The Lost Key (9 page)

N
icholas and Mike waited for Sophie and Kevin Brown to disappear into the office, safe, out of harm's way, then Mike grabbed the walkie from Nicholas and moved to the right, to the nearest stack, so she'd be hidden from sight. Nicholas melted into the first stack on the left, and together they waited to see if the man came through the door. Mike clicked the button on the walkie so they could hear everything being said outside, but turned the volume down so the intruder couldn't hear anything at the store's door.

Nicholas listened to the surveillance team intently until they suddenly went silent. He nodded to Mike, who whispered, “What's he doing, what's he doing?” into the walkie.

Nicholas recognized Special Agent Ben Houston's voice. “He stopped two doors down. We've got a loose box around him so he won't get away. He's watching the street, probably looking for us. Hang in there, let's see what he does. Okay, he's moving now, coming toward the door. Bald, about six feet, wearing jeans and a Windbreaker. Young, rangy guy, looks buff, real strong.”

Nicholas said to Mike, “I'm half tempted to let him come in, see who he is and what he's after.”

She duckwalked to his position. “Too chancy. He could come in guns a-blazing.”

Ben's voice came through the walkie. “He means business, people, he's being deliberate now, not looking around or watching for a tail. Okay, here he is, at the door. You should be able to see him now. He has something in his left hand, I see metal, might be a weapon—”

Nicholas grabbed the walkie from Mike's hand, said, “Take him. Take him now.”

Nicholas and Mike stepped out into plain view, weapons raised, and watched the surveillance team converge on the suspect. They saw his head was shaved and he wore a black goatee. He took one look in the glass door, met Nicholas's eyes, saw the weapons pointed at him, and threw his arms up in the air.

“Don't shoot, don't shoot!”

Ben appeared behind him, shouting, “FBI, FBI. Put your hands on your head, get down on your knees. Do it, do it now!”

The man went down on his knees, no hesitation. Ben wrenched his arms back behind him and cuffed him as Mike opened the shop door.

She stood over him, hands on her hips. “FBI. Who are you?”

The man looked confused. “Whoa, whoa! FBI? What's going on here? What in the world is happening?”

Mike slipped her Glock back into its clip at her waist. Nicholas very nearly smiled. She looked as tough without the Glock in her hand.

Nicholas stepped forward. “Tell us your name.”

“I'm Alex Grossman. I have a lunch meeting with Jonathan. He's got a book I ordered; he called me last night. My phone's in my pocket, you can check.”

“What else? Maybe some needles, a weapon?”

“No, man. Only my keys, my wallet, and my phone. What do I look like, a terrorist?”

Mike said, “That isn't funny, sir. Not at all.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm a little freaked out here, okay? Can I put my hands down?”

Nicholas frisked him quickly and retrieved Grossman's wallet, phone, and keys.

He said, “Where were you this morning, Mr. Grossman?”

“Asleep. I own the Bullet Pub. It's also a restaurant. We had a private event last night, the group stayed way later than planned. I didn't get home until after three a.m. I caught some sleep, then headed over here to meet Jonathan. Please, tell me what's going on.”

Nicholas nodded at Mike, flashed the small cell phone. “Pearce called him last night at eight-thirty p.m.”

Mike nodded. “Tell me what Mr. Pearce said, exactly, Mr. Grossman.”

“That the book had come in. That's all. He always called when an order arrived. We chatted a bit, caught up. It's his personal touch, why everyone likes doing business with him. What's happening?”

“Mr. Pearce was murdered this morning,” Mike said, then nodded at Ben to unlock the cuffs.

“Jonathan's dead?” Grossman sounded blank-voiced with shock. “But how? Why? I mean, it doesn't make any sense.” Then he became very still, going inward, Mike thought, accepting his friend's death as fact. He whispered low, “God rest his soul. Jonathan's a great guy. Please, tell me you know who did it.”

Mike ignored his questions, leaned against the counter, crossed her arms. “How well did you know Mr. Pearce, Mr. Grossman?”

“Well enough. This can't be happening. I don't feel well, can I sit down for a minute?”

Nicholas heard the back door open. Sophie stuck her face out, pale, scared. He waved for her to come to the front.

Nicholas said, “This man says he's here to pick up a book. Do you know him?”

Sophie let out a big breath. “Oh, yes, I know him. He's a very good customer. Alex, Mr. Grossman, how are you?”

Grossman looked at her pale face and pulled her against him. “I am so sorry, honey, I'm so sorry. What can I do?”

She gulped down tears. “Nothing, at the moment. Did you have an order in?”

“Yes. Your father called me last night.” He glanced over at the register. “That's it right there—the Tiffany blue cover. Auden's
Poems.
Inscribed by Dick Grossman on the half-title.”

Mike saw Sophie was frowning at Grossman, upset that he'd spoken to her father. But she said, “Agent Drummond, may I? It's already been paid for.”

“I'm sorry, he'll have to come back another time.”

Sophie glanced at Grossman, then back at Nicholas. She stood straight, in good control of herself. “Agents, please. I'm going to have to close the store for the time being, until I can get caught up on everything. There's no reason to hijack Mr. Grossman's book. It's already paid for. Please, my father wouldn't want his store or his customers to suffer because of him.” Her voice stayed strong and steady, and Nicholas gave in.

“Fine, but we need to get moving, so be quick about it.”

