The Lost Key

by Catherine Coulter

They landed, got into a car, and drove for at least twenty minutes. When the car stopped, Adam heard the sound of water lapping against a wall. He managed to angle his head to he could see the street name. QUAI D’ANJOU. He was on the Seine.

  They removed his blindfold and shoved him into an elaborate entryway. He saw high ceilings, antiques, an expanse of tile floor before Elise stuck a gun in his back and forced him up two flights of stairs, then put him into a dark room. A key grated in the lock. He was alone and, unfortunately, still handcuffed. Adam stumbled around in the dark before he managed to run his fingers along the wall by the door. He finally found a light switch, nudged it up with his shoulder, and the room lit up with a soft glow.

  First things first. He had to get the handcuffs to the front so he could use his hands. He relaxed his shoulders and stepped back with one leg, working his foot between his hands and his butt. His hands were now scissored between his legs, and he stepped back with the other leg, and his hands were in front of him.

  He saw a lighted keypad next to the door—the room was alarmed and that meant he had no chance of breaking out, not without alerting Havelock and the woman. He’d have to find another way.

  He turned then and looked around at a maritime museum, the walls wainscoted in rich, warm walnut, painted white above the paneling, and covered with magnificent paintings of old ships, set beneath individual soft lights.

  The room was full of naval memorabilia. As he walked through the long room, he realized the old maritime equipment was not only authentic, it all had been lovingly restored, set in vitrine cases with museum-style lights. He saw letters and old ships’ logs, sextants and astrolabes, even a full-size weathered wooden wheel with a gold roundel at its center.

  This room would have been Christmas for his father. But Havelock? He couldn’t imagine him assembling, much less displaying and caring for this incredible collection.

  He walked slowly around the room again, this time looking for anything he could use to communicate to the outside world. He went back to the alarm system, checked it thoroughly. There was a small button with a lowercase script letter I. It looked similar to the intercom system they had at home.

  He pressed the button and heard Havelock’s voice, and he was speaking English. He was crowing, he was so pleased with himself. He was talking to Elise. Havelock said, “Who would have imagined Curie’s hidden address would be so simple? Nineteen G thirteen R. How very brilliant she was.”

  Elise: “Nineteen G thirteen R—what do the numbers and letters mean?”

  Havelock: “It always made sense to me her secret lab had to be here since this was her home. But you see, Elise, her lab isn’t in Paris, it’s under Paris. Her lab is in the tunnels. And now, my dear, I must go. You stay here and guard the boy. If he does anything you don’t like, feel free to kill him. I will be back before dawn.”

  Then silence. Then he heard Havelock speaking French to someone. On his cell phone?

  Adam felt adrenaline shoot through him. Those numbers and letters Havelock had discussed with Elise, they had to be directions to Curie’s lab in the tunnels beneath Paris.

  He saw two lights on the pad light up. Then there was a small beep, and the two lights went off. Havelock had left the house through the front door. Adam hurried to the window, and saw Havelock walking quickly down the street. He was going to get Curie’s weapon.

  He had to work fast. He needed a computer or a phone. Anything.

  He made another circuit of the room, looking under the cases, against the wall, for wires.

  Then he saw it, in a case across the room—an old Morse code transmitter. It was in pristine condition, but that didn’t matter. Without something to transmit to, he’d never be able to use it.

  But it gave him an idea. What other communication or navigation equipment was in this room?

  It only took him a few minutes of searching to find an old hand-crank ham shortwave radio.

  He needed to get both items out of their cases, then he had to crank the hell out of the ham radio, and start sending messages. Someone would be listening. They always were.

  He had to break through the glass of the display cases and his fists wouldn’t do it.

  He lifted the wooden wheel off its stand, muttered an apology, and smashed the spokes through the top of the vitrine case.

  84

  Near Paris

  The pilot came over the intercom. “We will be landing in ten minutes. There is a call for you, Agents. From an FBI special agent in charge Zachery.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas said. “Please put him through.”

