The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

7:00 p.m.

It had been a glorious evening.

First a wondrous interlude with Elise—his back was still stinging from her superb whipmanship—then the good news from London. After the morning’s screwup, despite the knowledge the FBI might already have their hands on his implant, his day was rapidly improving. One very big thing had gone just right. Mr. Z had managed perfectly. Alfie Stanford was dead, and good riddance to the old buzzard. And what a glorious distraction it was, a wonderful, brilliant distraction.

He’d been glued to the BBC World News for the past half-hour, gleaning and parsing every word out of the announcers’ mouths about Alfie Stanford’s untimely demise. It was all too perfect, too delicious. Stanford had always been an overbearing ass, and now he was in the grave, and no one would ever be able to figure out what happened to him. Mr. Z was that good.

He sobered for a moment. Drummond was on the case and Havelock knew to his gut the damned Brit would come for him soon, fast and hard, which meant he only had days, maybe even hours, to get the coordinates of the sub and collect the key, and who knew? Maybe there’d even be a sack of the kaiser’s gold lying about. Soon all the governments in the world would bow down before him, and to hell with the FBI and Nicholas Drummond.

Havelock prided himself on being a measured man; he realized neither panic nor celebration was in order. While the news from America hadn’t been perfect, it had not disrupted the plan entirely. Even knowing who he was up against, and how things would go down if he didn’t find the sub in time, he remained calm and focused.

But he did pump his fist in the air when he saw the body of Alfie Stanford exiting 11 Downing Street feet-first, encased in a black body bag.

Guess who will hold the power now? And that made him smile.

A knock sounded at the door. He called, “Come,” and hit mute on the television.

März entered, holding a tablet computer, looking pissed, which was unusual, since that pale face of his was usually without expression. Something major had happened.

“What’s wrong? Out with it, März. You look like someone’s died. Which, of course, they have.” The maniacal grin was back, he couldn’t help himself. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful? The FBI are looking left, while we feint right, Scotland Yard believes Stanford passed to the hereafter from a heart attack, and before the week is out, we will have everything we’ve always wanted. Now, tell me, has the Order called?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, no matter, no matter. We shall call them. Now tell me, März, what terrible event has upset you?”

März knew he was being mocked, knew Havelock was the only man on the planet who could get away with it. Because, simply, Havelock was the only man März feared in the world.

His kept his voice calm, icy calm. “I have learned that one of the top medical examiners is shortly to perform Mr. X’s autopsy. He will not fail to find the implant. It won’t be long before they trace it to you.”

Havelock shook his head. “They won’t trace it to me in time, März. This is why we created the shell company, and I had it shut down five minutes after Mr. X drew his last breath. It will stall the FBI long enough for us to find the sub and retrieve the key. Now, get Mr. Weston on the phone. It’s time I gave him instructions.”

März nodded, turned to go.

“Oh, März? Do tell me, where is Adam Pearce?”

März turned back slowly, not reacting. “As you instructed, we are looking for him, sir. All of his accounts have been silent. We are still working on the files uploaded from Pearce’s computer—so far, nothing in them gives the exact location of the sub. But we know Adam Pearce had narrowed it down to northern Scotland.”

Havelock jumped to his feet. “Why didn’t you say so? Move the Gravitania into position now! We’ll be within a few hours’ sail when we locate the final position. I always thought they’d gone to ground near the Hebrides.”

“I’ve already had the ship notified. They are under way to the closest coordinates we’ve found. Also, I have sent the assets we discussed earlier to Adam Pearce’s last known address in New York.”

“An address? After all this time? How did you find it?”

März gave an eerie smile. “When Mr. X spoofed Pearce’s phone, we were able to download all the data and back-trace the text messages. There were a variety of phone numbers from which the texts were sent, but we were able to identify more than one instance of a single GPS coordinate where the texts were sent from. Mr. W and Mr. Y were sent there to reconnoiter the position. Adam Pearce has a girlfriend living there; he bought her an apartment last year. With all that has happened today in his world, he will go back to her, for safety, perhaps. And when he does, we will take him.”

“Make it happen faster. I very much dislike waiting. Now get me Weston.”

März left, then a few moments later, the phone on Havelock’s desk buzzed.

“Yes?” Weston sounded harried and annoyed at the interruption. Well, the poor man was quite busy now, after all, what with Stanford’s sudden death.

“Hello, Edward. It’s me.”

“Manfred, now is not the time.”

Weston was already trying to act like the leader of the Order. It was charming. “On the contrary, my dear Edward, I think now is the perfect time.”

“I have guest