7
Dr. Manfred Havelock stared out the huge plate-glass window, looking at the Berlin spring afternoon. People crowded the sidewalks, bicycles parked in rows outside the red-umbrellaed sidewalk cafés of the Kreuzberg, so much traffic, so many people, yet there were scores of horse chestnut trees and ivy climbed up the buildings, beautiful and green, right in the heart of the city.
He lived here in the X-Berg, enjoying his anonymous life among the socially conscious Germans and the unwanted immigrants, the hip-hop culture and the gays, because no one would expect it. He was forty-seven and easily one of the richest men in Germany, if not in all of Europe. He was a success in all ways imaginable. He smiled, thinking of his global multinational nano-biotechnology firm, and the respect given him by his peers. Truth be told, though, he most enjoyed the fear of his enemies. He watched a boy and girl leaning across a café table below to kiss, like in Paris, he thought, a place he could easily live. Would he move with the rich and powerful? Honestly, he found them a boring lot, toadies, sycophants, but still, to have his boots licked was pleasant on occasion.
But only on occasion. He loved the X-Berg, it was where he belonged. Its darkened corners allowed him to indulge in whatever behavior he wanted, no matter how reckless, how profligate. On the streets he was known only as the man who preferred the most esoteric acts available, and paid well for them. Ah, but there was more, so much more. No one knew who he really was, no one knew who lived among them, and what he was capable of. What he could do to them, if he wished. If they knew, they would not go so easily through their days and nights.
Havelock turned to see Elise step forward from the shadows. Her black hair, loose, as he liked it, cascaded to her waist. He himself had selected the skintight black catsuit she wore, a fit so tight it drove him mad with lust, even more than if he had seen her naked. Ah, and those five-inch stiletto heels on her long, narrow feet, perfect, as was the diamond-and-jet choker he’d fastened around her beautiful throat three years before when he’d selected her for himself and brought her into his world.
He waved toward the window. “Is it not ironic, my dear? The way they move without knowing how precarious their lives are? How in a blink”—he snapped his fingers—“I can take it all away from them? Make them cry and scream if I wished? Make them dead and nothing at all?”
Her voice was low, deep, as he’d taught her to speak. Her soft rose scent filled his nostrils. “It is, Manfred, very ironic.”
She came to stand by him, smiled directly into his eyes as she took his hand, caressed his palm, and began to press hard and harder still until his eyes went wild and he cried out.
She released him, still smiling. Once the pain fell away, he said, “Thank you, Elise. Well done, just as I taught you. But now we must think of other things. My plan is under way. Let us have a drink, to celebrate.”
She walked to the opulent walnut bar in the corner of the room and fixed him two fingers of Lagavulin, dropped onto two perfectly square ice cubes. He studied her as she walked back to him, her stilettos the only sound, and felt intense pleasure at seeing her shake her head in a practiced move that made her hair spill around her shoulders, soft, beautiful thick hair. He felt greed and hunger, hunger so intense it was naked in its force.
He took the glass from her, feeling the brush of her fingers. It took all his willpower not to throw the drink on the floor and run his hands over her body, feel the tightness, know there was softness and strength beneath the catsuit.
Elise saw the mad lust in his eyes and shifted her hips, offering, should he choose to have her again so soon, but he shook his head and looked out onto the pulsing streets of Berlin, sipping the scotch. Still, he tightened all over thinking about the bruises she’d given him only an hour ago.
But there was a time for indulgence, and a time for focus, and so he shook his head, pointed toward the discreet door, and Elise melted away into the darkness with no hesitation, saying nothing at all, a faint smile on her mouth.
He truly wanted her, but not yet. Knowing she waited for her summons to come to him again helped. He took another sip of the scotch to steady himself.
His time had come at last. All the years of waiting, sitting by while his father was in charge, were finished. It was his time now.
