Nicholas said, “Any sign of Havelock?”

“His plane landed in London, then departed again. We have no idea where he is.”

His mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. “Who’s this, 01856? That’s the Oxford code, isn’t it?”

Mike said, “Answer it. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and it’s Adam Pearce, calling to say he’s saved the day.”

“Perhaps.” Nicholas put it on speaker and answered. “Hullo?”

A woman’s voice, low, frantic. “Agent Drummond? It’s Sophie Pearce. You have to help me.”

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.