The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

  “Thank you, Horne.”

  Then his father was on the line, and he knew exactly why Nicholas was calling.

  “Horne told me you’d already heard about Alfie,” Harry said. “I can’t believe it, Nicholas. It’s so sudden, there was no warning, no life-threatening illness that I knew about. I know he was getting on in years, but still, he was a tough old bird. He had a touch of rheumatism, the occasional attack of gout, but no heart trouble that I ever heard. Your mother has gone to Wembley Hall to be with Sylvie, and their grandchildren are coming home from their various overseas posts. We had to pull Anson off a submarine in the Balkans.”

  “If he wasn’t ill, then what do you think caused his death?”

  There was a pause, then his father said, “Are you on a secure line?”

  “Yes, I am. What’s happened?”

  “We believe it was murder.”

  “Inside Eleven Downing? That’s madness. Surely not.”

  “The medic from the Diplomatic Services spotted a mark on his neck, near the carotid artery, said it was made by a needle. Alfie’s body has been sent to the Coroner’s Court. The autopsy has been fast-tracked. They’ll test his blood, so we should know more by night’s end.”

  It was all unbelievable. Nicholas said, “But who could have done it? And why?”

  His father sighed, clearly exhausted, and Nicholas heard the weight of the world in that sigh. “We don’t know. The video feeds are being run, but so far no one who doesn’t belong there has been spotted.”

  “You know that means someone inside Eleven Downing Street.”

  “Yes, and the very idea makes my blood boil. You can trust we’ll get to the bottom of it, soon enough.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “I wish there was something, but there’s nothing you can do from New York. I will let you know what happens, but for now, please, do keep this quiet.”

  “But sir, I’ve got to—”

  His father interrupted him. “Nicholas, I’ve always admired how your first instinct is to right the wrong, and I’m proud of that. But for now, I’m going to insist you keep this to yourself. No one’s said a word about murder. It is at present a very fluid and delicate situation. Very delicate.”

  Delicate? What was his father not telling him?

  “Tell me, sir.”

  Harry sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t. But if Alfie Stanford was murdered, trust me, Nicholas, this is bigger than anyone could imagine.”

  22

  Berlin

  7:00 p.m.

  It had been a glorious evening.

  First a wondrous interlude with Elise—his back was still stinging from her superb whipmanship—then the good news from London. After the morning’s screwup, despite the knowledge the FBI might already have their hands on his implant, his day was rapidly improving. One very big thing had gone just right. Mr. Z had managed perfectly. Alfie Stanford was dead, and good riddance to the old buzzard. And what a glorious distraction it was, a wonderful, brilliant distraction.

  He’d been glued to the BBC World News for the past half-hour, gleaning and parsing every word out of the announcers’ mouths about Alfie Stanford’s untimely demise. It was all too perfect, too delicious. Stanford had always been an overbearing ass, and now he was in the grave, and no one would ever be able to figure out what happened to him. Mr. Z was that good.

  He sobered for a moment. Drummond was on the case and Havelock knew to his gut the damned Brit would come for him soon, fast and hard, which meant he only had days, maybe even hours, to get the coordinates of the sub and collect the key, and who knew? Maybe there’d even be a sack of the kaiser’s gold lying about. Soon all the governments in the world would bow down before him, and to hell with the FBI and Nicholas Drummond.

  Havelock prided himself on being a measured man; he realized neither panic nor celebration was in order. While the news from America hadn’t been perfect, it had not disrupted the plan entirely. Even knowing who he was up against, and how things would go down if he didn’t find the sub in time, he remained calm and focused.

  But he did pump his fist in the air when he saw the body of Alfie Stanford exiting 11 Downing Street feet-first, encased in a black body bag.

  Guess who will hold the power now? And that made him smile.

  A knock sounded at the door. He called, “Come,” and hit mute on the television.

  März entered, holding a tablet computer, looking pissed, which was unusual, since that pale face of his was usually without expression. Something major had happened.

