The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

“Another true story,” Alex said, and they simply shook their heads. Both knew the media would continue having a field day for months to come. The layer of tunnels beneath the tunnels of the catacombs had been world news, and tomb raiders and scientists and archaeologists and sociologists alike were flocking to the Paris underground to uncover the secrets of Les Quatre Chambres—the Four Chambers. The truth was that the other three doors hadn’t been locked and they’d all been empty, except for the very small antique ruby ring found under a clot of dirt in a corner, eighteenth-century, given the style of the ring. No one knew who it might belong to.

Once in a taxi, Sophie said, “How I wish Adam could be with us. They’re doing a video feed from the prison.”

Alex took her hand, rubbed his fingers over her knuckles. “Last time I spoke to Drummond, he said the prosecutor was recommending only six months.” He grinned at her.

Sophie laughed. “And then when he comes out of the slammer, he works for the Man. He’ll still be only nineteen when he gets out.”

The taxi pulled up five minutes late to the Elcott Building on Seventy-first Street. The building was old, but the plumbing and wiring had been updated and it was an excellent address. The sixteenth floor was a modern oasis with beautiful high ceilings and molding painted in soft cream. They were shown into a large conference room, a long glass table running along the center, a dozen black leather chairs cozied close. On the mahogany sideboard were carafes of coffee and tea.

Sophie accepted a cup of coffee, went to the windows, stared out over Central Park, a stunning sight, green and gold and blue skies. It was a perfect early-June day. Alex joined her. She said, “Dad wanted his ashes spread over Loch Eriboll. Adam will go with me once he’s free. I couldn’t bear to do it alone.”

Alex said, “All three of us will go.”

They turned from the window when Nicholas Drummond and Mike Caine arrived, both looking vital, in charge of their world, a handsome couple. No, not couple, Sophie thought, they were partners, FBI agents. Still—Sophie hadn’t seen them since they’d returned to the States, on the prime minister of England’s jet, Alex had told her, and how had they managed that?

Mike joined Sophie at the window. “I won’t hug you, not yet. How are you, Sophie?”

“I’m good,” she said, then sighed. “It’s a difficult day. But Alex is here and you’re here and we’ll soon see Adam on video.”

Mike touched her on the shoulder. “I know I’ve said this probably half a dozen times before, Sophie, but what you went through, it was tough, but you did it, saved all of us from Havelock.”

“The nightmares,” Sophie said, never looking away from the view, “the nightmares hurt more than my back ever did.” She raised her hand. There was a small scar where the drop of muriatic acid had touched her skin. “I didn’t really believe what I’d read about muriatic acid, but it was true. His face melted off his bones. I see his face in my dreams, hear his screams.”

Mike was silent a moment. “As you know, Nicholas and I spent only the one night in Paris. I woke up to hear his yells from the other room. He was dreaming about that fight with März in Loch Eriboll. He never told me exactly what happened, but I know it was bad, and it was close.” Mike smiled. “The nightmares will go away, Sophie. What’s important is you’re the one who saved us all. You’re the heroine. That’s what I told Nicholas as well—you won, he won, we all won.”

Sophie drew a deep breath. Mike was right. It was over, they’d won. But she didn’t mention that her other nightmare was when she believed Alex Shepherd was dead. Nor did she mention the raw ache in her c

hest whenever she thought of her father.

An assistant came in to set up the video feed with Adam, followed by Jonathan Pearce’s longtime friend and lawyer, Franklin Jones.

“He looks happy,” Sophie said, when Adam came on.

He was going to serve six months in a minimum-security prison, fixing the prison’s computer system, and, he’d told her, the warden wasn’t a bad guy at all. And when he came out he was going to be a part-time consultant for the FBI while he finished college, and then what? Who knew?

Franklin Jones cleared his throat, nodded to Adam. “Jonathan’s will is straightforward. All his property is split evenly between his two children, you and Adam. Sophie, you are the executrix. You are responsible for his far-reaching financial holdings, he always wanted you to keep Ariston’s alive.” He paused a moment, looked over at her. “Do you plan to do this, keep Ariston’s thriving?”

“Yes,” she said. “I will hire a manager, but both Alex and I will keep it flourishing.”

Franklin Jones nodded. “Excellent. Your father would be very pleased. Now, I have a letter to you and Adam from your father.” He handed her a thick envelope. “Jonathan wrote this last year, and had it attached to his will. There is also another folded paper that is much older. I do not know who wrote it or its contents. Would you be so kind as to read both aloud? As per your father’s instructions, I will excuse myself for a moment.”

Jones left the conference room and Sophie opened the letter from her father first.

Dear Sophie and Adam,

If you are reading this letter, it means I am gone, and I’ll never again be able to tell you again how much I have loved you both from the moment I felt you in your mother’s womb.

Sophie paused a moment, choked down the tears, and cleared her throat.

Adam, I had once believed you would replace me as the Order’s Messenger, but I’ve realized for several years now your path will be a very different one. Whatever you choose to do, do it well and always act for good. I imagine that eventually it is Alex who will follow me as the Messenger, he has the skills, the determination, plus he’s a book lover.

Sophie, membership in the Highest Order is hereditary, as you know. I wish you to take my place. I can see you saying, but Dad, there’s never been a woman in the Order. You’re wrong, there have. Madame Curie, for one. Ansonia Rothschild, for another. You are the first woman in the new millennium, true, but not the last. It seems to me the women of the Order are the true heroes. We men have sat back and blathered for a century.

—

SHE SMILED, LOOKED at her brother, all spiffy in his jumpsuit, sitting in a chair behind a small table, the walls behind him blank, painted a bilious green, and he was grinning.

“Are you okay with this?”