Текст книги "The Lost Key"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

61

West Park

Oxford

3:45 p.m.

She had to get out of this room, out of the house, back to London, to find Adam. She looked toward the fireplace, looked again, and knew what to do.

She picked up a poker, two and a half feet of solid, tempered iron, and hefted it in her hands. She went to the door, took a deep breath, and screamed.

“Help me! I’m sick, help me! Something’s wrong with me. I’m going to vomit. Please, you have to let me use the bathroom.”

The guard was still out there. Good. He yelled, “Shut up.”

“Please. I’m so sick. Something’s wrong. You don’t want to get in trouble for—ooh!” She started making gagging noises.

She heard the guard curse, then the jangle of keys.

As he opened the door, she shoved hard against it, knocking him off balance, and struck him in the chest with the poker as hard as she could. She slammed the poker into the top of his head.

He was out cold. She hit him again for good measure, then ran down the long, wide hall, nearly dark because all the doors on either side were closed. She was almost to the stairs when she heard voices from below. Someone must have heard her yelling about being sick, or they’d heard the guard. No time. She ducked into the nearest room, pulled the door closed behind her, and threw the bolt.

She was in a private study, oak floor covered with antique carpets, bookshelves climbed the walls, dark as the paneling. A computer on a large mahogany desk, and a phone.

She grabbed up the phone and started to dial Adam’s cell. No, better, the FBI agent, Nicholas Drummond. It didn’t matter that she’d lied to him, and he’d known it, that he’d taken her father’s SD card and now knew about the Order. But what if he hadn’t come to England, what if—no, she knew he’d come. What was his number? She forced herself to calm, pictured the card he’d handed her with his cell number scrawled on the back. She let the image coalesce—as she did when learning a new language—and the letters and numbers took shape, rearranged themselves into patterns—and there it was. She dialed. Please, please, know where I am, please be able to find me.

“Hullo?”

“Agent Drummond? It’s Sophie Pearce. You have to help me. Please tell me you’re in England.”

“Sophie? Yes, we’re here. Are you okay? Where are you? We’ve been looking for you.”

“I don’t know. North of London, but Alex made me pull a hood over my head near Weymouth. I think it was about fifteen minutes later when we stopped. There was a long gravel drive and the house I’m in is big, and there are gardens and acres and acres of land. I’m on the third floor. Oh, no, I hear people coming.”

“Don’t panic. You must stay on the phone, keep talking to me. We’ll triangulate the call.” He spoke to someone out of her hearing, then came back. “Do you know who ordered you kidnapped?”

“It had to be the Order, to protect me, Alex said, but I don’t think it’s true. Have you found Adam? Is he okay? Do you know about the sub?”

“We’re looking for Adam right now and, yes, I know about the sub.”

“They want to find out where the sub is, and Adam’s the only one who knows. Unless you managed to decode the SD card?”

Drummond said, “Yes, I did and I know exactly where the sub is. Describe the gardens for me, tell me about the grounds of the estate. Maybe you’ll see something helpful.”

She left the phone and ran to the window. The view was slightly different here, she could see more of the house, more of the land. She was back on in an instant. “It seems like it’s in the middle of nowhere. The long driveway, there are trees on either side in two perfect rows. I’m facing west, there seems to be some sort of big turret to my right, and the house is sand-colored stone.”

“Well done. Where’s Alex?”

“I don’t know. His name isn’t Grossman, it’s Shepherd.”

“We know. He’s MI Five.”

“No, that can’t be right. He was working undercover to protect my father, that’s what he told me, but now I don’t know. MI Five?”

“He does both. However, he hasn’t acted like a man with your best interests at heart, has he?”

“He spent the whole plane ride telling me the Order was going to protect me, but then he brought me here, locked me in a room and put a guard on the door. I managed to trick the guard into opening the door and I bashed him with a poker.” She heard footsteps outside the study door. “They’re here—please, find me soon!”

“Keep the line open.”

She heard his words even as she looked around the study. No place to hide. She watched the deadbolt slide back.

The door opened, and a tall, lean, middle-aged man in a beautiful gray suit stepped in. He was handsome, objectively, but when he smiled at her, she felt fear slam into her.

“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.

Not terribly hard, he didn’t want her to think this was the worst it could possibly be, not yet.

The whip whistled through the air and landed against her back. She jerked, her breath heaved out, and she grit her teeth.

He did it again.

“Your father told the Order he’d found the sub. I’ve been waiting for this to happen, you see. I’d been watching him, watching the communications between your father and your brother. I’ve been waiting for so long, so many years, so much planning.”

He struck her, but she made no sound.

“Yes, I had to identify exactly who would help me, how I could get into the Order.”

He struck again, harder, and then again. She was crying behind the gag, low, retching sobs.

“Your father wasn’t supposed to die. It was incompetent bungling and I regret it. He had so much knowledge, and it was a true waste, losing him.” He hit her twice more, once from each direction. “Ah, Elise, the stripes are rising, a lovely red, and there is bruising beginning over the ribs.” He leaned forward and jerked the gag from her mouth and struck her again.

