“Obviously it has something to do with the polonium and Havelock.”
“Yes, which is rather unsettling. An unstable man looking to get his hands on some sort of a secret weapon? But it was 1917, what could it possibly be?” Nicholas’s house phone rang. “I see Nigel didn’t toddle off to bed. Maybe he’s ill, maybe—” He answered, and relief flooded his face. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Fine, fine. I will. Yes, I swear. Go to bed, Nigel. Now.”
He clicked off, set the phone on the table beside him. “Nigel sends his best wishes for a good night’s rest, and made me promise to get some sleep myself.”
Mike nodded. “He’s a good man. A good friend, too.”
“That he is. Stubborn as a mule, though.”
“He worries for you.”
“I’m worried for him, damn it all. Bloody sod’s being a bloody hero about the whole thing.”
I wonder where he learned those moves. Mike laughed. “Relax. He’s fine. I’m fine. Why don’t you tell me the big surprise? Come, what did you just read?” She stretched and yawned. “And then we can get some sleep. This couch is very comfortable.”
“I’ll get you set up in one of the guest rooms.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
He shrugged. “I will in a bit. I want to work some more first.”
Mike curled into herself on the sofa. “Then I’ll stay here. I like the sound your typing makes. It’s very soothing.”
She reached up and pulled the ponytail holder from her hair, slipped it onto her left wrist. She scratched her head and turned her head a bit, not too much, and her hair settled around her shoulders. She pulled a dark blue throw over her legs. “Tell me, Nicholas.”
He’d been watching her. Now he tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I found something. This is where it gets very interesting. It’s a German sub, no doubt about it. According to Pearce’s files, it belonged to Kaiser Wilhelm the Second, which makes sense, I guess, since his gold is supposedly on board. Some say Wilhelm was crazy, whatever, he got Germany into the war, as the leader, he cocked things up royally and they lost. He ended up abdicating the throne.”
“Come on, Nicholas, what is it? You’re grinning like a madman.”
“I’ll tell you, but then you have to promise to go to sleep. It’s late, and we have an early morning.”
“That’s so not fair.”
“You need rest to heal. I want you to close your eyes and sleep for a bit.”
“No, I don’t need to—” And she yawned and yawned again, wider this time, covering her mouth with her hand. “Okay, so I’m a little tired, no big deal.”
Even as he said, “Please, Mike, rest,” she yawned again. He smiled at her. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”
She curled up against the couch pillows, settled in and closed her eyes. “Nicholas? Thank you, you saved me twice today.”
Thank goodness he’d been able to. “Go to sleep, Mike. I’ll be right here, watching over you.”
“Okay.” She opened her eyes and gave him a heartbreaking sweet smile. “But first tell me the big secret. Was Victoria important only because she belonged to the kaiser?”
Nicholas said, “No. Until Adam Pearce found her, she didn’t exist.”
But her eyes were closed again, and she was under.
He got up and pulled the throw up over her shoulders, then sat back in his chair and watched her. She looked very young asleep, open, vulnerable, that sharp brain shut down.
He was very glad she was okay.
He read some more, then set the laptop on the floor and swung his legs over the side of the chair. He glanced at his watch—1:00 in the morning. Talk about a long day. He took a last look at Mike’s still face, saw the small smile on her mouth and wondered what she was dreaming, certainly not about today. He saw Nigel’s face again, confused, disoriented after the assault, but all right, and then, finally, he saw the faces of the two men who’d died at his hands today.
“Five minutes,” he said to himself, and shut his eyes.
44
Lower Slaughter, Cotswolds
September 1917
William Pearce, 7th Viscount Chambers, was late, very late. A damnable tire of his brand-new Lagonda had given out near Burford and it had taken him nearly an hour to change it. He would have much rather traveled with his man Coombe, allowed him to handle the tire, but this was a top-secret mission, and Coombe wasn’t cleared for this level of service.
