She shot him a look as she turned onto the FDR. “So you’re not far from Ariston’s.”
“No, not far at all.” The sky was purple with the threat of impending rain, a fog drifting between the high-rises, creeping toward the Brooklyn Bridge. New York looked more like Gotham City tonight than he’d ever seen.
Mike said, “Don’t worry about your job, Nicholas. The SIRT board will find you did everything according to the book, like Zachery said.”
“It’s not that,” he said, turning to face her. “The high-tech specs on Pearce’s computer, the three German assassins, the implant, Pearce’s murder, Alfie Stanford’s murder. It’s all connected, and I think I know—”
His mobile rang. “Good, here’s news,” and he put the call on speaker. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Menard. It’s one-thirty in the morning your time. Don’t you sleep?”
“Bonsoir, Nicholas. Not when I have such interesting research to pursue.”
“You’re on with Mike Caine, too.”
“Hello, Pierre.”
“It is good to hear your voice again. This is quite an interesting case you have. Nano-biotech is all the rage in the European underground. There are many uses for the developing technologies, and in the hands of the wrong people, it could go very badly.”
Nicholas said, “We’re looking for a specific company, Pierre, very advanced, very cutting-edge. A supposedly legitimate leader in the field with the possibility of a few off-the-book projects going on, too. We’re looking for someone with money, who could provide serious funding. The equipment we found this afternoon is heads and tails above anything I’ve ever heard or read about.”
Menard said, “This equipment, the implant, it was made of a biological polymer?”
“It seems so. My bet is, whoever developed it might also have worked on organ transplant research. You know the rejection rate on organs is always a problem. If there’s a biologically based metal that won’t be disruptive, there may have been a breakthrough on the other side as well.”
Menard said, “There are only a few companies I have heard of who fit the criteria you’re speaking of, but none of them are known to have criminal dealings.”
“They wouldn’t, I don’t suppose. Whoever is behind this would have to be, on the surface at least, on the up-and-up.”
“I will look into this for you, my friend,” Menard said. “I assume the inquiry is of an urgent manner?”
“When is it not, Pierre? Oh, yes, we believe the chances are good the company is based in Germany.”
“Ah,” Pierre said and disconnected.
Nicholas said to Mike, “This is good. He’ll have something for us shortly. Here we are.”
Nicholas pointed, and Mike pulled into an empty spot directly in front of a stunning five-story limestone-washed town house. Why was she surprised, given who his grandfather was, who his parents were? Nicholas was fidgeting, he looked embarrassed. She said, “Well, it’s not too bad, considering. Nice of the slumlord to throw in a parking place since this place is such a hovel.” She put the Crown Vic in Park, unsnapped her seat belt. “Did it come with rented furniture?”
He shook his head at her. “Very funny. Thanks to my grandfather, this place is all mine, four floors of it at least. Nigel has the third floor, that’s where the kitchen is and his rooms. He’s in heaven.”
“Close enough I’ll bet he doesn’t need an elevator,” she said, still staring up at the house.
“Don’t give me any guff over this, Mike. Like I said, my grandfather was behind it. I wanted something simple, and he would hear nothing of it.”
She started to laugh. “Um, Nicholas, I did visit Old Farrow Hall. I wouldn’t expect you to be living in a studio walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a beautiful house. Let’s go inside, I want to see how Nigel’s set you up, and see if we can scrounge something up from your—no, his—kitchen. I’m famished.”
He paused after he unlocked the front door. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
“Nicholas, the entire FBI knows your grandfather is a baron. Not to mention all the women agents know he owns Delphi Cosmetics and are trying to get the nerve to ask you to get them free samples. No one will be upset about this. They might tease you a bit—I mean come on, you have a real live butler—but they won’t hold it against you. We’re all better than that.” And she ruined it with a giggle.
“Sure you are.” He opened the door onto a magnificent entryway, done in dark woods and white marble, very modern, and it fit him perfectly. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Should I take off my shoes? No? Where is Nigel?”
Nigel suddenly appeared above them on the stairs. His face went white and he hurried into the foyer, looking Nicholas up and down. “Oh, my, whatever happened to you? And you, Agent Caine? There’s a bit of blood, I see.”
“We’re okay, Nigel, nothing some Advil and ice won’t fix. And a change of clothes, maybe one of my shirts for Agent Caine. We’re both starving, we didn’t have time to eat much today. Any chance of some dinner?”
“Yes, I have a lovely roast in the kitchen, with vegetables and mash. Shall I open a bottle of wine? I set aside a Château Margaux—the ’67. It can decant whilst you change your clothes for dinner and fetch a shirt for Agent Caine.”
“Yes, I’ll find something. Nigel, this is a working dinner, so we’ll have some Pellegrino with lime. Thanks.”
“Of course, sir. Perhaps I’ll arrange a nightcap later, some brandy perhaps, or some port. Yes, that’s what’s needed, the port to go with the pear tart I’ve made. They’ll go together nicely.”
Nigel was smiling, the bloody sod. He was loving playing the formal English butler, watching Nicholas turn red and tongue-tied. He saw Mike was grinning, quite enjoying herself.
“Oh, bugger off, both of you.” He stomped up the stairs, the sound of Mike’s and Nigel’s laughter following him.
34
2 United Nations Plaza
8:30 p.m.
Sophie closed down her computer. Done at last. She’d filed her request for an official leave of absence, effective immediately, and sent a few personal e-mails to the members of the Chinese delegation, so they would understand why she was leaving them so suddenly.
The rest of her work had been distributed among the other translators. She picked up a photo of her father and Adam on her desk. She wanted to grieve for her father, but knew she simply didn’t have the time. And there was Adam, gone who knows where, and her father’s files, and at the end of the rainbow, the key. If Adam had indeed found the submarine, it was only a matter of time before the Order could retrieve the key, and the book, and then what would happen? Manfred Havelock was what would happen. He’d do anything to get ahold of the key and the book, at least that’s what her father believed. Anything. Had Havelock ordered her father murdered? She didn’t know.
She gently put the photograph in her large leather bag and straightened and remembered Drummond in that stingy FBI interview room. The bastard, the pushy, cruel bastard with his arrogant clipped British accent, and she’d ended up caving. Maybe Drummond and Caine had been right, maybe telling where they could find Adam was the right thing to do. But she still hadn’t heard from her brother. Where was he? Had they found him? And were they keeping quiet about it? She didn’t know.
She needed to find Adam, needed to arrange her father’s funeral as well. She’d called their lawyer, who was shocked by the news, and promised to start the paperwork immediately.
Most of all, she needed to access her father’s computer files. But how? She realized he’d given her all his bank codes when he’d left for a short trip to Leningrad two weeks before. He’d also given her his passwords. Had he changed them when he’d gotten home? Would the FBI know if she accessed his computer? She didn’t know, but it was worth a try. What would they do?