The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“I don’t know.” His voice was getting clearer, stronger. “I have to get to Scotland. I have to get the key before Havelock.”

“Adam, how will you do that? The sub’s been missing for nearly a hundred years. You’ll need special equipment, not to mention the Order is going to be right behind you.”

“I’ll figure it out. Like I said, Soph, Havelock killed Dad, killed Mr. Stanford, killed Allie. The Order’s been corrupted. And Havelock will be voted in. At least I’m still the only one who knows exactly where the sub is. I have to get there first. It’s the only choice.”

“Adam, no, don’t go yet. Meet me at the apartment.”

“No, Soph, I’m getting on a plane, right now, and you should, too. Take every precaution. Get away from here. Get yourself safe.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No! Staying apart is the only way to keep the sub’s location secret. If one of us dies, the other will know the truth.”

“But Adam, I don’t know the coordinates, I don’t know anything.”

“You’re right, both of us should know. Look in Dad’s e-mail. It’s hard to find, but there’s a message in his outbox, you’ll see it’s marked UNSENT. It has the coordinates of the sub. Please, listen to me. Get out of New York. Go somewhere, anywhere else. I’ll call again tomorrow, at this same time. If you don’t hear from me—” His voice choked off, and they both knew what he meant.

Suddenly, she was calm. If Havelock was behind the murders, then the Order was no longer as it was, and of course they were both in danger. “All right, Adam, I’m going now. I have my passport with me, I always do. Call me tomorrow. And be careful, for both o

ur sakes, be careful.”

35

Sophie unlocked her bottom drawer and pulled a plain manila envelope out of a small black backpack. She slid the contents onto the desk. The money was in two separate packets, five thousand in American dollars, five thousand in British pounds. Both easily exchanged for euros if necessary.

The passport was there as well, in the name of Sophia Devereaux, a resident of Lyons, France, with a work visa in the United States valid for the next six months. God bless Adam and his constant paranoia—You never know, he always said. He’d sent her this one two months ago.

In the photo, she had short brown hair and wore glasses. She pulled out the brown wig cut in a sharp-angled bob and the black-rimmed glasses, plus a pair of worn cargo pants, black Dr. Martens, and a zip-neck black sweater. She looked like a hip artist, or a writer. Certainly not a UN translator, or a woman whose world was crashing down. As disguises went, it was decent. Not perfect, but on short notice, decent. She spoke perfect French, and as long as she wasn’t put under undue stress, no one would know she was American.

She stashed it all back in the bag, not smart to risk changing here. She’d need to go out through security like she always did, as herself, then go down into the garage. She’d change in the stairwell, go out the garage entrance, hail a cab to take her directly to JFK and get onto the next flight to Europe, regardless of the destination.

She hurried to the grand staircase at the end of the hall, stepped down slowly, and nodded to the security guys as she walked out. They knew about her dad, and looked grim. No one knew what to say. That was fine, she didn’t, either. And now she was on the run.

The security guys were watching her, she could feel their eyes on her back. She stopped and dug in her purse as though she was looking for her keys. A stroke of luck, someone else came down the stairs, and their attention turned. She hurried to the basement access door and slipped through before they could turn back.

She went down a flight, stopped on the landing, stripped off her dress and heels. Forty seconds later, Sophia Devereaux walked down one more flight of stairs.

She opened the door, glanced around the basement. She’d timed it perfectly, no one was around.

The door opened out onto Mitchell Place. She stepped out and started toward the corner of First Avenue, certain she’d be able to catch a cab quickly.

“Is that you, Sophie? You going to a masquerade? What’s with the disguise?”

She turned, startled, and saw Alex Grossman. He’d been waiting for her and she hadn’t seen him. Some disguise, he’d still recognized her.

“Mr. Grossman? You scared me. What are you doing here? This is a tenant-only lot. Oh, it’s just a party.” And she patted her wig. Wasn’t that a brilliant thing to say?

Grossman’s eyes were dark in the dim light. He hadn’t moved, only stood there, staring at her.

“Sophie, please forgive me.” He lunged forward and grabbed her arm, but she punched him fast and hard in the stomach and jerked away, only to stumble and crash against a car. She saw a needle in his hand and screamed, “What are you doing!” and lashed out with her bag, a good fifteen pounds. It slammed against his shoulder and he fell back, for only a moment. She turned to run, but he grabbed her arm, shoved up her sleeve. She felt the sting of the needle, felt her legs weaken, felt herself falling. As she faded away, she thought she heard the words whispered into her hair—I’m sorry.

Then everything went black.

36

358 East 69th Street

9:00 p.m.