The Lost Key (16 page)

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.”

M
ike 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.”

Nicholas said, “Is he trying to build his own nuke, only in a nanotech environment? A mini-nuke of some sort?”

“I hope not, but I am afraid that is very possible. There have been advances made in nanotechnology weapons, certainly. North Korea, Iran, Russia—even Cuba has opened a nanotechnology university, and is studying the possibilities. The Americans have perfected their pinpoint laser technology, and I am sure they are quietly trying to develop miniaturized nuclear weapons. But I was not aware this technology had advanced past the theoretical. Even the smallest crop of suitcase dirty bombs are still fifty pounds.
Imagine a miniaturized nuclear weapon the size of what? A wallet? Smaller, even?”

“So we could be dealing not with a mini-nuke, but a micro-nuke, one that's virtually undetectable to our current safeguards.”

“
Exactement.
I must go, Nicholas. I will initiate an urgent investigation into Havelock immediately. The most recent information we have on him shows he lives in Berlin. I will start there.”

“What do you plan to do, Pierre?”

“Park a satellite above his home and listen in to his conversations. If he is importing polonium, we must find out what he plans to use it for. I will keep you informed of what we find. Thank you for alerting me.”

Mike said, “Pierre, this is a really sensitive situation. There's a lot more going on here than the polonium. Be careful, don't let Havelock know you're onto him. Be very careful.”

The Frenchman laughed, a hard, empty laugh. “
Naturellement.
You as well.
À bientôt.
”

When the phone clicked off, Mike said, “Zachery. Now.”

“Yes, we need to warn him.”

Zachery sounded half asleep when he answered.

“Yes? Mike, what is it? You two didn't get shot up again, did you?” They could practically hear him snap to.

“No, sir. I have news about the Pearce murder.” Mike told him about Menard, and Havelock, and the files, the polonium-210, and the frightening possibility of a miniaturized nuclear weapon. He was quiet for a minute, then, “I'll take it from here, Mike. I need to talk to the director. Good work.”

“Sir, it's Drummond here.”

“Talk to me.”

“There appear to be a group of fifteen men in Pearce's files who are conversing regularly, much of it in code. They are all high-level government people, or financiers, from all over the world. I think Pearce was a member of a secret organization. There's something big going on, and if one of their members has stolen spy satellite specs on his computer, and another's son is trying to buy up polonium, we could be looking at a massive international problem. I respectfully request to come back on board, officially.”

“Nicholas, I can't do that, not officially, at least. After the inquiry tomorrow, you'll be reinstated.” There was a pause. “Do I want to know how you've come across this information?”

“No, sir.”

“Probably from the same place Gray Wharton got what he gave me. I'll need a full report in an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “No matter he didn't officially lift your suspension, we're still a go. I'll call Gray, you keep searching these files.”

Mike watched him out of the corner of her eye as she dialed Gray's number. He was completely focused, eyes calm, inwardly directed.

She spoke to Gray, who sounded punchy, his eyes were nearly bleeding, he told her, but they were nearly at the same point. She rang off. “Where's the loo?” For a British accent, she didn't think it was bad.

That got a grin out of him, but he didn't look up, merely waved a hand. “Down the hall, to the right, the third door, I think. I'm still learning the place.”

She grabbed her purse and stepped out into the hall. He was
right, the bathroom was behind the third door. She took care of business, brushed out her hair and put it back up in a ponytail. She was confident Nicholas would find out exactly what was going on. She'd call Ben, see what he was thinking.

She snapped off the light and stepped out into the hallway, right into the barrel of a suppressed nine-millimeter Beretta.

M
ike's heart nearly flatlined, but she didn't make a sound, didn't move. There was a man on the other side of the weapon stuck into her chest, a man she recognized. She had a fraction of a second to think
Grossman—what in the world is he doing here?
before he was on her.

He moved fast, but she was quick, too. She punched him hard in the chest, sent him stumbling back. She started to lash out a leg, knowing she had to take him down or she'd be in real trouble. Grossman anticipated the move, grabbed her ankle, and gave it a vicious twist. She was forced to spin with the twist or risk having her hip dislocated. But as she did, she brought her left elbow around and slammed Grossman in the temple. He went down with her, both of them crashing to the floor. She kicked him hard in the stomach, scrambled up and started to run, to call to Nicholas, to warn him, but Grossman got a hand on her shoulder and hauled her back down, flipping her on her stomach and getting an arm around her throat. She kept struggling, but his arm tightened, cut off her air, his forearm mashed up against her mouth, and she started to see spots. She clawed at his arm, but he didn't move, didn't let go, and her struggles became more feeble.

