Текст книги "The Lost Key"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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THE FBI THRILLERS

Power Play (2014)

Bombshell (2013)

Backfire (2012)

Split Second (2011)

Twice Dead: Riptide and Hemlock Bay (2011)

Whiplash (2010)

KnockOut (2009)

TailSpin (2008)

Double Jeopardy (2008): The Target and The Edge

Double Take (2007)

The Beginning (2005): The Cove and The Maze

Point Blank (2005)

Blowout (2004)

Blindside (2003)

Eleventh Hour (2002)

Hemlock Bay (2001)

Riptide (2000)

The Edge (1999)

The Target (1998)

The Maze (1997)

The Cove (1996)

A BRIT IN THE FBI THRILLERS (WITH J. T. ELLISON)

The Final Cut (2013)

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Coulter

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

ISBN 978-1-101-61875-2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

Here’s to us, J.T., and to a partnership I hope lasts for a very long time.

CATHERINE

For Catherine, and Karen, and Anton, and Randy, and all those on Eternal Patrol.

J.T.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Clive Cussler for giving me splendid advice on how to find the perfect writer for Nicholas Drummond and Mike Caine. It’s an amazing experience, Clive, and you know what? I really lucked out. May you live long and prosper.

I would like to thank my brother-in-law, Alex De Angelis, for his assistance with all things Chinese. Alex, not only do you amaze me with how much you know, you are an incredibly kind, generous person. But lest you forget, I can kick your butt at Scrabble.

My rock—Karen Evans—thank you for always being here for me, for helping me find the right word, for never treating me like the technological idiot you know me to be.

And finally, I would like to thank all of those valiant men and women who came before us who fought to keep us free.

–CATHERINE COULTER

Life never ceases to amaze me. I always thought the ability to create characters, and story, was a lonely endeavor, something I’d spend hours locked away in my office developing, like a blind mole, hoping against hope that when I emerged, things would hold together.

And then Catherine came into my life, and I realized the combustible power of having two writers on a single project. Two approaches, two brainstorms, two brains!—it is a thing of glory. The Lost Key is a magnificent example of two brains being better than one.

I have to thank Catherine for the guidance and advice and too many laughs to count, and for loving the gulfstream-on-gulfstream violence. Working with you (and Mike and Nicholas) is a dream come true.

Darling Karen, for keeping us calm and focused;

Anton, for declaiming by the pool table;

Chris Pepe, for giving us brilliant notes and constant wrangling;

Scott Miller, for getting me into this in the first place;

Everyone who loved The Final Cut and reached out to let us know;

Jeff Abbott, Laura Benedict, Paige Crutcher, and Ariel Lawhon, who listened and yoga’d and fed me when necessary;

And, as always, my darling husband, Randy, who realized this book could only be made better by margaritas and new kittens. Love you, bunny.

–J. T. ELLISON

CONTENTS

Also by Catherine Coulter

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

 

Prologue

DAY ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

DAY TWO

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

 

Epilogue

Author’s Note

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN, “O Captain! My Captain!”

PROLOGUE

Lower Slaughter, Cotswolds

England

September 1917

Ansonia was dead. And all those brave men who’d risked everything to end the bloody war were dead with her, and they’d left wives and children to wonder what had happened to them, to mourn, endlessly. Had their deaths been quick? Crushing tons of icy water and then it was over, quickly, so quickly, they didn’t know the end was on them? He prayed it was so. All he had left of her was the letter she’d stuffed in Leo’s coat pocket to give to him, his first name written in her hand on the envelope. Josef. All that was inside were her hastily scribbled words explaining what she’d done and why, and how much she loved him and Leo, and how, with God’s help, she would see them soon. Stay safe, stay safe, and all would be well. Signed simply, Ansonia.

Josef closed his eyes against the pain of it, a pain so deep he didn’t think he could bear it. But he had to, he had no choice, for there was Leo, their son, depending on him since his mother was gone. He saw her now, his brave, foolhardy Ansonia, saw them together that last night, and thought now her smile had been sad, accepting, as if she’d known she would die. He shut it off.

Josef Rothschild would mourn her forever, but not yet, not just yet. He stared through the front window down the long, dark drive, then over at the thick night dark woods. Pearce would be here soon with five other Order members. William Pearce, Viscount Chambers, the head of the Highest Order, his friend and ally for such a short time. He knew it would last until they both breathed their last breaths, this odd friendship of theirs, a German and an Englishman, forged that long-ago night at the battleground of Verdun. He wondered if William would one day be the Prime Minister. Josef wouldn’t doubt it. Even though William was young, he already had power, wealth, but most important, he had an excellent brain, a clear head, and honor.

