The Lost Key (28 page)

A
fter making certain Adam's laptop wasn't bugged or trip-wired or attached to a microscopic explosive, Nicholas powered it up. A few moments later, he began to smile.

“Yes, this is definitely Adam's computer. It's a hacker's dream. He's got a sophisticated and completely custom operating system that I've never seen before. And it's encrypted to the hilt.” He hit a few keys, testing the security. “This is one of the strongest encryptions I've ever seen. All this from a nineteen-year-old.”

Mike said, “Impressed, are you?”

“Very. This is beautiful work.”

“Can you beat it?”

Nicholas cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I can beat it. He may be fresh and new, but I've been around the block a few times. Let's see how his new work stands up to my old-school hacking skills.”

He uploaded his decryption program and set it to run.

While Nicholas worked on breaking into Adam's computer, Mike looked through his bag. “Underwear, toothbrush, and look here, about five thousand in cash. Where'd he pick that up?” She
dug deeper. There was a burgundy-colored passport in the bottom of the bag, issued from the United Kingdom, in the name of Thomas Wren. “This is how he got here. A false passport. It's a good one, too.” She gave it to Nicholas, who looked it over, then made a quick call. Five minutes later his mobile rang. Customs at Heathrow showed Thomas Wren had entered the UK in the wee hours of the morning, off British Airways flight 176.

Nicholas said, “Adam flew first class, mind you, on a commercial flight out of New York. He's got a good disguise, no wonder the NGI database didn't pick up on it.”

She thought of how he'd looked at Ariston's yesterday morning and shook her head. So much had happened. Yesterday felt like ten years ago. She watched the rain lashing down, obscuring even the cars parked in the neighboring drive. The media must really be committed over here to run around in this weather. She didn't know if she could get used to this all the time.

Nicholas's mobile rang. He listened, agreed, and punched off. “Penderley's preparing a statement about Leyland. He told me to hurry with the computer, see what we have. He says the media has picked up on our presence here. Look here, Mike.”

She stared down at the screen. File after file opened, stacking window upon window of encrypted code, each being run through Nicholas's powerful program and coming out the other side in plain text. It was in computerspeak, techy code she couldn't read, but Nicholas clearly could. Not only read it, but understand what it meant.

Nicholas paged through the files for a few moments, then he said, “Yes!” His face changed. He shook his head, his look disbelieving.

“What is it?”

She saw alarm in his eyes. “What? What is it?”

It was as if he had to force out the words. “I know what the weapon is, Mike. We must stop Havelock. We must stop him now.”

N
icholas stood, slapped the laptop closed. “We must get to Loch Eriboll immediately. You know Havelock used Sophie as leverage to get Adam to tell him the coordinates. He has them or he's close to getting them. We have to get the key before Havelock.”

Mike grabbed his arm. “What is the weapon, Nicholas?”

He grabbed Adam's computer. “Let's find Penderley, he needs to know this, too.”

She ran after him down the stairs to the kitchen, where Penderley was hovering over a crime scene tech.

“What is this? What have you found out?”

Nicholas motioned both Penderley and Mike into the elegant dining room. “Both Adam Pearce and I cross-hacked the files of Manheim Technologies, we both have his research. I didn't have the time to look deeply at it, but Adam did. He left me a pretty clear trail of bread crumbs.

“Sir, I told you about the implant we found in one of his men's heads. Havelock's been making micro-nukes—it's all here. The nukes are so small, they could be taken and remotely detonated.

“We know he's been gathering polonium-two-ten. It's because
he wants to use it as the base for a much bigger weapon. He's well past the theoretical stage. All Havelock wants now is a bigger payload.”

Penderley frowned at him. “What payload? Be clear, man.”

“Havelock is after a very old radioactive isotope at least one hundred times stronger and more lethal than polonium-two-ten.”

Mike said, “What do mean
more
lethal? A single drop of polonium-two-ten will kill you.”

“Yes, but we're not talking simple polonium here. If Havelock can get his hands on this ultra-robust polonium, and combine the two, we're talking about micro-nukes, hidden in plain sight, that could kill millions. This is our worst nightmare.”

Penderley shook his sleeve. “Explain this ultra-robust polonium? Who came up with that?”

“Marie Curie.”

Mike and Penderley stared at him. She said slowly, “Marie Curie worked over a hundred years ago. There's no way she could have discovered something this advanced, there wasn't the equipment, the technology, this—wait, she died of radiation poisoning, didn't she, from working on radium and—”

“Yes, and polonium. Evidently, she realized polonium was unstable, and had a very short half-life. She believed polonium was much less useful than radium and so that's where she focused her energies. Or so we thought.”

Mike said, “What do you mean, or so we thought?”

“Historical records show that Curie spent her time developing radium, and left polonium alone. But she didn't. She found a way to increase its half-life, evidently to make it indestructible, potent and viable in five years, in a hundred years. Adam had
a document in his files explaining it all. Sir, we need to move, fast.”