  “What’s wrong? Out with it, März. You look like someone’s died. Which, of course, they have.” The maniacal grin was back, he couldn’t help himself. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful? The FBI are looking left, while we feint right, Scotland Yard believes Stanford passed to the hereafter from a heart attack, and before the week is out, we will have everything we’ve always wanted. Now, tell me, has the Order called?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh, no matter, no matter. We shall call them. Now tell me, März, what terrible event has upset you?”

  März knew he was being mocked, knew Havelock was the only man on the planet who could get away with it. Because, simply, Havelock was the only man März feared in the world.

  His kept his voice calm, icy calm. “I have learned that one of the top medical examiners is shortly to perform Mr. X’s autopsy. He will not fail to find the implant. It won’t be long before they trace it to you.”

  Havelock shook his head. “They won’t trace it to me in time, März. This is why we created the shell company, and I had it shut down five minutes after Mr. X drew his last breath. It will stall the FBI long enough for us to find the sub and retrieve the key. Now, get Mr. Weston on the phone. It’s time I gave him instructions.”

  März nodded, turned to go.

  “Oh, März? Do tell me, where is Adam Pearce?”

  März turned back slowly, not reacting. “As you instructed, we are looking for him, sir. All of his accounts have been silent. We are still working on the files uploaded from Pearce’s computer—so far, nothing in them gives the exact location of the sub. But we know Adam Pearce had narrowed it down to northern Scotland.”

  Havelock jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t you say so? Move the Gravitania into position now! We’ll be within a few hours’ sail when we locate the final position. I always thought they’d gone to ground near the Hebrides.”

  “I’ve already had the ship notified. They are under way to the closest coordinates we’ve found. Also, I have sent the assets we discussed earlier to Adam Pearce’s last known address in New York.”

  “An address? After all this time? How did you find it?”

  März gave an eerie smile. “When Mr. X spoofed Pearce’s phone, we were able to download all the data and back-trace the text messages. There were a variety of phone numbers from which the texts were sent, but we were able to identify more than one instance of a single GPS coordinate where the texts were sent from. Mr. W and Mr. Y were sent there to reconnoiter the position. Adam Pearce has a girlfriend living there; he bought her an apartment last year. With all that has happened today in his world, he will go back to her, for safety, perhaps. And when he does, we will take him.”

  “Make it happen faster. I very much dislike waiting. Now get me Weston.”

  März left, then a few moments later, the phone on Havelock’s desk buzzed.

  “Yes?” Weston sounded harried and annoyed at the interruption. Well, the poor man was quite busy now, after all, what with Stanford’s sudden death.

  “Hello, Edward. It’s me.”

  “Manfred, now is not the time.”

  Weston was already trying to act like the leader of the Order. It was charming. “On the contrary, my dear Edward, I think now is the perfect time.”

  “I have guest
s arriving in half an hour.”

  “This is very good news. The Order is moving quickly, as it should. You are to be congratulated. Do tell them I’m so very anxious to step in and help. What with my father’s untimely passing, and the sudden horrors this lovely day has brought, it would be my honor to continue his legacy. I can be there at a moment’s notice, to serve at their pleasure.”

  Weston was quiet for a minute. “It will happen, I’ll see to it. There has been no luck finding Adam Pearce?”

  “Not yet, not yet, but all the pieces are coming together. Soon we will have the exact location of the sub.”

  Weston said, “In that case, I think you should come as soon as possible. I’ve ordered Alex Grossman to bring Sophie Pearce to London tonight. If we can’t find Adam Pearce, she’s the lever we need to make him come to us.”

  “I’m impressed, Edward. Well done.”

  A moment of uncertain silence, then Weston said, “It’s added insurance, in case your plans fail—and they already have today, Manfred, don’t think I’m not entirely aware of how badly your boys screwed up this morning. Damn it all, that idiot killed Pearce! Of all the people, he’s the one we needed the most.”