Josef stared into the darkness. Where were they?

Six men of the Highest Order were coming to hear him announce that their plan had succeeded. The Highest Order—Josef had always thought the formal title of their society sounded so lofty as to be ordained by God—but now all members simply called it the Order. Yes, six members of the Order were coming to hear not only that they now had the kaiser’s gold, but that they also possessed Marie’s key and her book of secrets. Yes, they’d won, they would deal the kaiser a death blow, and they would raise a toast to Marie, magnificent Marie, architect of a weapon so powerful the one who owned it would rule the world.

But there wasn’t to be wild triumph, because the scores of gold bars worth millions of deutsche marks, the kaiser’s private treasury, the book, and the key were lost to both Germany and England in waters so deep he couldn’t imagine the U-boat ever being found. In England’s hands, having the gold would cripple the kaiser’s war, but having Marie’s horrifying weapon would deal a death blow. Now no one would have either the gold or the weapon, ever. Still, he wondered if someone in the distant future would find the U-boat and the kaiser’s gold and Marie’s key. Would they marvel at the lunacy of men long dead? Marvel at their greed, their eagerness to crush one another, their butchering of the innocent? Would they look at Marie’s weapon and be unable to fathom how any man, any country, could sanction its use?

Josef pulled the thin curtain back from the window and stared out into full darkness. There was no moon and the few stars shimmered off the ground fog covering the field beyond the cottage. The men would leave their cars hidden and come into the cottage one by one. The Order was always careful, rabidly so in wartime. Soon, soon now.

Josef looked over at the trundle bed in the corner, at his son, Leo, exhausted from his ordeal, still in shock. At last he was sleeping soundly, legs pulled up against his chest, one thin arm dangling over the edge of the cot, the small white hand open. Josef felt such fear, such love, that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. If his son had died, it would have been his fault. But he was alive, he’d survived the hellish trip from Berlin to Scotland, the specter of death constantly riding on his small shoulders. Josef prayed Leo had understood all he’d told him on their trip from Scotland to William Pearce’s cottage, understood that what his father and the other men had tried to do had been for him, for all the children of this useless, bloody war. Every time he’d said Ansonia’s name, he’d tasted his own tears. And when he was through talking, the tears shiny on his cheeks, Leo had slipped his small hand into his father’s and whispered, “Before we left her, Mama told me you were a hero. Now I understand why. What will happen now, Papa?”

Josef was humbled. He had no answer.

He looked out the window again. He saw a shadow running across the field, and another, wraiths in the night, the darkness bleeding around them. They would stagger their arrivals, each coming from a different direction, a few minutes between them. Six men, dressed in black, weapons at their sides. Three carried Webley .455 Marks, standard issue, and two had Mauser C96s tucked in their holsters. They were prepared for anything even though they should be safe enough, here in a small cottage deep in the Cotswolds, expecting to hear news of their triumph.

The first man stopped, whistled loudly through his teeth in a poor imitation of a whip-poor-will. Josef whistled in return, and the man started forward again. A series of calls and answers began behind him.

The first knock sounded. Four taps, then two pounds. The signal.

Josef took one last look at Leo, then pinched out the lone candle. He opened the door, welcomed each of them. Their only goal was to stop Kaiser Wilhelm’s war.

Only five men arrived. Where was William Pearce? He was never late. Josef gave all of them coffee, then, unable to wait, said, “The U-boat went down. The kaiser has lost both his gold and Marie’s book and the key. And we did, too.”

Dead silence, then, with succinct finality, Wallace Benton-Hurt, head of the Bank of England, said, “So it’s a stalemate.”

“Yes,” said Josef.

“I hear something, it must be William,” said Grayson Lankford, and went to the door.

Josef said, “Wait until he knocks.”

“No one knows we’re here, Josef. You’re being paranoid.”

“Yes, I am,” Josef said, “and that is the only reason I am still alive. Wait for the knock.”

Everyone waited, watching the door. Footsteps, then a knock. Two raps, sharp, like the end of a stick, or a rifle butt.

Not the right signal.

Josef knew they’d been found out. Leo.

