Where the Heart Chooses (34 page)

I poured and handed him the cup, amused to
see the delicate china almost engulfed in his big hand.

“Thank you, ma’am. With a little milk,
please?”

The last time he’d been here, he’d taken it
plain. “Did Quinton tell you that’s the way he likes to take Earl
Grey?”

He gave me an easy smile. “Your son and I
don’t make a habit of talking about tea, ma’am.”

“What do you talk about, if you don’t mind
my asking?”

“I don’t understand why you think Quinn—why
you think your son and I would have anything to talk about.”

“Come, come, Mr. Vincent. I am quite aware
that you have been living in Quinton’s townhouse for some time
now.”

“You’re under a misapprehension, ma’am. I
have my own apartment.”

I wanted to smack him. “Have you and my son
broken up again? When I told him he should be the one doing the
discarding, his doing a vanishing act was certainly not what I
meant!”

He’d taken a sip of tea, but now he started
to cough, and it spewed out of his mouth. I offered him a napkin,
and he blotted the moisture from his mouth and hand.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mann. I have no idea what
you’re talking about.”

“Quinton was not pleased when you ran off to
Cape Cod in March.” As a matter of fact, I couldn’t recall seeing
him quite so troubled. “I’d hoped you had ironed out your
differences.”

“I didn’t run off! I had a fu—” His face
turned red as he endeavored to hold back the word. “Excuse me, a
funeral to go to.”

I found it interesting that Mark Vincent, in
spite of being the man he was, also tried to shield my ears from
profane language. “I’m so sorry, Mark. Someone with whom you were
close?”

“No. It was just my old lady.” He said it so
casually that I had the impression they had been estranged for a
long time.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I repeated.

“I’m the one who’s sorry. Mrs. Mann, not
every mother can be like you. You did a fantastic job raising your
son. Quinn loves you very much.” He scowled once again and put down
his cup and saucer before surging to his feet. “Please let me deal
with this, ma’am. This is what I do. And if anything happened to
you, Quinn would come after whoever let it happen with that Smith
& Wesson he favors and blow very big holes in them.”

“Including you, Mark?” I could tell from the
look in his eyes that he would expect nothing less. I rose as well.
“Very well. However, if I haven’t heard from either you or Quinton
within the next forty-eight hours, I
will
come after you.
Deciphering codes for the Venona Project was not all I did before I
married Nigel Mann.”

I extended my hand, and he took it, but when
he would have released it, I refused to let him go.

“He’s WBIS, Portia!” Gregor was upset. “How
can you trust him?”

“In this case, I think there’s no question
of me not trusting him.” Certain I’d gotten my point across to the
man standing before me, I let his hand go. “Please sit and finish
your tea.”

He sat and tried one of the sandwiches. “You
made this, Novotny? It’s good!”

“I should have put arsenic in it!”

Mark curled his lip at Gregor, and I raised
my cup, using the action to conceal my amusement. After I’d taken a
sip, however, I said, “I have one request, Mark.”

“Other than that I find your son,
ma’am?”

“Yes.” I was willing to make a bargain with
the devil if it would see my son returned safely and in one piece,
but oddly enough, I trusted him to do as he vowed. “Stop calling me
‘ma’am’!”

* * * *

I contacted Monroe and told him I wanted him
to stand down for the time being.

“Ma’am—”

“I’ll let you know within the next two days
if the trip to Europe is going to be necessary.”

“We’re wasting time!”

“Have you made any headway in discovering
where my son is?”

“Well…no.”

“All right. Continue looking for the
location of Prinzip. Meanwhile, I’m taking responsibility for this,
Mr. Monroe. I’ll be in touch.”

Within three hours, Jefferson and Ludovic
arrived, and I gazed at Gregor reproachfully.

“He’s
Vincent
, Portia! He’s
WBIS
! And the surveillance tape was blanked
again
!”

“Are you out of your mind, Portia? Gregor is
right. The man is dangerous!” Jefferson paused in his tirade to
kiss my cheek. “Bryan and Tony will be here as soon as they can get
a flight out of LAX.”

“What can I do to help?” Ludovic murmured as
he also kissed me.

