Текст книги "The Lost Key"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

51

Oliver Leyland looked at the men around the table. He was shaking his head. “Jonathan and Alfie aren’t even cold yet. Surely this can wait until we have buried them properly.”

“I fear not, dear Leyland.” It was Stuart Niles who spoke, the eldest member of the Order, and a leading British member of Parliament, a hard-line old autocrat, verbally skilled, intelligent, looked up to by the other members. Weston once would have voted to euthanize him, but not now. Niles was on their side. Even though he spoke in an obnoxious stentorian voice, the other members usually followed his lead. “Weston is right to move quickly in this matter. I have heard rumors the American FBI have been investigating, and are aware of the submarine’s general location.” He turned his attention to Weston. “The simple fact the American FBI have the location, and we do not, is a disgrace. Should they retrieve the sub and the key before we do, the weapon would be in their hands. You said we still do not have Adam Pearce, Weston?”

“He is adept at hiding in plain sight.” Weston smiled, allowing a bit of nostalgia into his tone. “His father taught him well.”

“I ask myself,” Leyland said to the group, “why wouldn’t Adam Pearce come to us immediately? Why is he hiding? From us? And the answer is, of course, that Alfie was murdered, his safe cleaned out, his own father was murdered, and Adam Pearce isn’t a fool. He fears there’s something going on within our Order, and that’s why he hasn’t run to us. And now you wish to add Havelock? I tell you, it’s insanity.”

“Leyland, I must correct you,” Weston said. “Adam Pearce ran because the FBI is after him. He has no fear of us.”

“Leyland, the bottom line is that Havelock has the resources right here to find Adam Pearce and go after the sub,” Stuart Niles said. “The rest of it, we will deal with in due time. My friends, the last thing we want is to be outed to the world.” He paused a moment, then his orator’s voice rang out. “I move we have a vote. Today. Right now.”

Weston wondered what Havelock had given Niles to bring him over. He wasted no time. “So moved. Do we have a second?”

Alastair Burrow raised a meaty paw. His voice was better suited to television, deep and throbbing with sincerity. “I second the motion.”

Weston said, “All in favor of extending membership in the Order to the son of Order member Wolfgang Havelock—Manfred Havelock, who has a hereditary right to the position—say aye.”

A super majority ruled. It was rare they found themselves divided, in any case, but today was different. Today the vote was the narrowest in Order history.

There were twelve men in the room. Six hands raised immediately. After a few moments, Dmitri Zachar assented, giving them seven. Who would be the eighth? Weston looked around. Not Leyland, he was against this, sitting upright in his chair, clearly angry. Weston watched Omar Hakim bite his lip, then slowly, he put his hand in the air.

Weston wanted to yell his victory, but he said nothing, merely raised his own hand in the air. He made the ninth.

“The ayes have it. Manfred Havelock will be inducted into the Order straightaway. I will let him know immediately,” Weston continued. “You know Alex Shepherd. He’s proved his loyalty time and again through his covert operations on our behalf, most recently his three-year stint in New York with Jonathan Pearce. Some of you believe Shepherd should go back into MI Five and work his way up. One day he could run the British intelligence services, and if he did, he’d be a true asset to their group. Therefore, I also would like to move that Alex Shepherd be made a full member of the Order and take over as Messenger for Jonathan Pearce. He will continue his nominal position with MI Five because it is to our advantage that he does and he has expressed an interest in taking over for Pearce.”

Alastair Burrow said, “So moved.”

“Seconded,” Niles said.

“All in favor?” This time, to Weston’s relief, all the hands raised.

“Excellent,” Weston said. “Alex will be well pleased by this news. I will tell you, he is currently with Sophie Pearce, who is cooperating fully with helping us locate her brother. As you know, Adam Pearce has the exact coordinates of the sub, and, as I said, he wisely ran from the FBI. We will have him with us again, very soon, and we will keep him safe from the FBI.

“Alex tells me Sophie Pearce is passing him a message to come in, and we will guarantee him safe passage from the FBI and any further persecution on the Americans’ behalf. As soon as I have news, I will send our new Messenger to you.”

There were murmurs among the group. It was time for the last play. Weston drew in his breath. He knew this was going to be tricky.

He cleared his throat to bring all their attention to him. “Gentlemen, before we adjourn for the day, we need to nominate and vote in one last member. This will bring us back to full strength and we can then move forward, helping Havelock retrieve the key. Alfie Stanford relayed to me his desire to see Heinz Gernot take his place. You’re all familiar with the man; Gernot is the head of Germany’s—”

Oliver Leyland banged his fist on the table. “Wait a minute, Edward. Gernot would change the balance of the Order. We always have eight Brits. This would give the Germans two seats.”