Nicholas,
she tried to cry out,
Nicholas, be careful!
But no words came out. She couldn't breathe, and fear was metallic and hard in her mouth.

She was about to black out when Grossman eased up on the pressure, enough for her to gulp in a huge breath.

His breath was hot on her neck, his voice cold, hard, so unlike the harmless bibliophile he'd appeared this afternoon.

“Don't you dare scream, Agent Caine, or I'll shoot you and leave you bleeding out in this hallway, and don't think for a second I won't.”

She nodded, still unable to swallow or breathe properly.

She realized she'd heard a bit of British in his voice, the cadence clipped, consonants long, and wasn't that strange, because he was American, from Chicago, hadn't he said that?

Grossman said against her ear, “We're going to walk down the hall to the library, and your friend is going to give me Pearce's files. Then I'll walk out of here, and no one needs to get hurt. Do you understand?”

She managed another nod. She had to warn Nicholas, but she was starved for air and her muscles were still sluggish. She'd been gone for only a few minutes, he wouldn't come looking for her yet, no reason even to wonder.

She pretended to lose her balance and hit her head hard against the wall. She hoped it was loud enough, hoped he believed her. He didn't. Grossman grabbed her, jerked her forward and yanked her ponytail. “Nice try. Stay on your feet, Agent, there's a good girl.”

No more Brit accent, but she was sure his American was fake.
There's a good girl.
Oh, yes, the Brits were up to their eyeballs in this—this what exactly?
But Grossman couldn't have killed
Stanford. Who did, then, a partner or another member of this organization in Britain?

He yanked her ponytail again. She ignored the pain, stumbled to her feet, being as clumsy as possible, shuffling her feet along the wood floor, hoping Nicholas or Nigel would hear. It wasn't much since she'd taken off her boots, maybe she could kick back and—

“You don't want to cooperate, do you?” In one fast move, Grossman pressed her face against the wall. He kicked her legs apart and leaned hard against her. She felt a shot of panic.

He said in her ear, “Don't pull that crap again. I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to.” He pulled her away from the wall and shoved her forward, his hand over her mouth. “Now, walk.”

The gun dug deep against her ribs when he forced her into the library. She knew she'd be of no use to Nicholas if he shot her.

Nicholas didn't look up. “Ben gave me the transcripts of e-mails between EP and Pearce. It took me a while, some real digging, then I found something—I think it's coordinates, latitude and longitude. The files here say they're looking for an old U-boat, World War One era. Pearce sent Stanford a message last night saying he'd found it. These coordinates are probably the sub's location. Adam was using the satellite to look for the sub.”

“Thank you, Agent Drummond.”

He whipped around to see Alex Grossman, his hand over Mike's mouth, a gun stuck in her ribs. And then Mike was in motion. She bit hard on his hand and he dropped her with a curse. “Nicholas—”

Grossman slammed his fist into her jaw and she went down.

Grossman pointed the weapon at Nicholas. “No, no, don't move or you're a dead man. You're very clever, Agent Drummond. You're quite good at this.”

Nicholas was already out of his chair, hand reaching for his Glock.

Grossman leaned down and pointed the gun at the back of Mike's neck.

Nicholas slowly straightened. “What are you playing at, Grossman?”

Grossman's tone was pleasant, conversational, even. “Stop moving, or I'll put a bullet into the back of her head. You have something that belongs to me. I need it back. A simple transaction, and no one gets hurt.”

“Except Agent Caine.” Nicholas saw she was pale, not moving. He couldn't get to her yet, he had to take care of Grossman first. He saw blood on Grossman's hand. Good, she'd taken quite a bite of him.

Grossman said, “You have a copy of some files you took from Jonathan Pearce's apartment. I'd like them, if you please.”

He held out his left hand, blood still dripping, palm up.

“And if I don't comply?”

Grossman didn't move, but he smiled and nodded toward his finger, which was tightening on the trigger. “I'm not playing. The files or you'll have to find a new partner. Now.”

Nicholas tapped a couple of keys, ejected the Tardis thumb drive, and tossed it to Grossman. He caught the drive and smiled, eyes never leaving Nicholas. “I'll need the laptop as well, if you please. And don't even think of tossing it at me, there's a good lad. Put it on the floor, kick it over to me.”

Nicholas hit two keys on the laptop as he closed the lid, then used his foot to slide it toward Grossman.

“Thank you. I hope we don't meet again, Agent Drummond.”

Grossman reached down, grabbed the laptop, and backed out
of the room, gun pointed at Mike the whole time. Weston hadn't expected him to retrieve the files, but he had, he'd gotten everything, and now he would join Sophie on the plane and they'd be on their way to London. What was incredible was that he'd be able to present the Order with the coordinates of the sub.