  Havelock said, “Pearce refused to cooperate; his death was an accident. But it’s no matter, Edward. Adam is the key, not his father. He has all the data we need, locked up tight in his brilliant little brain. Yes, yes, I see having Sophie Pearce under our control could be very helpful. Yes, that is very good thinking.”

  “I also told Alex not to worry about Pearce’s SD card, since we have the other one, from Alfie’s safe. But I do worry. The FBI have it and they are not stupid.”

  Havelock only smiled into the phone. “Do not worry about Drummond. He is nothing.”

  “Well, are you coming, then?”

  “I will be there by morning. When is the meeting?”

  “Noon tomorrow.”

  “Excellent, capital, well done. By then, if we don’t have Adam Pearce and the location of the sub, we’ll at least have Sophia Pearce in our hands. Until then, dear Edward.”

  Havelock placed the phone in its cradle, a smile still playing on his lips.

  He hit his intercom button. “Elise? Begin packing. We are going to London.”

  23

  26 Federal Plaza

  1:45 p.m.

  While Nicholas was on the phone to his family, Mike took a quick look at some of the information Agent Gray Wharton had taken from Pearce’s computers. She glanced at Pearce’s client list, stopped cold—she saw names she recognized—an international who’s who of power and wealth. Sophie had said her father’s business was global; she certainly hadn’t been kidding.

  Mike scanned the list, seeing name after familiar name, and knew from experience that there was something more here. She glanced at her watch; it was nearly two and they had to get to the OCME for Mr. Olympic’s autopsy. She started to close the file when she saw a name that really stood out. She read it over a few times, then closed the file and ejected the thumb drive. Nicholas needed to see this. She didn’t know what it meant, but he might.

  She grabbed two bottles of water and two apples from the small fridge she kept under her desk. She was hungry; they hadn’t had time for lunch. The apples would have to do for now. They could stop and eat on their way back downtown. A full stomach before an autopsy wasn’t a smart move, in any case.

  She looked up to see Nicholas standing in the door to her cube. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I am.” She handed him a bottle of water and an apple. “I know we have to hurry, but you need to see this before we go.”

  She inserted the thumb drive back into the secure, red partitioned side of her FBI computer and opened the mirrored hard drive. She clicked on the file labeled CLIENTS. Hundreds of blue folders came up on the screen, neat and orderly.

  “Thank goodness Pearce was an organized bloke. His files are almost too easy to find.”

  Mike punched the third blue file, got up and gestured to her chair. “Sit down and take a look. Tell me what you see.”

  Nicholas sat with Mike perched on the chair’s arm. Her blond ponytail had grown in the past few months and it was right next to his face. He breathed in the jasmine scent, shifted himself away.

  She leaned, pointed, her ponytail touching his face. “Look at that, Nicholas.”

  He leaned away again, looked at the screen, whistled. “Good catch, Agent Caine. Alfie Stanford bought several books on military history from Mr. Pearce over the years. Mostly World War One titles, though there are a few from the Franco-Prussian War and some on the Russian oligarchs.”

  “Weighty stuff.”

  “Certainly. Stanford was a very bright man, very dedicated to study and scholarship. You don’t get to his position otherwise.” He clicked a few other folders. “I wonder who else we may recognize in Mr. Pearce’s clientele.”

  She tapped her watch. “No time. We need to go, Nicholas. We can talk about it on the way up to the OCME.”

  Ben Houston jogged around the corner. “Oh, good, you’re still here. I was about to call you. Before you go, you need to see this.” Ben’s red hair was mussed, his suit rumpled. Nicholas thought he looked like he’d had a rough morning of it, then thought to look down at his own bespoke trousers. There was a line of mud along the crease and a thin ash of dirt covering his knees, right above a small rip in the fine wool. He brushed at it, shaking his head. Nigel would have his head tonight when he realized he’d ruined his trousers. Six hours into his first day and he was already falling apart.

