The Lost Key (6 page)

11 Downing Street

Office of the Chancellor of the Exchequer

London

4:00 p.m.

The phone rang, a discreet buzzing, but Alfie Stanford ignored it, remained focused on the screen in front of him, which moments before had blinked to life unbidden and alighted with data. Horror filled him as he watched the pages streaming across his desktop: images, letters, some hundreds of years old, e-mails. Someone had accessed the Messenger's private files. The Messenger had been compromised, and thus the Order itself. Decade upon decade of information, research, and secrets had been seen by the wrong eyes. By an outsider.

Who could have found the SD card and accessed Jonathan's files? All the Order members believed his death was a New York street mugging. But no longer. Stanford knew to his gut the murderer had also accessed his files. He couldn't imagine what would happen now. His heart thudded hard. This was a nightmare of epic proportions.

He had to warn the others. There was a protocol for this very situation, one he was supposed to have memorized. But he wasn't a
young man anymore, and he wanted to be sure the protocols were done correctly, all the proper steps followed in the correct order, the alerts given as quickly as possible.

Stanford rushed across his office to the small Cézanne on the opposite wall, a favorite from his boyhood. It swung away to reveal an embedded safe he'd had built when he took office. A place for secure documents, far from the prying eyes of the rest of the British government. The only other person who knew of the safe's existence was the man who'd built it, and he was one of them, so they needn't be concerned with leaks.

Stanford's fingers fumbled on the dial and he cursed softly. His nerves were shot. He felt fear building up, as caustic and dark as a violent fever.

Finally, the lock clicked, and the safe opened. He reached inside, felt for the package taped to the top of the safe. A small file with coded instructions, codes no one could crack unless given the codex, something only the members of the Order knew.

He released the package from its hiding place and turned, slamming the safe shut with his right hand.

He didn't feel the pinch of the needle right away. It took a moment for the sensation to catch up to him, and then it was agony. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he dropped to his knees. He couldn't catch his breath. The package fell to the carpet, and he saw a hand reach down to snatch it up. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He heard footsteps, running away, fading, and he knew the file was gone, but then he couldn't seem to think properly. Had he been mugged? In his own office? No, that couldn't be right. He remembered now the hand reaching into his back pocket, taking his wallet. Hadn't he?

He went into a seizure on the thick Aubusson carpet as the
poison spread through his veins, and it was like his blood itself was on fire.

With sudden clarity, he realized what had happened. He was the leader, Pearce was the Messenger. The Order was under attack. But who could get inside 11 Downing Street without being seen?

The protocols. Dear God in heaven, the protocols.

Stanford tried to roll, to heave himself up off the floor, to reach the phone, to warn them of what had happened. But his hands splayed feebly against the soft, thick carpet, unable to lift his weight.

He began to fade, his heartbeat slower and louder in his head, like the bong of a massive internal clock, counting down.

Five.

A man's voice, shouting, then he was touched, pulled hard, and he flopped onto his back. The pain was so intense, like a lightning bolt repeatedly striking him. He'd heard it said that death did not hurt; they lied. His chest was seared, he was choking, he couldn't breathe. The room began to spin.

Four.

His assistant, Wetherby, a good sort, was on his knees, hands pressed hard against Stanford's chest, his face white with shock.

“Sir. Oh my God, sir. You're having a heart attack. I'll get help.”

Stanford knew in that moment who'd ordered him killed, the same man who'd ordered the rape of the Messenger's computer. The man who wanted to be Stanford, who wanted all he had, wanted to know the secrets of the Order, wanted the Order itself. He tried to give his assistant the name of his enemy, the two syllables hard against his tongue—Have, lock—but the words came out more like “Ngam.”

Three.

Wetherby was back, shouting out, “Where's the medic? The chancellor is having a heart attack!”

Two.

They need me. The Order needs me. I cannot die, not now, not when we're so close.
He tried to force the words out, praying that he could be understood.

One.

But the words wouldn't come. He had failed them, failed them all.

Oddly, he saw his mother's face. Was she telling him he'd done his best? Yes.

Peace flooded through him. And then all was dark.

