The Lost Key (10 page)

26 Federal Plaza

1:00 p.m.

Zachery was waiting for them when Nicholas and Mike returned. He'd been alerted they were on their way up, and stood right outside the elevator doors, his hands on his hips. He did not look happy.

“Two dead bodies before lunch, Drummond? You're having one hell of a first day.”

Then, of course, Zachery saw clearly that the two bodies were the last thing on Nicholas's mind, but he snapped to quickly. “Ah, yes, sir, I know.”

Nicholas was accustomed to being on the radar of his superiors for all the wrong reasons, but two dead bodies, that was surely pushing it. No one could have anticipated how his first day would turn into a bloodbath, without his assistance, not really. He stood straight and tall and waited for the hammer to fall, Mike beside him.

Before Zachery could say anything else, Mike asked, “Sir, any word on identification of Mr. Olympic? That's what Nicholas named our man because he could run as fast as Bolt.”

Which meant Nicholas had run faster, Zachery thought,
looking at her. “Not yet. Fingerprint, DNA, and facial-recognition software are running as we speak on—Mr. Olympic—but so far, nothing. The autopsy has been scheduled for two-thirty this afternoon. You need to know what killed this man.”

I love autopsies, my very favorite way to spend an afternoon.
But the fact was, though, they did need to know if Mr. Olympic had indeed chomped down on some sort of poison pill in his mouth.

“Yes, sir, not a problem.”

Mike said, “Sir, what about Pearce's hard drive and the SD card we had messengered back? Any word there?”

“It's all still running. Gray Wharton has the video feeds uploaded as well.” Zachery glanced at him, one eyebrow hiked. “Once you're done at the OCME, Drummond, perhaps you can lend a hand there.”

Nicholas smiled. “With pleasure, sir.”

“Good. Before you go uptown, I want a full rundown of everything that happened this morning. I'm beginning to gather we're dealing with something very complicated, very sticky.”

“Yes, sir,” Nicholas said. “On both counts.”

Mike shot a glance at Nicholas. She knew him well, a surprise since they'd really known each other only a handful of days. Something was cooking, but exactly what, she didn't know yet.

Zachery had made it clear to her when he'd agreed to pair her with Nicholas that one of her main responsibilities was to manage the Brit, and that meant to make sure Nicholas followed the hallowed rules to the letter. Creativity was welcome; hotdogging was not, although any FBI special agent knew that the New York Field Office was known for its cowboys, particularly under Bo Horsley.

Control Nicholas?
She wanted to tell Zachery that would be like trying to control a plume of smoke on a windy day, but she didn't.
One of the reasons she liked working for Zachery was that he was steady, even-keeled. But now he looked strained. Was something else going on, something big? Well, Zachery would tell them in his own good time.

He led them to his office, shut the door, and Mike gave him a moment-by-moment rundown on their morning. He did not interrupt her because she was good, clear, no unnecessary information, always on point. When she'd finished, Zachery said, “Your suspect—this Mr. Olympic—when he unexpectedly died, are you certain, Drummond, that you didn't hit him in a way that could be misinterpreted?”

“Not at all. I saved his life, pushing him out of the way of the patrol car. He was very much alive when we started to cuff him. He went down, with no warning. It was clear to me he'd activated some sort of poison, and it did its job. We'll know after he's autopsied exactly what killed him.”

“There won't be any video surveillance footage showing your hands anywhere near this man's face? No witnesses to claim you brutalized him, in fact, caused his death?”

“There won't be. I did nothing wrong here.”

Zachery held up a finger. “Don't get riled up. I have to ask. You had your hands on a man as he died in broad daylight on a busy New York street. You know an inquiry is mandated since you are still in your probationary period, and there is no fooling around in these proceedings.

“Agent Caine agrees that you did nothing wrong. If, however, there is anything either of you wish to tell me, now's the time.”

They both shook their heads.

“All right, then. Before you leave, you have some time to look deeper into Jonathan Pearce. He was clearly not a simple
antiquarian bookseller. You said he'd been lured with fake text messages to Wall Street; the computer in Mr. Pearce's home office had been compromised before you were able to access the files, and there was all the classified material you found with the SD card, and e-mailed to him. Tell me exactly what the classified material was.”

Nicholas said, “He had specs for a military satellite still in the developmental stages, which will be launched in a few months to bolster the Milstar II military communications satellites already in orbit.”

“Not what you'd expect from a bookseller's files.”

“Especially when sent through an anonymous repeater, so there's no way to tell who provided the information. That satellite is so top secret no one outside the program and the launch schedule know anything about it. It certainly isn't something laymen have access to. The SD card Gray is processing was full of files and letters and photographs. I didn't have time to sort through them all before his daughter, Sophie Pearce, showed up. I need some time to make sense of all of this, but the information was clearly of a secret nature.”

Zachery nodded. “We'll get to the bottom of it. We always do.” He drew a deep breath. “Now I have some bad news, Drummond. We received word an hour ago that Alfie Stanford has passed away.”

N
icholas took the news like a fist to the gut. “You don't mean Alfie Stanford, the chancellor of the Exchequer?”

Zachery nodded. “From the look on your face, I see he was a friend of your family? I imagined as much. I'm sorry, Drummond.”

Nicholas finally found his voice. “Yes, he is. I went to school with his three grandsons. I've known him my whole life.”

“I'm very sorry, Nicholas,” Mike said. She touched his forearm lightly. “Sir, what happened?”

“He collapsed in his office at Eleven Downing Street. It seems to be natural causes, though they don't know for sure yet. He was eighty-two, so I suppose it makes sense. The media is going to be all over the story, of course, Stanford being who he was. Drummond, if I hear anything more, I'll let you know. Both of you, keep me posted.”

The audience was over. He gestured toward the door, then reached for his phone. “And Drummond? Do try not to get anyone else dead today, will you?”

“I'll do my best, sir.”

Nicholas looked shell-shocked. He didn't wait, pulled out his
mobile and dialed. Mike said nothing, merely stood close, giving him silent support.

It was only half past six in the evening in England; at least he wasn't going to wake anyone up.

The Drummond family butler since the beginning of time answered, “Old Farrow Hall. May I help you?”

“Horne?”

“Master Nicholas? How wonderful to hear from you. All is well in New York?” Nicholas heard the unspoken question—and is Nigel well?—though Horne was too ingrained in the proper etiquette to permit him to ask after his son.

“We're fine, Horne. Nigel has me so set up I can't find my knickers by myself. I'll tell him you asked after him.” He swallowed. “I need to speak to my father, Horne. Is he home?”

“He is. He's in the midst of a very serious situation with Mr. Stanford dying so unexpectedly today. Oh, my apologies, Master Nicholas, you do know about Mr. Stanford?”

“I do, Horne. That's why I'm calling.”

Horne let out a sigh. “Of course, nowadays everyone knows everything at nearly the same instant. I'll go fetch Master Harry for you. And Master Nicholas, permit me to say—we do so miss you here.”

Nicholas was hit with a wave of homesickness. It mixed with his shocked grief at Alfie Stanford's death and for a moment he couldn't speak. He missed them all, his grandfather, his parents, all the denizens at Old Farrow Hall. He even missed Cooke Crumbe's very bland porridge.

“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.”

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 guests 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.”