He fingered one of the scars on his arm through the heavy fabric of his bespoke blue oxford. His mother’s voice rang in his ears, the waking nightmare he returned to every time failure was possible. Her stark, never-changing litany bit deeper than the belt, even after her cherished death.
You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You will never lead men. You are a sniveling child. And now you will be punished.
He tossed back the scotch and poured another, raised the glass toward the sky. “A child, Mother? I was strong enough to take your life from you. I do hope you are rotting in hell.”
You are worthless.
Did he hear her words again? Was her ghost mocking him still? Havelock hurled the glass across the room, watched it shatter against the marble floor. He felt better now, more in control.
He smoothed down his black hair, gone gray at the temples in a most distinguished manner, shot his cuffs, straightened his collar. At least Mr. Z had succeeded in eliminating Stanford, and now confusion and mayhem were under way in London. At least one part of his day had gone according to plan.
But Mr. X had failed, and how could that have happened? Havelock had designed the perfect plan, and it had been, until the fool had died with Havelock’s implant in his head. All of them knew the chip would be found in autopsy, knew the Americans would figure out what it was, and then they would come. It forced his hand. He would have to move faster than he’d planned.
He needed the Messenger’s son, he needed Adam Pearce, and he needed him now.
Havelock sat back in his chair and uploaded all the video from Mr. X’s brief New York sojourn. He tapped a few keys on the flat dynamic keyboard embedded in the wood, then placed a small metal neuro-cap on his head, snapping the edges down tight so it would have perfect contact with his skin. He waited for the neural pathways to link.
Ten seconds later, he was viewing video footage from Mr. X’s last twenty-four hours. He saw the world through Mr. X’s eyes, heard the voices Mr. X heard, all of it uploaded to Havelock’s servers.
Havelock was working on a way to merge two sets of brain waves, so he could actually link into his assets’ thoughts and tell them what to do from afar, almost like calling on a mobile phone, but with his mind. He hadn’t perfected the technology yet, nor did he know how to solve the one huge obstacle: those test subjects who heard a second voice inside their heads—his voice—had gone irrevocably insane.
So he looked and he listened, wanting more, but content to know that soon he would be able to enhance his micro–nuclear weapons, his MNWs, and set them in place, ready to deploy at whatever target he selected. Or whatever enemy. They’d never know what hit them. All he needed were the coordinates of the lost sub and the key, and for that he needed Adam Pearce.
He fast-forwarded through the footage: arriving at JFK, the ride to the ferry terminal, to the moment Mr. X slipped unseen into the Messenger’s apartment. Mr. X had done a thorough search, carefully opened all the cabinets, the closets, the wall safe behind the Modigliani painting in the office so no one would know he’d even been there. Many locks. But no SD card.
He watched Mr. X insert a thumb drive into the iMac on Pearce’s desk, quickly break through the encryption, do a hard download of all the files. A pity he wouldn’t be able to get the thumb drive, since it was now in the hands of the FBI. But it didn’t matter. He doubted there was anything more than correspondence and records of sales of rare books to clients. No great loss. He continued to let Mr. X’s images wash over him, all the way until the end, when that bastard Drummond had taken him down. He saw Drummond’s elbow hit Mr. X’s jaw, bursting the gel pack, killing him. A fluke, but it was good to know that could happen. He’d have to find a better solution, a better placement. He couldn’t have his assets dying at the hands of the enemy by accident. Inside a tooth would be better, the molars would protect the gel, less chance of splitting the gel pack open. But the tongue—
Havelock unhooked himself from the neuro-cap and lifted it off his head.
Mr. X had proved to be a disappointment. He hadn’t found the SD card, hadn’t gotten his hands on Pearce’s son, Adam, had all but handed the American FBI his magnificent implanted chip on a platter.
He pressed a key and the screen disappeared. He stood and walked to the window, where the light was rapidly dying. He loved the night, the possibilities the cover of darkness brought. He loved to watch the lesser beasts wander through their lives, unknowing, unseeing. He had faith, and sometimes that was all he needed. Soon he would have his perfect weapon, and they would all know his name.
What would the world see when they bowed down before him? The powerful genius, the unparalleled inventor, the man who, very soon, would control the lives of millions with a single drop of fluid? I am a leader of men, Mother, I am good enough, smart enough. And you, dear Mother, are dead.
12
United Nations Plaza
11:00 a.m.
Sophie Pearce accepted Ambassador Xi-Tien’s thanks for her work this morning, and nodded in agreement about their dinner date later this evening. She didn’t cup her hands and bow deeply in the formal Chinese farewell, since the ambassador was a modern man. She shook his hand, saying, “Zai jian,” and waited, not moving, until he turned and walked away with the delegation, then she relaxed with a deep breath. Her services as a translator wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the afternoon. She’d have lunch, then run over to her dad’s place to pick up the rare first-edition Mark Twain she’d promised the ambassador. Her father had pulled the book from his private collection for her. He was amazing, he could always find exactly what people wanted, like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. And at $8,000 for this single gem, her father could afford a lot of hats.