Weston smiled. “As I said, Alfie told me Gernot would be ideal, with his obvious influence in the EU. Indeed, he was quite insistent we begin to branch out, to lessen the British grip a bit. And Gernot is a friend of this country. Why, last month he—”

Leyland jumped to his feet, fury pouring off him. “No. I will not go along with this. We will not be forced into yet another new member, not until Alfie’s papers are located and we can actually read his wishes and reasons.”

Weston met his eyes and asked in a very quiet voice, “Are you calling me a liar, Leyland?”

“I don’t see Alfie nominating Gernot,” Leyland said. Of course Weston was lying. But why? Leyland looked around the room at the faces that seemed content and those that were clearly disturbed. He took a mental count. Something was very wrong here.

He turned back to Weston. He had to stay calm. “You already seem to have a majority vote, Edward. Another few days without a fifteenth member won’t matter and you all know it. We should wait until we actually have the key and the weapon is secured before reworking nearly three centuries of practice.

“Gentlemen, allowing Havelock to join is a mistake, one we will come to regret. Adding Gernot is insanity.”

Leyland was eloquent, damn him. The other members began talking among themselves. Weston threw up his hands. He knew better than to push Leyland further. “Fine, fine. We will wait. But there is one more bit of business. We need a pro tem leader until all fifteen members can meet and vote for a new one.” He cleared his throat. “I am willing to proceed in the role until such time as we can have a clear vote.”

Leyland met Weston’s eye, and barked a short, humorless laugh. “It seems you’ve already taken over, Weston. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

He stalked out of the room, leaving the remaining Order members to look after him.

Weston watched him go, and calculated. Could Havelock safely eliminate Leyland?

He turned back to the group. They looked uncertain. Get them back on board, man, or you might have trouble. While Havelock had been voted in, he still wasn’t a full member and wasn’t supposed to be given the secrets of the Order until that ceremony was complete. But Havelock already knew as much as any of them. Weston had seen to that. He thought briefly of the ten million pounds safe in four different Swiss bank accounts. He thought of the power Havelock promised him once they had Madame Curie’s weapon, once he and Havelock together would decide what to do with it.

He held up his hands. “All will be well, my friends. Leyland is right, these are difficult times for us all. We can table the newest member for the time being, until this crisis has passed,” and he nodded to each of them in turn, now the man in charge, their leader. He fully intended to remain in charge.

–

ON THE STREET BELOW, Oliver Leyland stepped into his waiting Jaguar XJ, slammed the door, and waved for his driver to proceed. He immediately rang one of his oldest friends. Thankfully, Harry Drummond answered on the first ring.

“Harry? It’s Leyland. We have a very serious problem.”

52

Over the Atlantic

8:00 a.m. ET

Nicholas’s fingers hadn’t stopped flying over the keyboard since they’d left Teterboro. Mike had heard him talking to Gray, much of their language too technical for her to get more than the gist.

She’d eaten her fill, then set a steaming cup of coffee and a few muffins at his right hand. He’d eaten and sipped from the coffee absently, never stopping. She’d never seen him coding before; he wasn’t kidding about being in another world.

She was on her second cup of coffee and debating a third when she spotted a report from deep in the FBI files about an organization they’d identified as the Highest Order. What a highfalutin moniker that was.

Then she read on and her heart began a wild hoedown. This was it, she was sure of it. She finished reading the dossier. It was maddeningly brief, but gave her at least some background on who they might be dealing with.

“Nicholas. Take a break. I’ve found something.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Is it important? I’ve only a few minutes left here until Gray and I are done.”

“Stop, now. You need to hear this.”

He stood, stretched, and actually focused on her now. “Ah, that’s better. I’m very close here. What’s your news?”

“It’s a dossier, prepared about seven years ago about a group called the Highest Order. I think this is who we’re looking for. These are the fifteen men from Pearce’s files.”

“The Highest Order?”

She nodded. “The information was lifted off the computer of a diplomat who visited the U.S. with a British delegation a decade ago. It’s incomplete, but at least we can get an idea of what we might be up against.”

He stood over her, hands braced against the ceiling of the fuselage. “Rather rude to invade the computers of a foreign delegate. Is that common practice? And how’d you do it?”

“The easy way. The Brit logged in to an unsecured wireless network in his hotel, and welcomed us right in. But no, this isn’t common practice. He must have been under surveillance and tracking software was put on his computer.”

“Who was the diplomat?”