  “I hope they’ve found Havelock,” Mike said. “It would make our jobs a lot easier.”

  Nicholas’s armrest vibrated once, gently. He answered the phone. “Sir, we were about to call you, we’ve—”

  Zachery interrupted him. “Quiet, Drummond. We’ve received a shortwave radio transmission on a private, secure frequency normally only known of, and used by, the American government agencies. Someone has managed to hack into the radio transmissions of Air Force One, the DEA’s evening broadcast, and the CIA’s feeds to Mumbai. Secret Service is understandably livid, the CIA is breaking down the director’s door. The DEA aren’t too happy with us, either, since they were in the middle of an op, which has since gone south.”

  Nicholas couldn’t help himself, he grinned like a fool. Adam had managed to upset three major government agencies in a very short amount of time.

  “I hope the message will make sense to you since the sender has been using your name liberally in his transmissions. Know Morse code, by any chance?”

  “I do, sir. Play me the message.”

  “Hang on. Gray will upload it for you.”

  Nicholas said to Mike, “We’ve got him. Sophie, your brother is amazing.”

  For a moment, there was nothing, no sound, only static. Then he heard the clicking. He listened carefully. It started with a series of repetitive clicks, over and over and over again. Then a series of coordinates, the words Paris, Curie, Lab, and a series of seemingly meaningless letters and numbers—19 G 13 R—followed by a brief explanation of their meaning, and the name Havelock, three times.

  Nicholas asked Gray to play it for him again, then a third time. He finally looked up to see Mike’s excited face.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  Nicholas nodded. He tapped Sophie on the hand with his pen. “Your brother is alive, and in the process of pissing off the government. I’ll say it again, Sophie, your brother is amazing.”

  “You know where he is?”

  Nicholas nodded. “Adam’s managed to give us both his location and the location of Madame Curie’s secret lab.”

  85

  Paris

  1:15 a.m.

  Nicholas called Pierre Menard of FedPol to help clear the way through the French bureaucracy.

  The call was answered on the first ring.

  “Allo, Nicholas. When you call in the middle of the night, I assume bad things are happening.”

  “Good things, for once, my friend. But I do need your help.”

  He explained some of what was happening. “Our plane is due to land in ten minutes. We have an address for Manfred Havelock, but I don’t think he’s there at the moment. We believe he’s gone into the Paris underground after something quite priceless. We need to find him, Pierre, now.”

  “The weapon you discussed with me last evening?”

  “The very same. We have to move fast, as if there is an imminent terrorist attack on Paris, but we need a needle to handle this, not a sledgehammer. Can you help?”

  “Of course. Tell me exactly what it is you need, and I will make it so.”

  “Send the police to the address on Quai d’Anjou and rescue Adam Pearce. Then we’ll need a guide, Pierre, which is why I thought of you. Isn’t there a group of revolutionarie
s who meet down in the catacombs and cause a ruckus?”

  “I don’t know if we could call them revolutionaries. The French police call them cataphiles.”

  “That’s it, cataphiles. I recall reading about a group of cataphiles who have mapped the tunnels between the limestone quarries that run under the city. Not the quarries the city turned into ossuaries, I’m not speaking of the Empire of the Dead. This would be the uncharted areas, north into the sixth arrondissement. I believe they call themselves the Extreme Underground?”

  “Oui, I have heard of these people.”

  “Since it is illegal to be in the tunnels, and I know the Paris police are quite serious about rousting the cataphiles, do you think there may be a name in their files, someone who may be a leader of this organization?”

  “Oui, you do indeed need an experienced guide, Nicholas, but not one of the cataphiles. They would not cooperate even if you offered to reward them handsomely.

  “I believe you would be better served by using the skills of an elite police unit responsible for the catacombs. I will contact the commander of this unit. Do you have any idea where to start?”

  “Near the Sorbonne.”

  “I will have someone meet you there.”

  “Hurry, Pierre. Havelock has quite a head start.”

  “I will. Oh, yes, we have no records of Manfred Havelock owning a home on the Quai d’Anjou. We will have to look further.”