She knew it wasn’t a first/first—that would have set the ambassador back at least thirty grand. She liked that he was happy with the second printing; it made her respect him. Xi-Tien wasn’t flashy like many of the others she’d worked with in her five years at the UN. He was kind and subtle and, even better, had already wired the funds to Ariston’s private bank account.
Sophie hurried down the stairs past security, pulling her badge over her head and stuffing it in her pocket. Her heels clacked on the marble steps, then she was on the street, headed up to Lexington, then over to Fifty-seventh. It was a gorgeous day and everything and everyone seemed cheerful. The oppressive heat of the past few summers hadn’t begun to swallow New York whole yet.
Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window of a leather boutique, her dark hair pulled up into a ballerina bun at the top of her head, long legs, strong, moving fast. She was in the best shape of her life after all the yoga and running and kickboxing she’d done over the winter. She wasn’t terribly vain, but she looked good, no matter all the long hours of sitting in her small glass booth at the UN, listening, speaking, and repeating endlessly. She’d firmed up, lost weight, and jettisoned a husband along the way, too, the jerk.
She was happier now, helping her dad out on weekends when she could. Life was good. She’d find the right guy, someday.
She wasn’t even out of breath when she arrived at her dad’s building. She’d grown up here, in the Galleria, with the stunning views of Manhattan and white-glove treatment. She’d insisted on getting her own place when she graduated, knowing if she didn’t move out, she’d suffocate under a stack of musty old books. Her dad wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t stop her. Her trust fund was healthy and she could afford to move out, unlike many of her friends.
She wasn’t too far from home, though, less than a dozen blocks, down in Turtle Bay. She made sure she saw her dad at least once a week. She usually caught him at the store, since he seemed to live there these days. She felt a brief stab of guilt. Since her mom died, and her brother moved out west for school, it had been only the two of them, and she’d been so busy lately, she’d missed some of their normal dates.
/> No more, she promised herself. Once a week wasn’t enough, not anymore. Divorcing the jerk had taught her a hard lesson about betrayal and loss, the importance of keeping those who really loved you close.
Gillis opened the doors for her, merely bowing, saying nothing—unusual, because he was normally chatty. She didn’t realize something was wrong until Umberto rushed over to her, tears sheening his dark eyes.
“Miss Sophia, I am so sorry, so very sorry about your father, we—”
Sophie went still. “What happened? Was there an accident? Did he fall? Umberto, is he okay?”
Umberto was shaking his head. “I’m so very sorry, your father, he’s dead, Miss Sophia. The FBI is upstairs. They didn’t call you? Forgive me, but I do not have the details.”
She ran to the elevator, ignoring everything else in a mindless chant of No, no, please, no.
The elevator doors slid open, and she slammed down on the button once, twice. She knew it took exactly twenty-two seconds without stops to reach the twenty-third floor—a sign, her father always said, that this was truly their home. Twenty-three was the family’s lucky number. For twenty-two long seconds, she didn’t breathe, stood deathly still, counting.
She raced down the long hallway to the front door. It was unlocked. She burst in, saw a man and a woman, both with guns clipped to their waists, speaking in front of the picture windows. She watched their hands go to their guns as they whirled around to face her.
“What happened to my father?” She knew she screamed the words. She was getting hysterical and took a deep breath and tried again, more calmly this time: “Please, tell me what happened to my father.”
The man spoke first. He was British, not an American. “I’m Special Agent Nicholas Drummond, with the FBI. This is Special Agent Michaela Caine. You’re Mr. Pearce’s daughter, aren’t you?”
She was shaking, couldn’t help it, and grabbed the back of a chair. “Yes, I’m—I’m Sophia Pearce. Where is my father? What’s happened?” The internal No, no, no, no, no beat through her body in time with her heart, but she knew, deep down, she knew.
“I’m very sorry to tell you, but your father was killed on Wall Street this morning.” He’d spoken slowly, quietly. “We’ve been trying to track down his next of kin. I’m sorry. Please, come and sit down.”
She waved her hands, trying to ward off his words. “No, no, there’s got to be a mistake. It doesn’t make sense. My father had no reason to go to Wall Street. He’d have been at the store. How could anything kill him? What happened? Please.” She heard the hysteria rising in her voice again but couldn’t help it.
“Come.” Nicholas took her arm and sat her down on a large burgundy leather couch. He kneeled in front of her. Sophie realized vaguely that he was a big man, young, and she saw pity in his intense, dark eyes and knew this moment would be seared indelibly on her brain forever.
His voice remained low and calm. “We believe he was lured to Wall Street with a fake text message from someone named EP. But EP wasn’t there. Another man was waiting for him. They argued, then he stabbed your father. I’m so sorry.”
She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Hearing the words made it real, horribly real.
“Can you tell us who EP is?”
Something flashed in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. The room began to spin, the man on his knees in front of her, holding her hand, blurred, and then she didn’t see anything.
13
Nicholas kept his hand on Sophie Pearce’s pulse, still fast, but steady. It was a shock, he knew, it was always a horrible shock to have the death of a loved one come swiftly, violently. She’d closed down.
