The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Havelock wants Curie’s weapon, doesn’t he?”

Leyland nodded. “Oh, yes, and the key to the weapon and the book of instructions. And don’t forget all the kaiser’s gold bars, probably at least a billion dollars’ worth, maybe more, I don’t know.

“Havelock’s power-hungry, and he’s quite mad. You add in that he’s a scientific genius and we have the makings of a disaster of epic proportion.”

“Then we have to stop him, sir. But how?”

“The same way we’ve always stopped people who wanted too much—we find a way to eliminate him, and quickly. Dismantle his technologies, discredit his work. When we’re finished with him, it will be as if he was never born. We owe your father that level of revenge, at least.” Leyland opened the fridge, poked around. “How about some bubble and squeak?”

At Adam’s blank look, he smiled. “Fried leftover potatoes and veggies, some onions in there, too.”

He dumped ingredients into a pan, started the heat.

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Adam said, “Well, the bastard doesn’t have the final coordinates of the sub. Only I know them and he’s not going to get me. So I’m the key to the key.” No reason to tell his godfather Drummond had the coordinates.

“No, Adam, two of us will have the coordinates. You’re going to tell me exactly where the Victoria is, since I already have our people standing by.” He stirred the mash, turned off the heat. “Nice and hot.”

Adam thought for a moment. “Are you sure, sir?”

“I am, yes. Get the forks out of that drawer over there. I think I’ll join you.”

The house alarm double beeped. A door had been opened.

Leyland grabbed Adam’s arm. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I sent everyone away for the afternoon so I could meet with you alone.”

They heard people moving through the bottom level of the house, heavy steps, heard a man’s voice giving directions.

Leyland calmly pulled a Walther PPK from his pocket. “Adam, I want you to go upstairs to your room and lock yourself in. Don’t open that door for anyone. Wait for me to come for you. Don’t worry about me, go, now,” and his godfather was gone.

Adam ran up the back stairs to the third floor, stopped, and listened. He heard Leyland shout, he heard fighting, no mistaking the sickening sound of bones cracking, the grunts of pain. Then a popping sound—a silenced gun. He couldn’t lose his godfather, he simply couldn’t. He ran to the front stairs and started down, hugging the wall, one stair at a time until he reached the entrance hall landing.

He saw three men standing over his godfather. Oliver wasn’t moving. His prized Walther was on the floor near his hand.

Was Oliver dead? No, no, it couldn’t be. Rage roared through him. Adam couldn’t stop himself. He ran down those steps, yelling, “Leave him alone!”

Three men turned to stare at the skinny boy racing toward them, his fists raised.

“Well, now, boys, what have we here?” Adam heard that thick German accent, recognized the scar that sliced through the man’s cheek. The man smiled at him, making the scar pucker and redden. It was Havelock’s vicious right hand, the man known only as März.

“I do believe we have Adam Pearce.”

Adam had read about this man in Havelock’s files, but he hadn’t realized—his godfather moaned. März turned and casually shot him with a suppressed Beretta, the sound no louder than a polite cough.

He turned back to Adam, his smile still in place, and gestured with his gun for him to come down the stairs.

Adam snapped. He charged the man, kicking, punching, screaming. He wasn’t a fighter, but his fury was profound, fueled by his grief. He caught the men off guard, but still, it only took a couple of seconds for them to grab him and hold him. One of the men raised his knife, but März shouted, “No! We need him.” The man cursed but drew back. Still, they’d gotten in a couple of licks. Adam’s face hurt, and he knew his lip was split and bleeding.

März said, “You’re a brave little cock, aren’t you? I wonder if you will be marked, like me.”

Adam licked the blood from his lip. “You’ve killed my godfather! You’ve killed him,” and Adam tried to break away, but this time it was no use.

“Enough!”

“Did you send the man to kill my father? Or was it your boss, Havelock? Oh, yes, I know who you are.”

Again, that awful smile that widened his mouth and made the scar push up and pleat. “What would you do if I had?”