Sherlock gave him a fat smile. “Imagine, sir, three months with Hurley and she’s still alive to tell us about it.”
Mr. Maitland laughed. He knew Hurley Janklov, retired from both the special forces and as a trainer at Quantico. “I know firsthand what Hurley can do. I’ve seen him toss champion fighters around and walk away whistling. Like Sherlock, Lady Elizabeth, I applaud you.”
He was looking at her with a warm, reassuring smile, like her father’s. She’d been studying him closely as she told her story, her stomach churning and her anxiety threatening to sink her, because she knew this man held her future in his hands. His position, she knew, was like that of John Eiserly’s boss at MI5. She’d impressed him? She said, “I barely made it, sir. For the first couple of weeks, I didn’t think I would survive. Whenever I curled up on the ground and prayed for death, Hurley would come down on his knees beside me and whisper in my ear, ‘Come on, Liz, show me some grit.’” She shook her head. “And so I did, because there was really no choice.” She paused, gave him a crooked smile. “But you know, sir, there were times I really wanted to punch him. Or shoot him.”
Everyone laughed. Looking at her, Mr. Maitland thoughtshe’d found her grit just fine. Still, he’d call Hurley, get his opinion of her.
Elizabeth’s chin went up. “Hurley did end up saying he was surprised a fancy-assed white-faced Brit would turn out to be a brick. It sounded like a compliment, but I wasn’t sure.”
Mr. Maitland said, “Hurley really said you were a brick? Here’s the truth—that’s his highest compliment. Well, except for what he called Sherlock here. Hurley called her a goddess.”
Sherlock laughed. “Goddess of what, I wonder.”
Mr. Maitland said, “As for you, Savich, Hurley kept threatening to get in the ring with you.”
Savich grinned. “When I feel like having a couple of bones broken, I’ll give him a call.”
Mr. Maitland turned back to Elizabeth. “And what do you have in mind? Tell me how you think we can help you.”
Elizabeth sat forward in her chair, hands fisted on the tabletop. “Since it was Sherlock who killed Basara at your Lincoln Memorial, I hoped she would help stop whoever is behind this from killing me.”
There was silence for a long moment, as Mr. Maitland looked first at her, then over at Savich and Sherlock, and down at the pen he was weaving through his fingers. Elizabeth tried not to fidget, but she prayed this man would agree to help her. In what seemed like an eternity of silence, she stared at a photo on his desk of his family—four young men, his sons, she imagined, all as big as their father, and the small light-haired woman they surrounded.
She glanced over at Savich and Sherlock and felt a stab of envy. Would she ever feel as close to anyone as they appeared to be? What were they thinking? Their expressions gave nothing away. They were waiting to hear what their boss would say.
Mr. Maitland knew in his gut if he decided not to involve the FBI in this British mess, Savich and Sherlock would help her anyway. Then there was the fact he wasn’t sure how his Brit counterpart, Sir James Hanson of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, would take their getting involved. They’d worked closely together before, so maybe he wouldn’t get bent out of shape. He wanted to shake his head at himself—of course he wanted to protect this young woman. Her only mistake had been sleeping with an assassin and living to tell about it, then he was all in. And Sherlock’s taking down that assassin had gleaned great publicity for the FBI, a very nice bonus.
Still, he threw the ball in Sherlock’s court. “Since Lady Elizabeth came to you specifically for help, Sherlock, what do you recommend?”
Sherlock sat forward. “Sir, as you know, Dillon and John Eiserly, now deputy director of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, are good friends. They worked together to help find Basara, so I don’t expect any blowback from John if we get involved. He has local resources we obviously don’t have, and he has direct access to the major players who worked with Samir Basara, all of them in English prisons. I can’t say how his director will react, but I think you could easily handle any concerns he might have.” Was that laying it on too thick? “As I said, I don’t think this is about revenge, I think it’s about something else. With John’s help, we can find out exactly what that is.”
Mr. Maitland turned to Savich, raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.
Savich said without hesitation, “I agree with Sherlock. Elizabeth can stay with us for now, hopefully keep her off their radar.” He looked at Elizabeth. “I’m willing to bet John Eiserly already knows where you’ve been. I know you tried to cover your tracks, but we can’t know for sure whether anyone else has traced you, only that they didn’t come after you in Maryland. Either they couldn’t find you, or it no longer fit their plans.”
Sherlock said, “Or they know about Hurley Janklov and knew that was a no-go.”
Savich said, “That’s the truth. Now, if they discover, Elizabeth, you’ve come to the FBI for help, their plans might change. We’ll need to control what they know and when they know it. We don’t want them attacking you in the middle of Dupont Circle.”
Elizabeth looked at each face, said slowly, “Do you think you can use me as bait?”
Sherlock took her hand, squeezed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If we can find out who they are or who they’ve hired, we can take them in immediately if they enter the country. Above all, we want to keep you protected. Dillon, what do you think of assigning Rome Foxe to stay with her?”
Mr. Maitland said, “Foxe? He’s fairly new to the CAU, isn’t he?”
Savich said, “True. Rome’s still feeling his way in the unit, but he’s smart and he’s resourceful.”
“So you want to throw him in the deep end, let him prove himself?”
“I think he’ll do fine, sir.” He didn’t add that he wondered how well Special Agent Roman Foxe, the only son of a police captain who ran the detectives out of New York City’s nineteenth precinct, would get along with an English aristocrat.
Mr. Maitland tapped his pen on the tabletop, a longtime habit, and slowly nodded. “All right.” He arched an eyebrow at Sherlock as he said smoothly, “I’ll call Sir James Hanson, make sure he’s on board or at least willing to cooperate. Savich, it’s up to you to see what John Eiserly can do for us. It is possible Eiserly will ask us to send you back to London, Lady Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth rose straight up, leaned forward, and planted her palms on the conference table. “I won’t go back, sir. I can’t, not until this is over. I came here because of Sherlock. She’sHurley’s goddess. I want her to be my goddess too. She’ll help me take care of these insane nutters.” Her chin went up. “You can’t kick me out, I’ll claim asylum. And please, call me just plain Elizabeth. After all, we’re here in the United States.”
Mr. Maitland knew she was scared. He was impressed how she was trying to hide her fear behind a rather well-done rant. He smiled. “All right, Elizabeth. Savich will make your feelings clear to Eiserly, and I’ll make them equally clear to Hanson.” He rose, shook Elizabeth’s hand. “Savich, Sherlock, get this figured out and keep me in the loop. I believe we’re done here, folks.”
Sherlock lightly touched her fingertips to Elizabeth’s arm as they walked past Goldie, Mr. Maitland’s own personal dragon. She actually smiled at Elizabeth. Sherlock said, “It’s past time for lunch and the baby and I are starving for a taco. What do you say, Elizabeth? You hungry?”