  Ben handed Mike a brown file. She opened the brown folder and both of them stared at Kevin Brown’s photo.

  Ben said, “Looks like Sophie Pearce wasn’t exactly telling you the whole truth.”

  Nicholas laughed. “I thought he looked familiar. Remember that photo of the Pearce family? With the boy and the girl? There he is, all grown up.”

  “Yep,” Ben said. “Adam Pearce, the nineteen-year-old son of the late Jonathan Pearce, alive and well and running around in his father’s store this morning, well protected by his sister, Sophie. You’re going to love his file. The kid is serious trouble. Here’s his arrest record. Look at the list of places Pearce has broken into. I bet you want to get your hands on him, right, Sir Nicholas? He’s as big a hacker as you are.”

  Nicholas didn’t look up from Adam Pearce’s photo, simply said, “Careful, Red. I have not been knighted.”

  Ben patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. I mean, you do have the right accent for it, after all.”

  Mike ignored them and read the list. When Ben had said “broken into,” she’d expected stores and businesses. Instead, she was seeing major multinational corporations, military targets, the Pentagon. It hit her. “Whoa. I know about him. Talk about a hacker, he’s right at the top.”

  “Yep, he’s become rather notorious around here, actually. We’ve tied him to Anonymous, WikiLeaks, several remote break-ins on some very high-level military sites, the whole shebang.”

  “What’s his nom de guerre?” Nicholas asked, and Mike heard the excitement in his voice.

  Ben said, “Eternal Patrol. He has friends in almost all the dissident and domestic protest groups. But he’s good, I mean really good. We’ve never been able to pin him down. And he’s been off the grid for a while, hasn’t been seen in the city for the past two years.”

  Nicholas laughed, shook his head. “So now everything makes sense.”

  24

  Ben said, “EP is famous in the underground computer world, but what’s cool is that he isn’t a black-hat hacker—you know, the ones who take down governments and sell credit card information and the like. But he’s not purely a white hat, either, trying to improve the Internet. He’s walking a fine line, could go either way as he gets older.”

  Nicholas said, “Eternal Patro
l—EP, Adam Pearce—he’s a real talent. If you can catch them young, and turn them—well, I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him. He’d be brilliant at risk assessment.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Mike said. “I’m glad you’re now working with us, legally.” Shortcuts were okay, she thought, as she glanced through more of Adam Pearce’s file. She saw echoes of Nicholas, no way around it.

  She said, “Adam Pearce is a genius, no question, into computers from the time he could walk. He hacked into the Pentagon’s secure internal e-mail system at the tender age of twelve.”

  “Oh, he was an old hand at it by then,” Nicholas said.

  “So it appears. Here’s a list of transgressions, long and varied. So, does he do this only for social acceptance among his peers or just for fun?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Fun, credibility, secret stealing. Who knows the motivation?”

  Ben said, “I’d say Eternal Patrol is more of a merry prankster than a truly malicious hacker.”

  Nicholas said, “You know, hackers make the best employees.”

  “Why’s that?” Mike asked.

  “They’re always willing to think outside the box. I used to use some of the brighter international ones for my work in the Foreign Office. They are barely controllable unless you have something on them. Or they want something from you. Sometimes you even have a bit of luck and they’ll turn against their compatriots. They’ll bargain the information away. You must be the most careful with those, they’re unpredictable at best, moles at worst.”

  “So how can you be sure they’re being honest and legitimate with your information?” Mike asked.

  Nicholas said simply, “You need to have someone who’s just as talented to keep an eye on them. If you hire one to build you a back door, you need to be sure the code he’s using is clean. A clever hacker can build a trapdoor in his back door, and then you’re up a creek, as my uncle Bo likes to say. Would you look at this—he’s managed to stay off the radar for what—two years? He’s very good, considering he’s wanted all over the world. NSA, CIA, Interpol. Kid has a lot of powerful people very peeved at him.”