He frowned. There were so many operations, too many opportunities for failure, and he had to admit it, he’d been careless lately, indulging too much, losing himself for hours at a time in Elise’s capable hands. He must keep focused, there was too much at stake. With focus and quiet comes clarity. Odd that his father had taught him that valuable lesson; indeed, he could hear his father’s voice—suddenly, he froze. He knew, knew something was wrong, terribly wrong.
He turned in the next moment when März entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. His face, as always, was blank, no clue to his thoughts, and, as always, Havelock felt revulsion at that long scar bisecting the shiny, stretched flesh, more a death mask than a man’s face. März was deadly, uncompromising, and brutal, and he was Havelock’s. He owned him. He’d come to believe März was his perfect complement.
But Havelock had learned over the years that when März’s icy blue eyes were narrowed, something was terribly wrong, and fury was bubbling, ready to kill, to destroy. März said only, “Mr. X is down, sir.”
“Tell me,” Havelock said, his voice perfectly controlled.
“His gel pack was activated. As far as we can tell, it was an accident.”
“An accident,” Havelock repeated, and März, hating himself for it, knew deep grinding fear. “Before the gel pack was accidentally activated, did Mr. X manage to retrieve the package from Pearce?”
“No, sir. He was being taken into custody when the incident occurred.”
Havelock shut his eyes and turned to face the windows again. “And the prototype?”
März kept his voice clear and calm. “It is possible the American FBI are in possession of the prototype, sir. We are endeavoring to intercept and remove it from their hands before they are able to study it, but there is little chance.” Actually, there was no chance at all and both of them knew it.
“I see. Were you able to tap into the Messenger’s systems before Mr. X’s untimely demise?”
März hated his fear, wondered briefly if Havelock would quickly slide his favored Spanish stiletto into his neck. “Yes, but we were not able to upload Mr. Pearce’s data before Mr. X was killed.”
Havelock felt such rage he wanted to kill all of them. Without Mr. X finishing his part of the mission, hooking into Jonathan Pearce’s computer for Havelock’s remote access, they couldn’t retrieve the coordinates for the lost sub, and time was running out.
Havelock’s voice went deadly quiet. “First Mr. X kills Pearce, against my orders, then he gets himself dead? Better for him, perhaps, but not for you. You’re lucky Mr. Z is still functioning as he should.
“You will fix this, März. We can’t afford to have the plan derailed. Nor can the Order realize we are behind it or there will be problems, huge problems, that could destroy everything. Find a way to retrieve the information from Pearce’s computer before the FBI find it.”
“Yes, sir. There is another route to the files, sir, though it involves a human asset.”
Havelock waved a hand. “I don’t care what you have to do.”
“Understood. Also, it turns out we were incorrect earlier about what Pearce said as he died. What he actually said was ‘The key is in the lock,’ not simply ‘The key is the lock.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
Havelock took a sip of scotch. “I will think about it. Pearce was fond of riddles. I’m sure this is yet another of his trying games.”
“We may have another problem, sir.”
Havelock met his lieutenant’s eyes, and März flinched, knowing the deadly sarcasm was coming. “More problems, März? Am I not paying you enough? Providing you with the
proper tools? Are you incapable of running the most simple of missions without cocking it up?”
“No, sir. Not at all. This is about the FBI agent who responded to Pearce’s murder, and was responsible for Mr. X falling in battle. His name is Nicholas Drummond.”
Havelock slowly set his scotch glass on his desk. “I don’t suppose you know who that is?”
“Yes, sir. He is former Foreign Office, then he went to—”
“You idiot, I don’t care about his résumé. Drummond’s the one who tracked the Fox across Europe and retrieved the Koh-i-Noor in three days. He brought down Saleem Lanighan. Lanighan was a tough son of a bitch, too, and now he’s in a nuthouse in Paris, they say he’ll never have his brain back. And Drummond’s father has the ears of all the British government. Do you understand, März, Drummond is very high in the government?” He banged his fist on the desk, making the scotch splash up over the edge of the crystal glass. “These are not men to be trifled with, März. They will eat us whole if given the chance. The Drummonds must not be allowed to interfere in our plans.”