He grabbed Leo into his arms and carried him to the closet. Leo’s eyes opened, unseeing at first, then he focused on his father’s face. “Listen to me, you have to stay here until I come for you. Do not make a sound. Do you understand me?”

Leo knew fear, and he saw it on his father’s face. “Are we in danger, Papa?”

“Yes, the enemy found us. You must keep quiet, Leo. Remember what I told you. If something happens to me, you tell no one what I told you. Trust no one. Remember, no matter what you hear, you keep quiet.” He kissed his boy, wrapped the blanket around him, and closed the closet door just as bullets shattered the glass windows and the front door burst open.

DAY ONE

1

FBI New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza

7:25 a.m.

What in bloody hell have I done?

Nicholas Drummond reported for duty at the FBI’s New York Headquarters smartly at 7:00 a.m., as instructed. After twenty minutes with human resources, he felt a bit like a schoolboy: stand here, walk there, smile for your photograph, here’s your pass, don’t lose it. It was worse than the FBI Academy with their strict rules, the uniforms, the endless drills, and more like his training at Hendon Police College with Hamish Penderley and his team.

The administrative realities of moving from New Scotland Yard to the FBI in New York were decidedly less romantic than the initial prospect had been. Months earlier, Dillon Savich, head of the Criminal Apprehension Unit at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., had encouraged Nicholas to make a new home in the FBI, and he’d accepted. It was now the end of May, graduation from Quantico and the FBI Academy two weeks in the past, and he was officially an FBI special agent, and technically at the bottom of the food chain.

Again.

Twice he’d done this. The first time he’d left the Foreign Office to work for the Metropolitan Police in London. He’d survived those first days and he’d survive these, too.

And even better, you don’t have Hamish Penderley to ride you now, making you do tactical drills at 5:00 a.m. Zachery’s a very different sort. So buck up.

Nicholas knew he should have started out in a small Bureau office in the Midwest, gotten his feet wet, but Dillon Savich had gotten him assigned to the New York Field Office, as promised, working directly for Supervisory Special Agent Milo Zachery, a man Nicholas knew and trusted, with Special Agent Michaela Caine as his partner.

When at last they issued him his service weapon, he felt complete, the heavy weight of the Glock on his hip comforting, familiar.

Freshly laminated and now armed, he’d been walked to the twenty-third floor, led through the maze of the cube farm, and ushered into a small space, blue-walled with some sort of fuzzy fabric, the kind Velcro would adhere to, with a brown slab of wood-grained Formica as a desktop. There was a computer, several hard drives, two file trays labeled IN and OUT, and a chair.

The cubicle was so small he could easily touch each side with his arms outstretched, and that made the tiniest bit of claustrophobia sneak in. He needed more monitors and more shelving and maybe he’d soon feel at home. Once in the zone on his computers, the close quarters wouldn’t be a problem.

He dropped his briefcase on the floor next to the chair, stashed a small black go bag in his bottom drawer, and took a seat. He spun the chair around in a circle, legs drawn up to avoid crashing. Small, yes, but it would do. He didn’t plan to spend much time sitting here, anyway. Part of the deal he’d made with Savich meant Nicholas would be working ad hoc with him at times, running forensic point on cases in Washington. From what he’d already experienced working with Savich and Sherlock and Mike Caine, he was in for a ride.

A low, throaty voice said near his ear, “Needs a bit of sprucing up, don’t you think? How about a nice photo of the queen, front and center?”

Speak of the devil.

“The queen is hanging happily over my bed in my new digs.” He bent his head back to see Agent Mike Caine looking down at him, smiling widely. She was wearing her signature black jeans, motorcycle boots, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her badge hung on a lanyard around her neck, and her black-rimmed reading glasses were tucked into her blouse pocket.

“I wonder why I didn’t smell you first.” And he leaned up, sniffed. “Ah, there it is, that lovely jasmine, like my mum. Hi, Mike, long time no see.”

“Yeah, yeah, all of two weeks since your graduation. So you’re all settled in to these new digs of yours? By the way, where are your new digs?”

He didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want to tell anyone, it was too embarrassing. Fact was, he’d lost a big argument with his grandfather about where he’d lay his head in New York. He shrugged, looked over her shoulder at several agents walking by. “All settled in. A fairly nice bed in an okay place over there—” And he waved his hand vaguely toward the east.

