The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

Finally, the lock clicked, and the safe opened. He reached inside, felt for the package taped to the top of the safe. A small file with coded instructions, codes no one could crack unless given the codex, something only the members of the Order knew.

He released the package from its hiding place and turned, slamming the safe shut with his right hand.

He didn’t feel the pinch of the needle right away. It took a moment for the sensation to catch up to him, and then it was agony. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he dropped to his knees. He couldn’t catch his breath. The package fell to the carpet, and he saw a hand reach down to snatch it up. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He heard footsteps, running away, fading, and he knew the file was gone, but then he couldn’t seem to think properly. Had he been mugged? In his own office? No, that couldn’t be right. He remembered now the hand reaching into his back pocket, taking his wallet. Hadn’t he?

He went into a seizure on the thick Aubusson carpet as the poison spread through his veins, and it was like his blood itself was on fire.

With sudden clarity, he realized what had happened. He was the leader, Pearce was the Messenger. The Order was under attack. But who could get inside 11 Downing Street without being seen?

The protocols. Dear God in heaven, the protocols.

Stanford tried to roll, to heave himself up off the floor, to reach the phone, to warn them of what had happened. But his hands splayed feebly against the soft, thick carpet, unable to lift his weight.

He began to fade, his heartbeat slower and louder in his head, like the bong of a massive internal clock, counting down.

Five.

A man’s voice, shouting, then he was touched, pulled hard, and he flopped onto his back. The pain was so intense, like a lightning bolt repeatedly striking him. He’d heard it said that death did not hurt; they lied. His chest was seared, he was choking, he couldn’t breathe. The room began to spin.

Four.

His assistant, Wetherby, a good sort, was on his knees, hands pressed hard against Stanford’s chest, his face white with shock.

“Sir. Oh my God, sir. You’re having a heart attack. I’ll get help.”

Stanford knew in that moment who’d ordered him killed, the same man who’d ordered the rape of the Messenger’s computer. The man who wanted to be Stanford, who wanted all he had, wanted to know the secrets of the Order, wanted the Order itself. He tried to give his assistant the name of his enemy, the two syllables hard against his tongue—Have, lock—but the words came out more like “Ngam.”

Three.

Wetherby was back, shouting out, “Where’s the medic? The chancellor is having a heart attack!”

Two.

They need me. The Order needs me. I cannot die, not now, not when we’re so close. He tried to force the words out, praying that he could be understood.

One.

But the words wouldn’t come. He had failed them, failed them all.

Oddly, he saw his mother’s face. Was she telling him he’d done his best? Yes.

Peace flooded through him. And then all was dark.

11

Berlin

5:00 p.m.

Havelock watched Alfie Stanford die. He wanted to stay dispassionate, but the writhing and flopping about was so clearly painful, and the old fool was so helpless, he couldn’t help but become aroused. He was tempted by the thought of trying the smallest bit out on himself, not enough to kill, but no. That wasn’t a good idea. The dosage needed to bring on cardiac arrest was so nominal, he could miscalculate and end up killing himself all in the name of pleasure. He replayed the footage to watch again.

He wondered, had it been this way for his own father, dropping to the floor in the middle of his gym, everyone gathering around to watch him die? The old man had been in the ground for less than a month now, and Havelock had done his part, looking all grave and somber, in black, finding an errant tear, and he’d thought, finally, I’ve cleared the path for my journey to begin. Had he really wanted his father to die? He didn’t want to think about that, only that his death had been a necessary evil.

His mother, on the other hand—the wondrous terror in her eyes before he flung her into the sea was something treasured and precious, brought out to be examined at his leisure like his favorite painting, Goya’s The Colossus. He wallowed in the dark brute power of it. He was the colossus with his raised fist, the giant that men feared and worshipped.

He fingered one of the scars on his arm through the heavy fabric of his bespoke blue oxford. His mother’s voice rang in his ears, the waking nightmare he returned to every time failure was possible. Her stark, never-changing litany bit deeper than the belt, even after her cherished death.

You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You will never lead men. You are a sniveling child. And now you will be punished.