“If you want me to have Drummond eliminated, I will arrange it. It would not be difficult.”
Havelock calmed, narrowed his eyes at März. “You’re wrong. It would take more than Mr. X or Mr. Z to take down Nicholas Drummond. He is dangerous, and unpredictable. I would take great pleasure doing it myself, and I’m the only one who could, truly, but I can’t be under any sort of suspicion, not if the Order are going to accept me into their fold. No, leave Drummond alone for the time being. But watch him, März. Watch every move he makes, keep him off the scent. If he gets close, then you deploy. Do you understand me?”
“Deploy, sir? You mean deploy the micro–nuclear weapon? But the MNW has not left the testing grounds. We do not know if it is traceable. Nor do we know what the fallout will be. It could be worse than we anticipate. We do not know—”
All Havelock had to do was shake his head, only a small movement, but März was instantly quiet. “I do not recall asking your opinion, März. Besides, we are past that point. Now that Pearce’s son has found the submarine, we must move quickly before others find out. The moment you access the coordinates from Pearce’s computer, we will leave and retrieve the key.
“Understand me, März. If we have to use an MNW on Drummond, we will. Once we have the key and the weapon and adapt it to my MNWs, it won’t matter, we will then be invincible. The Order won’t be able to do a thing to stop us. Do you know, my father told me about the kaiser’s private treasury of gold that was also supposed to be aboard the submarine along with the key? If true, which I doubt, the gold would be a nice bonus. Now, gather all the micro–nuclear weapons for possible deployment.”
März nodded slowly. If he felt doubts, they didn’t show on his face. “It will be done, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Why, yes, there is. Send Elise back in.”
“Sir, I believe she has retired to her quarters.”
“Your point, März?”
März said, “I’ll send her right away,” then turned and left the room. Havelock waited for the door to close, then carefully wiped up the spilled scotch, fixed himself another, and sat back in the chair.
Drummond. And his father.
But no, he couldn’t use an MNW on Drummond, even though the image of him being vaporized on the spot by a small nuclear bomb radiated pleasure and anticipation in the deepest part of him. No, he couldn’t authorize it, not yet. It could allow them to trace the technology back to him. They were too powerful and their questions would resonate and multiply and lead to inquiries at the highest levels, and the delicate spiderweb he’d woven would unravel before he was able to find the key. And the kaiser’s gold?
8
Near Wall Street
10:00 a.m.
Mike knew Nicholas was tense, angry, just as she was. She touched his arm as they watched the techs load Mr. Olympic’s body into the medical examiner’s van. “It’s always tough, the waste, the not knowing why,” she said. The van doors closed with a clang. “And now he’s dead and can’t tell us. But we will take care of Mr. Pearce, we’ll get him justice. You know that, Nicholas. Are you okay?”
He let out a deep breath. “Yes, I know that. I’ll be fine.”
Mike shielded her eyes from the sudden glare of the sun off the glass windows of Trinity Church, to their right. She saw a crowd was gathered a little farther down the street, in Zuccotti Park, watching them.
“Good.” She popped him in the arm, grinned at him. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be Superman on your first day, but there you were, flying right out of the gate.”
“Talk about fast, Mr. Olympic would have gotten away from us if you hadn’t known that shortcut. This is strange, Mike, all of it. I mean, Mr. Olympic hung around, then he was so afraid when we got him, he popped cyanide in his tooth?”
“Or whatever it was. You’re right. Leave your cape on, okay?”
“I wonder, did Superman ever get a pilot’s license, or did he wing it?”
“He winged it, absolutely.” She glanced again at the growing crowd. “Let’s go back. Maybe there’s an update on the video, and we can see for ourselves what happened.”
“Yes, let’s. I’d like to see how Pearce was taken down.” He paused, gave her a long look. “You know, you could be Ms. Olympic.”
She said coolly, not looking at him, “I tried, but I wasn’t good enough.”
