The Lost Key (23 page)

North of London

12:30 p.m.

Could she trust Alex? Even though he'd assured her the Order had only her best interest at heart, Sophie simply didn't know. Her father was dead. What was the Order doing about that? And the murder of Alfie Stanford? If they did want her safe, why hadn't they simply told her, rather than sending Alex Grossman—no, Shepherd—to kidnap her?

Alex was driving a Vauxhall that waited for them in the airport's short-term car park. Driving in downtown London was craziness, but he expertly maneuvered in and out of traffic until they hit the M40 and it became less populated, the city streets giving way to green fields.

Near High Wycombe, he pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park. He looked at her.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I'm going to give you a choice.”

“About what?”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a syringe.

“Oh, no, don't you even think about it, Alex whatever your
name is. You try to stick me with another needle, it will be the last move you make.”

He reached into the bag he had in the backseat and pulled out a length of black fabric. “This is your choice, the needle or a hood.”

“A hood? Like terrorists use on people they're going to behead? Are you nuts?” She yanked at the car handle, only to find it locked. By him. To keep her a prisoner. She didn't look at him, she was too angry.

“Either I can knock you out again or you can put the hood over your head. One or the other. No other choices.”

She didn't know much about guns, but she wished she had one right now. She held out her hand for the black hood. “And you expect me to trust you? Why should I believe you won't kill me when you find Adam?”

He crossed his hands over his heart. “I swear to you, Sophie, I would never hurt you. You may not believe me, but I promise I'll keep you safe, or die trying. Now, would you please put the hood over your head so we can get this over with?”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe.”

She searched his eyes, but he said nothing more. “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes, tops. And please lie down in the backseat. Wouldn't do to have people staring as I drive past with a hooded woman in my front seat.”

He grinned and she wanted to punch him. No choice. She climbed into the back and lay down. She pulled the hood over her head. Utter and complete black. She hated it. “Fine. Go.”

“Don't even consider peeking. If you fiddle with the hood, I'll have to stick you with the needle.”

He pulled back onto the road.

Sophie hated this, hated the darkness, the suffocating feeling of the thick black material. She couldn't breathe properly, started to raise the bottom edge so she could get a bit of air.

“Sophie, don't.”

Of course he was watching. “I can't breathe.”

“Not long now.”

Sophie had a general idea where they were. Now she had to concentrate on which direction the car moved, the turns, anything.

She counted in her head, left, left again, then a tight turn right, straight. She guessed they'd entered some sort of drive. Nearly there. Her heart was thudding. She was afraid, very afraid.

“Can I take the hood off?”

“You'll have to keep it on until you're in your room. You must be starved. I'll make sure you're given food and drink. Please, Sophie, don't worry, we only want to keep you safe. I'll be nearby.”

The car stopped and Alex helped her out. She could make out no light, nothing. She began to feel claustrophobic. He heard her breathing quicken. “Relax. Not long now. Here's the steps.”

She stumbled once, but he steadied her. She listened, but heard nothing to give her a clue where they were.

Up three flights of stairs, he walked her down a long hallway, then stopped. “This is your room. One second more.”

She heard him open the door. Once they were inside, he pulled the hood off. He actually ran his fingers through her hair before she jerked away.

He stood by the door and watched her look about the room. Dark walnut canopied bed, yellow-and-white striped wallpaper. It was beautifully appointed. She turned back to him. “What happens now?”

“I'll be back soon.”

She grabbed his arm. “Don't you dare leave me here, you bastard.”

He pulled away her hand, squeezed it. “Sophie, you'll be fine. Try to relax. I'm going to send someone up with food and tea.”

When the door closed behind him, she heard the sound of a key turning.

She wasn't meant to be kept safe. She was a prisoner, pure and simple. He'd locked her in. He'd lied. She shouldn't have pulled the hood over her head, she should have forced him to try to stick that needle in her, and she'd have fought him, maybe hurt him badly. But no, she'd trusted him, taken the easy way.

She felt numb as she walked to the window. She had to keep it together, she had to stay calm and think.

She was on an estate, and clearly the house was big. She looked out over a large expanse of gardens. She saw a fence running away from her, and a very long tree-lined graveled driveway. All she knew was she was north of London, in the country, locked in some rich person's house.

No phone, no computer, and no way to get out. The windows were locked. Even if she broke a window and shouted, who would hear her? She saw no one outside, not a single gardener to maintain those beautiful gardens.

She was studying the ledge outside the window when someone knocked on the door. She heard the key turn, and the door opened. She ran into a young girl bringing in a tray. The tray went flying, scones and jam hit the carpet and the hot tea splattered both of them and the girl yelled, then ran.

