The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

  Ben said, “I’m going to pull Lia off Sophie Pearce, and turn hospital duty over to her, come back and help Gray and Jack go through Pearce’s files and that SD card. I’ll be able to monitor Sophie as well.”

  “Where is Sophie?”

  “She’s at the UN, wrapping up. Gonna take her a while, too, from what it sounds like. She called her boss, told her she was coming in to clear her desk so she could take a leave for the next month while she handles her father’s affairs. She’s gonna burn the midnight oil.”

  “All right. You know, I can’t help but feel like everyone is looking for something, and we have no idea what that something is.”

  “Maybe the something is a someone—Adam Pearce.”

  “Him, sure, but there’s something more. Hey, here comes Nicholas, I’ve got to go. Call me if you find anything.”

  “Mike, you and Nicholas look like crap warmed over. Get yourselves fixed up, okay? Oh, yeah, another thing, next time, even if you guys think you’re just going to scoop up some kid, I’ll have a team surrounding you. This shouldn’t have happened, Mike, you know that.”

  What could she say? He was right. She punched off.

  “News?” Nicholas asked, reaching her.

  “Ben said nothing new. Why don’t we get some dinner? There’s a great new Chinese place down the street I’ve been wanting to try.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired, and depressed and flat-out beaten up. “If it’s all the same to you, Mike, I’d like to grab a taxi and head home. It’s been a long day.”

  “A cab? What, you didn’t drive your ejector-seat Bondmobile to work this morning?”

  She didn’t even draw a smile. “No. I don’t have a car in the city. Taxis work fine.”

  “I’m right here, with keys in hand. I’ll drive you home.”

  Nicholas thought of his magnificent town house, all five beautiful floors of it, thought of Nigel, doubtless dressed to the butler hilt. “No, no, there’s no need. I’d like the time alone, to clear my head.”

  Mike grinned. “If you think I’m falling for that, you must really think I’m stupid.”

  “Never,” he said. “Honestly, I’ll be fine.”

  She hooked her arm through his and dragged him to the elevator, punched the down button. “I know you, the minute you’re home, you’re going to investigate Pearce and the Germans and Adam by yourself.” She shook her head. “Why do you think Zachery wants us together? He knows things are moving fast and he figures we’ll keep investigating, even though we shouldn’t. He’s pretty smart.”

  He waited for the doors to close, then faced her. She’d put her hair back up in its ponytail, but the blood had dried on her white blouse and turned black. “You really think so?”

  “Yes. Remember how much he told us before he got to the inquiry part? He’s not going to outwardly sanction us working off-book, but I’m sure that’s the reason he sent me home with you. So don’t fight it.”

  He smiled then, and Mike saw a hint of his uncle, Bo Horsley, her former SAC. “So you’re not simply supposed to be my babysitter? Keep me out of trouble? I get the sense you wouldn’t be a very good one in any case. Are you?”

  “Nope, I never was. I used to have to babysit to earn spending money, and I hated every minute of it.”

  Up went a black eyebrow. “Don’t like kids, Mike?”

  “I like kids fine. It was all the parental rules I disliked. Dinner at seven, bath and bed by eight, no jumping on the sofa or pillow fights. Where’s the fun in all that?”

  33

  7:30 p.m.

  “Want to tell me where we’re headed?”

  Nicholas commended his soul to God and said, “Upper East Side. Three fifty-eight East Sixty-ninth, between First and Second.”

  She shot him a look as she turned onto the FDR. “So you’re not far from Ariston’s.”

  “No, not far at all.” The sky was purple with the threat of impending rain, a fog drifting between the high-rises, creeping toward the Brooklyn Bridge. New York looked more like Gotham City tonight than he’d ever seen.

  Mike said, “Don’t worry about your job, Nicholas. The SIRT board will find you did everything according to the book, like Zachery said.”

