The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

Nicholas said, “And why was she upset over Alex Grossman speaking to her father last night?”

“You saw that, too, did you?”

19

Lexington and East 53rd Street

Alex Grossman wanted to run full out, but he couldn’t, the FBI might be watching him, so he forced himself to walk the four blocks to his apartment at a steady pace, the only secure place he could make the call. And he needed to make the call, right now. More was at stake than Jonathan’s death. He had to keep the charade in place, no matter what.

He took a deep breath. Jonathan Pearce, the Messenger—dead. He couldn’t get his brain around it. It was a disaster. The Order—every link in the chain was meant to be unbreakable, and yet the most important link—the Messenger—was dead. Not only dead, he’d been murdered. Sophie was barely holding it together, and Adam, dear God in heaven, what would Adam say when he found out? No one even knew where he was.

What would they do now?

Thank the Almighty he’d managed to get the book with the SD card hidden inside, as they’d arranged. And Sophie, quick on her feet, had managed to get the book to him right under the noses of the FBI. If they’d lost Pearce and the files—

No, don’t think of it. You have the SD card. Call in. Weston will know what’s to be done.

Grossman’s apartment, despite the Midtown location, was a fifth-floor walk-up two blocks down from his pub. He didn’t mind the stairs, they kept him in shape. When he burst into his flat, he locked the door and went straight to the safe in the kitchen, nicely disguised in one of the cabinets, right behind three cans of kidney beans.

He started to put the book inside, but something made him stop. He held the book for a moment, staring down at it. Slowly, he untied the twine, unwrapped all the layers of paper.

He opened the book. There was a space cut inside the pages, the perfect size for a small micro–SD card.

But the space was empty.

Panic slammed him. He tamped it down. He had to think. There were only two possibilities—either Jonathan Pearce hadn’t put the SD card in the book after all or someone had gotten to the store before Alex had and stolen it.

There were only two copies of this SD card in existence—standard operating procedure for the Order. Redundancies. One card was supposed to be in the book. The other was in Alfie Stanford’s safe at 11 Downing Street.

He reached into the safe and pulled out an encrypted satellite phone. He noticed his hands were shaking. Adrenaline. Calm down, lad, there’s much to be done.

He dialed the number from memory. It was answered on the first ring.

He blurted out the words, his American accent gone to reveal his natural crisp British. “Pearce is dead.”

Edward Weston said calmly, “Yes, I know. Did you retrieve the book?”

“Yes, but the SD card wasn’t inside. FBI agents were in Jonathan’s store.”

“Yes, I know. Do you have any idea where Pearce’s SD card could be?”

“I’m not certain at this time, sir. Sophie was there in the store as well. She was a mess.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure she was. We all are. What about Adam Pearce, was he there?”

“I didn’t see him. I don’t know how to contact him directly.”

Grossman could hear Weston tapping his fingers on his desk, a longtime nervous habit. “I see.”

“What are your orders, sir?”

“I need you on a plane to London straightaway.”

Grossman was surprised. “I shouldn’t stay in place? My cover will be blown. Try to get ahold of the SD card? The FBI agent, Drummond, he was at the store this morning. He and another agent are investigating Jonathan’s murder, so I’ll bet he found it at Jonathan’s apartment. I could try to waylay him, maybe—”

“Absolutely not. It doesn’t matter, not now. Prepare yourself, Alex, there’s more.” He heard Weston take a deep breath. “Alfie Stanford died in his office at Eleven Downing Street two hours ago, and the contents of his private safe were stolen.”

“No,” Alex said, stunned, disbelieving. Stanford was their leader. He’d run the Order for more than thirty years. To lose both him and Pearce in the same day was unthinkable. “It’s murder, surely, sir, it must be. We’re under attack.”