The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

  Nicholas said, “Is he trying to build his own nuke, only in a nanotech environment? A mini-nuke of some sort?”

  “I hope not, but I am afraid that is very possible. There have been advances made in nanotechnology weapons, certainly. North Korea, Iran, Russia—even Cuba has opened a nanotechnology university, and is studying the possibilities. The Americans have perfected their pinpoint laser technology, and I am sure they are quietly trying to develop miniaturized nuclear weapons. But I was not aware this technology had advanced past the theoretical. Even the smallest crop of suitcase dirty bombs are still fifty pounds. Imagine a miniaturized nuclear weapon the size of what? A wallet? Smaller, even?”

  “So we could be dealing not with a mini-nuke, but a micro-nuke, one that’s virtually undetectable to our current safeguards.”

  “Exactement. I must go, Nicholas. I will initiate an urgent investigation into Havelock immediately. The most recent information we have on him shows he lives in Berlin. I will start there.”

  “What do you plan to do, Pierre?”

  “Park a satellite above his home and listen in to his conversations. If he is importing polonium, we must find out what he plans to use it for. I will keep you informed of what we find. Thank you for alerting me.”

  Mike said, “Pierre, this is a really sensitive situation. There’s a lot more going on here than the polonium. Be careful, don’t let Havelock know you’re onto him. Be very careful.”

  The Frenchman laughed, a hard, empty laugh. “Naturellement. You as well. À bientôt.”

  When the phone clicked off, Mike said, “Zachery. Now.”

  “Yes, we need to warn him.”

  Zachery sounded half asleep when he answered.

  “Yes? Mike, what is it? You two didn’t get shot up again, did you?” They could practically hear him snap to.

  “No, sir. I have news about the Pearce murder.” Mike told him about Menard, and Havelock, and the files, the polonium-210, and the frightening possibility of a miniaturized nuclear weapon. He was quiet for a minute, then, “I’ll take it from here, Mike. I need to talk to the director. Good work.”

  “Sir, it’s Drummond here.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “There appear to be a group of fifteen men in Pearce’s files who are conversing regularly, much of it in code. They are all high-level government people, or financiers, from all over the world. I think Pearce was a member of a secret organization. There’s something big going on, and if one of their members has stolen spy satellite specs on his computer, and another’s son is trying to buy up polonium, we could be looking at a massive international problem. I respectfully request to come back on board, officially.”

  “Nicholas, I can’t do that, not officially, at least. After the inquiry tomorrow, you’ll be reinstated.” There was a pause. “Do I want to know how you’ve come across this information?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Probably from the same place Gray Wharton got what he gave me. I’ll need a full report in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “No matter he didn’t officially lift your suspension, we’re still a go. I’ll call Gray, you keep searching these files.”

  Mike watched him out of the corner of her eye as she dialed Gray’s number. He was completely focused, eyes calm, inwardly directed.

  She spoke to Gray, who sounded punchy, his eyes were nearly bleeding, he told her, but they were nearly at the same point. She rang off. “Where’s the loo?” For a British accent, she didn’t think it was bad.

  That got a grin out of him, but he didn’t look up, merely waved a hand. “Down the hall, to the right, the third door, I think. I’m still learning the place.”

  She grabbed her purse and stepped out into the hall. He was right, the bathroom was behind the third door. She took care of business, brushed out her hair and put it back up in a ponytail. She was confident Nicholas would find out exactly what was going on. She’d call Ben, see what he was thinking.

  She snapped off the light and stepped out into the hallway, right into the barrel of a suppressed nine-millimeter Beretta.

  39

  Mike’s heart nearly flatlined, but she didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. There was a man on the other side of the weapon stuck into her chest, a man she recognized. She had a fraction of a second to think Grossman—what in the world is he doing here? before he was on her.

