The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

  She’d clearly been crying, her eyes were red and bloodshot. “I’ll never forget the way he looked right at me, before he ran away—” She shuddered and broke off. Mike watched her frown, then she yelled, pointing, “That’s him! He’s come back. Right over there—he’s standing in that crowd of people across the street!” People around them were shuffling to get a better look, and the Chihuahua was barking his head off.

  4

  Nicholas jerked around to see the man looking straight at him. The man didn’t hesitate. He shoved his way through the crowd, pushing people down, then he was free, running full out. He disappeared around the corner.

  The crowd was shouting, an NYPD officer who was nearby hesitated a moment, then took off after him. Nicholas shouted to Mike, “Come on, come on, after him.”

  The streets were packed with people at the start of the workday. Nicholas passed the cop, his long runner’s legs eating up the sidewalk. He saw the suspect half a block away, darting in and out of the crowds. He was in good shape, strong, fast as an Olympic sprinter, the bastard, pouring on the speed.

  A woman fell in front of Nicholas, and he yanked her to her feet as he passed, shouting to the man, “Stop, FBI. Stop running now!”

  Of course the man ignored him, continued running south. Where did he think he could go? Battery Park at the end of Manhattan? If he tried to jump on the Staten Island Ferry, Nicholas had him, no way he’d be able to speed through the throngs of people. But if he caught the tube—no, the subway—then he’d be gone.

  Mike, where was Mike? He glanced over his shoulder, she was two yards behind him, her stride smooth and fast. His mobile rang, but he ignored it. The man turned a corner, and Mike shouted, “Turn right, turn right now, there’s a street across to Broadway, Exchange Place, cut him off. I’m going straight, we’ll box him in.”

  Nicholas was nearly hit by a wildly honking cab, heard the driver cursing him, but he never slowed. He burst out onto Broadway, nearly behind Mr. Olympic. Ten yards, five—Nicholas could smell his sweat—yes, now he had him. Nicholas reached out an arm to snag the man’s shoulder when he turned, something in his hand, and he pointed it at Nicholas—

  And Nicholas was on the ground, doubled over, pain shooting through his body. His muscles jerked and jittered, his teeth clenched, his entire body cramped in on itself until he was sure it was all over for him. He couldn’t breathe—then the pain stopped.

  His breath came in short gasps. He shook his head to clear his brain. Slowly, he rolled onto his hands and knees.

  Mr. Olympic was long gone. Nicholas saw a small rectangular black box on the ground five feet away. It was a Taser. Frigging Mr. Olympic had Tasered him.

  Then Mike was on the ground with him, hands running over his body. “Where are you hit, where are you hit?”

  “I’m all right, really, I’m all right.”

  “Then what happened? Where’s our guy?”

  Nicholas pointed at the Taser.

  Mike couldn’t believe it. She stared at the small black Taser, her heart still kettledrumming, pumping blood and fear through her. “I saw you go down. I thought he’d shot you, the way you were jerking around on the ground, but I didn’t hear a shot. Thank heaven it was only a Taser.”

  “Yes, only a Taser,” he said as he ripped the Taser barbs out of his side. At least it was getting easier to think and put words together.

  “Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?”

  He wanted to laugh at that visual but couldn’t get any spit in his mouth. He slowly got to his feet.

  Agent Ben Houston’s voice crackled from the walkie-talkie Mike carried in her jacket pocket.

  “We’re here to back you up. We’ve spotted the suspect. He’s on foot heading north on Trinity Place. Mike, Nicholas, he’s parallel to your position. We’re moving to intercept. Cut across Rector and stop him.”

  Nicholas was rolling his shoulders. “What? Did Mr. Olympic hang around to see what would happen next?”

  “Come on, come on,” Mike shouted, pulled on Nicholas’s arm and took off again. “Can you do it?”

  “I can. Bloody hell.” Nicholas shook off the last of the Taser effects, felt his adrenaline kick in, and triangulated the area in his head, grateful his brain was back in working order. If they cut up to Rector they could intercept, especially if Ben could drive the man toward the box. Then a phalanx of agents could converge on the target from four sides.

