The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

  She went down a flight, stopped on the landing, stripped off her dress and heels. Forty seconds later, Sophia Devereaux walked down one more flight of stairs.

  She opened the door, glanced around the basement. She’d timed it perfectly, no one was around.

  The door opened out onto Mitchell Place. She stepped out and started toward the corner of First Avenue, certain she’d be able to catch a cab quickly.

  “Is that you, Sophie? You going to a masquerade? What’s with the disguise?”

  She turned, startled, and saw Alex Grossman. He’d been waiting for her and she hadn’t seen him. Some disguise, he’d still recognized her.

  “Mr. Grossman? You scared me. What are you doing here? This is a tenant-only lot. Oh, it’s just a party.” And she patted her wig. Wasn’t that a brilliant thing to say?

  Grossman’s eyes were dark in the dim light. He hadn’t moved, only stood there, staring at her.

  “Sophie, please forgive me.” He lunged forward and grabbed her arm, but she punched him fast and hard in the stomach and jerked away, only to stumble and crash against a car. She saw a needle in his hand and screamed, “What are you doing!” and lashed out with her bag, a good fifteen pounds. It slammed against his shoulder and he fell back, for only a moment. She turned to run, but he grabbed her arm, shoved up her sleeve. She felt the sting of the needle, felt her legs weaken, felt herself falling. As she faded away, she thought she heard the words whispered into her hair—I’m sorry.

  Then everything went black.

  36

  358 East 69th Street

  9:00 p.m.

  The roast was delicious, as were the carrots and peas and mashed potatoes. A very British meal, Mike knew, and clearly a favorite of Nicholas’s. They’d both cleaned their plates twice, to Nigel’s nodding approval.

  Mike found the relationship between the two men fascinating. Nigel was clearly deferential, but proud of who and what he was. Nigel was smart, strong in mind and body, and he kept Nicholas smiling. The two men were close, that was easy to see. She learned they’d grown up together. Nigel’s father, the unflappable Horne, was an amazing, compassionate man, a man who knew exactly what to do and when to do it. She remembered how he’d taken her under his wing when she’d stayed at Old Farrow Hall for Elaine York’s funeral. It appeared Nigel was cut from the same mold, only there was more. She’d bet they’d been together in Afghanistan, and if they had then Nigel knew all the secrets buried in Nicholas’s past.

  Nicholas had overruled Nigel’s plan to serve them in the massive dining room with the crystal and china his grandfather had sent over. They’d eaten in the kitchen and Nicholas had insisted Nigel join them. She heard stories about young master Nicholas and his run-ins with the castle ghost, Captain Flounder. She was about to suggest Nigel break out the photo albums and embarrass his master further when Nicholas stood. “That was an excellent meal, Nigel, as always. Thank you. I think we’ll skip the pear tart and the port, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Nigel said. “You will be working now?”

  Nicholas nodded, stretched, and rubbed his bruised jaw, the only reminder of the afternoon. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She was clean, too, hair combed, and now wearing one of Nicholas’s white shirts tucked into her jeans. Not exactly her size, but who cared?

  “You ready to get to it?” he asked.

  “Onward.” They walked up a flight of stairs into a large living room with a vaulted ceiling and black-and-white leather furniture, very modern, and it screamed Nicholas. She pictured Old Farrow Hall, all its ancient antiques. She followed Nicholas through another door, into an intensely masculine library. No modern furnishings in here. It was beautiful, dark wood paneling throughout, a thick Aubusson carpet, similar to the one in Jonathan Pearce’s apartment. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves, only most were still empty. She saw three large wooden crates stacked in the corner, waiting to be unpacked. The modern and the traditional, both suited him.

  She leaned against a large leather wing chair that looked like he’d brought it from Old Farrow Hall, and possibly he had. “Tell me when you downloaded the SD files and Pearce’s hard drive, you kept a copy for yourself. And you’re ready to do your less-than-legal voodoo magic on the files.”

  “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

  “Me and Zachery both, and he knows, of course he knows. Now, where do we start?”