  “It’s not that,” he said, turning to face her. “The high-tech specs on Pearce’s computer, the three German assassins, the implant, Pearce’s murder, Alfie Stanford’s murder. It’s all connected, and I think I know—”

  His mobile rang. “Good, here’s news,” and he put the call on speaker. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Menard. It’s one-thirty in the morning your time. Don’t you sleep?”

  “Bonsoir, Nicholas. Not when I have such interesting research to pursue.”

  “You’re on with Mike Caine, too.”

  “Hello, Pierre.”

  “It is good to hear your voice again. This is quite an interesting case you have. Nano-biotech is all the rage in the European underground. There are many uses for the developing technologies, and in the hands of the wrong people, it could go very badly.”

  Nicholas said, “We’re looking for a specific company, Pierre, very advanced, very cutting-edge. A supposedly legitimate leader in the field with the possibility of a few off-the-book projects going on, too. We’re looking for someone with money, who could provide serious funding. The equipment we found this afternoon is heads and tails above anything I’ve ever heard or read about.”

  Menard said, “This equipment, the implant, it was made of a biological polymer?”

  “It seems so. My bet is, whoever developed it might also have worked on organ transplant research. You know the rejection rate on organs is always a problem. If there’s a biologically based metal that won’t be disruptive, there may have been a breakthrough on the other side as well.”

  Menard said, “There are only a few companies I have heard of who fit the criteria you’re speaking of, but none of them are known to have criminal dealings.”

  “They wouldn’t, I don’t suppose. Whoever is behind this would have to be, on the surface at least, on the up-and-up.”

  “I will look into this for you, my friend,” Menard said. “I assume the inquiry is of an urgent manner?”

  “When is it not, Pierre? Oh, yes, we believe the chances are good the company is based in Germany.”

  “Ah,” Pierre said and disconnected.

  Nicholas said to Mike, “This is good. He’ll have something for us shortly. Here we are.”

  Nicholas pointed, and Mike pulled into an empty spot directly in front of a stunning five-story limestone-washed town house. Why was she surprised, given who his grandfather was, who his parents were? Nicholas was fidgeting, he looked embarrassed. She said, “Well, it’s not too bad, considering. Nice of the slumlord to throw in a parking place since this place is such a hovel.” She put the Crown Vic in Park, unsnapped her seat belt. “Did it come with rented furniture?”

  He shook his head at her. “Very funny. Thanks to my grandfather, this place is all mine, four floors of it at least. Nigel has the third floor, that’s where the kitchen is and his rooms. He’s in heaven.”

  “Close enough I’ll bet he doesn’t need an elevator,” she said, still staring up at the house.

  “Don’t give me any guff over this, Mike. Like I said, my grandfather was behind it. I wanted something simple, and he would hear nothing of it.”

  She started to laugh. “Um, Nicholas, I did visit Old Farrow Hall. I wouldn’t expect you to be living in a studio walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a beautiful house. Let’s go inside, I want to see how Nigel’s set you up, and see if we can scrounge something up from your—no, his—kitchen. I’m famished.”

  He paused after he unlocked the front door. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Nicholas, the entire FBI knows your grandfather is a baron. Not to mention all the women
agents know he owns Delphi Cosmetics and are trying to get the nerve to ask you to get them free samples. No one will be upset about this. They might tease you a bit—I mean come on, you have a real live butler—but they won’t hold it against you. We’re all better than that.” And she ruined it with a giggle.

  “Sure you are.” He opened the door onto a magnificent entryway, done in dark woods and white marble, very modern, and it fit him perfectly. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  “Should I take off my shoes? No? Where is Nigel?”

  Nigel suddenly appeared above them on the stairs. His face went white and he hurried into the foyer, looking Nicholas up and down. “Oh, my, whatever happened to you? And you, Agent Caine? There’s a bit of blood, I see.”

  “We’re okay, Nigel, nothing some Advil and ice won’t fix. And a change of clothes, maybe one of my shirts for Agent Caine. We’re both starving, we didn’t have time to eat much today. Any chance of some dinner?”