Sophie packaged up the small book, wrapping it in several layers of brown paper and twine, as if it were glass and easily breakable. Nicholas had to resist telling her to hurry up, but again he had the
feeling she knew more, and now she was using the time to get herself calmed and in control. He could be wrong, but he thought something about Grossman, about the phone call, had upset her. If so, why? They'd take a closer look at Alex Grossman. As Sophie wrapped the book, Grossman gave his information to Mike. If he owned a nearby business, he wouldn't be hard to track down.

Finally, Sophie handed the wrapped book to Grossman. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I'm really sorry, Sophie. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call. I'm sure you won't be interested in cooking for a while; stop by the pub, I'll feed you. It's the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grossman. I—thank you.”

She turned away from him. Grossman watched her for a moment, then nodded to the agents and went out the door, the bell tinkling behind him.

Mike asked, “Out of curiosity, how much was that book worth?”

Sophie glanced at the small sales slip her father had tucked into the register the night before. “Forty-eight hundred dollars.”

Nicholas walked to the back of the store, opened the door to the office, and shouted down the stairs, “Mr. Brown? You can come up now.”

Nothing. Sophie was busying herself with the register. Nicholas called out, “Sophie, where is Mr. Brown?”

Sophie cocked her head to one side. “Oh, he had to go, he had a lunch meeting, like he said. I let him out the back.”

Nicholas stalked back up the aisle toward her, clearly pissed. “You shouldn't have done that. We weren't finished talking to him.”

Sophie's chin rose. “Kevin's not a threat, nor did he have anything to do with my father's death. He's a kid, nice enough, but not old enough to get it together, you know?”

Mike said, “We don't know he didn't have something to do with your father's death, Sophie. It was odd, Brown suddenly in the store the same day your father's been killed. Give us all his information. We'll have to find him, check him out.”

“I don't have it. It's probably on my dad's computer, but all his files are password protected.” She glanced at her watch. “I want to see my father. Where is he?”

Mike said, “I'll make arrangements so you can see him. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I've got to go. Dad's funeral arrangements—all his friends, I don't know, there's so much—when will I be able to bury him?”

“Probably a few more days. I'm sorry, Sophie, but I can't give you an exact day yet.”

She was crying again, and Mike drew a deep breath and let her go.

Nicholas narrowed his eyes after her. “She was lying through her teeth. Oh, her grief for her father was real enough, but Kevin Brown? She simply let him go? And the identity of EP?”

Mike was shaking her head. “I don't understand her. Why wouldn't she tell us everything she could to help us find out why her father was killed?”

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

“You saw that, too, did you?”

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.”

“I believe you're right, Alex, but we won't know anything until the inquest. Scotland Yard is conducting an investigation, as well as the Security Service. We're coming at this from all angles. Now
you understand why I need you to come to London right away. Forget the SD card. There's no way you can get it. Right away, Alex, tonight.”

Pearce dead, Stanford dead. And—“Sir, Wolfgang Havelock died not above a month ago as well. I know he had a stroke, but with three members of the Order dead in such a short period of time—”

“Exactly, Alex, exactly. You're absolutely correct, it seems the Order
is
under attack. The information stolen from Stanford's safe can cripple us all. We are convening an emergency meeting of the Order, and I want you here.”

“Yes, sir, of course. My cover will be blown, but it hardly seems to matter now.”

“Good. I'll share some news with you, Alex, because I know I can trust you, and you're going to know it soon enough, anyway. I know that Pearce was in direct contact with Alfie Stanford last night. As for the message you passed to me last night from Jonathan, it was indeed good news—the very best news, actually—Adam located the submarine at last. We don't have the exact coordinates as yet, but we will soon. Once we get to the sub, we'll retrieve Marie's key and her book and be able to find the weapon, and the kaiser's gold, if that isn't a myth.”

“Do you think it's possible English spies really did manage to steal the kaiser's private treasure?”

“Probably no, but we'll see. I don't intend to let anyone get in the way. Now, I'm not sure who to trust right now, Alex, so you must be careful.”

“The pub—”

“That is why you have a partner. Call him, tell him your mother is ill and you must return to—where does your current legend say you're from?”

“Chicago. Lincoln Park, a few blocks from the zoo.” He said the words automatically, the information so ingrained in his being he could recite it in his sleep, with a knife pointed at his throat.

“Right. Tell him you must return to Chicago immediately. We'll take care of the rest and send a plane for you. It will be waiting for you at Teterboro. And Alex? About Drummond having the other SD card. I believe you're right. Drummond used to be with the Foreign Office, and he was Met Police for a stretch, before moving to America to join the FBI. We detected a breach on Pearce's computer this morning. I think this Drummond character may have made a mirror of the files. If he has, certainly it's very likely he found the SD card during a search of Jonathan's apartment.

“If that is the case, we must simply forget about getting it back. Drummond has already turned the SD card in. I'm sorry the American FBI have it, but there's nothing to be done about it now. So what I want you to do is bring Sophie Pearce with you. She's in danger, and until we understand what's going on here, who else is also after the sub and the key, she must be protected.”

Alex looked out the window, watched the pigeons alight on the sill, cooing and preening. Oh, bugger it all, how was he going to get Sophie to come willingly with him? She wouldn't, no way, it wouldn't matter what he said. “What about Adam?”

“Do not worry about him. I have others looking for him.”

“Very well, sir. May I ask who is taking over the Order now that Mr. Stanford is dead?”

There was a slight pause, then a hitch in Edward Weston's throat, which he quickly cleared away.

“I am.”