  “Check the name Elise—I don’t know her last name. Perhaps she is listed as the owner. Call me when you recover Adam Pearce, please.”

  “Very good. Once we get you through security, you will proceed to the Sorbonne, and wait at the corner of rue des École and rue Saint-Jacques. You will be met. I will handle the rest.”

  “Thank you, Pierre. I owe you one.”

  “Good luck. Be very careful in the catacombs. It is a very dangerous place.”

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, they were standing in front of the limestone buildings of the Sorbonne when a handsome dark-haired woman approached them, six officers in tow. She introduced herself in lovely accented English. “I am Commander Beatrix Dendritte. I will be taking you into the tunnels.”

  They shook hands. “I’m Special Agent Nicholas Drummond and this is Special Agent Mike Caine. And this is Sophie Pearce.” Nicholas looked at her and came to a decision. “She is our—civilian consultant. She’ll be coming with us.”

  “Pierre said you know where we are to go?”

  “We have an address of sorts, but we don’t know how to get there.”

  “An address?” She laughed. “Mon Dieu. You are already far ahead of the normal. There are street names in the underground, carved into the walls, some dating back to the beginning of the Révolution in 1789. Some street names are written even now by the cataphiles to map new tunnels. What is this address you have?”

  Nicholas gave her the numbers. “Wherever we are headed, this will be on the wall. It’s how we’ll know we are close. Nineteen, G; thirteen, R.”

  She wrote it down. “And you think the Sorbonne is the closest starting point?”

  “The person who hid the items we’re looking for worked here in 1915. The space this person created would have needed to be within walking distance of the Sorbonne. We’re looking for some sort of room, guarded by a wooden door with a lock, which has been there for over a century.”

  “A wooden door? I don’t think I have ever seen such a thing in the tunnels, but it does not mean it is not there. The cataphiles, they dig, they create entrances, new exits. They also put up walls of stone to rearrange the connecting tunnels. It not only confuses things but it hurts the structural integrity of the ceilings, so we must have a care.” She shrugged. “Alors. Perhaps we will find this door. And perhaps we will not.”

  Mike said, “Commander Dendritte, this is a matter of life and death.”

  The commander gave her a long look, then another shrug that said everything and nothing at all. “D’accord. This life and death, that seems always to be the case. Okay. We look.”

  She spread a large piece of paper on the hood of her Citroën. “Do you have anything other than these numbers to go on?”

  “I do not.”

  She wrote the numbers and letters on a sticky note and affixed it to the map. She pointed at them with her finger.

  “The thirteen R, that is easy. It is the thirteenth year after the end of our Révolution. It was written on the walls in about 1812. Nineteen G—I believe it is Guillermo’s signature. He was the leader of a group of Rats who lived in the tunnels after the Révolution. Nineteen—I do not know.”

  Sophie said, “Are there rats?”

  The commander looked at this young woman who was too pale, who was possibly in pain. Special consultant? Why was she here if she was injured? “Do not worry, the rodents, they only come two or three a year. Non, I speak of Rats, a gang of revolutionaries. Even today, the gangs of Paris meet in the tunnels. But this”—she pointed at the map—“I believe we need to go down at rue Saint Jacques. This numbering is familiar, and I think I know where to start looking.” She folded the map.

  Nicholas asked, “Is there an official entrance into the tunnels?”

  Commander Dendritte pointed down to the street. “There are ladders down from the manholes in certain places. It will be best to start there.”

  86

  Paris Underground

  Off rue Saint-Jacques

  2:00 a.m.

  Their flashlights barely made a dent in the dark. The air smelled ancient, musty, and dead flat, like a tomb. Mike wondered how Marie Curie could stand to come down here day after day. She looked at Sophie, saw her face was white and set.

  As they walked, their feet crunched on trash and broken glass. She saw rivulets of water running down some of the walls and wondered where the water came from. And wondered why it didn’t simply burst through the tunnel ceiling. She stepped over and through puddles of stagnant stinking water, eyes ahead, trying not to dwell on how alien and terrifying this world was.