  “Yes, I have a lovely roast in the kitchen, with vegetables and mash. Shall I open a bottle of wine? I set aside a Château Margaux—the ’67. It can decant whilst you change your clothes for dinner and fetch a shirt for Agent Caine.”

  “Yes, I’ll find something. Nigel, this is a working dinner, so we’ll have some Pellegrino with lime. Thanks.”

  “Of course, sir. Perhaps I’ll arrange a nightcap later, some brandy perhaps, or some port. Yes, that’s what’s needed, the port to go with the pear tart I’ve made. They’ll go together nicely.”

  Nigel was smiling, the bloody sod. He was loving playing the formal English butler, watching Nicholas turn red and tongue-tied. He saw Mike was grinning, quite enjoying herself.

  “Oh, bugger off, both of you.” He stomped up the stairs, the sound of Mike’s and Nigel’s laughter following him.

  34

  2 United Nations Plaza

  8:30 p.m.

  Sophie closed down her computer. Done at last. She’d filed her request for an official leave of absence, effective immediately, and sent a few personal e-mails to the members of the Chinese delegation, so they would understand why she was leaving them so suddenly.

  The rest of her work had been distributed among the other translators. She picked up a photo of her father and Adam on her desk. She wanted to grieve for her father, but knew she simply didn’t have the time. And there was Adam, gone who knows where, and her father’s files, and at the end of the rainbow, the key. If Adam had indeed found the submarine, it was only a matter of time before the Order could retrieve the key, and the book, and then what would happen? Manfred Havelock was what would happen. He’d do anything to get ahold of the key and the book, at least that’s what her father believed. Anything. Had Havelock ordered her father murdered? She didn’t know.

  She gently put the photograph in her large leather bag and straightened and remembered Drummond in that stingy FBI interview room. The bastard, the pushy, cruel bastard with his arrogant clipped British accent, and she’d ended up caving. Maybe Drummond and Caine had been right, maybe telling where they could find Adam was the right thing to do. But she still hadn’t heard from her brother. Where was he? Had they found him? And were they keeping quiet about it? She didn’t know.

  She needed to find Adam, needed to arrange her father’s funeral as well. She’d called their lawyer, who was shocked by the news, and promised to start the paperwork immediately.

  Most of all, she needed to access her father’s computer files. But how? She realized he’d given her all his bank codes when he’d left for a short trip to Leningrad two weeks before. He’d also given her his passwords. Had he changed them when he’d gotten home? Would the FBI know if she accessed his computer? She didn’t know, but it was worth a try. What would they do?

  The key is in the lock.

  She had to know what those dying words meant, since Adam had refused to tell her. If Adam had really found the sub, then everything would change. Was Havelock the one behind this?

  She turned on her laptop again and logged in to her dad’s private e-mail account. He hadn’t changed the passwords. She didn’t see anything unusual—orders from abroad, a few newsletters from his favorite nautical history magazine.

  She searched through it all, but there was nothing that screamed Havelock’s behind everything, Sophie, he killed me. Start reading, it’s all here.

  She went to his correspondence. Maybe he’d written someone, even in code, to tell them about Adam’s finding the sub, maybe he’d mentioned Havelock.

  She found hundreds of letters, all neatly filed and organized by person, month and year. He kept up a rich correspondence with a number of people all over the world, about philosophy, naval history, particularly World War I, even about the loss of his wife, Sophie’s mother, to cancer ten years earlier. But nothing about the submarine.

  She scrolled through bits and pieces of her father, recalled happy as well as sad memories, but nothing about the submarine, nothing helpful.

  She glanced at the clock, surprised at how late it was. She wasn’t getting anywhere. She needed to find Adam, he was the only one who could tell her what was happening.

  As she left her office, her cell rang.

  She didn’t recognize the number, but went ahead and answered.

  “Sophie?”

  “Adam. Where are you?”

