The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Come on, Nicholas, what is it? You’re grinning like a madman.”

“I’ll tell you, but then you have to promise to go to sleep. It’s late, and we have an early morning.”

“That’s so not fair.”

“You need rest to heal. I want you to close your eyes and sleep for a bit.”

“No, I don’t need to—” And she yawned and yawned again, wider this time, covering her mouth with her hand. “Okay, so I’m a little tired, no big deal.”

Even as he said, “Please, Mike, rest,” she yawned again. He smiled at her. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

She curled up against the couch pillows, settled in and closed her eyes. “Nicholas? Thank you, you saved me twice today.”

Thank goodness he’d been able to. “Go to sleep, Mike. I’ll be right here, watching over you.”

“Okay.” She opened her eyes and gave him a heartbreaking sweet smile. “But first tell me the big secret. Was Victoria important only because she belonged to the kaiser?”

Nicholas said, “No. Until Adam Pearce found her, she didn’t exist.”

But her eyes were closed again, and she was under.

He got up and pulled the throw up over her shoulders, then sat back in his chair and watched her. She looked very young asleep, open, vulnerable, that sharp brain shut down.

He was very glad she was okay.

He read some more, then set the laptop on the floor and swung his legs over the side of the chair. He glanced at his watch—1:00 in the morning. Talk about a long day. He took a last look at Mike’s still face, saw the small smile on her mouth and wondered what she was dreaming, certainly not about today. He saw Nigel’s face again, confused, disoriented after the assault, but all right, and then, finally, he saw the faces of the two men who’d died at his hands today.

“Five minutes,” he said to himself, and shut his eyes.

44

Lower Slaughter, Cotswolds

September 1917

William Pearce, 7th Viscount Chambers, was late, very late. A damnable tire of his brand-new Lagonda had given out near Burford and it had taken him nearly an hour to change it. He would have much rather traveled with his man Coombe, allowed him to handle the tire, but this was a top-secret mission, and Coombe wasn’t cleared for this level of service.

Pearce was dirty by the time he finished, but no matter. He prayed the wheels would get him to the cottage, at least.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the lane, and drove up the track to the small cottage. According to protocol, he parked in the trees and walked to the cottage. And was greeted with a horrific scene.

He drew his Webley. The cottage was pockmarked with bullet holes, chips of sharp stone littering the ground. The windows were gone, shards of glass daggered from the corners. The door was wide open, hanging loose on its hinges.

His heart pounded fast and hard, and he pointed his Webley in front of him as he slowly pushed the door farther back and stepped into the cottage. He knew the smell of death from the battlefield, and it was rich and hot in his nostrils, as was the smell of rot, human rot.

He sent up a silent prayer that his enemies were dead, not his friends, but his prayers were not answered.

He counted quickly. Five men. All shot, all gone. But where was the sixth? He counted again. It was not his imagination. There were only five bodies. Josef Rothschild was not among the dead. Where was Josef?

He moved through the cottage, stepping over broken glass and the ruined bodies of his comrades. These brave men. Fighting for the freedom of their country, their families, themselves. Sorrow overwhelmed him, but there was a single spark of hope.

A terrible thought came to him. Clearly they’d been double-crossed, despite their many precautions. But by who? Not Josef, that was an impossibility. Josef Rothschild was the catalyst, the one who’d taken on the hardest role. Josef wouldn’t ever betray them, not the man who’d saved him from the battlefield at Verdun. He saw him clearly, the German soldier approaching him with his bayonet fixed. Instead of running him through, he’d taken one look at the crown and star on Pearce’s shoulders, knew he was facing a man of rank, and thrown down his weapon.

Without speaking, the German pulled him from the field and behind a screen of trees. Pearce couldn’t fight; he was wounded too grievously. He assumed the Kraut wanted to take his time, do the job properly and thoroughly, but instead of slitting his throat, the big German had motioned for Pearce to stay quiet while he’d expertly stanched the flow of blood from the wound in Pearce’s leg. He’d put a cigarette between his chapped lips and lit it for him, seemingly unconcerned that his hands and uniform were thickly covered with English blood. He sat back, lit his own cigarette, drew hard, blew out the smoke, and said in accented English, “We must stop this war, Colonel. Will you help me?”

It was an offer he could not refuse. And Rothschild was a man he’d trusted with his life, now many times over.

Pearce heard a noise toward the rear of the cottage, and rushed into the back bedroom. There was a small closet off the bedroom, and a trail of blood leading to the wooden door, not from.