“Nothing, I’m not out of my mind, and there
really isn’t any need for them to fly out here.”

“Of course there is. Quinn is our only
nephew—”

“And may I remind you who it was who
encouraged him to join the CIA?”

That made Jefferson uncomfortable, and he
actually fidgeted for a moment before rallying. “But to get Mark
Vincent involved—”

“I did not get him involved, Jefferson. He
did that entirely on his own.”

“And you’re going to let him try to find
Quinn?”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of
letting
him
.” And I prayed to God it wouldn’t be a matter of
“trying.”

“Monroe would have done the job.”

“Benjamin Monroe told me it could take as
much as a week. Mark Vincent promised me forty-eight hours at most.
Not to take anything away from your man, Jefferson, but Quinton
doesn’t need good, he needs the best.”

“Okay, fine. But I’m telling Ben to stay on
standby, and if you haven’t heard anything from Vincent by
tomorrow, we’re going in to get Quinn out ourselves!”

“Jefferson, I’m not in my dotage. I already
told Mr. Monroe that.”

He kicked the leg of a table, and I
sighed.

* * * *

Five hours later, Tony and Bryan put in an
appearance as well.

“You really didn’t have to interrupt your
honeymoon, Tony.”

He cleared his throat. “Family always comes
first.”

But Cara Mia was his family now. I let the
subject drop.

“Gregor, why don’t you put together
something light?” I suggested. “Whoever wants to eat can help
himself.”

This was a repetition of the time Jefferson
had been missing, but because it was my son, it felt even
worse.

I didn’t sleep—how could I, knowing that in
spite of Mark Vincent’s easy confidence, Quinton could well be
dying? Instead, I made a long-distance phone call to a Surrey
address, only to learn that Folana was out of the country, so I
left her a message. Then I made sure I was packed, in case we did
have to leave, and repeatedly paced the length of Nigel’s
study.

* * * *

Within twenty-four hours I received a phone
call from Quinton, and my knees threatened to buckle beneath me
from the relief.

“I promise you I’m fine, Mother. I should be
home tomorrow.”

“I’m so very glad to hear that, Quinton.” I
wondered how much I could believe those words, and he must have
heard that in my voice.

“Truly, I’m just a little tired. I’m so
sorry you had to worry.” No doubt he remembered that weekend in
1980, when we’d waited to hear Jefferson’s fate. “Barring any
unforeseen circumstances, I’ll see you for our ride on Sunday.”

“Certainly. And perhaps you can persuade
your friend to join us?” I wanted to express my gratitude to Mark
Vincent in person.

“Uh…” He sounded a little nonplussed. Oh,
dear. They hadn’t broken up again, had they? But of course I
couldn’t ask him over an unsecured line.

“Get some rest.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too. Good-bye.”

Making sure all signs of tears were gone, I
went to find my family.

Tony looked up sharply, and then something
in his bearing relaxed. “Quinton’s all right?”

I nodded. “He’s all right. He’ll be home
within another twenty-four hours.”

“Y’see? I knew it!”

“Yes, Gregor.”

“And he didn’t really need Vincent to get
him out of it, did he?”

“Quinton couldn’t go into details,
but…within the timeframe Mark set, Quinton has been freed. So. What
do you think?”

“I think I’m going to make some coffee.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Tony said. “We’ll
come give you a hand.”

I knew Gregor and my brothers. What they
were actually going to do was find some privacy to swear.

I went up to my bedroom, and after placing
another long-distance phone call—and again I had to leave a
message—I did a little swearing of my own before I lay down and
slept for twenty hours.

* * * *

I woke to all hell breaking loose in my
home. I belted on the long, blue silk robe Alyona had had made for
me for my last birthday and went down to the kitchen.

Bryan noticed me standing in the doorway,
and he got a cup, filled it with coffee, and handed it to me.
“Sorry we woke you.”

“Thank you.” I added cream and sugar and
took a cautious sip. “What’s going on?”

“Vincent called,” Gregor snarled.

My heart clenched. “What’s wrong?”

“Apparently Quinn was more battered than he
let on. Vincent said he’s keeping him in Paris for another
twenty-four hours.” Tony refilled his coffee cup.

