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“I know the British loved their colonies, and some of us weren’t so keen on that idea, which caused a big tea shortage for a while.” She flashed him a smile that he couldn’t help returning. The biker librarian was pretty when she lighted up. She was smart, too, and quick, as witnessed by her skills in the garage last night.
He continued. “All the tribes and countries who possessed the diamond have fallen, and that’s why we Brits heed the warnings. We have no intention of following suit.”
Mike gave him a curious look. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“My great-grandfather, the sixth Baron de Vesci, was one of the last viceroys to India. The Koh-i-Noor was a favorite topic of his.”
She gave him a brooding look. “Am I supposed to be calling you Sir Nicholas?”
He laughed. “I have no honorary, Mike. My grandfather is the baron, and my father his heir. I’m simply DCI Nicholas Drummond. I have no real part in the family business.”
“But your father works for the Home Office, right? He wasn’t part of the family business, either. What is the family business?”
“Have you ever heard of Delphi Cosmetics?”
She glanced over at him. “You’re kidding.”
“My grandfather is eighty-six, and he still deals with the managing director every single day. He’s even let my mother in the door, despite her being a provincial American.”
“They make great lip gloss.”
He laughed.
“So no cosmetics for you. Did your granddad and your father approve of your becoming a spy?”
He smiled. “I guess Granddad thought it sounded swashbuckling, but my father knew the truth—Foreign Office operatives work in a dirty, nasty business, little trust from anyone, covert jobs that don’t always go as planned, that many times end in tragedy and—” He stopped talking. After a moment, he added, “Now I do what you do, which is far more rewarding.”
He could see she had more questions, but he didn’t want to answer. He was tired, had already talked too much.
49
Over the Atlantic Ocean
Friday morning
Once the FBI Gulfstream was hurtling east at four hundred fifty knots, Mike tucked herself into the big leather seat with a couple of pillows and blankets and fell asleep immediately. First some work, Nicholas thought, then he’d join her.
He hacked into the University of Edinburgh system and immediately found Browning’s records and another photo. Her limpid brown eyes smiled at him from underneath a brown fringe, all innocence and excitement. It was the face of a student ready to break the shackles of small-town Scotland and experience life in the big city. It was not the face of an international jewel thief. Again, he was struck at how very talented she was at presenting herself as someone she wasn’t, someone who didn’t exist.
He started digging. Ten minutes later, when he was at the point of admitting defeat, he saw a red flag. The electronic file had been created two years prior. While it was possible the university was simply bringing old records into the electronic age, Nicholas knew that wasn’t the situation here; he’d worked another case with a terror suspect who’d attended the University of Edinburgh, and all their alumni files had been online for at least four years.
Break one for the good guys.
He thought back to the conversation with Browning in the elevator of the Met, about art crimes. She’d claimed to work with the Museum Security Network and the Association for Research into Crimes Against Art.
It turned out that the Museum Security Network had an excellent firewall, but it wasn’t enough. A few clicks and he was into their records. Sure enough, Dr. Victoria Browning was on the rolls. He dug deeper, looking for the initial date of the file. There. Also two years prior.
The ARCA website also listed her as a member in good standing. As of two years ago.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his seat, thinking. Knowing what he’d continue to find. While she had an excellent identity on the surface—passport, license, all the identification would match—this particular Victoria Browning hadn’t existed before two years ago. And he was probably one of a small number of people who could discover this information. He was willing to concede that Savich was another. With the skills Browning had displayed, he was beginning to think she was on par with them. Possible, but she was turning into Wonder Woman. It was more likely she had someone else, someone close to her, a master hacker. Something else to explore, but not now.
He looked at the timeline he’d drawn up. The plan to steal the diamond had been in play for at least twenty-four months, if not longer. But according to Elaine, the Jewel of the Lion exhibit was only a year in the making.
He called a friend, Miles Herrington, who worked in the office of the queen’s private secretary at Buckingham Palace. Miles also had the dubious honor of being Hamish Penderley’s stepson. Nicholas trusted him to be discreet, both on the request, and also about not telling his father Nicholas had been in touch.
Miles answered immediately. “Drummond, you dog. Tell me you’ve found the Koh-i-Noor.”
“Not yet, Miles. I’m working on it.”