  They’d climbed at least forty feet down a series of wooden ladders, then struck out in the direction Dendritte pointed. The ceiling over their heads was lower in some places, making Nicholas bend down. There were only the four of them. The rest of Dendritte’s cops were stationed around the aboveground area, with photos of Manfred Havelock, guarding known exits out of the underground in case they were too late. They were the fail-safe—if the four of them didn’t return in an hour, her other men were to come in after them.

  Dendritte was right, there were street names, of a sort. Some were very old, carved into the stone, some much newer, spray-painted on the walls. They went deeper and deeper, sometimes angling up, then down, mostly downward, lower and lower beneath the real world above. Dendritte seemed like she knew exactly what she was doing, where she was going.

  They saw walls covered in red and black graffiti, insults written by the cataphiles to the police. She’d heard Dendritte say the cataphiles used the tunnels to host parties, drink with their friends, or escape from the police after committing crimes.

  Mike wondered if they would cancel their parties if they knew what was down here behind a locked door in a hundred-year-old lab.

  She heard Sophie breathing heavily behind her. Despite the pain meds, Mike knew her back had to be hurting badly, but she hadn’t said a word. Sophie had guts.

  Sophie stumbled and Nicholas caught her, righting her before she slammed headfirst into Mike.

  “You okay?”

  “I am. This place—it’s like it’s dead, yet I can almost feel it breathing around me. Isn’t that strange?”

  Nicholas agreed. He wondered about Commander Dendritte. Why had she chosen this assignment? He couldn’t imagine trying to track a criminal down here, with only a flashlight and a map that was always changing. And that meant Havelock
had to be somewhat familiar with the catacombs, or had a guide like they did. Even so, he was taking a huge risk.

  Dendritte stopped, shined her light on the walls.

  “Regardez-vous. Look at this.”

  They gathered around her. She ran her hands along a carving in the stone wall. “See? RUE JACQUES. In the Révolution, the street names with Saint in them were dropped. The Rats have made certain that guideposts down here match what is above. And see the other numbers? We are twenty-five meters below the street. That is over eighty feet,” she added to Mike.

  Mike glanced at Nicholas. “As deep as the sub under the loch. Incredible.”

  Sophie asked, “Are we close?”

  Dendritte dropped her light from the walls. “Oui, yes, very close. Follow me.” She walked for another one hundred feet, then stopped and shone the light on the walls again.

  “Ah, ici. Here, you look.”

  Mike shined her flashlight on the wall as well. “Nineteen G thirteen R. This is it. We have found the spot. I do not see a door, only the wall—”

  The wall began to crumble. The cinder base slid open with a loud grind and two men burst out. There was an odd whistling sound, and the commander suddenly fell to the ground, her flashlight spinning to hit against the tunnel wall. Nicholas grabbed Mike and Sophie and dragged them down to the floor behind her. In that instant Nicholas realized exactly how Havelock had known where to come. He’d hired Rats, and they’d not only showed him the way, he’d set them to guard the tunnel entrance. They were dressed in heavy overcoats, big boots, their faces unshaven and brutal.

  Mike grabbed the unconscious commander to protect her from the two men, but one of them was coming her way. Before she could draw her Glock, he hit her hard in the back with his fists, then wrapped his big hands around her neck. She heard Nicholas and the other Rat scuffling next to her. She tried to kick back at him, tried to twist away, but he was squeezing harder and harder. She was getting light-headed and dizzy.

  A second later, the beam of a single flashlight began bouncing around. Sophie, she’d found Dendritte’s flashlight. The sudden light distracted the Rat and she was able to jerk free and whirl around to face him. She looked into the man’s face as she kicked him hard in the hip, then launched herself two steps up the wall, twisted hard in a somersault, landing behind him, and slammed her Glock on the back of his head. He fell hard, landing on her ankle, twisting it under him. She had no choice but to fall as well; it was that or let the ankle snap.