The Lost Key (15 page)

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 our sakes, be careful.”

S
ophie 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.

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.

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 folders 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?”