Power Play
Page 118
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Sherlock wondered how Nicholas would keep focused and adjust to life in New York with an English butler at home waiting to hand him tenderly into his smoking jacket. He’d been immured for four months in this vast American complex called Quantico, wearing khaki and dark blue polo shirts. She bet the thought of it made the fastidious Nigel shudder. She wondered if in the distant future, when Nicholas became the Baron de Vesci, he’d remain in the FBI. Who knew? She’d learned never to second-guess life. She looked over at Davis and Perry, who sat close by, holding hands, speaking quietly. She’d heard Davis say before they’d sat down in the auditorium, “I can’t wait to see how the Brit fits in with those crazy cowboys in the New York Field Office.” And he’d added to Perry, “Savich’s dad had a wild rep back in the day.”
Savich took Sean’s hand when a hush came over the more than five hundred people in attendance, families and friends, husbands and wives and children of all the FBI graduates. The air was electric, everyone was excited, including Sean, waiting for the new agents to come down the aisle and take their seats.
When the forty-eight new agents filed in, straight-backed and serious, their eyes so bright they lit up the auditorium, families pointed and waved, children called out and applause rang out, loud and sustained.
Savich glanced at Nigel as he watched Nicholas confidently stride in with the other graduating agents, looking happy and smart in the lovely suit Nigel had prepared for him. Nicholas turned and nodded to all of them, never breaking stride. Savich squeezed Sean’s hand to keep him quiet. He heard Sean whisper to his lordship, “There he is, sir, there he is. Do you think he’ll be like my papa someday?” Sean shook his head. “No, that’s impossible.”
Savich wondered if someday Sean would be in this auditorium waiting to be named a newly minted special agent of the FBI and asking himself that same question. It was a sobering thought.
The dark blue curtains remained closed on the stage. After a short pause, the curtains opened upon a dozen people sitting on stage, among them Mr. Comey, director of the FBI; the chaplain; the class supervisor; and the special guests. One of the guests was Nicholas’s uncle Bo Horsley, once the SAC of the New York Field Office. Bo looked very pleased with himself, Sherlock thought. As for the old baron, he was staring at Bo like he was the unprincipled marauder who’d seduced his grandson away from England.
The MC was the assistant director of training, McCauley Mitchell, a man Savich knew would be sharp and smooth and funny. Graduating special agents had to be one of his favorite duties, judging by how he introduced guests, counselors, then the class spokesperson. Following a brief silence, the director of the FBI walked to the lectern, tall and serious, a small smile playing on his mouth as he looked down from the stage to the new agents. He nodded. “Will the graduating class please stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me—” He administered the oath of office and said, “Congratulations, you are now special agents of the FBI.”
The applause was loud and long, and Sean tried to whistle through his teeth.
When Nicholas was presented with the top academic award, Sean’s cheer was loud and clear. “Yea, Nicholas! My mama was the top shooter! She’s right here!”
There were belly laughs from the stage, a few craning heads, and applause. Sherlock rolled her eyes and shook her head at her son.
When Nicholas’s name was called, it was his uncle Bo Horsley who presented him with his badge and credentials from the small wooden cred holder, hugged him, gave him a big smile, and announced into the mike: “Nicholas Drummond—New York.”
The FBI chaplin gave the benediction, and the assistant director of Training announced that photos would be taken and cake and punch would be served in the Hall of Honor. “I hope it’s chocolate,” Sherlock heard Sean tell the baron.
Outside the main auditorium, they watched Nicholas pick up his mother, whirl her around, and give her a big kiss. He shook his father’s hand, clapped Nigel on the shoulder, and turned to his grandfather. “I’m honored you came, sir. Isn’t this a phenomenal place?”
The baron said grudgingly, “The oatmeal at the hotel wasn’t bad,” then he drew Nicholas tightly to him. “I’m proud of you,” the old man said.
The two men were of a height, Savich thought, and both were impressive. One with a long, rich tapestry of a life behind him and the other, well, from what he knew about Nicholas Drummond’s background in the Foreign Service, he’d already lived enough for two lives, and now he was embarking on a new one.
Savich took Sean’s hand when a hush came over the more than five hundred people in attendance, families and friends, husbands and wives and children of all the FBI graduates. The air was electric, everyone was excited, including Sean, waiting for the new agents to come down the aisle and take their seats.
When the forty-eight new agents filed in, straight-backed and serious, their eyes so bright they lit up the auditorium, families pointed and waved, children called out and applause rang out, loud and sustained.
Savich glanced at Nigel as he watched Nicholas confidently stride in with the other graduating agents, looking happy and smart in the lovely suit Nigel had prepared for him. Nicholas turned and nodded to all of them, never breaking stride. Savich squeezed Sean’s hand to keep him quiet. He heard Sean whisper to his lordship, “There he is, sir, there he is. Do you think he’ll be like my papa someday?” Sean shook his head. “No, that’s impossible.”
Savich wondered if someday Sean would be in this auditorium waiting to be named a newly minted special agent of the FBI and asking himself that same question. It was a sobering thought.
The dark blue curtains remained closed on the stage. After a short pause, the curtains opened upon a dozen people sitting on stage, among them Mr. Comey, director of the FBI; the chaplain; the class supervisor; and the special guests. One of the guests was Nicholas’s uncle Bo Horsley, once the SAC of the New York Field Office. Bo looked very pleased with himself, Sherlock thought. As for the old baron, he was staring at Bo like he was the unprincipled marauder who’d seduced his grandson away from England.
The MC was the assistant director of training, McCauley Mitchell, a man Savich knew would be sharp and smooth and funny. Graduating special agents had to be one of his favorite duties, judging by how he introduced guests, counselors, then the class spokesperson. Following a brief silence, the director of the FBI walked to the lectern, tall and serious, a small smile playing on his mouth as he looked down from the stage to the new agents. He nodded. “Will the graduating class please stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me—” He administered the oath of office and said, “Congratulations, you are now special agents of the FBI.”
The applause was loud and long, and Sean tried to whistle through his teeth.
When Nicholas was presented with the top academic award, Sean’s cheer was loud and clear. “Yea, Nicholas! My mama was the top shooter! She’s right here!”
There were belly laughs from the stage, a few craning heads, and applause. Sherlock rolled her eyes and shook her head at her son.
When Nicholas’s name was called, it was his uncle Bo Horsley who presented him with his badge and credentials from the small wooden cred holder, hugged him, gave him a big smile, and announced into the mike: “Nicholas Drummond—New York.”
The FBI chaplin gave the benediction, and the assistant director of Training announced that photos would be taken and cake and punch would be served in the Hall of Honor. “I hope it’s chocolate,” Sherlock heard Sean tell the baron.
Outside the main auditorium, they watched Nicholas pick up his mother, whirl her around, and give her a big kiss. He shook his father’s hand, clapped Nigel on the shoulder, and turned to his grandfather. “I’m honored you came, sir. Isn’t this a phenomenal place?”
The baron said grudgingly, “The oatmeal at the hotel wasn’t bad,” then he drew Nicholas tightly to him. “I’m proud of you,” the old man said.
The two men were of a height, Savich thought, and both were impressive. One with a long, rich tapestry of a life behind him and the other, well, from what he knew about Nicholas Drummond’s background in the Foreign Service, he’d already lived enough for two lives, and now he was embarking on a new one.