Pearce was dirty by the time he finished, but no matter. He prayed the wheels would get him to the cottage, at least.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the lane, and drove up the track to the small cottage. According to protocol, he parked in the trees and walked to the cottage. And was greeted with a horrific scene.
He drew his Webley. The cottage was pockmarked with bullet holes, chips of sharp stone littering the ground. The windows were gone, shards of glass daggered from the corners. The door was wide open, hanging loose on its hinges.
His heart pounded fast and hard, and he pointed his Webley in front of him as he slowly pushed the door farther back and stepped into the cottage. He knew the smell of death from the battlefield, and it was rich and hot in his nostrils, as was the smell of rot, human rot.
He sent up a silent prayer that his enemies were dead, not his friends, but his prayers were not answered.
He counted quickly. Five men. All shot, all gone. But where was the sixth? He counted again. It was not his imagination. There were only five bodies. Josef Rothschild was not among the dead. Where was Josef?
He moved through the cottage, stepping over broken glass and the ruined bodies of his comrades. These brave men. Fighting for the freedom of their country, their families, themselves. Sorrow overwhelmed him, but there was a single spark of hope.
A terrible thought came to him. Clearly they’d been double-crossed, despite their many precautions. But by who? Not Josef, that was an impossibility. Josef Rothschild was the catalyst, the one who’d taken on the hardest role. Josef wouldn’t ever betray them, not the man who’d saved him from the battlefield at Verdun. He saw him clearly, the German soldier approaching him with his bayonet fixed. Instead of running him through, he’d taken one look at the crown and star on Pearce’s shoulders, knew he was facing a man of rank, and thrown down his weapon.
Without speaking, the German pulled him from the field and behind a screen of trees. Pearce couldn’t fight; he was wounded too grievously. He assumed the Kraut wanted to take his time, do the job properly and thoroughly, but instead of slitting his throat, the big German had motioned for Pearce to stay quiet while he’d expertly stanched the flow of blood from the wound in Pearce’s leg. He’d put a cigarette between his chapped lips and lit it for him, seemingly unconcerned that his hands and uniform were thickly covered with English blood. He sat back, lit his own cigarette, drew hard, blew out the smoke, and said in accented English, “We must stop this war, Colonel. Will you help me?”
It was an offer he could not refuse. And Rothschild was a man he’d trusted with his life, now many times over.
Pearce heard a noise toward the rear of the cottage, and rushed into the back bedroom. There was a small closet off the bedroom, and a trail of blood leading to the wooden door, not from.
There was a wounded man in the closet. Was it Josef? Pearce was a soldier. He knew what death looked like, in all its forms.
Still, Pearce was careful. He raised his Webley, stood to the side, and slowly opened the closet door. A shot came from the darkness. Thank all that was holy, he’d moved to the side.
Then he heard the cries of a child, soft, broken sobs.
He called quietly, “Who’s there? Don’t shoot. I mean you no harm.”
The crying abruptly stopped.
Pearce edged forward, speaking softly, gently, telling the child he would not hurt him.
He finally risked a look inside, and the scene broke his heart.
Josef Rothschild’s broken body was inside the closet, in the arms of a very young boy. Josef’s gun lay on the floor by the boy’s hand.
—
PEARCE DID THE ONLY THING he could. He buried the men in the field behind the cottage, and took the boy home with him.
He knew the child’s name was Leopold. Josef had told him that night on the hill at Verdun, while they smoked and plotted the downfall of the kaiser.
It was good Josef had told him the boy’s name, for the child was deep in shock, the only witness to the murder of his father and five others, did not speak. He didn’t identify the assailants. He only stared mutely for several weeks after the incident.
News of Victoria never came. The gold, Marie’s key, and her book, were lost.
The war ended. Pearce and his wife, Cornelia, took Leo in as one of their own. He legally adopted the boy before the year was out. In a house populated by women, it was a comfort for Pearce to have a boy at last.
