The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Hello, Sophie.” His voice was smooth, his accent odd, some British, some German. “Ah, I see you’ve made a call. Hang up the phone now.”

“No. I won’t do it.” She ran back to the desk and grabbed up the phone. “Please, help me!”

He crossed the room in three strides and slapped her, hard across the face, slammed the phone down into its cradle, and yanked the cord from the wall. Still smiling, he threw the phone across the room. It crashed against the marble fireplace.

He turned back, grabbed her hair, and hurled her toward the bookcase. She landed hard on the floor, her back hitting so hard two books fell off the shelves to land beside her.

He came down on his haunches in front of her, grabbed her hair again, forced her face up. “Don’t ever disobey me again. Do you understand?”

His hand was so tight in her hair she could barely nod.

“Good. Now you will stand and walk over to that chair. You will sit down and then we will have a conversation.”

He gave her his hand, a long narrow hand, long, thin fingers. She felt her heart pounding, fast and hard, felt her brain blur, and she wanted to run and scream and scream—hysteria. No, she had to get herself together. Her scalp hurt and her back was sore from striking the bookcase, but she could move. She took his hand and wanted to scream again. His flesh was dry and cold. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Manfred Havelock, of course. I’m looking forward to our getting to know each other.”

He pulled her to the desk, shoved her down into the chair.

62

West Park

4:00 p.m.

Sophie was sitting backward in the chair. Havelock jerked her arms behind her, making her groan with the pain, and bound her wrists together. He tied a thin gag in her mouth. He straightened and stood for a moment, looking down at her. He picked up the letter opener, lightly glided the sharp edge along her cheek, and laughed softly. Then he was behind her slashing the letter opener down, ripping her shirt to her waist, and he spread the fabric apart. He sliced through her bra strap, and looked with pleasure at the flawless expanse of white skin. He touched a fingertip to the slight mark from her bra, rubbed it away.

“Tell me the coordinates of the submarine.”

“I don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know!”

“Of course you do, dear heart.”

“No, no, I don’t. Adam wouldn’t tell me. He said it was better I didn’t know, it’d be safer.” Now, that was a joke. She waited, so terrified she could scarcely breathe.

He said no more, merely looked down at her. Oh, her back would mark so beautifully. But he had to be careful and not get carried away. What was important now were the coordinates to the submarine. März was already on the Gravitania with Adam Pearce, and the damned boy was refusing to tell him anything. März wanted to beat it out of him, but Havelock knew März didn’t have the talent to do it properly. He’d fall into a rage that turned his world red and he wouldn’t be able to stop and the boy would be dead. So it was up to him. He knew exactly what to do.

He looked up to see Elise slip into the room. “Come here and look at her, my dear. Her eyes—can you see the fear in them? I have asked her the coordinates. I have been polite. She swears she doesn’t know. So I will move on. Watch what your master can do.”

Sophie pulled and jerked her wrists. Havelock said, “Go ahead, Ms. Pearce, struggle to your heart’s content.” He ran his hand down the length of Sophie’s spine, his eyes on Elise the whole time. Ah, now she was thrashing about, making frantic yipping sounds. Elise ran her tongue slowly over her bottom lip and he stilled, but only for a moment.

He hit a button on his cell phone. While it rang, he said, “Now, Ms. Pearce, we’re going to play a little game.” The call connected, and he spoke into the cell.

“März? Do you have the boy close?”

“Yes, he is here. He is listening.”

“Then by all means let’s allow them to speak to one another.”

Havelock punched the speaker button and set the phone down on the desk, close to Sophie. He smiled as he reached inside her shirt and caressed one breast. Then he slapped her hard on the back. She rewarded him with a muffled groan through the gag. Havelock walked around to the side of the chair so she could look at him.

“Very good, very good. Now I want you to cry for your brother.”

Her dark hair tangled in her face and he pushed it out of her eyes. He saw fear, panic, but, alas, determination.

“Stubborn, are you? I think a little added incentive will make all the difference.”

He took Elise’s favorite cat-o’-nine-tails, the one with small lead weights on the ends of the soft suede, perfect for leaving marks on the flesh without opening a wound, moved into position, and struck.