Mike appeared at his elbow with a glass of water. “When she comes out of it, we’ll give her some water. I doubt it will help, but it’s something.”
He set the glass of water on a side table and rose. “I think she knows who EP is. Try to get her to tell you when she gets herself back together. I need to get the ETA of the crime scene techs. I’ll be right back.”
“Nicholas, be sure to tell them someone else accessed the hard drive before you did. I’m betting Mr. Olympic was here and he did it.”
“I agree, but he didn’t find the SD card and I’ll bet it was the key to access the good stuff on Mr. Pearce’s computer. I’ll try to find the origins of all those files, see what they have to tell us.” He looked again at Sophia Pearce, moaning now, her eyes fluttering open.
He said abruptly, “I need time to sort everything. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Listen up, Nicholas. You don’t have to do everything alone. We’re all in this together, you and me and Zachery and Louisa and Ben, plus I’ve asked Gray Wharton to be attached to the investigation, you know how good he is. You’re now a part of a big team. No more carrying the world’s weight on your shoulders.”
Sophie Pearce opened her eyes. “I heard you talking about my father’s computer. What was on it?”
Mike handed her the water and watched her drink, then set the glass back on the table.
“Please, talk to me. Tell me what you’ve found. None of it makes sense to me.”
Mike said, “I know this is a shock, Miss Pearce. We’ll go slow, one step at a time. Now, when you say the store, you’re talking about his bookstore, Ariston’s?”
“That’s right.” She was getting a little color back, though she was still too pale. Mike helped her sit up, and introduced herself and Nicholas again, waving toward Nicholas, who was speaking on his cell in the entryway. “My father is an antiquarian, one of the best in the field. Ariston’s is renowned for rare books. He has a worldwide network.”
“So he’s very successful.”
“Oh, yes, he has a gift for this, always has. Agent Caine, I don’t understand, who would kill him? He didn’t have any enemies. Everyone loved him.”
Nicholas stepped back into the living room. “We don’t think it was premeditated, Ms. Pearce. You know as well as I do that enemies can be seen and unseen. As your father was a preeminent businessman in an esoteric field, he surely had rivals, people he upset when he bested them. My grandfather’s a bit of a collector; I know how cutthroat the auctions can get.”
Sophie nodded. “So you understand, then. It’s such a small field. He had rivals, certainly. But enemies? No. Not my dad. No way.” She sat straighter. “Now tell me again how he was killed. You said a man stabbed him?”
Rather than answer her, Nicholas asked her again, “Tell us who EP is.”
He was looking closely this time and he saw it again, a flash of knowledge in her pale eyes, then it was gone. She didn’t look at them, didn’t say anything, simply shook her head.
Mike said, “Your father was stabbed on the street after an argument with another man. As he died, your father said to the man who stabbed him, ‘The key is in the lock.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“The what?”
“The key is in the lock.”
“No, I don’t know.” Nicholas saw nothing in her eyes, no clue to give away that she knew what this meant.
“Could it have been a robbery?”
Nicholas said, “No, Miss Pearce—”
“Sophie, please.”
“Sophie. No, he wasn’t mugged. He had his phone and his wallet on him when he was found, and nothing appears to be missing.”
Quick as a whip, she faced them again. “You said you found something on my father’s computer. What was it?”
14
This was interesting. Nicholas gestured toward the office. “I’ll show you, and you can tell me what you think your father may have been involved in.”
He walked down the hall to the library, Sophie behind him. She hesitated for a moment at the door. He could have sworn she scanned the doorjamb. Why was that?
“Everything all right?” he asked.
She gave a s
hort jerk of her head.
“What do you do, Sophie?”
“I’m a translator at the UN. I specialize in Asian policy and economics,” she said, as she stepped into her father’s office. He watched her look around, swallow, then cross her arms over her chest, steeling herself. “Show me.”
Nicholas thought, Be careful now, no reason to give it all to her, since for whatever reason she’s not being straightforward with us. He leaned down and hit a couple keys and brought up the schematic of a satellite.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It looks like a satellite.”
“Correct. The problem is, this isn’t just any satellite. This is a high-tech LEO-synchronous spy satellite, one the military will be using. Not to mention it bolsters the NSA’s ability to listen in to pretty much any conversation it wants in the Northern Hemisphere.”
“Um, English, please, Agent Drummond?”
“LEO, short for low-earth orbit. It’s where most spy satellites are placed.” He clicked a few times. The image was of another satellite, similar to the first, but with a few changes.
“This particular satellite hasn’t been launched yet; it’s still under development. Classified development, on a classified military project, on a classified server owned by a very big aerospace firm, who will be quite displeased when they find out the plans for their super-secret spy satellite are residing in the computer of an antiquarian in Manhattan.”
He stood straighter, to intimidate, and said very quietly, the threat clear in his voice, “Would you like to tell me what your father is doing with classified material on this SD card?”
Sophie Pearce smiled for the first time, not much of one, but still a smile. “It’s not what you think, Agent Drummond. My father’s not a criminal, he’s an expert in military history. He has friends who perhaps share things they shouldn’t, because he’s known for his discretion. He could write a book with all the stuff people send him.”