A chance. Sophie burst into the hallway. Not six feet away stood a large man. He wasted no time and was on her in an instant. “Get back in there, stupid bitch.” He grabbed her arm and pushed her
back into the room. She stumbled against a wall as he slammed the door, locked it.

He was armed, she'd seen the large gun at his belt. An armed guard, in the middle of nowhere.

If Alex Shepherd had walked into the room at that moment, she would have tried to tear his throat out with her teeth.

She was a prisoner, but Alex wasn't. Even as she prayed, she knew this was not going to end well.

Over the Atlantic

Harry Drummond answered the phone on the first ring. “Nicholas. Calling me twice in two days. If you keep this up I might think you're doubting your decision to move to America.”

“I'm glad you can still joke, Dad.” But he'd heard the tension in his father's voice. Something was happening and his father knew what it was.

Harry paused. “Is everything all right?”

“No, I'm sorry to say it isn't. I'm on a secure satphone on a plane on my way to London. I need you to be honest with me. I need you to tell me what's going on over there.”

“Nicholas, I told you we have Alfie's murder well in hand. Why are you coming to London? You're FBI now. You have no business here.”

“On the contrary, I do. Which is why I'm calling, to tell you what's bringing me to London with an official invitation from New Scotland Yard, as a matter of fact. A principal in my case was kidnapped and we know she's been taken to England.” And he told his father all of it, including the break-in. “As if this weren't enough, Dad, have you ever heard of a group in England called the Highest Order? Or simply the Order?”

Absolute silence. “Dad? Are you still there?”

“Where, exactly, did you hear the name Highest Order?”

“So it does exist?”

“The Order is a very secret organization, Nicholas. It's not something bandied about in polite conversation. Where'd you see the name, Jonathan Pearce's files?”

“An old FBI dossier, actually.”

Harry Drummond cursed.

His father never cursed. “Dad, isn't it time to tell me what's going on over there? I'm coming. I'm going to be in the middle of it. Don't make me come in blind. I'm on a line as secure as is humanly possible, and it's scrambling from your end as well. We couldn't be more private if we were sitting in the center of the labyrinth out back. So out with it. Please. Sir.”

Harry said, “I must caution you, Nicholas, what I'm going to tell you, you must keep it between us. Do you agree?” He paused. “Of course I don't want you blind, Nicholas.”

“Yes, sir, of course I agree.”

“Very well. The Order has been around hundreds of years. They've gone global now, and honestly, all I truly know for certain is it's an organization of powerful men dedicated to keeping the world as safe as possible, which isn't saying much, is it, given the violence in every part of the globe?”

“Above the governments, above the people? How does that work?”

“The Order has always worked for the common good. At first, admittedly, its purpose was to keep the English throne Protestant to avoid bloody war. It changed, of course, but still, the common good continued to benefit England only. That's really all I can say, Nicholas. You have to trust me here, this isn't the kind of
conversation we want to be having on the phone, regardless of how secure it is.”

“Dad, have you heard of a man named Manfred Havelock?”

Dead-cold silence, then, his voice heavy, his father said, “I knew his father, Wolfgang. He passed away recently.”

“I know that. I saw it when I was looking into Havelock the younger last night.”

Now Nicholas heard urgency in his father's voice. “May I ask why you were looking into Manfred Havelock?”

“We believe he's directly tied to the murder of Jonathan Pearce. We've also learned he's been quietly gathering polonium from the black markets. The assassin he sent to kill Pearce had a brain implant which worked as a type of recording device. The man's mad, it seems, a genius who's toppled over the edge. We're looking for him, beating all the bushes. His last known location was Berlin, but we believe he may be heading to Scotland. He's looking for a submarine called
Victoria,
which went down in 1917.”

“Nicholas.”

Nicholas heard the alarm, the urgency in his father's voice. “What is it?”

“How far out are you?”

“We should be on the ground in two hours. Dad, what's going on?”

“When you arrive, you need to see Oliver Leyland. Go directly to his home in Mayfair. Do not stop anywhere else. Do you understand?”

“The head of the Bank of England? That Oliver Leyland?”

“Yes. I will tell him you're coming.”

“Dad, what is going on?”

Harry said, “Wolfgang Havelock was a member of the Order, too. High-ranking.”

“Too?”

“Alfie Stanford, Nicholas. He was the head of the Highest Order, their leader for many years. And now Manfred Havelock's been inducted. This is bad, very bad. Get to Leyland, Nicholas. He'll tell you what's happened. I do know the Order is under attack. Nicholas? Be careful, be very, very careful.”