She yelled. It was delicious, too delicious. He had to keep himself focused, couldn’t allow himself to enjoy this the way he’d prefer. Pay attention, pay attention. “Perhaps you’re an exceptional liar, sweetheart, perhaps you don’t know the coordinates after all?”

He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. “Tell me, come on now, tell me.”

“I don’t know the damned coordinates!”

He paused. “Yes, I believe you. So now you must tell your brother to give März the coordinates, or we’re going to move on to the real show. You believe I’ve already hurt you? You have no idea what I can do.”

He held the phone to her lips. “Tell him.”

She was breathing hard, pain choking her. Her back was on fire. She met his eyes and slowly she nodded. He put the cell phone to her mouth and Sophie yelled, “Don’t tell him anything, Adam!”

Havelock shook his head at her like a mournful parent. “That was a mistake, my dear.”

He set the phone next to her head, selected the smaller of the three whips he had with him, the leather one studded with small iron rivets. He knew from personal experience the pain was extraordinary, when applied correctly.

The first blow brought round welts out on her skin. The second drew blood. And she screamed and screamed for him. He paused, breathing hard, and picked up the cell phone.

“Do you hear that, Adam? She’s bleeding now. I’ll move on to other, more persuasive methods if you do not tell me the coordinates immediately.”

He heard sounds of a struggle, März’s curses, then Adam Pearce’s furious voice spoke in his ear. “I’ll tell you, you sadistic bastard. Don’t touch her again, swear to me you’ll let her go.”

Havelock slowly slid the whip down Sophie’s spine, smiled. “Of course I swear. Where is the sub? I want to hear the coordinates myself.”

Adam choked out a series of numbers, latitude and longitude.

A moment later März got on the phone.

“We’ve confirmed the coordinates. Right where you believed it was, northern Scotland, in Loch Eriboll.”

“Excellent,” Havelock replied. “Send the coordinates to my cell phone, and move the Gravitania into position. I will be there shortly.”

Havelock slipped his cell into his pocket as he looked dispassionately at Sophie Pearce’s back, spun the chair around to see the tears streaming down her face. He’d done a nice job, he doubted Elise could do any better. He struck palm open across her face for good measure, then kissed her softly on the forehead and untied her wrists. “Come along. We have a quick trip to make.”

He grabbed her hair and dragged her out of the study and into the hallway, Elise behind him, no expression on her face.

Alex Shepherd came running toward him, saw Sophie, and stopped cold. “You’re not taking her anywhere. You and Weston promised she would be okay, that she would be safe here.”

“Move out of my way, Shepherd.”

But Alex didn’t move. He drew a gun, but Havelock was quicker. He already had a gun in his hand and shot him in the chest. He dragged Sophie over his body, and half dragged her down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs stood the guard who’d allowed Sophie to escape. He was holding his head. He looked up, an excuse halfway out his mouth when Havelock shot him in the forehead.

Edward Weston came through the front door at that moment, looked at the dead guard, at Sophie Pearce. He asked calmly, “Do we have what we need?”

Havelock shoved Sophie at him. “Get her in the plane. Let’s go.”

“Where’s Shepherd?”

“Dead.”

Weston threw out his hands. “What? Why? We need him.”

“No, what we need is the key, and now I know exactly where it is. Now, let’s go.” He signaled to Elise, who looked through Weston and followed Havelock out the front door.

“No, he’s not dead,” Weston said.

Havelock turned to see Alex Shepherd coming slowly down the stairs, his gun locked on Havelock. He raised a brow. “My, my. Still alive, are we? Wearing that armor I had made for you? I suppose I should have shot you in the head. No matter, you can bring her.” He pointed the gun at Sophie’s temple. “Let’s go.”

63

Notting Hill

4:00 p.m.

Penderley said, “The tech lads are saying the phone has some sort of scrambled signal, bouncing off relays throughout the country. The call may not have originated in Oxford after all, but we’ll be optimistic. We’ll find her.” Nicholas only hoped they’d find her in time.

They parked a block away from Leyland’s house so they wouldn’t alert Adam Pearce or Oliver Leyland, if he was there. The windows of Leyland’s white stucco town house were dark, the four-story mansion silent in the cool spring air.

Dark low-hanging clouds were piling in. The wind had kicked up, swirling through the town houses on Lansdowne Crescent and the green communal gardens of Notting Hill. Rain was coming soon. Mike shoved her hair out of her face. “It looks like we’re about to have nasty weather.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” he said. “It’s good to be home.” He saw himself at Old Farrow Hall, running through the labyrinth hedges toward the center even as the rain battered down. What was he, twelve years old?

Penderley said, “My team are set up outside the perimeter.”

Nicholas said, “And you promised to keep them there, sir. It’s only the three of us. Gareth? You ready? I don’t want to make Adam think I lied to him.”

Gareth Scott walked up, patted his chest, bulky with body armor. “Ready as I’ll ever be, let’s get it done, mate.”

They moved silently toward the house, Nicholas and Mike, weapons at their sides, following Gareth. They skirted the black-fenced front steps and forest green front door and moved to the side of the house to another entrance.