  He held up a small blue thumb drive in the shape of a British police box, waggled it back and forth. “I mirrored his whole hard drive, and the SD card. It’s as if his computer is right here. And the Tardis never lies.”

  “As in the call box from Dr. Who?”

  “The very same.”

  Nigel appeared in the doorway, carrying a silver tray with two big mugs of coffee. “Thank you, Nigel, that’s perfect.” Nicholas took a mug and drank deep, closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed.

  She took her coffee, slipped out of her boots, and tucked her feet up under her.

  Nicholas sat in the old leather chair across from her, as if he were settling in for a visit with an old friend. “I was telling you I thought there was a connection between Alfie Stanford and Jonathan Pearce. I don’t know if you noticed, but my father’s name was on Pearce’s client list.”

  She shook her head. “Once I saw Stanford’s name, I shut it all down and came to find you.”

  He drew a deep breath. “I think Stanford’s murder is the key. He’s an incredibly powerful man, on a number of levels.”

  “Outside the British government, I presume?”

  He grinned at her, sipped on his coffee. “You’re fast. As a powerful man, he naturally has enemies. However, for one of them to get inside 11 Downing Street is difficult to imagine. It would be like a stranger walking in off the street to your White House.”

  “An inside job.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure as can be that Alfie Stanford’s murder ties into our case as well.” He drew a breath. “The only way we can get anywhere near Stanford’s case is if we can prove whoever killed Pearce also killed Stanford. My father is in a position to help since he’s still part of the British government.”

  Mike put down her coffee mug and rose. “Then let’s put them together. If the murders are connected, there’ll be something in Mr. Pearce’s files proving it. Let’s see what we can find.”

  Pearce’s files were clean, organized, and easy to follow. He and Mike examined the satellite specs on the computer, and a troubling amount of financial data from various governments around the world. He cross-checked and, yes, Germany was on the list.

  Mike pointed. “They keep coming up again and again. I can’t imagine that the German government had Pearce and Stanford killed, so there must be something more tangible to show us the connection. We’re just missing it.”

  He clicked open a few more files, felt his heart begin to race. He heard her sharp intake of breath. So Mike saw it, too. “Nicholas, look.”

  “Yes, it’s a pattern.” He pointed to the screen, typing one-handed without looking at the keyboard. “Look at this letter from Mr. Pearce—see? Words and lines that don’t make sense.”

  “It’s a code,” Mike said. “Can you crack it?”

  “I can, but it’s going to take some time. Well, well, would you look at this?”

  “Yes, yes, only some of the people he corresponded with have this strange code in their letters.”

  He tapped on the keyboard a few more times, moved the mouse around. The files separated themselves and flew about, rearranging on the screen. When they finished moving, she could see fifteen small blue folders, each with a name. But the names themselves weren’t logical, they were jumbles of letters and numbers.

  She was nearly plastered against him, as excited as he was. “Will it take you long to sort out who these folde
rs belong to?”

  “Too long, far too long. I have a better idea, but I’ll need some help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Hand me the phone. Time to go to a higher power. I want to call Savich.”

  “Savich? He’s not your boss directly, but he’s certainly part of our chain of command. He might feel like he’s undermining Zachery.”

  He stared up at that blond ponytail, her scrubbed face. She looked like she’d be carded for sure for a beer. “Nah, he won’t.”

  She picked up his cell and handed it to him, only to have “Born in the U.S.A.” trill from its small speaker.

  Nicholas looked at the readout, raised a brow. “And isn’t this something. What is this guy, psychic or something?” When she didn’t smile, he said, “What?”

  “As a matter of fact, he is, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Sure thing. Right. Savich? How are you and Sherlock keeping this fine evening?”

  37

  10:30 p.m.

  Savich said, “Sherlock and I are tossing more popcorn to Astro than we’re getting in our own mouths. Now, listen, Nick, you want to tell me why I’ve been asked to sit on a SIRT board about you tomorrow morning?”

  “Ah, so you’ve heard.” He looked at Mike, who had an eyebrow raised. “Savich, Mike’s here with me. Let me put you on speaker.”