  He moved fast, but she was quick, too. She punched him hard in the chest, sent him stumbling back. She started to lash out a leg, knowing she had to take him down or she’d be in real trouble. Grossman anticipated the move, grabbed her ankle, and gave it a vicious twist. She was forced to spin with the twist or risk having her hip dislocated. But as she did, she brought her left elbow around and slammed Grossman in the temple. He went down with her, both of them crashing to the floor. She kicked him hard in the stomach, scrambled up and started to run, to call to Nicholas, to warn him, but Grossman got a hand on her shoulder and hauled her back down, flipping her on her stomach and getting an arm around her throat. She kept struggling, but his arm tightened, cut off her air, his forearm mashed up against her mouth, and she started to see spots. She clawed at his arm, but he didn’t move, didn’t let go, and her struggles became more feeble.

  Nicholas, she tried to cry out, Nicholas, be careful! But no words came out. She couldn’t breathe, and fear was metallic and hard in her mouth.

  She was about to black out when Grossman eased up on the pressure, enough for her to gulp in a huge breath.

  His breath was hot on her neck, his voice cold, hard, so unlike the harmless bibliophile he’d appeared this afternoon.

  “Don’t you dare scream, Agent Caine, or I’ll shoot you and leave you bleeding out in this hallway, and don’t think for a second I won’t.”

  She nodded, still unable to swallow or breathe properly.

  She realized she’d heard a bit of British in his voice, the cadence clipped, consonants long, and wasn’t that strange, because he was American, from Chicago, hadn’t he said that?

  Grossman said against her ear, “We’re going to walk down the hall to the library, and your friend is going to give me Pearce’s files. Then I’ll walk out of here, and no one needs to get hurt. Do you understand?”

  She managed another nod. She had to warn Nicholas, but she was starved for air and her muscles were still sluggish. She’d been gone for only a few minutes, he wouldn’t come looking for her yet, no reason even to wonder.

  She pretended to lose her balance and hit her head hard against the wall. She hoped it was loud enough, hoped he believed her. He didn’t. Grossman grabbed her, jerked her forward and yanked her ponytail. “Nice try. Stay on your feet, Agent, there’s a good girl.”

  No more Brit accent, but she was sure his American was fake. There’s a good girl. Oh, yes, the Brits were up to their eyeballs in this—this what exactly? But Grossman couldn’t have killed Stanford. Who did, then, a partner or another member of this organization in Britain?

  He yanked her ponytail again. She ignored the pain, stumbled to her feet, being as clumsy as possible, shuffling her feet along the wood floor, hoping Nicholas or Nigel would hear. It wasn’t much since she’d taken off her boots, maybe she could kick back and—

  “You don’t want to cooperate, do you?” In one fast move, Grossman pressed her face against the wall. He kicked her legs apart and leaned hard against her. She felt a shot of panic.

  He said in her ear, “Don’t pull that crap again. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.” He pulled her away from the wall and shoved her forward, his hand over her mouth. “Now, walk.”

  The gun dug deep against her ribs when he forced her into the library. She knew she’d be of no use to Nicholas if he shot her.

  Nicholas didn’t look up. “Ben gave me the transcripts of e-mails bet
ween EP and Pearce. It took me a while, some real digging, then I found something—I think it’s coordinates, latitude and longitude. The files here say they’re looking for an old U-boat, World War One era. Pearce sent Stanford a message last night saying he’d found it. These coordinates are probably the sub’s location. Adam was using the satellite to look for the sub.”

  “Thank you, Agent Drummond.”

  He whipped around to see Alex Grossman, his hand over Mike’s mouth, a gun stuck in her ribs. And then Mike was in motion. She bit hard on his hand and he dropped her with a curse. “Nicholas—”

  Grossman slammed his fist into her jaw and she went down.

  Grossman pointed the weapon at Nicholas. “No, no, don’t move or you’re a dead man. You’re very clever, Agent Drummond. You’re quite good at this.”

  Nicholas was already out of his chair, hand reaching for his Glock.

  Grossman leaned down and pointed the gun at the back of Mike’s neck.

  Nicholas slowly straightened. “What are you playing at, Grossman?”