“Well, he’s dead now. Callum Chatterton was his name. They were here to speak at the UN. He worked as a researcher in the office of Stuart Niles.”

Nicholas whistled. “Stuart Niles is now a leading member of Parliament, and would have your heads if he knew his people had been spied upon.”

“But he didn’t know. This is from the dossier: ‘The Highest Order was formed in 1714 before the death of Queen Anne by a small group of powerful Englishmen and Germans who did not want to see the son of the deposed James the Second make a grab for the crown when the crown should rightfully go to the Hanoverians because of the standing law forbidding Catholics to rule England, thus taking away the risk that England would again be plunged into bloody religious persecution. Through their efforts, the Jacobites were defeated in the rebellion of 1715 and the Hanoverian George the First was crowned king of England.

‘The Highest Order’s goal immediately shifted to stand as protectors of England’s supremacy. They were successful in maintaining England’s stability during all the revolutionary unrest throughout Europe in the mid–nineteenth century, an extraordinary accomplishment. They were succeeding admirably until the onset of World War One, which they fought to prevent but failed due to the extreme fanaticism of Kaiser Wilhelm the Second.

‘After the Great War, the group expanded to include members from America, and in the seventies and eighties, they added Israel, representatives from the Middle East, India, Russia, and China.

‘The members themselves are in positions of power in their respective countries, and are incredibly wealthy. They quietly effect change in their individual countries by open communication with other Order members, and exacting influence and pressure in the appropriate quarters.

‘Today, the Highest Order remains a small but powerful multinational group of fifteen high-powered men whose primary goal is to maintain the safety and security of the world by helping countries avoid wars and other destabilizing events.

‘In the beginning of the twenty-first century, however, it became obvious that a new element began to make inroads into the Order. Questionable actions were taken, deals were struck with questionable allies. They should be watched to ensure they don’t use their power to subvert the peaceful objectives of the Order.’”

She looked up. “They sound like something like the Trilateral Commission.”

He nodded. “And different as well, since the Trilateral Commission is a more public group and their actions are both well documented and incredibly controversial.”

Mike was nodding. “But like this Highest Order, the commission is also a consortium of influential leaders who work together to help the world stay safe.

“Nicholas, the Trilateral Commission doesn’t date back three hundred years, they’re newbies. Why do I have the feeling we haven’t even scratched the surface of what the Highest Order is up to?”

He said, “Because they’re supposed to be working for good, and they have someone like Manfred Havelock involved with them?”

“Exactly. You don’t seem terribly surprised by this.”

“I don’t? I am, I assure you.”

“Come on, Nicholas. I can see data running across that brain of yours like a stock ticker on crack. What’s going on?”

He focused on her. “Very well, it was something my father said when I called to talk to him about Alfie Stanford’s death. He said if Alfie’s death was murder, and had been committed from inside Downing Street, as we suspect it must have, it was a bigger situation than anyone could imagine. Then he steered me away, told me the Brits had it well in hand, and to stop thinking about it.” He turned to stare out the window, then he pushed the green button. The pilot’s disembodied voice came through the air.

“Yes?”

“I need to make a call. A private call. Will our security measures do an appropriate job scrambling the signal?”

“Absolutely. Use the phone in the arm. Hit nine. That will fully encrypt the call. Thanks for letting me know, it makes my instruments squirrelly while you’re connecting. By the way, we are now under two hours from landing.” He snapped off the speaker.

Mike looked at her watch. It was only 8:00 a.m. “He is breaking airspeed records. It’s one p.m. London time. We’ll be there by three o’clock, and we should have plenty of daylight to get north to the loch. Assuming they haven’t left without us. Assuming Adam has given them the exact coordinates.”

He reached into the arm and pulled out the secure phone. “I’ll bet anything he hasn’t.”

“Who are you calling?”

“The one person who might have some insight into what’s really going on here.” The phone clicked a few times, then he heard the familiar tinny double ring. He nodded to Mike. “I’m calling my dad.”

53

North of London

12:30 p.m.

Could she trust Alex? Even though he’d assured her the Order had only her best interest at heart, Sophie simply didn’t know. Her father was dead. What was the Order doing about that? And the murder of Alfie Stanford? If they did want her safe, why hadn’t they simply told her, rather than sending Alex Grossman—no, Shepherd—to kidnap her?

Alex was driving a Vauxhall that waited for them in the airport’s short-term car park. Driving in downtown London was craziness, but he expertly maneuvered in and out of traffic until they hit the M40 and it became less populated, the city streets giving way to green fields.

Near High Wycombe, he pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park. He looked at her.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I’m going to give you a choice.”