Harry hung up, and Nicholas stared at the phone. He didn't like this, didn't like it at all. Oliver Leyland, then. Very well.

Mike was leaning toward him. “What in the world was all that?”

Nicholas placed the phone back in the armrest. “All I'm sure of at the moment is that the first person we're to see in London is the head of the Bank of England, Oliver Leyland,” and he told her what his father said.

When he finished, she said slowly, “Alfie Stanford, Wolfgang Havelock, and Jonathan Pearce, all members of the Order, all murdered. I'd say they're under attack.”

“Yes, remember the diplomat's dossier warned that the Order was changing, and not for the better. My father agrees. I think Alex Shepherd is now working for Havelock against the Order. That's why he's kidnapped Sophie, as leverage against Adam to get the final coordinates of the sub. I think it's time we call Hamish Penderley, see if they've sussed out anything important.”

But Mike wasn't listening anymore. She was sifting through the files, tossing pages to find what she needed.

“What are you doing?” Nicholas asked.

“I saw something a few minutes before you called your dad.
Give me a second, I'll find it. Here it is. Now, it was reported that Wolfgang Havelock supposedly died of a stroke, following an aneurysm repair, right?”

“That's what Savich said. Why?”

“His autopsy report is in here. Gray found it. I can't believe I didn't put it together sooner.”

“Mike, take a breath and tell me what you're thinking.”

She shoved the paper at him. “Wolfgang Havelock didn't have a repaired aneurysm. He had a brain implant. He had one of his son's brain implants in his head.”

London

1:00 p.m.

Once all the members of the Order had departed, Weston hurried to the flat he'd secured for Havelock in the building.

He didn't knock, simply opened the door, walked in, and stopped cold. Havelock was standing spread-eagle in the window, his shirt off. His woman, Elise, held a cat-o'-nine-tails in her left hand. When Weston entered the room, Elise turned and saw him, bent her head in a silent nod of greeting, then hauled off and whacked Havelock square in the back. Havelock jumped with the force of the blow and strained against the ropes that held his wrists bound to the window frame, but he didn't make a sound.

Weston stared, disbelieving, horrified. “Stop this now! Havelock, what are you doing?”

Havelock grunted a command in guttural German, and Elise reached up and released first the left wrist, then the right. She handed Havelock his shirt. He said, as calm as a judge, “Thank you, Elise. You may go now. I will see you soon.” He kissed her cheek. She gathered her things gracefully and left the room.

Havelock buttoned his shirt, tucked it into his pants. He didn't
look embarrassed or in pain. He looked as if Weston had walked in on a tea party. “Hello, Weston.”

Weston was without words.

“Ah, I see you're upset. Please don't concern yourself. I felt the need for release. Elise is always very accommodating, and excellent at her chosen métier.” He walked to the small wet bar in the corner of the room and poured himself a scotch. “Tell me, how did the meeting go?”

Weston swallowed bile, forced the look of awful disgust from his face. “You've been voted in. You're a full-fledged member of the Order.”

“Were there any dissenters?”

“Yes. Oliver Leyland was the most upset, at least verbally. My mention of Gernot sent him stomping out of the room. I backed off since I saw other members were listening to him. Alex Shepherd was voted in as well.”

“And Adam Pearce?”

“Has not been located.”

“This is unacceptable, Weston.”

“There may be another way. The FBI agents, Nicholas Drummond and Michaela Caine, are on a plane to London as we speak. It's possible they can flush out Adam Pearce once they're on the ground.”

Weston watched Havelock sit down, lean back and stretch. How could he do that after the beating she'd given him? But Havelock didn't seem to feel a thing. He seemed cool and collected, ready for anything.

“I do believe the FBI has outlived their usefulness,” Havelock said. “It is time to eliminate both them and Leyland. I will see to it.”

Weston shook his head, appalled. “Surely that isn't necessary.”

“Oh, yes. It is.”

“Leyland knows something's up. He won't be an easy target.”

“März will take care of Leyland personally. And I will deal with the FBI. Now, Sophie Pearce resides in your home?”

“If she's not at West Park now, she will be shortly.”

“I will go there. She and I need to have a small talk.”

Weston knew exactly what sort of talk Havelock had in mind. He wondered to himself if he'd done the right thing. All that lovely money, the promise of more power than he'd ever dreamed. The time for questioning was long over.

Havelock had a point. With Leyland gone, they would be able to force a vote for two more Order members, which would give them the majority vote. And they'd recover the weapon and have the power in the palms of their hands.

“How will you eliminate the FBI?”

Havelock smiled wickedly. “I'm sure you'll hear it on the news very soon.”