  His voice was garbled, she knew he’d have her on a cell repeater, sending the signal through multiple cell towers, trying to mask his true location.

  “. . . killed Allie. They killed her, Sophie.”

  She felt the words like a fist. Adam was crying. She’d never heard him cry before.

  “Soph, they shot her, she didn’t do anything, she was innocent.”

  “Who killed her? Do you know?”

  He tried to pull himself together, she could hear deep, ragged breaths. “I hacked the FBI facial-recognition database. There were two guys, they were German. You know what that means. Havelock was behind it, Sophie, he must have been. He’s behind Dad’s death as well, and Mr. Stanford’s. And now they’re going to put him in the Order in place of his father—the meeting is tomorrow.”

  Her voice sounded off, even to her. “Who is getting Dad’s spot?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was getting clearer, stronger. “I have to get to Scotland. I have to get the key before Havelock.”

  “Adam, how will you do that? The sub’s been missing for nearly a hundred years. You’ll need special equipment, not to mention the Order is going to be right behind you.”

  “I’ll figure it out. Like I said, Soph, Havelock killed Dad, killed Mr. Stanford, killed Allie. The Order’s been corrupted. And Havelock will be voted in. At least I’m still the only one who knows exactly where the sub is. I have to get there first. It’s the only choice.”

  “Adam, no, don’t go yet. Meet me at the apartment.”

  “No, Soph, I’m getting on a plane, right now, and you should, too. Take every precaution. Get away from here. Get yourself safe.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No! Staying apart is the only way to keep the sub’s location secret. If one of us dies, the other will know the truth.”

  “But Adam, I don’t know the coordinates, I don’t know anything.”

  “You’re right, both of us should know. Look in Dad’s e-mail. It’s hard to find, but there’s a message in his outbox, you’ll see it’s marked UNSENT. It has the coordinates of the sub. Please, listen to me. Get out of New York. Go somewhere, anywhere else. I’ll call again tomorrow, at this same time. If you don’t hear from me—” His voice choked off, and they both knew what he meant.

  Suddenly, she was calm. If Havelock was behind the murders, then the Order was no longer as it was, and of course they were both in danger. “All right, Adam, I’m going now. I have my passport with me, I always do. Call me tomorrow. And be careful, for both o
ur sakes, be careful.”

  35

  Sophie unlocked her bottom drawer and pulled a plain manila envelope out of a small black backpack. She slid the contents onto the desk. The money was in two separate packets, five thousand in American dollars, five thousand in British pounds. Both easily exchanged for euros if necessary.

  The passport was there as well, in the name of Sophia Devereaux, a resident of Lyons, France, with a work visa in the United States valid for the next six months. God bless Adam and his constant paranoia—You never know, he always said. He’d sent her this one two months ago.

  In the photo, she had short brown hair and wore glasses. She pulled out the brown wig cut in a sharp-angled bob and the black-rimmed glasses, plus a pair of worn cargo pants, black Dr. Martens, and a zip-neck black sweater. She looked like a hip artist, or a writer. Certainly not a UN translator, or a woman whose world was crashing down. As disguises went, it was decent. Not perfect, but on short notice, decent. She spoke perfect French, and as long as she wasn’t put under undue stress, no one would know she was American.

  She stashed it all back in the bag, not smart to risk changing here. She’d need to go out through security like she always did, as herself, then go down into the garage. She’d change in the stairwell, go out the garage entrance, hail a cab to take her directly to JFK and get onto the next flight to Europe, regardless of the destination.

  She hurried to the grand staircase at the end of the hall, stepped down slowly, and nodded to the security guys as she walked out. They knew about her dad, and looked grim. No one knew what to say. That was fine, she didn’t, either. And now she was on the run.

  The security guys were watching her, she could feel their eyes on her back. She stopped and dug in her purse as though she was looking for her keys. A stroke of luck, someone else came down the stairs, and their attention turned. She hurried to the basement access door and slipped through before they could turn back.