Leo was a quiet, studious child. He did well with his tutors, and though he still didn’t speak, he learned to read and understand English quickly, so that Pearce thought perhaps his mother, the kaiser’s private interpreter, had already started him on the language.
Pearce caught the boy watching Cornelia at times, when she was reading to the girls. His heart ached because the boy watched her with sad longing, but he never complained. A boy needed a father, yes, but he needed a mother even more.
Every so often, Pearce would sit down with Leo to speak to him of the night his father died. To find out who had come to the small cottage in the Cotswolds, who had dealt the deadly blow to the Order.
Leo began to speak, but never about that night.
A small time of peace was upon them. The gold, the key, and the notebook were lost, yes, but the threat had been silenced, and the Order began to rebuild.
Leo Pearce went from a shy boy to a handsome lad to a smart, educated, but very quiet man. In 1936, he met a young woman named Grace, who didn’t mind his silence. Within months, they were engaged to be married. In 1938, their first child came along, a boy they named Robert.
And in 1939, war came to them again. A war that clearly would outstrip the last one.
Soon after, Leopold Rothschild Pearce took tea with his adopted father. He carried a newspaper with him into the Carlton Club, sat down with his adopted father, pointed at a picture of a small dark-haired man, and said, “This is the man who killed my father.”
Astounded, Pearce took the newspaper, and saw a photograph of a man standing on a dock, the forty-point headline screaming—U-Boat Sinks America Freighter Ship. The caption named the U-boat commander as Ludwig Reimand.
Leo’s voice was soft and deep, his accent crisply British. “He was there. He was one of the three men.”
Pearce was dumbstruck, and what he said was “I’m very glad you’ve told me, Leo.”
Leo nodded. “I have been silent on this for too long. And you have been very kind to me.”
“You are my son. I love you. And you are my heir.”
This was said simply, and Leo swallowed back the emotion rising in him. Pearce smiled, and placed a comforting hand on Leo’s arm. “Tell me about this man. Who was with him?”
Leo handed Pearce a sheaf of papers. “These men.”
There were two more names—Dietmar Lusion and Wilfried Gobb.
“Lusion was the leader. He was the one who tortured my—Josef.”
Pearce leaned forward, took Leo’s hand. “No, no, Josef Rothschild was your father, and a very fine man as I’ve told you many times over the years, a brave man, a man who was willing to do anything to achieve an end to the war. He never gave them the information, did he?”
“No. He stayed strong throughout, but I heard his screams. I had an eye to the door, I could see the shadows of the boots passing the door as they paced, firing questions at him, trying to make him tell them where the kaiser’s gold and the key were hidden.
“I believe the pain was too much and he suffered a heart attack, because one minute they were screaming at him, and the next, nothing. I heard them leave. I waited until I heard the car pull away, then I—”
Pearce touched his son’s arm again. “And then I found you.”
“Yes. There is more, sir.”
Leo handed Pearce a letter. He read it quickly and looked up, face puzzled. “Your mother?”
“Yes. My mother was the one who stole the key from the kaiser. She was on the Victoria. She went down with them. They are somewhere north of Scotland. Jos—my father, he told me about the weapon, about the mission, the gold, about my mother’s final act of bravery.” He played with the handle of his cup. “I did not think we would see the kind of war we experienced ever again. These men know about the key. They will be searching for it. We must find these men, and kill them.”
Pearce studied Leo’s beloved face. You would be so proud of him, Josef, so very proud. “Are you ready to join us, then, Leo? Join the Order? You of all people know it will be dangerous, very dangerous. You have a family to think about.”
Leo Rothschild Pearce actually smiled. “You never hesitated, sir. My mother and father never hesitated. Even knowing they could die at any moment if they were discovered. So yes, it would be my pleasure, sir.”
Pearce stood up, and Leo did as well. “We need to bring you to the Order. Come with me.”
Leo said, “My mother’s name was Ansonia.”
“I am very sorry.” And he took Leo in his arms and held him close.