Berlin

5:00 p.m.

Havelock watched Alfie Stanford die. He wanted to stay dispassionate, but the writhing and flopping about was so clearly painful, and the old fool was so helpless, he couldn't help but become aroused. He was tempted by the thought of trying the smallest bit out on himself, not enough to kill, but no. That wasn't a good idea. The dosage needed to bring on cardiac arrest was so nominal, he could miscalculate and end up killing himself all in the name of pleasure. He replayed the footage to watch again.

He wondered, had it been this way for his own father, dropping to the floor in the middle of his gym, everyone gathering around to watch him die? The old man had been in the ground for less than a month now, and Havelock had done his part, looking all grave and somber, in black, finding an errant tear, and he'd thought, finally,
I've cleared the path for my journey to begin.
Had he really wanted his father to die? He didn't want to think about that, only that his death had been a necessary evil.

His mother, on the other hand—the wondrous terror in her eyes before he flung her into the sea was something treasured and precious, brought out to be examined at his leisure like his favorite painting, Goya's
The Colossus.
He wallowed in the dark brute power of it. He was the colossus with his raised fist, the giant that men feared and worshipped.

He fingered one of the scars on his arm through the heavy fabric of his bespoke blue oxford. His mother's voice rang in his ears, the waking nightmare he returned to every time failure was possible. Her stark, never-changing litany bit deeper than the belt, even after her cherished death.

You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You will never lead men. You are a sniveling child
.
And now you will be punished.

He tossed back the scotch and poured another, raised the glass toward the sky. “A child, Mother? I was strong enough to take your life from you. I do hope you are rotting in hell.”

You are worthless.

Did he hear her words again? Was her ghost mocking him still? Havelock hurled the glass across the room, watched it shatter against the marble floor. He felt better now, more in control.

He smoothed down his black hair, gone gray at the temples in a most distinguished manner, shot his cuffs, straightened his collar. At least Mr. Z had succeeded in eliminating Stanford, and now confusion and mayhem were under way in London. At least one part of his day had gone according to plan.

But Mr. X had failed, and how could that have happened? Havelock had designed the perfect plan, and it had been, until the fool had died with Havelock's implant in his head. All of them knew the chip would be found in autopsy, knew the Americans
would figure out what it was, and then they would come. It forced his hand. He would have to move faster than he'd planned.

He needed the Messenger's son, he needed Adam Pearce, and he needed him now.

Havelock sat back in his chair and uploaded all the video from Mr. X's brief New York sojourn. He tapped a few keys on the flat dynamic keyboard embedded in the wood, then placed a small metal neuro-cap on his head, snapping the edges down tight so it would have perfect contact with his skin. He waited for the neural pathways to link.

Ten seconds later, he was viewing video footage from Mr. X's last twenty-four hours. He saw the world through Mr. X's eyes, heard the voices Mr. X heard, all of it uploaded to Havelock's servers.

Havelock was working on a way to merge two sets of brain waves, so he could actually link into his assets' thoughts and tell them what to do from afar, almost like calling on a mobile phone, but with his mind. He hadn't perfected the technology yet, nor did he know how to solve the one huge obstacle: those test subjects who heard a second voice inside their heads—his voice—had gone irrevocably insane.

So he looked and he listened, wanting more, but content to know that soon he would be able to enhance his micro–nuclear weapons, his MNWs, and set them in place, ready to deploy at whatever target he selected. Or whatever enemy. They'd never know what hit them. All he needed were the coordinates of the lost sub and the key, and for that he needed Adam Pearce.

He fast-forwarded through the footage: arriving at JFK, the ride to the ferry terminal, to the moment Mr. X slipped unseen into the Messenger's apartment. Mr. X had done a thorough search,
carefully opened all the cabinets, the closets, the wall safe behind the Modigliani painting in the office so no one would know he'd even been there. Many locks. But no SD card.