He pictured a younger Mike, all long, strong legs, blond hair in a ponytail, focused, determined— “Long distance or sprint?”
“Long distance.”
He believed it. He paused for a moment, frowned. “It’s strange. I feel like someone’s been watching us, but how could anyone do that? Forget it, come on, let’s get back.”
It took them only a few minutes to walk back to Federal Hall. Officer Wilson stood by the crime scene tape, keeping people out.
“We heard there was an incident with the suspect and he’s dead,” Wilson said. “What happened?”
Nicholas said, “Well, he led us on a merry chase, Tasered me, then managed to get himself dead when I caught up to him the second time.”
“Did you have to kill him?”
“No, it was something else entirely, something he ate, maybe. Next time, Wilson, you can chase him.”
“Nah, I’m not as young as I once was.” He gave Nicholas a manic grin. “You look worse for wear yourself, Agent Drummond. Anything we can do for you? You need a medic?”
“I’m fine,” Nicholas said. “What we need are the video feeds of the murder, if you have them.”
“Happens we do. The agent over there, Louisa? She has them downloaded.”
Louisa was sitting on the edge of the truck’s gate with a laptop balanced on her knees, her bobbed blond hair blowing a bit in the light spring breeze. She looked up. “Hey, you’re back. Good.” Then she really looked. “Whoa. You guys look like you’ve been in a war. What in the world happened to you two?”
“Not all that much, really, and the suspect is dead,” Mike said. “We really need that video feed now, Louisa.”
“Or yesterday, whichever is fastest,” Nicholas said.
“You got it. You’re in luck with the video. I’m almost done enhancing it. Like the witnesses said, the men actually argued for a while before he killed Pearce.”
She turned the laptop around and hit play.
The feed was grainy, angled down, so Mike knew immediately it had come from a traffic cam, but it was clear enough that they could see Mr. Olympic loitering on the corner when Pearce rushed into the frame. Pearce had been jogging. They watched him bend down to catch his breath, rub his knees, check his watch, and look around. When he didn’t see who he was expecting to see, he sent a quick text message on his cell.
Such mundane acts, Mike thought. He had no clue he was about to d
ie. She’d seen death videos too often, and it always made her sad and angry to watch a person’s life end violently.
Mr. Olympic walked over to Pearce and said something. Pearce jerked in response. They spoke, then it became more heated. Mr. Olympic slipped a knife from inside his Windbreaker. He was careful with it, practiced. No one on the street level would have been able to see it; the angle from the traffic cam showed it gleaming between the two of them. When Pearce turned away, obviously angry, the knife sank into his back. They watched Pearce’s face change from bewilderment to disbelief. And then he was down, Mr. Olympic with him.
Louisa said, “I know, it’s horrible. Now, listen, I was able to catch up the audio to the video before he knifed him.”
The voices were faint; they had to strain to hear.
Pearce said, “He won’t come. He’s too smart, he’ll know, he’ll see you.”
“He’ll come, see me with you, and he’ll think everything is fine. We’re going to wait for him to show, and then we’re going to have a little chat.”
“So you’re the one who sent me the text?”
Mr. Olympic held up a cell phone, waggled it in his hand. “The power of technology. While we wait, you can tell me what he told you last night. The call between the two of you lasted for thirty minutes, then you made some very interesting calls yourself. Exciting news travels fast, yes? He found it, didn’t he?”
“I won’t allow it, I won’t let you have him.” Pearce jerked around, but Mr. Olympic was fast. He said something they couldn’t make out, then suddenly the knife was out, five inches of tempered steel, and seconds later it slammed deep into Pearce’s back.
Pearce went down on his knees, the suspect cradling him.
He said, “Tell me. Tell me everything, or I swear to God, I’ll kill your whole family and everyone they love.”
Pearce had little breath left. He was facing the cameras, his eyes blank with shock.
“Tell me or they’re both dead!”
The Lost Key Page 4