  Grossman’s tone was pleasant, conversational, even. “Stop moving, or I’ll put a bullet into the back of her head. You have something that belongs to me. I need it back. A simple transaction, and no one gets hurt.”

  “Except Agent Caine.” Nicholas saw she was pale, not moving. He couldn’t get to her yet, he had to take care of Grossman first. He saw blood on Grossman’s hand. Good, she’d taken quite a bite of him.

  Grossman said, “You have a copy of some files you took from Jonathan Pearce’s apartment. I’d like them, if you please.”

  He held out his left hand, blood still dripping, palm up.

  “And if I don’t comply?”

  Grossman didn’t move, but he smiled and nodded toward his finger, which was tightening on the trigger. “I’m not playing. The files or you’ll have to find a new partner. Now.”

  Nicholas tapped a couple of keys, ejected the Tardis thumb drive, and tossed it to Grossman. He caught the drive and smiled, eyes never leaving Nicholas. “I’ll need the laptop as well, if you please. And don’t even think of tossing it at me, there’s a good lad. Put it on the floor, kick it over to me.”

  Nicholas hit two keys on the laptop as he closed the lid, then used his foot to slide it toward Grossman.

  “Thank you. I hope we don’t meet again, Agent Drummond.”

  Grossman reached down, grabbed the laptop, and backed out of the room, gun pointed at Mike the whole time. Weston hadn’t expected him to retrieve the files, but he had, he’d gotten everything, and now he would join Sophie on the plane and they’d be on their way to London. What was incredible was that he’d be able to present the Order with the coordinates of the sub.

  40

  Nicholas hit the intercom. “Nigel, lock down the house!”

  He pulled Mike into his lap, and offered up a prayer of thanks when her eyelids started to flutter.

  “Nicholas?”

  “It’s me, Mike.”

  She touched her hand to her jaw, jerked it back. “That jerk hit me with his fist.”

  “Believe me, I saw. Let me check.” She yipped when he touched her jaw. “Not broken, but you’re going to have a lovely bruise. Hey, can’t you even take a bathroom break without getting into trouble?”

  “Har, har. Did you get Grossman? Nicholas, the files—”

  “No, no, stay put, would you? Don’t worry about the files. Before I gave Grossman my laptop I blew both the thumb drive and the hard drive. He’s out of luck. The files are destroyed. But that also means we don’t have the files anymore.” He gently eased her onto the sofa and jumped up to fetch a pen. She saw him write something quickly.

  “What?”

  “I’m writing down the coordinates to the sub. Don’t want to forget them.”

  “And Gray still has the files. I’ve got to tell him.” She got to her feet only to have Nicholas pull her close, for a moment. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. That was twice today she’d had a gun pointed at her head. He pushed it away.

  “Look at that bruise starting to grow on your jaw, I’m thinking maybe the shape of India. Who’s the lamebrain now?” He lightly tapped her shoulder. “I mean, why on earth did you have to go to the loo?”

  “Again, I say har, har.”

  “You stay put, I’ll get Nigel. He’s a bang-up medic. Royal Army Medical Corps, he can make doubly sure your jaw’s okay. When I went into the Foreign Service, he joined me as a medic in the field, believed it would be smart to know how to patch me up, should I ever get myself into trouble.” He walked quickly to the intercom, pressed the button, and called Nigel’s name, then once more. But he knew, of course. “Grossman got to Nigel before he took you down.”

  “Go find him. I’ll be okay.”

  He ran out of the library, down the stairs. There was a window open on the landing. Grossman’s escape. It was a long drop down to the street. Nicholas looked out, didn’t see anything, save for the large oak tree in the front yard. So he’d stuck the laptop inside his jacket, grabbed a branch, and swung himself to the ground.

  Bastard.

  Nicholas found Nigel crumpled on the floor by the kitchen door, out cold. His neck pulse was strong and steady, but Nicholas’s fingers came away with a small smear of blood. An injection site, a small lump of fluid under the skin.