She cocked her head at him, and he said quickly, “You look pretty good after being on your own for four months. When can we get out of here?”

“Champing at the bit for a case already, Special Agent Drummond? You’ve only been here fifteen minutes. We haven’t even had time to go over the coffee schedule and introduce you around. Are we calling you Nick or Nicholas these days?”

“You know what they say about rolling stones and moss. Nicholas will do fine.”

She looked at her watch. “You’re in luck. We’ve caught a murder.”

He felt the punch of adrenaline. “A murder? Is it terrorism related?”

“I don’t think so. I heard about it two minutes ago. Time to get briefed.”

Milo Zachery joined them in the hall. In his tailored gray suit, white shirt, and purple-and-black striped tie, Nicholas thought he looked a lot snazzier than Penderley ever had. Slick clothes, fresh haircut. He looked like a big-dog federal agent all the way to his highly polished wing tips. Nicholas knew Zachery was focused, smart, and willing to let his agents use their brains with only subtle hands on the reins.

Nicholas shook his new boss’s hand.

“Good to see you, Drummond. I’ll handle your briefing myself. Walk with me.”

Mike gave him a manic grin, her adrenaline on a level with his, and he was reminded of that night in Paris several months earlier, Mike barely upright, leaning against the overturned couch, bleeding from a gunshot to the arm, her face beat up, and smiling. He thanked the good Lord she was here and whole and ready to kick butt.

Nicholas smiled back and gestured for her to go first.

“Such lovely manners from the first Brit in the FBI. I could get used to this.”

“Still cheeky, are we? It’s good to see that some things haven’t changed.”

“Come on, you two.” Zachery walked them past his office, down the blue-carpeted senior management hallway, straight out the door and to the elevators. As he punched the down button, he said, “You’re headed to Twenty-six Wall Street. Stabbing. The NYPD called us since it’s on federal land, so it’s our case. I thought it would be a good idea to get Drummond here liaising with the locals as soon as possible. And aren’t you two lucky, someone managed to get themselves dead on your first morning. Go on down there and figure out what happened.”

The elevator doors opened and Zachery waved them in. “Drummond, I know you’re going to be our big cyber-crime computer-terrorism guy, but we also need to teach you to drive on the right side of the road, get your boots dirty on the ground first.” He smiled and clapped Nicholas on the shoulder. “Glad you’re with us, Drummond. Welcome to the FBI. Good hunting.” He turned, and said over his shoulder, “Oh, yes. Mike, keep him in line.”

2

Mike’s black Crown Vic waited for them in the garage. She jangled the car keys at Nicholas, then drew them back. “Maybe I should drive, even though you need the practice. Wall Street’s pretty crazy.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to manage the streets of New York. I have American blood, too, you know.”

She laughed and got behind the wheel. Once they were out of the garage, she said, “Next time out, you’ll drive. It’s a requirement that you know all the streets. But not today. So tell me, did you really live up to Savich’s lofty standards at the Academy? And Sherlock’s?”

“I tried my pitiful best, Agent Caine.” He watched her come within an inch of a lane-cutting taxi without blinking an eye.

“What have you been doing here in New York for the last two weeks?”

He never looked away from the pedestrian zigzagging in front of the Crown Vic. “Oh, a bit of this and that, getting set up, that’s about it.” Not to mention I shopped for furniture until I nearly cut my own wrists, fought with Nigel on where all the bloody furniture should go, and was forced to have dinner with my ex at a French in-place big on presentation and light on food. In short, I haven’t used my brain for two bloody weeks—but he didn’t tell her any of that.

She sped through a yellow light. “I’ve missed having you around. Come on, now, tell me about your new place.”

Not in this lifetime. “Nothing much to tell, really. It’s a place to live, that’s all.” Nicholas’s grandfather, in a magnanimous show of support for his grandson’s decision to move to America, had purchased Nicholas a brownstone. No matter how hard Nicholas had protested, the baron, and his parents, he suspected, refused to allow Nicholas his wish, an anonymous apartment somewhere in Chelsea.

He was now saddled with a behemoth town house on East 69th Street, much to his butler Nigel’s delight. Five bedrooms, five floors. Oh, yes, this sort of opulence was just the ticket for fitting in with the rest of the agents in the New York Field Office.

Mike slowly turned onto a street packed with pedestrians. “I can’t wait to see it. Invite me over for a beer later, all right?”