  He rushed after Mike, slower than before, but found the more he moved, the better his body parts worked. One block gone, now two. Shouts from the walkie as they closed in on three sides.

  They turned the corner onto Trinity and there he was. Nicholas wanted him badly and pushed to his limit, shoving people out of the way, ignoring shouts, cries, curses. Mr. Olympic ran into the street to get away from the hordes of people and took off, one fast disbelieving look at Nicholas. Nicholas followed, heard Mike shouting, “Push him south, push him south.” He glanced back, saw her coming fast, knew how determined she could be. He signaled for her to duck to the left and he’d turn Mr. Olympic right into her waiting arms. He hoped she’d deck him.

  This time it went right. Mike flanked him, ignoring the shouts and screams, the honking cars and taxis, and Nicholas pushed on the last of his speed, launched himself and tackled the man hard.

  They were locked together, pummeling each other, as they rolled into the street right in front of an oncoming NYPD patrol car. Nicholas saw the bumper coming and shoved Mr. Olympic to the curb. He rolled as the patrol car slammed on its brakes and came to a stop an inch from Nicholas’s leg.

  5

  Nicholas lay there for a heartbeat, not believing the car hadn’t hit him. He sat up slowly, sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. But there was no time to rejoice that he hadn’t been smeared across the street. He grabbed Mr. Olympic’s leg and landed on top of him. No way was he getting away again.

  The idiot tried to twist around to hit him, but Nicholas clipped Mr. Olympic in the jaw with his elbow, stunning him. Perfect. Nicholas jumped to his feet and pulled the man up with him. He thought of the Taser and how he’d been sure he was dying and slammed Mr. Olympic hard against a parked Audi, face-first.

  Mike grabbed his arms behind him while Nicholas frisked him. He found an H&K MK23 pistol, a mobile phone, and two long-bladed stilettos, one of them still stained with Mr. Pearce’s blood.

  Nicholas jerked the man’s head back. “Listen to me, we’re federal agents. What in bloody hell are you up to, mate? Why did you kill Mr. Pearce?”

  A sneer, nothing more.

  Mike got in his face. “You assaulted a federal agent with your Taser, you idiot, and that means no one’s going to play with you anymore. Tell me your name, now. Tell us why you murdered Mr. Pearce. What were you arguing about with him?”

  Mr. Olympic bared his teeth, meant to be a grin, but wasn’t.

  Mike said, “No wallet, no ID, but you’ll be in the system. We’ll know who you are within the hour, so you might as well tell us now.”

  “Come on, mate, don’t be daft. Who are you?”

  The man opened his mouth, but no words came out. They saw a look of horror in his eyes, then panic, sharp, cold panic—Mr. Olympic’s eyes rolled back in his head. He seized, a bubbling white froth spewed out of his mouth, then he slumped against Nicholas.

  Mike screamed into the walkie, “We need a medic, right now.” Nicholas let him slide down to the sidewalk. Mike felt for his pulse, started a CPR checklist, but Nicholas pulled her back.

  “Let me go, we need him alive.”

  “It’s too late,” he said. They looked at the man’s face, gone blue now, dark eyes staring blankly up at them. A few more muscle twitches and he stopped moving.

  Bystanders were in a circle around them, excited and horrified, knowing death when they saw it. The NYPD officer who’d nearly hit Nicholas rushed to hel
p. He saw the man lying on the sidewalk. “What happened? I didn’t think I hit you. What happened to him?”

  “No, you didn’t hit me, it’s something else,” Nicholas said, and turned to Mike. “Stay with him.” He stood, raised his creds high, told the crowd he was FBI and they needed to move back, this was now a crime scene and there was nothing to see, it was all over. He heard Mike say to the officer, “I don’t know what happened. We were chasing him—he killed a man on Wall Street, but he went down; why, I don’t know. We were trying to help.”

  Special Agent Ben Houston pulled up in a Crown Vic beside him, hopped out of the car. He took one look at the dead man and said, “What happened to him? What’d you do to him?”

