family's longer stays anywhere. For the first time, he and his brother had left their parents when it had typically been the other way around. Returning to the States, Nomad showed up for boot camp and his brother for university orientation.

But now, Nomad was back in the world of diplomacy.

His adult life had been shaped by the lessons he'd been conscientiously taught and those he'd absorbed from the atmosphere. Nomad had spent his formative years listening to and learning about the intricacies of peace and friendship, of maintaining relationships when the outcomes were precarious. He'd learned to listen carefully to the music that was playing and to match his steps to it, like the ballroom classes his mom had insisted her sons not just take but excel at.

Nomad and his brother hated those classes and rebelled against them until they eventually figured out that girls had been put into dance classes to become ballerinas when they were two. It was rude for parents to prepare their daughters for the mating dances that happen worldwide during adolescence but not equip their sons similarly. The girls had been beautiful and graceful and mightily put out when the boys, new to their fast-growing feet and gangly limbs, stepped on toes already pinched by the girls' first high heels.

Awkward just by age and that flush of new hormones – squeaking voices and sweaty palms and now thrust out onto a dance floor to socialize and make their cases for being good boyfriends? It was a lot.

And that was when Nomad and his twin learned that their ease on the dance floor was a commodity. Their skill sought after.

Nomad wasn't sure if he or his brother ever thanked their mother for their dating success. And sure, he'd admit, he and his twin were both athletic, top of their classes, they had attributes that played in their favor. But so did other guys in their class. The Kesling brothers' ability to dance won them a cloud of butterfly girls.

He should tell his mom he was grateful.

For a lot.

He knew that any time he needed her, she would be there for him. There was never a single doubt in his mind that was also true for his brother and dad. And once again, Nomad wondered what it would be like to have the support of a loving partner like his dad had found. Nomad wanted to experience that, too, but his mom was one in a million.

And while Nomad was open to loving deeply and all that went with it—the joys and the sacrifices—he had never met anyone who had sparked anything like those emotions in him.

His mind shifted to Lebanon. The last time he was in a vehicle, he was cradling Red. He hoped she made it. Hoped she was alive.

That mission was in his rearview, Nomad thought as he struggled to get his feet onto the correct pedals to parallel park with a stick shift grinding into his thigh and the steering wheel between his knees.

Now, here he was, outside of his mom's "dear Viennese friend's" mansion, walking up the marble steps to the elaborate front doors to say hello and share his mother's best wishes.

He knew his mom had already made a deal; this was performative.

A maid led Nomad to the salon, where afternoon tea was laid. An elegant woman with silver hair pulled back in a knot, perched behind the pot that Nomad thought would be too heavy for her to lift.

He sat and sipped tea from a teacup so delicate it was translucent. They spoke in niceties about the weather and books they had read. After a while, she angled her face and looked at him with a side-eye. Frau Leitner switched to impeccable English. "Young man, I'm sure you didn't mean to spend your day over tea with an old lady. How can I help you?"

Yes, she knew. She simply needed the conversation to take place.

"I'm going to be in town tomorrow when the Secret Order of the Raven's Gate Gala will be held. My parents fondly remember the time they attended. I'm wondering if you might know how I could get a ticket to join. I know it's last minute."

"Lovely that you should ask!" she responded. "And perfect timing. I plan to attend the ball this year and just got word that my escort broke his hip. I'm in need of a gallant arm. Shall you be my escort?"

"I'd be honored."

From her age, Nomad had to wonder if this woman had been a Cold War spy.

She knew something was up. She even went so far as to touch her nose and give him a knowing nod of the head.