“All right, Drummond, but first, you have to tell me where is this ultra-robust polonium of hers? Is it in the sub and that's why Havelock wants it so desperately? How could it possibly be potent and viable after being underwater for one hundred years?”

“It isn't the ultra-robust polonium itself that's in the sub, it's her key that leads to where she kept it. That's why Havelock has been trying to find it. Curie's book would indicate where she locked it away, and how to use her polonium's enhanced properties, and the key would unlock whatever it is, a door, a deposit box, a safe, whatever.

“Sir, we have to get to Loch Eriboll right now. Havelock is no doubt going for the sub tonight. He must already have the coordinates. And he's poised to get there ahead of us.”

“How do you know?”

He shook the laptop. “It's in Havelock's files. Adam Pearce hacked into Manheim Technologies, pulled down all of Havelock's personal files. He owns a ship called the
Gravitania.
It's a high-end salvage vehicle. He rents it out to treasure hunters, people who dive shipwrecks and the like. Yesterday, he ordered it to move into position in the North Sea. He's going after the sub, right now. We must beat him.”

“Or you believe thousands of people will die. But, Drummond, I told you already it would take at least a day to get our gear in place.”

Nicholas took a deep breath, put his hand on Penderley's shoulder. “If you've never trusted me before, sir, I ask that you do now. The safety of our people, all of our people, our very country, lies in
the balance. We can't wait. We can't let him get to the sub first. I don't care who we have to call, what favors we need to pull, it has to happen, and it has to happen right now.”

Penderley looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled out his mobile phone, dialed and put the phone to his ear. There was a brief pause, and he said, “Sir? It's Penderley. We have an emergency.”

T
he rain was coming down in sheets when they got themselves into Penderley's BMW, Nicholas behind the wheel.

Penderley rang off his mobile, and turned to Mike, who was hanging on to the grab handle, “We're headed to Northolt. You'll be in Scotland in less than two hours. We're borrowing a Hawker from the prime minister; the only way to get you there faster is strap you and Nicholas into Tornadoes. They're clearing the airspace for you, shouldn't be much more than an hour up there. You'll land north of Inverness, at RAF Tain, and they'll chopper you to Loch Eriboll. You're going to the back end of Scotland. That far north you'll have a little more daylight to work with.”

Mike thought about their near death in the director's Gulfstream and gulped. She'd rather drive, or take a train, even a bicycle.

Nicholas saw her face in the rearview, turned to flash her a grin. “By car it's only about eleven hours, with hundreds of roundabouts.”

“Stop reading my mind, particularly when I'm mentally whining.”

Penderley ignored the both of them. “They've diverted a Type
twenty-three anti-submarine frigate, the HMS
Dover,
to intercept the
Gravitania.
”

“Anti-submarine?” Mike asked. “I thought the
Gravitania
was a ship.”

“It
is
a ship. One that's being used to search for sunken treasure and bottomed-out shipwrecks. Its registry is Bahamian, and shows an MIR-two submersible on board, a three-person mini-sub, perfect for deep-sea exploration. Havelock's prepared. So that means you'll have to dive to the sub. The
Dover
will have the right equipment to make that possible.

“Children, our countries are on the line now. Keep me informed. We have a few more minutes to Northolt. Talk, Drummond, tell me all of it. Start with Manfred Havelock. And don't bang up my car,” he added, when Nicholas swerved around a big black truck at the last minute.

When there was a break in traffic, Nicholas said, “Manfred Havelock is a German scientist who has revolutionized the nano-biotech field with his brain implants for amputees, among several other huge discoveries. Our medical examiner found an implant in the brain of the man Havelock sent to kill Jonathan Pearce in New York. Unlike his official work, this one was being used for real-time intelligence gathering, video and audio, on American soil.

“The worst part is Havelock also seems to have developed multiple mini–nuclear weapons which he's tied to these intelligence-gathering implants. The implants are the triggers. We don't know how far they're deployed, but they could be anywhere.”

“So the people who carry the implants are walking triggers?”

“Exactly. And if Curie's creation of this ultra-robust polonium is added to the mix, catastrophe.”

Nicholas turned onto the A40. Northolt wasn't far.

“I'll notify Homeland and Downing Street. What do Oliver Leyland and Alfie Stanford have to do with Havelock?”

Nicholas thought of his father's urgent plea to keep quiet about the Order. He said, “Still unknown at this point, sir. Once we stop Havelock's attack, we can sift through the rest.”

“Who does this sunken sub belong to?”

“It belonged to Kaiser Wilhelm, went down in 1917.”

“I know there's more, but we're here.” Nicholas stopped at the Northolt guard gate. Penderley pulled out his ID and handed it to the guard. His mobile rang. “I hope they've found Sophie Pearce.” A few moments later, he shut off the phone and looked at Nicholas strangely, then said, “Your plane, it's right over there. You can drive to it.”

“Did they find her, sir?”

He shook his head. “They've found where the call originated from. Let's get you on the plane and I'll tell you the rest.”

London

5:00 p.m.

Once inside the plane, Penderley waved away the pilot. He stared at them, through them really, and he looked stunned.