  “Hello, Mike. Now, Nick, I’ve got to say you’ve set a new first-day-as-an-agent record. Are you okay? I heard you’d been shot, glad you at least followed one protocol today and wore your body armor. I trust you’re fine physically?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, no problem. But I can tell you this for a fact, a real bullet to the chest hurts more than the rubber ones we used in training at Quantico. The vest stopped the bullet in its tracks, a right relief, but it still knocked the wind out of me. Since there was also a flash bang in the mix, I went down. I thought for a minute it was all over.”

  “And Mike?”

  “I’m good,” Mike said to Sherlock.

  Sherlock said, “We heard about Nicholas killing the man who had a gun against your head, Mike. Thank goodness you’re both okay. Dillon’s right, a very hairy day.”

  “An afternoon neither of us want to repeat,” Nicholas said, but Sherlock heard the layer of excitement in his voice. “Mike didn’t flinch, a gun to her head and she didn’t move an inch. The woman’s brave, maybe a bit of crazy, too, remains to be seen.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mike said, and smacked him on the shoulder.

  “Savich, don’t worry about tomorrow, it was a clean shoot. Everything will come out in my favor.”

  “I believe it will. Now, I had a feeling you needed something, so what can I do for you, Nicholas?”

  “Well, if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about the case.”

  You’re on suspension, Agent Drummond. There is no case, but Savich didn’t say that, rather, “Tell me what you need.”

  “I need MAX.”

  “As it happens, one of your agents, Gray Wharton, called me an hour ago and asked for MAX as well. Talk to me.”

  “What did Gray ask for?”

  “He saw code in some of your victim Jonathan Pearce’s correspondence. He said everything was moving too fast, and it would take him too much time to crack it, and asked for help.”

  Another reminder you aren’t the only hotshot computer knife in the drawer here in New York. Nicholas said, “Gray’s exactly right. In some of Mr. Pearce’s correspondence, there are short sections in code, although at first glance, if you’re reading quickly or just skimming, you won’t catch it. Not only is there a sophisticated code, but there’s also a pattern in the correspondence. I’ve identified fifteen people whose letters have the same code. The rest of the correspondence seems to be normal conversations. The problem is, the fifteen names are also in some sort of code. Do you think MAX can crack it?”

  Savich gave a little laugh. “Gray pointed out the same things. I got the bit between MAX’s teeth two hours ago, so it’s already done. That was one of the reasons I called.”

  “I’m glad to know Gray called first, since I’d seriously wonder if you could read minds from afar.”

  Savich went quiet for a moment. “Not quite,” he said finally. “You were on my mind, with the SIRT and all. Then after Gray’s inquiry, and that got me thinking. When MAX broke the code, I cross-referenced the names. I came up with a very interesting list of people. I’m e-mailing you the list now. They’re from all over the world, Nick, mostly Britain, and we’re talking high-level, important men. There’s a zip file with the codex, too.”

  “Anyone from Germany, by chance?” Mike asked. “The men we’ve been chasing today are all German nationals.”

  They heard tapping, then Savich said, “There is one in the file from Germany, Wolfgang Havelock. He passed away last month, had a massive stroke at his London office. Now here’s where it gets interesting. His son owns a multinational nano-biotech company—Manheim Technologies. His name is Dr. Manfred Havelock. Forty-seven, brilliant, rich as Croesus, and from what MAX has to say, he’s doing some groundbreaking work in the nano-biotech field. The guy holds over seven hundred and fifty patents in neural pathway nanotech.”

  Nicholas said, “Brain implants. Savich, this is our best lead yet. Is there anything in the files on him doing less-than-legal work?”

  “Right now, it looks like he’s legit, but I’ll set MAX to do some more digging, see if there’s anything off-book we need to know about.”

  Nicholas’s heart was beating a rapid tattoo, adrenaline pumping in his veins. “Brilliant. Perfect. Thanks for your help, Savich. You remember Pierre Menard? FedPol? He’s looking into the technology companies for us as well, see what he has to say about Havelock.”