“About what?”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a syringe.

“Oh, no, don’t you even think about it, Alex whatever your name is. You try to stick me with another needle, it will be the last move you make.”

He reached into the bag he had in the backseat and pulled out a length of black fabric. “This is your choice, the needle or a hood.”

“A hood? Like terrorists use on people they’re going to behead? Are you nuts?” She yanked at the car handle, only to find it locked. By him. To keep her a prisoner. She didn’t look at him, she was too angry.

“Either I can knock you out again or you can put the hood over your head. One or the other. No other choices.”

She didn’t know much about guns, but she wished she had one right now. She held out her hand for the black hood. “And you expect me to trust you? Why should I believe you won’t kill me when you find Adam?”

He crossed his hands over his heart. “I swear to you, Sophie, I would never hurt you. You may not believe me, but I promise I’ll keep you safe, or die trying. Now, would you please put the hood over your head so we can get this over with?”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe.”

She searched his eyes, but he said nothing more. “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes, tops. And please lie down in the backseat. Wouldn’t do to have people staring as I drive past with a hooded woman in my front seat.”

He grinned and she wanted to punch him. No choice. She climbed into the back and lay down. She pulled the hood over her head. Utter and complete black. She hated it. “Fine. Go.”

“Don’t even consider peeking. If you fiddle with the hood, I’ll have to stick you with the needle.”

He pulled back onto the road.

Sophie hated this, hated the darkness, the suffocating feeling of the thick black material. She couldn’t breathe properly, started to raise the bottom edge so she could get a bit of air.

“Sophie, don’t.”

Of course he was watching. “I can’t breathe.”

“Not long now.”

Sophie had a general idea where they were. Now she had to concentrate on which direction the car moved, the turns, anything.

She counted in her head, left, left again, then a tight turn right, straight. She guessed they’d entered some sort of drive. Nearly there. Her heart was thudding. She was afraid, very afraid.

“Can I take the hood off?”

“You’ll have to keep it on until you’re in your room. You must be starved. I’ll make sure you’re given food and drink. Please, Sophie, don’t worry, we only want to keep you safe. I’ll be nearby.”

The car stopped and Alex helped her out. She could make out no light, nothing. She began to feel claustrophobic. He heard her breathing quicken. “Relax. Not long now. Here’s the steps.”

She stumbled once, but he steadied her. She listened, but heard nothing to give her a clue where they were.

Up three flights of stairs, he walked her down a long hallway, then stopped. “This is your room. One second more.”

She heard him open the door. Once they were inside, he pulled the hood off. He actually ran his fingers through her hair before she jerked away.

He stood by the door and watched her look about the room. Dark walnut canopied bed, yellow-and-white striped wallpaper. It was beautifully appointed. She turned back to him. “What happens now?”

“I’ll be back soon.”

She grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare leave me here, you bastard.”

He pulled away her hand, squeezed it. “Sophie, you’ll be fine. Try to relax. I’m going to send someone up with food and tea.”

When the door closed behind him, she heard the sound of a key turning.

She wasn’t meant to be kept safe. She was a prisoner, pure and simple. He’d locked her in. He’d lied. She shouldn’t have pulled the hood over her head, she should have forced him to try to stick that needle in her, and she’d have fought him, maybe hurt him badly. But no, she’d trusted him, taken the easy way.

She felt numb as she walked to the window. She had to keep it together, she had to stay calm and think.

She was on an estate, and clearly the house was big. She looked out over a large expanse of gardens. She saw a fence running away from her, and a very long tree-lined graveled driveway. All she knew was she was north of London, in the country, locked in some rich person’s house.

No phone, no computer, and no way to get out. The windows were locked. Even if she broke a window and shouted, who would hear her? She saw no one outside, not a single gardener to maintain those beautiful gardens.

She was studying the ledge outside the window when someone knocked on the door. She heard the key turn, and the door opened. She ran into a young girl bringing in a tray. The tray went flying, scones and jam hit the carpet and the hot tea splattered both of them and the girl yelled, then ran.

A chance. Sophie burst into the hallway. Not six feet away stood a large man. He wasted no time and was on her in an instant. “Get back in there, stupid bitch.” He grabbed her arm and pushed her back into the room. She stumbled against a wall as he slammed the door, locked it.

He was armed, she’d seen the large gun at his belt. An armed guard, in the middle of nowhere.

If Alex Shepherd had walked into the room at that moment, she would have tried to tear his throat out with her teeth.

She was a prisoner, but Alex wasn’t. Even as she prayed, she knew this was not going to end well.