“Sir? What's wrong? Was Sophie at the location? Is she dead?”

“Our people found the location, just outside Oxford, like we thought. They're on their way there now. Hold on to your pants, Drummond. The call originated from an estate called West Park, a country estate owned by Edward Weston.”

Nicholas stopped cold. He began shaking his head, back and forth. “No, sir, that can't be right, not Weston.”

“I'm sorry, Nicholas. The call absolutely came from inside Weston's house.” He reached out, laid his hand on Nicholas's shoulder. They stood together silent for a moment.

What was going on here?

Finally, Mike said, “All right, who is Edward Weston and why are you surprised, and why does Nicholas look like he's been smacked in the head?”

Nicholas didn't want to tell her, and she knew it, but it didn't matter. She laid her hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

Nicholas nodded. “Remember hearing about a small
issue
I had in Afghanistan?”

“You've never told me what that
issue
was, but yes, I remember some sort of problem.”

“A problem?” Penderley shook his head. “A problem doesn't come close. Tell her, Nicholas. but be quick about it. You've got to go.”

Nicholas said matter-of-factly, “First you need to know that Edward Weston is currently the second-in-command of MI Five.”

“You've got to be kidding me.” Mike couldn't believe this.
MI5?
“Tell me what happened.”

“Weston was a special attaché to the embassy in Kabul. He saw himself as the king on the chessboard, and we young ones as pawns to move around at his whim. He sat back in the embassy, happily getting relays on what was happening outside the walls, while I was crawling around in the muck, drinking barrels of chai and passing out cigarettes to the Afghan soldiers, pulling in as much intelligence as I could.”

He shook his head, remembering the anger and frustration. “The very people our military were training would turn on us. They were actually working for the Taliban. They used the training and information we provided to attack convoys, set off suicide bombs and car bombs. Anything to hurt us.”

Mike said, “It happened to the Americans, too.”

“Yes. I was tasked with finding where the Taliban were getting their information. I heard a solid rumor one of these insurgents was a high-ranking official, one that Weston himself had recruited and ran as an asset. His name was Bahrambin Dastgir.

“On the surface, Dastgir looked clean. He was bringing us
scads of information, helping us run operations on the ground. No one believed he could possibly be a threat, not with all the solid intel he'd given us. Dastgir would sit down to tea with Weston and spout the party line about wanting the Taliban and their informants out of Kabul, out of Afghanistan.

“But he didn't feel right to me. I came to believe he was a plant. I found his mistress, and in exchange for a wad of cash, she gave him up. I went to Weston, told him what I knew, told him I wanted to bring Dastgir in and interrogate him, but Weston wouldn't hear of it. He insisted the man was a friend.”

Mike said, “But you were right?”

“Yes. Two days after I warned Weston about Dastgir, an IED exploded very near our command post. Everyone rushed to the scene, including Dastgir, in the makeshift mobile command unit. He was well-known, they let him in.”

Nicholas fell silent, seeing it all again. “He got right into the thick of it, and flipped his switch. He was strapped into a vest filled with ball bearings and nails. The bomb not only took out our mobile command, it killed my entire team and ten civilians. I realized he knew his mistress had sold him out and he knew his time was short, and he wanted to ensure his martyrdom and kill as many of us as he could. He succeeded. The two bombs killed upwards of fifty people that day.”

“And Weston?”

“He doctored data, making it appear that I'd been the one to bring Dastgir into our midst, that I'd been too blind to see what he was doing, and what he really was, and that I'd refused to consider Weston's spoken concerns about him. He was, of course, a fanatical Taliban member who wanted all of us to die. It was his word against mine and he held the higher rank. He had more juice
than I did. And he knew I wouldn't go to my father to get things changed. And I should have, but I didn't.

“Truth is, I screwed up. I should have gone over Weston's head right away when he refused to act.

“My fieldwork days ended rather quickly after that since Weston made it a point to blow my cover before he left to become the high commissioner in Rawalpindi.

“I ended up riding a desk, as you Americans put it, instead of being boots on the ground, where I belonged. I left the Foreign Office not long after, because Weston made sure I had no future there. And now you know the whole story.”

Penderley tapped his watch. “Nicholas, given Weston chose his own survival over the truth, why is he working with a madman like Manfred Havelock?”

“Unfortunately, it plays perfectly. Weston's a lot like Havelock, unstable and unpredictable, and maybe not as mad as Havelock, at least overtly, but inside, he's close. When I knew him he was a liar and he didn't care who got killed, and now? He sees Havelock as a genius who can rule the world with Weston at his side.”

“Then our people will get inside West Park, see if there's any evidence there to tell us what's happened to Sophie Pearce. I'll get them looking for Weston, too.” Penderley shook his head. “And this man is in MI Five.”

He clasped both their hands. “Whatever else he is, Weston's no fool, so watch your backs. Get to Scotland and stop these maniacs. I'll tell the PM exactly what's on the line and that Weston is up to his neck in it.”

He left the plane, and the pilot secured the door. Moments later, they lifted into the air, banked right, and began the quick run to Inverness.