The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Apparently they used Drummond as a decoy, sir. He was the one who wrote the original program, fed it to the Israelis. They took his Mackay variables and created Stuxnet. But he left soon after, there’s no reason listed. Moved to New Scotland Yard as a homicide investigator. Drummond’s personnel file from the Metropolitan Police lists a multitude of successes; he had an excellent close rate, and several write-ups for insubordination.”

Another analyst called out, “Sir, he’s the one who recovered the Koh-i-Noor diamond a few months ago. He went rogue with the female special agent, Michaela Caine. You’ll remember they recovered the stone.”

März smiled and the young man shuddered. “Went rogue, did he? Keep digging. In the meantime, I will inform Mr. Havelock of the situation we find ourselves in. He will not be well pleased by the news that both Pearce and Mr. X are dead. Bernstein, find a way to destroy any evidence of his internal surveillance capabilities before the Americans find them.”

Both März and Bernstein knew this was impossible that Mr. X’s implant would most likely be discovered in autopsy. Their only hope now was that the autopsy wouldn’t be done today, that it wouldn’t be thorough, but the chances were slim on both counts. And then the FBI would have the nanotechnology implant. And Havelock would have all their heads.

März stepped from the room, seeing the images of Mr. X running like a madman, then caught and brought down. Losing Mr. X so close to the end meant there would be repercussions, bad ones. At least they still had Mr. Z in play.

Since this was März’s operation, he must take responsibility. No choice. Slowly, he raised his hand and knocked on the door to Mr. Havelock’s office, and entered without waiting for a reply.

7

Dr. Manfred Havelock stared out the huge plate-glass window, looking at the Berlin spring afternoon. People crowded the sidewalks, bicycles parked in rows outside the red-umbrellaed sidewalk cafés of the Kreuzberg, so much traffic, so many people, yet there were scores of horse chestnut trees and ivy climbed up the buildings, beautiful and green, right in the heart of the city.

He lived here in the X-Berg, enjoying his anonymous life among the socially conscious Germans and the unwanted immigrants, the hip-hop culture and the gays, because no one would expect it. He was forty-seven and easily one of the richest men in Germany, if not in all of Europe. He was a success in all ways imaginable. He smiled, thinking of his global multinational nano-biotechnology firm, and the respect given him by his peers. Truth be told, though, he most enjoyed the fear of his enemies. He watched a boy and girl leaning across a café table below to kiss, like in Paris, he thought, a place he could easily live. Would he move with the rich and powerful? Honestly, he found them a boring lot, toadies, sycophants, but still, to have his boots licked was pleasant on occasion.

But only on occasion. He loved the X-Berg, it was where he belonged. Its darkened corners allowed him to indulge in whatever behavior he wanted, no matter how reckless, how profligate. On the streets he was known only as the man who preferred the most esoteric acts available, and paid well for them. Ah, but there was more, so much more. No one knew who he really was, no one knew who lived among them, and what he was capable of. What he could do to them, if he wished. If they knew, they would not go so easily through their days and nights.

Havelock turned to see Elise step forward from the shadows. Her black hair, loose, as he liked it, cascaded to her waist. He himself had selected the skintight black catsuit she wore, a fit so tight it drove him mad with lust, even more than if he had seen her naked. Ah, and those five-inch stiletto heels on her long, narrow feet, perfect, as was the diamond-and-jet choker he’d fastened around her beautiful throat three years before when he’d selected her for himself and brought her into his world.

He waved toward the window. “Is it not ironic, my dear? The way they move without knowing how precarious their lives are? How in a blink”—he snapped his fingers—“I can take it all away from them? Make them cry and scream if I wished? Make them dead and nothing at all?”

Her voice was low, deep, as he’d taught her to speak. Her soft rose scent filled his nostrils. “It is, Manfred, very ironic.”

She came to stand by him, smiled directly into his eyes as she took his hand, caressed his palm, and began to press hard and harder still until his eyes went wild and he cried out.

She released him, still smiling. Once the pain fell away, he said, “Thank you, Elise. Well done, just as I taught you. But now we must think of other things. My plan is under way. Let us have a drink, to celebrate.”

She walked to the opulent walnut bar in the corner of the room and fixed him two fingers of Lagavulin, dropped onto two perfectly square ice cubes. He studied her as she walked back to him, her stilettos the only sound, and felt intense pleasure at seeing her shake her head in a practiced move that made her hair spill around her shoulders, soft, beautiful thick hair. He felt greed and hunger, hunger so intense it was naked in its force.

He took the glass from her, feeling the brush of her fingers. It took all his willpower not to throw the drink on the floor and run his hands over her body, feel the tightness, know there was softness and strength beneath the catsuit.

Elise saw the mad lust in his eyes and shifted her hips, offering, should he choose to have her again so soon, but he shook his head and looked out onto the pulsing streets of Berlin, sipping the scotch. Still, he tightened all over thinking about the bruises she’d given him only an hour ago.

But there was a time for indulgence, and a time for focus, and so he shook his head, pointed toward the discreet door, and Elise melted away into the darkness with no hesitation, saying nothing at all, a faint smile on her mouth.

He truly wanted her, but not yet. Knowing she waited for her summons to come to him again helped. He took another sip of the scotch to steady himself.

His time had come at last. All the years of waiting, sitting by while his father was in charge, were finished. It was his time now.

He frowned. There were so many operations, too many opportunities for failure, and he had to admit it, he’d been careless lately, indulging too much, losing himself for hours at a time in Elise’s capable hands. He must keep focused, there was too much at stake. With focus and quiet comes clarity. Odd that his father had taught him that valuable lesson; indeed, he could hear his father’s voice—suddenly, he froze. He knew, knew something was wrong, terribly wrong.

He turned in the next moment when März entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. His face, as always, was blank, no clue to his thoughts, and, as always, Havelock felt revulsion at that long scar bisecting the shiny, stretched flesh, more a death mask than a man’s face. März was deadly, uncompromising, and brutal, and he was Havelock’s. He owned him. He’d come to believe März was his perfect complement.

But Havelock had learned over the years that when März’s icy blue eyes were narrowed, something was terribly wrong, and fury was bubbling, ready to kill, to destroy. März said only, “Mr. X is down, sir.”

“Tell me,” Havelock said, his voice perfectly controlled.

“His gel pack was activated. As far as we can tell, it was an accident.”

“An accident,” Havelock repeated, and März, hating himself for it, knew deep grinding fear. “Before the gel pack was accidentally activated, did Mr. X manage to retrieve the package from Pearce?”

“No, sir. He was being taken into custody when the incident occurred.”

Havelock shut his eyes and turned to face the windows again. “And the prototype?”

März kept his voice clear and calm. “It is possible the American FBI are in possession of the prototype, sir. We are endeavoring to intercept and remove it from their hands before they are able to study it, but there is little chance.” Actually, there was no chance at all and both of them knew it.