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Hoover Building

Criminal Apprehension Unit

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday

Information moved at the speed of light in the Hoover Building. Agents in the CAU, and most outside it, soon knew the whole case history of Special Agent Wilson Ballou, who’d disappeared on June 7, 1978. It was thought his wife, Cynthia Ballou, or her assumed lover murdered and buried him somewhere, but there was no physical evidence and so she’d skated. She’d later remarried, birthed three children with him, and the son by Wilson Ballou made four, all grown now, with children of their own. When Agent Roman Foxe called Cynthia Ballou, now Hendricks, after Ballou’s body was found, she repeated what she’d said many years ago—she’d told Ballou she was divorcing him and he’d said that was her problem because he was about to get rich. She thought he’d been involved with criminals for some time, tried to take money from them, and they’d killed him for it. No one had believed her at the time. Agent Foxe told her about the safe-deposit key they’d found in his shoe, and did she know the bank? She said she had no idea what he was talking about.

Sherlock was wondering about a connection to a diamond heist in Amsterdam that year when she felt a feather-light kick. She laid her palm against her belly and smiled. “Awake and ready to salsa, are you? Going to be a while yet before I can dance with you.” Her pants waist was soft and stretchy, her jeans history as of three weeks ago. She still wore her signature white shirts, but no longer tucked in, nor was her Glock clipped to her waist. She wore a soft, lightweight shoulder holster now. She was thankful she hadn’t thrown up once so far, hadn’t felt a moment of nausea. Boy or girl, this one had decided not to torture its mother. Sean was all for a brother, but Marty, his next-door neighbor and best friend forever, wanted a girl so the two of them could gang up on Sean. Sean insisted his terrier, Astro, also wanted a boy.

Sherlock studied her face, said slowly as she rose, “Yes, I recognize you. You’re Lady Elizabeth Palmer. I’m Agent Sherlock.”

Elizabeth sat in the comfortable chair beside Sherlock’s desk, crossed her legs. She said simply, “I’m sure the story didn’t travel here across the pond, but three months ago I was attacked three times in London over the course of a couple of days. I managed to survive with only a knife wound, but my parents and I did a good deal of talking and planning while I was in hospital. We agreed it would be safest for me to disappear for a time, while we gave MI5 the opportunity to investigate and, we hoped, make arrests. We decided to give them three months, and I knew my father would see to it they kept the investigation a priority.” She leaned closer. “I used a doctored passport and flew to the United States on a commercial jet to make sure no one could track me here. I’d contacted a man who specializes in teaching people, mostly business executives, how to protect themselves when they have to travel to foreign climes that might be dangerous, places where there is little rule of law and someone might try to take them for ransom, such as Haiti or Venezuela. The second benefit was he’s located in an isolated spot with little outside communication.”

Sherlock cocked her head to the side again, sending her curly hair over her cheek. “You mean Hurley Janklov’s setup near Porterville?”

Sherlock felt a rush of excitement, managed a grin. “I think we can overlook your, ah, doctored passport, given what you faced and your excellent motives. And Hurley’s right if someone wants you dead, you’ll be killed unless you find them and stop them first.” She paused, took Elizabeth’s hand in hers, again felt the calluses, the strength. “Yes, I’ll do my very best to help you. First off, I’ll need every detail you can give me, and everything MI5 has found. We’ll contact them, ask for their support.”

Elizabeth said, “I did hear talk it was Mr. Eiserly who spotted Bahar Zain at St. Paul’s, but he never said anything about it to me. A bit of British reticence, I suppose. I rang Mr. Eiserly on what you Yanks call a burner phone, assured him I was all right. He apologized, but I knew he couldn’t promise there’d be no more attempts on my life. He didn’t urge me to come home. I told him I’d come home when he saw to it the people who attacked me were in prison or dead. I told him I wouldn’t put any more of his officers protecting me in danger. The first MI5 officer assigned to guard me—” She paused, swallowed hard. “Two men broke into my house, disabled the alarm. I heard a creaking stair only a minute before they pushed into my bedroom. Benny heard me yell out and ran to me in time to help me. One of the men threw a knife into his chest.” Elizabeth’s voice caught. “Benny could easily have died because of me. He’s still recuperating. When I called him, he was like a Greek chorus, telling me to stay hidden until they found out who was behind this.”

Goldie said in her no-nonsense voice, “Oh, yes, now I remember her name, Sherlock. What is this about?”

“Right now we don’t know much of anything. Can Mr. Maitland fit us in?”

“I can shuffle things around. Bring her up now, Sherlock. Goodness, I can’t wait to meet a real live English aristocrat.”

“Good. The fewer people who know where you are, the better. Where are you staying?”

“Hurley called a car service and they picked me up in Claxson and brought me here. I haven’t booked a room anywhere.” She smiled—a lovely smile, Sherlock thought—and added, “I’ll rent a car here. Don’t worry about my driving. Hurley taught me to drive on the wrong side of the road in his big F-150, so I’m not a danger, even in your awesome traffic tangles that look to be nearly as bad as London’s.”

Elizabeth wasn’t surprised he knew who she was. “Thank you, Agent Savich. Please don’t call John just yet. Please.”

Savich eyed her closely and slowly nodded.