  Savich said, “Good. And Nicholas? You see that Mike does the legwork on this. We don’t want you getting yourself in any more trouble since you are, officially, suspended. Am I clear?”

  “Clear as glass, Savich. Thanks for the list of names. Sherlock, give your husband a cookie, he deserves it, although I’ve got to say the popcorn really sounds good.”

  After Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “Let’s call Menard.”

  But Nicholas had stopped moving, was staring intently at the screen. “Hold on. What’s this?”

  “What?”

  “There’s another file, buried in the system. I didn’t see it earlier, and I guess Gray didn’t, either. It’s encrypted and password protected. Pearce has it set up in a subfolder, and it’s hidden deep in the system files.”

  Mike said, “I’ll bet Adam set it up for him. Can you get in?”

  He hit some buttons on his keyboard, accessed the file. “Ah, yes, and now that we have the codex, we’ll be able to break the code easily and see what it actually says.”

  Nicholas started to whistle, a song Mike recognized from his cell ringtone. The Sex Pistols—“God Save the Queen.” The keys clicked in a steady staccato rhythm, and after a few moments, he said, “We’re in.”

  What he saw made his eyes go wide.

  “What is it?”

  Nicholas flipped the computer around so she could see the screen.

  “Ever heard of polonium-two-ten?”

  Mike nodded. “Sure. It’s what the Russians allegedly use to assassinate people. Are you saying Pearce has something to do with polonium?”

  “There’s a letter here, from Alfie Stanford to another man, Edward Weston. Dated last week. It’s very brief, I’ll read it to you. ‘Weston, Havelock’s making a move in black-market Russian polonium. I trust you’ll see it goes nowhere. He is not to be trusted, and with Adam Pearce getting so close, we must not allow Havelock anywhere near the key. I fear his father may have told him about the U-boat and Marie’s key and book. If so, it isn’t good. Stop him, Edward.’ It’s signed AS.”

 
“AS—Alfie Stanford. So it is now, officially, tied together. A U-boat? What key, what book? Who’s Marie? What is Mr. Stanford talking about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mike said, “Well, if this Manfred Havelock is trying to buy polonium on the black market, then we know there’s something rotten going on here. Two murders and counting, very bad indeed.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Weapons-grade polonium has a very short half-life, which means Havelock would have to use it fast or lose it. Mike, you’re right, this is very bad. We have a very serious problem on our hands.”

  38

  Mike said, “We need to call Zachery, right now, get a whole team on his trail.”

  “I agree. But first I want to hear what Menard has to say so we can give Zachery all the information he needs.”

  Mike said, “If a German national who was a technology leader in nano-biotech is making a play for polonium, this scares me to my boots. This U-boat, if he finds it—”

  Menard answered on the first ring. “I was about to call you, Nicholas. I have a name for you, someone I think will be of interest.”

  “Is it Manfred Havelock?”

  “I see I wasted my time since you found this person on your own?”

  “No, Pierre, you’ve verified it for us. It’s a long story, but we cracked an encrypted laptop full of files, and there was a warning about Havelock trying to buy up Russian polonium stores.”

  “What? Polonium? This I do not know about. Mon dieu. This is frightening news. Havelock, il est très fou—crazy in the head, you know what I mean? He is quite intelligent, but there are whispers, and more, about his personal choices. He is known to be unpredictable. He is a scientist, and owns a company that makes brain implants for amputees and such. I believe he would be the most logical choice behind the implant you saw today. But this—polonium?”

  Mike asked, “Pierre, what rules did Havelock break to get on Interpol’s radar?”

  “He has been moving small water-fission equipment around Europe. He bought a load of equipment from CERN—the European Organization for Nuclear Research—in Geneva last year. Little pieces, here and there. We always watch what sort of machinery moves through Europe when they come out of the nuclear fission laboratories. On the surface, it was not of concern—Havelock is a scientist, as I said, a visionary, with many irons in the fire. It wasn’t unusual for him to be gathering this type of material. But if you combine this machinery with black-market purchase of polonium-two-ten—” He drew a deep breath. “This is frightening indeed.”