  Nicholas said to Ben, aware the crowd was pressing in again, “I didn’t do anything to him. I’d finally managed to bring him down. He started seizing and foaming at the mouth. Whatever happened, Mr. Olympic did it to himself.”

  “Mr. Olympic? You mean, like he had cyanide in his tooth?”

  “Maybe, not necessarily cyanide, but a bloody fast poison of sorts in his mouth.” He frowned at the blue face. “But why would he kill himself? What the devil is going on here?”

  No answer to that. Mike said to Ben, “We need an ID on this guy, pronto. Nicholas is right, something’s not kosher here, and it’s possible the Devil does have something to do with it.”

  Nicholas said, “I wonder why he stayed around.” He looked down at Mr. Olympic. “Why?”

  6

  Berlin, Germany

  4:00 p.m.

  The mission was shot to hell. März watched, tense, unable to do anything. He knew every single individual in this huge room was even more frightened of failure than he was and that was because, simply, they were scared to death of him. They were right to be; he was lethal and soulless and took pleasure in his work. No one dared to look at him standing quietly in the back of the large windowless room, watching, always watching. The nerve center, the workers called it, all of them focused on the single massive monitoring screen on the wall, covered in twenty blue and green quadrants. Fifteen analysts worked multiple computer angles. They were responsible for monitoring each agent’s heart rate, his breathing, his visuals, his audio. They saw everything the agent saw, heard what he said, heard what those around him said. It never ceased to amaze März, this invasion of another’s mind, but all the analysts were used to being inside a live human being and participating from afar.

  Senior Analyst Bernstein was in charge of Mr. X, with him every step he took, inside him, watching and listening from the moment Mr. X had deplaned and the mission had gone live.

  And gone to hell. März thought of his boss and tasted fear.

  First Mr. X had killed the Order’s Messenger. Then, because he stayed at the scene so they could see what was unfolding, he’d been spotted by that ridiculous woman and her little yapping dog. All of them had followed the chase, watched the big dark-haired FBI agent finally take down Mr. X, saw him hauled to his feet and cuffed. The room was dead silent, watching, listening. Then alarms began going off and the room exploded into action.

  Bernstein yelled, “What happened, what happened? Mr. X has collapsed, his visuals are down, his eyes are gone.”

  “I’ve lost heart function!”

  “Ears are down. Ears are down.”

  “He activated his gel pack! He must have thought he was going to be taken.”

  Panic rippled through the room, moving silently from man to man as they now focused on Mr. X. After a moment, the heart monitor beeped long and low, then went flatline. Mr. X’s quadrant suddenly went black with a snap, as if a switch had been flipped off.

  Horrified silence. März spoke quietly, no need to raise his voice. “Mr. Bernstein, since we’ve lost Mr. X, please give me the satellite.”

  Bernstein’s voice shook and he hated it, but his belly crawled with the taste of failure, and fear. “Yes, sir. Coming, sir. Online in three, two, one.”

  All twenty-four quadrants flashed to a new scene, a bird’s-eye view of New York rapidly winnowing down as the satellite’s cameras telescoped toward the chaotic New York street. A quick screen refresh and the scene was in perfect focus.

  “There are people hovering over the body, I can’t get a clear shot of Mr. X.”

  März said, “Alter the angle.”

  “I’m trying, sir. We’ll have to wait thirty seconds while the bird is repositioned.”

  “Do it faster.”

  The analysts were perfectly still, breath held, while Bernstein madly tapped on his keyboard, moving the low earth-orbiting satellite a hundred miles above the scene a fraction to capture the proper image.

  He managed the realignment in record time. Fifteen seconds flat. He wiped his sweating hands on his lab coat, then ran the camera sight down as fast as he could, and there it was, the shot slightly moved, the main screen taken up by the faces of the two FBI agents standing over Mr. X’s body. The male FBI agent stood and moved away, forcing the growing crowd backward. The camera detail was so fine they could see the bruises starting on his jaw, hear a deep sigh from the blond agent as she stood and watched the medics work on Mr. X, who was clearly very dead.

  “Why did he activate his gel pack?” März asked.

