The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“You’re staring,” he said, without raising his head or slowing his typing. “What’s wrong?”

She said, “It’s hard for you, isn’t it?”

The typing stopped, but the head stayed down. “What do you mean?”

“Being constrained by our rules.”

He looked up then. “Oh, Hamish Penderley of New Scotland Yard constrained me plenty. And Zachery was kind enough to request my razzle-dazzle. Penderley never did that. I fully intend to do my best.”

He would, too. She grew quiet.

“What is it, Mike? What’s really wrong?”

“I’m scared. We’re not chasing a diamond this time. We’ve stumbled into a big conspiracy, fully operational well before we got involved. We’re up against a multinational group, and all we know is they’re after something that could destroy the world as we know it. Supposedly.”

“Worry not, Agent Caine. By the end of this flight, we’ll know exactly who we’re up against. And once we do, we’ll do what we’re good at—we’ll catch the bad guys and keep the world safe.” With a pirate’s smile, he dove back into the files.

She thought, I guess it’s up to me to keep you safe, and yes, then the world, and returned her attention to her files.

50

Highest Order Headquarters

London

Noon

Edward Weston knew it was time to cajole, to persuade, to manipulate, even to bribe, time to do whatever was necessary. He looked down the long mahogany table at the members of the Order assembled in the elegantly appointed room. He knew some were worried, others scared. There was excitement, too, in those on his and Havelock’s side. Nearly a century of work begun before any of them were even born, and yet they would be the ones to succeed. And with his leadership, with Havelock’s, the Order would forge ahead on a new path, one he—and a few of the others—felt long overdue.

The fifteen men around the table represented Great Britain, the United States, Germany, Russia, China, India, Brunei, and Israel. They were some of the wealthiest, most influential people in the world. Power brokers. It was Weston’s belief that power should be used overtly, not the discreet traditional behind-the-scenes machinations meant to stabilize the world. It was time to throw off secrecy, time to show themselves as the true world leaders.

It was up to Weston to make it happen. And Havelock, he thought, always Havelock.

He cleared his throat, and all the faces focused on him.

“Come to order, if you will.”

Cups were set down, notepads straightened, pencils arranged. Then they all settled and waited expectantly.

It would not do to show anything but profound regret and sadness, and so Weston’s voice was calm, respectful, the man to comfort, the man to lead. “It is with a heavy heart I’ve called this meeting. As you know, we have lost two more members of our brethren. Gentlemen, it was unclear until yesterday, but now I know we are under attack. I do not know who has taken action against us, but I do know our only choice is to band together, as we always have through the years, and find a way to stop these unseen enemies before the Order is destroyed and many of us murdered as well.”

Alastair Burrow, one of the remaining six Brits in the Order, said, “Do we truly not know who ordered Alfie and Jonathan murdered on the same day?”

“No, Alastair, I’m sorry to say we do not. Unfortunately, we are currently limited in how much we can do, since the results of the inquest on Alfie must be kept secret. If it were to get out he’d been murdered, the British government would be under fire. We must keep this silent. The public must honor Alfie as a soldier and a leader, not as a murder victim. Better to let him fade away, the victim of an untimely heart attack, than risk the world finding out who we are, and what purpose our organization serves.”

Dmitri Zachar, a former leader of Chechnyan rebels who now headed a Russian oil conglomerate and was almost single-handedly responsible for bringing his country back to life, said from the end of the table, “Two of us murdered. Who of us is next? And why?”

Weston said, his voice firm, confident, “No more of us will die and that is because we will find the submarine and the instructions on how to find Madame Curie’s weapon. Then we will be safe.”

Mason Armstrong, technological wizard and the sole American in the Order, said, “And how are we going to do that, Weston?”

Now came the tough part. “I know this is not standard protocol, that new members should be carefully considered, but gentlemen, we find ourselves in desperate times. First we must inaugurate new members since our numbers must be at fifteen in order to proceed. Then we must secure the weapon before it is used against us. And I have a way to do it.”

There was open disagreement as members argued among themselves. Oliver Leyland, head of the Bank of England, brilliant, steady, ruthless, raised a hand to quiet the group. Jonathan Pearce and Alfie Stanford had been close friends, and he was feeling both grief-stricken and wildly angry, and he didn’t like Weston, didn’t trust him. “Weston, you know we try to keep these positions in a hereditary line. However, Jonathan’s son, Adam, isn’t in a position to become a member of the Order, and from what I’ve heard, we don’t even know where he is in any case. Alfie’s son is dead, his three grandsons ignorant of the Order. I know Alfie left instructions for his successor, but those papers were stolen along with the Order’s protocols by his murderer. With that in mind, then, may I ask who you are putting forth?”

The moment was at hand, Weston thought, and said firmly, “Manfred Havelock. His father would have named him his successor, had he been given the time.”

Leyland’s thick brows shot up. “Wolfgang Havelock had six years as a member of this group to name his son as heir to his position, Weston, and he didn’t. Don’t you think if he had wanted Manfred to have his seat, he’d have said so?”