He watched Mr. X insert a thumb drive into the iMac on Pearce's desk, quickly break through the encryption, do a hard download of all the files. A pity he wouldn't be able to get the thumb drive, since it was now in the hands of the FBI. But it didn't matter. He doubted there was anything more than correspondence and records of sales of rare books to clients. No great loss. He continued to let Mr. X's images wash over him, all the way until the end, when that bastard Drummond had taken him down. He saw Drummond's elbow hit Mr. X's jaw, bursting the gel pack, killing him. A fluke, but it was good to know that could happen. He'd have to find a better solution, a better placement. He couldn't have his assets dying at the hands of the enemy by accident. Inside a tooth would be better, the molars would protect the gel, less chance of splitting the gel pack open. But the tongue—

Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.

Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadn't found the SD card, hadn't gotten his hands on Pearce's son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.

He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.

What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid?
I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.

United Nations Plaza

11:00 a.m.

Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tien's thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didn't cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying,
“Zai jian,”
and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldn't be needed for the rest of the afternoon. She'd have lunch, then run over to her dad's place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain she'd promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.

She knew it wasn't a first/first—that would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasn't flashy like many of the others she'd worked with in her five years at the
UN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds to Ariston's private bank account.

Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadn't begun to swallow New York whole yet.

Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing she'd done over the winter. She wasn't terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. She'd firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.

She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. She'd find the right guy, someday.

She wasn't even out of breath when she arrived at her dad's building. She'd grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. She'd insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didn't move out, she'd suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasn't thrilled, but he didn't stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.

She wasn't too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to live
there these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and she'd been so busy lately, she'd missed some of their normal dates.

No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasn't enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.

Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothing—unusual, because he was normally chatty. She didn't realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.

“Miss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, we—”

Sophie went still. “What happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?”

Umberto was shaking his head. “I'm so very sorry, your father, he's dead, Miss Sophia. The FBI is upstairs. They didn't call you? Forgive me, but I do not have the details.”

She ran to the elevator, ignoring everything else in a mindless chant of
No, no, please, no.

The elevator doors slid open, and she slammed down on the button once, twice. She knew it took exactly twenty-two seconds without stops to reach the twenty-third floor—a sign, her father always said, that this was truly their home. Twenty-three was the family's lucky number. For twenty-two long seconds, she didn't breathe, stood deathly still, counting.

She raced down the long hallway to the front door. It was unlocked. She burst in, saw a man and a woman, both with guns
clipped to their waists, speaking in front of the picture windows. She watched their hands go to their guns as they whirled around to face her.

“What happened to my father?” She knew she screamed the words. She was getting hysterical and took a deep breath and tried again, more calmly this time: “Please, tell me what happened to my father.”

The man spoke first. He was British, not an American. “I'm Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with the FBI. This is Special Agent Michaela Caine. You're Mr. Pearce's daughter, aren't you?”

She was shaking, couldn't help it, and grabbed the back of a chair. “Yes, I'm—I'm Sophia Pearce. Where is my father? What's happened?” The internal
No, no, no, no,
no
beat through her body in time with her heart, but she knew, deep down, she knew.

“I'm very sorry to tell you, but your father was killed on Wall Street this morning.” He'd spoken slowly, quietly. “We've been trying to track down his next of kin. I'm sorry. Please, come and sit down.”

She waved her hands, trying to ward off his words. “No, no, there's got to be a mistake. It doesn't make sense. My father had no reason to go to Wall Street. He'd have been at the store. How could anything kill him? What happened? Please.” She heard the hysteria rising in her voice again but couldn't help it.

“Come.” Nicholas took her arm and sat her down on a large burgundy leather couch. He kneeled in front of her. Sophie realized vaguely that he was a big man, young, and she saw pity in his intense, dark eyes and knew this moment would be seared indelibly on her brain forever.

His voice remained low and calm. “We believe he was lured to
Wall Street with a fake text message from someone named EP. But EP wasn't there. Another man was waiting for him. They argued, then he stabbed your father. I'm so sorry.”

She couldn't think, couldn't move. Hearing the words made it real, horribly real.

“Can you tell us who EP is?”

Something flashed in her eyes, but she didn't say anything. The room began to spin, the man on his knees in front of her, holding her hand, blurred, and then she didn't see anything.