  Bernstein said, “Sir, I don’t know that he did. It seems that the agent who took him down may have hit him in the jaw at precisely the perfect spot to activate the gel.”

  “Show me.”

  The film was rewound and played again at half speed. With a red laser pointer, Bernstein showed the agent’s elbow connecting with the back of Mr. X’s jaw.

  “One-in-a-million shot, sir. We couldn’t have known an exterior punch would be enough to release the poison. Or maybe Mr. X was fiddling with it, debating whether it was necessary. He didn’t want to be taken. He sacrificed himself to protect us.”

  Not likely, März thought. “Show me the FBI agent who hit him. Who is he?”

  “The agents at the scene were calling him Nicholas Drummond, sir.”

  März said in his same calm, terrifying voice, “Well, you idiots, what are you waiting for? Give me data, right now, screen one. Who are we dealing with? I want everything you can find on Special Agent Drummond. Who he is, where he comes from, what he ate for breakfast. All of you, go.”

  Five minutes passed in tense silence. The only background noise was the clatter of the keyboards. Finally, Bernstein stood, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and forced himself to walk to März. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “About the target, sir. His last words.”

  “‘The key is the lock.’ Yes.”

  “Not exactly, sir. We’ve replayed it several times, and we believe what he actually said is the key is in the lock.”

  “In the lock. Not the lock itself?”

  “That’s right, sir. I’ve prepared an audio file and sent it to your screen. I’m sure you’ll want to listen for yourself.”

  “Yes, I will. Get back to your station, Bernstein. Tick-tock, people. What do we have on Drummond?”

  The analyst who’d replayed the video said, “Sir, Nicholas Drummond, grandson of the eighth Baron de Vesci, currently an FBI special agent, moved to New York last month after terminating his employment with the Metropolitan Police of London. He is former Foreign Office, and his father, Harold Mycroft Drummond, is currently listed as a consultant to the British Home Office.”

  “Pull his file.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m accessing the Home Office files now.”

  Another analyst said, “Sir, Drummond had one marriage, ended in divorce. He’s highly trained and lethal with a variety of weapons, and he’s a serious hacker.” The man swallowed. “He was a field agent for a while, mainly in Afghanistan, but like I said, he’s a serious hacker, sir, excellent, in fact, and that’s why the Foreign Office wanted him. He was responsible f
or the underlying code of Mackay, similar to Stuxnet, the virus used to shut down the Iranian nuclear arsenal in 2010.”

  März didn’t miss the note of awe in the analyst’s tone. He said, “I thought that job was done by Mossad.”

  “Apparently they used Drummond as a decoy, sir. He was the one who wrote the original program, fed it to the Israelis. They took his Mackay variables and created Stuxnet. But he left soon after, there’s no reason listed. Moved to New Scotland Yard as a homicide investigator. Drummond’s personnel file from the Metropolitan Police lists a multitude of successes; he had an excellent close rate, and several write-ups for insubordination.”

  Another analyst called out, “Sir, he’s the one who recovered the Koh-i-Noor diamond a few months ago. He went rogue with the female special agent, Michaela Caine. You’ll remember they recovered the stone.”

  März smiled and the young man shuddered. “Went rogue, did he? Keep digging. In the meantime, I will inform Mr. Havelock of the situation we find ourselves in. He will not be well pleased by the news that both Pearce and Mr. X are dead. Bernstein, find a way to destroy any evidence of his internal surveillance capabilities before the Americans find them.”

  Both März and Bernstein knew this was impossible that Mr. X’s implant would most likely be discovered in autopsy. Their only hope now was that the autopsy wouldn’t be done today, that it wouldn’t be thorough, but the chances were slim on both counts. And then the FBI would have the nanotechnology implant. And Havelock would have all their heads.

  März stepped from the room, seeing the images of Mr. X running like a madman, then caught and brought down. Losing Mr. X so close to the end meant there would be repercussions, bad ones. At least they still had Mr. Z in play.

  Since this was März’s operation, he must take responsibility. No choice. Slowly, he raised his hand and knocked on the door to Mr. Havelock’s office, and entered without waiting for a reply.