And again he thought, Not in this lifetime. He said, “Where is our crime scene?”

“Just off Wall Street. Right there.”

Mike threaded through dozens of people across to Pine Street, not far from Federal Hall. He saw the yellow sawhorse barrier with NYPD on it, three blue-and-whites, lights revolving, reflecting off the stone buildings.

They badged the NYPD cop at the barrier, signed in to the scene, and were led to the small side street. It was going to be a beautiful day, he saw, already warming nicely. Considering the number of crime scenes he’d handled in the pouring rain in London, this certainly was preferable.

“What do we have here?” he asked the young NYPD officer standing inside the tape. His badge read F. WILSON, and he looked barely old enough to vote, much less be a cop. Even though Nicholas knew he couldn’t be more than five years older than the cop, he felt ancient, until Wilson spoke like the seasoned professional he was. “Stabbing,” Wilson said, “and aren’t you in luck, it’s right there on your land. Another five feet and it would be ours, but no, this guy decides to get himself dead and make it all yours. I hear it’s your first day on the job. Welcome to New York.”

“Thank you.”

Wilson grinned. “We’ve been canvassing, got a small group of people held aside who were nearby when it happened. Most say the suspect was a Caucasian male, brown hair, medium height, wearing jeans and a white hoodie.”

Nicholas looked over at the small knot of people standing on the street corner, gaping at the scene, some recording everything with their phones, others standing quietly, obviously shell-shocked. He said, “Rather a detailed description, that.”

“I know, right? Amazing, really, since most witnesses can rarely agree on the sex of the suspect. Talk about lucking out—from the statements so far, there were two men arguing, then a struggle, then one guy turned away and the other man stabbed him from behind and took off running.”

Mike said, “Hold everyone here, Officer Wilson. We’ll want to speak to them as well. We need to get a look at the body, and we’ll be right back.”

Wilson saluted her and moved away from the tape to let them in.

Nicholas took his time walking toward the dead man, noticed Mike was taking in everything as well. Special Agent Louisa Barry, one of their crime scene techs, was snapping on nitrile gloves, ready to get to work. Nicholas smiled at her, then went down on his haunches beside a man who was seriously dead. He was in his late forties to early fifties, his brown eyes staring sightlessly into the sky, salt-and-pepper hair combed slightly to the side to cover the beginnings of a receding hairline, his suit rumpled and creased. From the angle of his body on the pavement, and the way his arms were flung out from his body, Nicholas thought he’d fallen to his knees, then onto his back and died. The blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick, but it was disturbed, like a child’s finger painting, swirls and whorls whipping across the sidewalk. What were you arguing about? Why’d he stab you in the back?

“See anything interesting?” Mike asked, studying the blood pool.

“It’s what I’m not seeing that’s interesting,” Nicholas said. “No murder weapon. The guy stabbed him, then pulled out the knife and took off. I wonder if any of the witnesses saw the killer do that.”

Mike said, “He still had his wallet, isn’t that right, Louisa?” She looked up at Louisa, holding the man’s belongings.

“Right here.”

Nicholas asked, “What’s his name?” He hated calling a once living, breathing man a corpse. He deserved more than that.

“Jonathan Charles Pearce. Lived on the Upper East Side. Money and cards left in the wallet. His cell’s a BlackBerry Touch, and here’s a nice old watch and a set of keys. Cell is password protected, I can’t access it without my tools.”

Nicholas said, “Do you carry a UFED in the field, perchance?”

“Is that British for Universal Forensic Extraction Device?” And she grinned. “Yeah, so happens I have a Touch Ultimate on the truck. Hang on a minute.”

“Good,” he said. “Are there any cameras around?”

Louisa said, “Nothing that points directly to this spot, but there’s a traffic cam at the intersection of Pine and William, and the building itself has a camera on the corner. Might have something from one of those.”

“Excellent, Louisa, thank you.”

“By the way, Nicholas? It’s good to have you on board. Welcome to New York.”

“It’s good to be here.”

In the next instant, Louisa was headed to the mobile command unit.

Mike said, “Glad she brought it. With the UFED we’ll get the pass code broken and access the data in no time. So, Nicholas, it doesn’t appear Mr. Pearce was the victim of a robbery.”

“No, it would seem not. A fight between two men. About what?”

“Whatever it was, the killer lost it and stabbed Mr. Pearce in the back with a dozen people looking on.”