  Drugged.

  He shook Nigel’s shoulder, but no good. He lifted the phone off the wall and called 911.

  Nigel had fought him. There were dishes cracked on the floor, remains from their dinner, and a knife on the tiles about three feet from Nigel’s outstretched hand. So, when Nigel saw Grossman, he’d reached for the knife, but Grossman was faster, had the element of surprise, and had managed to stick the needle in Nigel’s neck.

  Nicholas felt rage roil in his belly. Grossman had invaded his home, his sanctum, and hurt the two people Nicholas cared most about in this city. His anger mixed with the surge of adrenaline into a wicked cocktail. He straightened Nigel’s bent arm and rose.

  Grossman, Havelock, all of them, they’d made it personal. And now there would be hell to pay. Nicholas picked up the kitchen phone and called Zachery.

  Hell to pay.

  41

  Over the Atlantic

  British Airways Flight 176

  Midnight

  The wheels lifted off the tarmac. Adam allowed himself a nice deep breath. It seemed like the first time he’d breathed in hours.

  Adam settled back in his big first-class seat. He couldn’t believe he managed to get out of New York with the FBI searching for him. But he was better at hiding than they were at looking. After the disaster at his apartment, with Allie—No, don’t think of her, you’ll fall apart again—he’d fled blindly, caught the first cab he’d seen, and had it take him across the bridge into Brooklyn.

  There he stopped at an Internet café, went to the British Airways database, and booked himself a ticket to Heathrow under the name Thomas Wren, a completely clean legend he’d built for himself. Wren was one of four new identities he’d created in the past month. Adam was paranoid to a fault, and constantly developed new safeguards to cover his back.

  He was surprised at how much the first-class ticket cost, not that it mattered, since the credit card was false, anyway. Besides, he needed the privacy of the seat on the overnight flight.

  Once he had the ticket booked, he dug into his backpack—glasses, a baseball cap, and a blond wig, plus a set of cheek inserts altered the basic structure of his face. He was ready to go through security at JFK despite the FBI’s facial-recognition technology at the airports. He was completely safe since Thomas Wren didn’t exist, and wouldn’t be in their system.

  Adam rarely flew, opting instead to drive, but there was no other way to get to Scotland, to the submarine, and the key. To stop this whole mess before it got out of hand entirel
y.

  At ten thousand feet, he brought out his laptop. Normally, he never hooked into a plane’s wireless system—their networks were of the least secure he’d ever seen—but he had no choice. There was work to be done, work he hoped would keep Sophie safe, and allow him to stop whoever in the Order was working with Havelock. Havelock’s father, Wolfgang, had been a decent man, Adam’s father had always told him, smart and loyal to the Order, loyal to a fault. But his son had been raised by his mother, insane, Adam had heard, confined to an asylum for twenty years before she’d died. Though a brilliant scientist, Dr. Manfred Havelock was nothing like his father. He was very likely as mad as his mother, a fetishist, obsessed with the Order, even though he wasn’t a member.

  Adam needed to see how far things had progressed in the past twenty-four hours, since he located the sub, a German U-boat Victoria, and told his father, so proud and happy, he’d done a little dance.

  If Havelock was behind his father’s murder, and Adam was sure he was, well, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him get away with it. Would he kill him? The thought settled deep inside him, it felt right. It would be justice, it had to be right.

  But before he planned how to kill Havelock, he had another plan to implement, a plan to make Havelock want to kill himself.

  He hummed as he broke through Manheim Technologies’ sophisticated firewalls, not a problem, since he’d designed most of the codes that had gone into building the firewall systems in the first place. These legitimate jobs paid the rent and allowed him quite a bit of freedom. The companies he worked for had no idea he was the notorious hacker Eternal Patrol. Nor did any of them know he’d built separate back doors on all of his jobs, which allowed him unfettered access at any time. He didn’t abuse this privilege, it was more insurance than anything else. But it was time to see what was really happening.