The lost key, p.1
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       The Lost Key, p.1

         Part #2 of A Brit in the FBI series by Catherine Coulter
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The Lost Key


  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)


  The Final Cut (2013)


  Publishers since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

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

  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.


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


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



  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.


  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.



  Also by Catherine Coulter

  Title Page







  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


  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


  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!”


  Lower Slaughter, Cotswolds


  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.



  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.


  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.

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