“Yeah, well, I say we fly to Paris, just to
make sure Vincent isn’t keeping him there under duress.”

“Gregor, why would he do that?”

“How the hell should I know? He’s Vincent!
He does whatever the hell he wants!”

I patted Gregor’s shoulder, amused not only
by his language, but also by the fact that no one called him on it.
“By the time we got a flight out and reached Paris, Quinton would
be ready to come home. I know you have his best interests at heart,
but it would be a waste of time and resources. Now, if you’ve got
nothing better to do, go visit Langley and harass Holmes. I’m going
back to bed.”

* * * *

Mark called on the thirty-first. “I’m
bringing Quinn home. Air France.” He gave me the flight number.
“Scheduled arrival at Dulles is at three. Make sure you check that
it’s on time.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there.”

“Okay. I gotta go. Quinn’s trying to shave,
and all I could find was a straight razor. If I don’t keep an eye
on him, he’ll wind up cutting his throat.”

“
I heard that!”
my son’s voice called
in the background.

“Aren’t you supposed to be shaving? Get it
in gear, Mann, or you’re walking home. Bye, ma’am.”

I hung up, smiling and shaking my head.

“Well?” Tony demanded.

I repeated the information Mark had given
me.

“We’re coming with you.”

“Fine.”

* * * *

For all their insistence on accompanying me
to the airport, once we got there, things changed.

“We’re going to wait in Harry’s Tap Room,
Portia.”

“Why?”

“We…uh…we thought you might like a little
time alone with Quinn.”

“Well…thank you.” I was taken aback by that.
Usually Tony and Jefferson had no problem interfering in my
personal life, although Bryan, possibly because of what had gone on
in his marriage, tended to be more circumspect about it. At that
moment, none of them, with the exception of Ludovic, who simply
shrugged and smiled ruefully, could meet my eyes, and it occurred
to me that they were riddled with guilt for encouraging Quinton to
follow in their footsteps, in his father’s footsteps. “Thank
you.”

“I’m going with you, Portia.”

“Certainly, Gregor.” I didn’t ask what he
thought could happen to me in this airport. He was my bodyguard,
and staying with me was part of his job. And he’d want to see
Quinton.

We waited outside the Air France gate, and
as the number of passengers deplaning dwindled, I began to grow
worried. Quinton should have appeared by now.

And then he did, and I realized why he had
waited until the other passengers had left, no doubt the same
reason why he had probably boarded before them in Paris.

His face was bruised and had a grayish cast.
His left eye was no longer black, but it was fading to a sickly
greenish-yellow. He seemed to be favoring his right side, and he
looked gaunt, as if he’d lost a good deal of weight, but perhaps
that was because the suit he was wearing wasn’t the best fit. Had
it been bought off the rack?

And I chided myself for such a silly notion
at a time like this.

Mark Vincent was at his side, and if it had
been any other man, I would have said he was hovering.

Quinton stopped before me and gave me a
tired smile. “Hello, Mother. It’s good to see you.”

I embraced him carefully, afraid I might
hurt him. “It’s good to see you too, Quinton.” I stepped back,
letting Gregor greet him, and turned my attention to the man beside
my son. “Thank you. You promised to bring him back to me, and you
have.”

“Did you expect anything less?” He grinned,
smug and cocky, but I could see beyond that to the anger and the
stress. “I am the best, y’ know.”

“Yes, you are.” I added coldly, “I hope the
men responsible for this have paid for it.”

His grin vanished, and he scowled at
Quinton. “Yeah. They’re dead.”

Hearing Mark’s words, my son glanced over
his shoulder and brushed the hair back off his forehead,
inadvertently revealing another bruise at his temple. He returned
to stand beside Mark and leaned against him. “I took care of
them.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Well, I’m not. That was
my
job! They
beat the crap out of him, and he—
what
?” he demanded in
irritation. Quinton was frowning at him.

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Mark.”

“Think I don’t know that?” He sounded
furious, but the expression in his eyes was pure worry. “But—” He
shut up, and I realized my son must have sent him a silent command.
“Uh…yeah.”

“Your uncles are here, Quinton. Mark,
they’ll want to thank you.”