With the help of all of the Order’s resources, it took three years for Leo and William Pearce to find and kill the three men who’d killed Josef Rothschild and the other members of the Order on that long-ago night in 1917.
William Pearce, 7th Viscount Chambers, passed away in 1962. After years of distinguished service, Leo Pearce, 8th Viscount Chambers, was named head of the Highest Order in June of 1963.
In 1964, Leopold and Grace’s son Robert married Lula Harstock, only daughter of Lord and Lady Wentworth of Kent, and she soon after bore him a son. Sadly, days after his son’s birth, Robert Pearce succumbed to a fever, and died. Within a week, his wife Lula had died as well.
And so Leo and Grace named the boy Jonathan, and raised their grandson. Leo told him the stories of their family—about the kaiser’s gold, a lost key, and Madame Curie’s notebook, and her weapon, but most of his stories were about a brave and tragic young couple named Josef and Ansonia. Some of his grandfather’s stories frightened Jonathan, but he loved to hear about his great-grandmother and Leo loved to talk about her.
Jonathan was a studious boy, like his grandfather, fascinated by books, and once he’d read a rare first-edition Robinson Crusoe, his path was set.
DAY TWO
45
London
6:00 a.m.
He hadn’t slept.
The knowledge that they were so close, and that all he’d been working toward for so many years was about to come to fruition, kept him awake. Kept him from Elise’s side as well. He couldn’t focus on pleasure, or pain, in this state.
Havelock was good at waiting, he’d had to be. Learning patience was his first challenge in life. He knew how patience worked. Patience had gotten him through the hours at the hands of his mother. Patience had forced him to study, to get his degrees early, since the only way he could escape his mother’s cruelty was to leave the house and never return.
Yes, he had always been good at waiting. And that wouldn’t change now. He’d bide his time until everything was perfect, until he held the weapon in his hands, and then he’d strike like a cobra, fast and hard, and no one would be spared, unless he wished it. The world would be on their knees, and he would hold their fate.
He’d called for his plane at 3:00 and they left Brandenburg at
4:00 in the morning. London appeared on the horizon an hour later.
Havelock placed the call as they started in for landing. A screen emerged from the wall, transparent until Weston’s face filled it. He looked alert, already dressed for their big day.
Havelock wasted no time. “Where do we stand?”
“Good morning to you, too, Manfred. If I’m not mistaken, you’re calling from your plane. Am I to assume you’ll be arriving shortly?
“Don’t try my patience, Edward.”
Weston’s lips moved into what might be called a smile. “Fine. Grossman went wheels up at eleven-twenty p.m. New York time. He called from the plane; Ms. Pearce is safe and unharmed. He’ll be on the ground in an hour, with Ms. Pearce in hand. Incidentally, he also managed to capture the data Nicholas Drummond copied from Pearce’s computer this morning. We have everything we need. I cannot give you specifics since there was no wireless on Alex’s plane.
“Now all that’s left to acquire is Adam Pearce. He is the only one with the coordinates. Without him, we’re where we were nearly a hundred years ago. Then there’s getting into the submarine. I trust you have a plan?”
The look on Havelock’s face was transcendent and eerie, frightening. Weston felt his blood run cold. Not for the first time, he wondered if he would make it out of this treachery alive. Aligning with Havelock was his only choice, he knew that, but the man wasn’t entirely sane, and it was never more clear than when he wanted his own way.
“I do. My ship is in northern Scotland and is in position to move at a moment’s notice. Get me Adam Pearce, Edward, and I’ll have the key in my hand by evening.”
“What about the FBI?”
“The Americans? By the time they figure out what’s happening, along with all the other law enforcement entities across the globe, it will not matter. We will have the upper hand.”
“We need to watch our backs. This Nicholas Drummond character, he’s smart, and I don’t like having him in the mix. And you know who his father is.”
“Then eliminate him, my dear Weston. I would set März to the task, but he has more important things to handle today.”
The Lost Key Page 18