The side door was slightly ajar. There were clear rake marks on the lock. It had been forced.

Gareth gave Penderley a running commentary through their radios as they entered the house from the side entrance. They were on the lowest floor. There were a dozen windows, and despite the dark clouds overhead, light spilled into the hallways and rooms, making it easy to see. They split three ways, clearing the ground floor quickly. No signs of a struggle, no signs of Adam or Oliver Leyland. No signs of anything.

Nicholas didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all.

They met in the grand foyer under a centuries-old crystal chandelier and began up the massive wooden staircase.

They found Leyland’s body on the first-floor landing, his head leaning against the panels. His legs were bent backward, his arms dislocated, making him seem a crumpled marionette, his strings cut and dropped straight down from the landing above.

Mike swallowed. “Is this Leyland?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Somebody pushed him over.”

Gareth fell to his knees beside Leyland. He looked up. “Sir, do you read me? Leyland is down. Repeat, Leyland is down. He was hurt badly, sir, before he died. We’re moving to the second floor. Do not send anyone else in here until we’ve cleared the place.”

Gareth skirted Leyland’s body, signaling to Nicholas he was going to move to their left. Nicholas nodded, taking the low side right. Mike was in front of him going straight.

The gunshot came out of nowhere, suppressed, like a pop, but they knew what it was.

64

Nicholas only had time to see Gareth fall before he was tackled from behind. He went down hard on his knees. Mike whirled around, right into the waiting arms of a big bruiser nearly twice her size, hard with muscle, strong as Rocky.

Nicholas shouted to her, but she couldn’t move. Rocky’s arms were tightening more and more, he was going to crush her ribs if she didn’t break loose. Gareth was down, Nicholas was under attack—she had only herself.

Rocky let up a bit, banged her hand against her leg, and she let the Glock go. She pulled an old trick—let herself go limp. It surprised him enough to give her time to force her shoulder under his forearm and twist hard to the right, and despite his weight advantage, she sent him over her shoulder to sprawl on his back on a thick Berber runner. The carpet cushioned his landing and he was back on his feet, a surprising shock for such a big man, and he was coming at her again, fists up, protecting his face.

He kicked her leg out from under her and she went down on her knees. His hands went around her throat, his fingers bent inward to gouge her eyes. She jerked and heaved so he couldn’t get to her eyes, twisted onto her back and kicked him hard in the gut. He windmilled backward, then started cursing her. She kicked him in the kneecap, but it wasn’t enough, so she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. She realized in one part of her brain that she was out of control. She wanted to kill him, she wanted to obliterate him.

He was strong, fast for his size, and despite the blow to his groin, he was up and dancing toward her again. Bring it on, Rocky, bring it on. No way was she going to let him beat her. She blocked the next punch to her face, saw her chance. She slid her thigh in between Rocky’s legs, and crashed her left leg down hard, at the perfect angle. He went down with a howl, and she stomped on him again, in the exact same spot, and was rewarded with the fine crunch of bone. She’d blown out his knee.

Mike flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed him. He was yelling, cursing, so she hit him hard in the back of the head with her fist, knocking him out. At last he shut up.

She took a huge breath, felt all the bruises along her ribs, but she was okay, she’d won. She sent a prayer of thanks to her FBI hand-to-hand combat coach, press-checked her Glock, and yelled, “Nicholas!”

She found Gareth first. He’d taken a shot to the neck not an inch above the top of his body armor and was bleeding, but it wasn’t too bad, not an artery, thankfully, a through and through. She ripped his sleeve off and pressed it to his neck. He groaned and his eyes opened.

Of all things, he smiled up at her. “Alive, am I?”

She laid her palm along his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Hold this.” She pressed the shirt sleeve to his neck, guided his hand to it. “Help’s on the way.”

“No, it isn’t. They cut our comms. I called to Penderley, but no one’s come in after us. Where’s Nicholas?”

“I’m going to go find him now.”

But first, she tested her comms unit. Gareth was right, no communication. Disruption technologies were one of the FBI’s greatest fears, from knocking out comms to taking down planes and setting off EMPs, Havelock had clearly figured out how to make it happen.

She had to find Nicholas, but first she had to let the Brits outside know they were in trouble. She couldn’t shout, she didn’t know how many bad guys were in the house.

She fired her Glock through a big glass window that gave onto a garden, straight down into the dirt. It was loud, a blast in the quiet. The shot that had gotten Gareth in the neck was suppressed. Hers wasn’t. That should bring them running. She tore off a sleeve of her shirt and attached it to the window as a signal.

“Go find Nicholas, Mike. I’m okay.” Gareth pulled out a knife, thin, deadly sharp.

She listened hard as she ran quietly toward the stairs to the upper level. She heard nothing.

Her ribs were on fire, but she paid no attention. She had to find Nicholas.

She saw a trail of fresh blood drops on the stairs, teardrop shaped, the fat end of the blood drops closer to her. Since the velocity pattern was moving away from her, she knew whoever was bleeding had gone up the stairs instead of coming down.