Nicholas took a deep breath, put his hand on Penderley’s shoulder. “If you’ve never trusted me before, sir, I ask that you do now. The safety of our people, all of our people, our very country, lies in the balance. We can’t wait. We can’t let him get to the sub first. I don’t care who we have to call, what favors we need to pull, it has to happen, and it has to happen right now.”

Penderley looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled out his mobile phone, dialed and put the phone to his ear. There was a brief pause, and he said, “Sir? It’s Penderley. We have an emergency.”

69

The rain was coming down in sheets when they got themselves into Penderley’s BMW, Nicholas behind the wheel.

Penderley rang off his mobile, and turned to Mike, who was hanging on to the grab handle, “We’re headed to Northolt. You’ll be in Scotland in less than two hours. We’re borrowing a Hawker from the prime minister; the only way to get you there faster is strap you and Nicholas into Tornadoes. They’re clearing the airspace for you, shouldn’t be much more than an hour up there. You’ll land north of Inverness, at RAF Tain, and they’ll chopper you to Loch Eriboll. You’re going to the back end of Scotland. That far north you’ll have a little more daylight to work with.”

Mike thought about their near death in the director’s Gulfstream and gulped. She’d rather drive, or take a train, even a bicycle.

Nicholas saw her face in the rearview, turned to flash her a grin. “By car it’s only about eleven hours, with hundreds of roundabouts.”

“Stop reading my mind, particularly when I’m mentally whining.”

Penderley ignored the both of them. “They’ve diverted a Type twenty-three anti-submarine frigate, the HMS Dover, to intercept the Gravitania.”

“Anti-submarine?” Mike asked. “I thought the Gravitania was a ship.”

“It is a ship. One that’s being used to search for sunken treasure and bottomed-out shipwrecks. Its registry is Bahamian, and shows an MIR-two submersible on board, a three-person mini-sub, perfect for deep-sea exploration. Havelock’s prepared. So that means you’ll have to dive to the sub. The Dover will have the right equipment to make that possible.

“Children, our countries are on the line now. Keep me informed. We have a few more minutes to Northolt. Talk, Drummond, tell me all of it. Start with Manfred Havelock. And don’t bang up my car,” he added, when Nicholas swerved around a big black truck at the last minute.

When there was a break in traffic, Nicholas said, “Manfred Havelock is a German scientist who has revolutionized the nano-biotech field with his brain implants for amputees, among several other huge discoveries. Our medical examiner found an implant in the brain of the man Havelock sent to kill Jonathan Pearce in New York. Unlike his official work, this one was being used for real-time intelligence gathering, video and audio, on American soil.

“The worst part is Havelock also seems to have developed multiple mini–nuclear weapons which he’s tied to these intelligence-gathering implants. The implants are the triggers. We don’t know how far they’re deployed, but they could be anywhere.”

“So the people who carry the implants are walking triggers?”

“Exactly. And if Curie’s creation of this ultra-robust polonium is added to the mix, catastrophe.”

Nicholas turned onto the A40. Northolt wasn’t far.

“I’ll notify Homeland and Downing Street. What do Oliver Leyland and Alfie Stanford have to do with Havelock?”

Nicholas thought of his father’s urgent plea to keep quiet about the Order. He said, “Still unknown at this point, sir. Once we stop Havelock’s attack, we can sift through the rest.”

“Who does this sunken sub belong to?”

“It belonged to Kaiser Wilhelm, went down in 1917.”

“I know there’s more, but we’re here.” Nicholas stopped at the Northolt guard gate. Penderley pulled out his ID and handed it to the guard. His mobile rang. “I hope they’ve found Sophie Pearce.” A few moments later, he shut off the phone and looked at Nicholas strangely, then said, “Your plane, it’s right over there. You can drive to it.”

“Did they find her, sir?”

He shook his head. “They’ve found where the call originated from. Let’s get you on the plane and I’ll tell you the rest.”

70

London

5:00 p.m.

Once inside the plane, Penderley waved away the pilot. He stared at them, through them really, and he looked stunned.

“Sir? What’s wrong? Was Sophie at the location? Is she dead?”

“Our people found the location, just outside Oxford, like we thought. They’re on their way there now. Hold on to your pants, Drummond. The call originated from an estate called West Park, a country estate owned by Edward Weston.”

Nicholas stopped cold. He began shaking his head, back and forth. “No, sir, that can’t be right, not Weston.”

“I’m sorry, Nicholas. The call absolutely came from inside Weston’s house.” He reached out, laid his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. They stood together silent for a moment.

What was going on here?

Finally, Mike said, “All right, who is Edward Weston and why are you surprised, and why does Nicholas look like he’s been smacked in the head?”

Nicholas didn’t want to tell her, and she knew it, but it didn’t matter. She laid her hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

Nicholas nodded. “Remember hearing about a small issue I had in Afghanistan?”

“You’ve never told me what that issue was, but yes, I remember some sort of problem.”

“A problem?” Penderley shook his head. “A problem doesn’t come close. Tell her, Nicholas. but be quick about it. You’ve got to go.”

Nicholas said matter-of-factly, “First you need to know that Edward Weston is currently the second-in-command of MI Five.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Mike couldn’t believe this. MI5? “Tell me what happened.”

“Weston was a special attaché to the embassy in Kabul. He saw himself as the king on the chessboard, and we young ones as pawns to move around at his whim. He sat back in the embassy, happily getting relays on what was happening outside the walls, while I was crawling around in the muck, drinking barrels of chai and passing out cigarettes to the Afghan soldiers, pulling in as much intelligence as I could.”

He shook his head, remembering the anger and frustration. “The very people our military were training would turn on us. They were actually working for the Taliban. They used the training and information we provided to attack convoys, set off suicide bombs and car bombs. Anything to hurt us.”

Mike said, “It happened to the Americans, too.”

“Yes. I was tasked with finding where the Taliban were getting their information. I heard a solid rumor one of these insurgents was a high-ranking official, one that Weston himself had recruited and ran as an asset. His name was Bahrambin Dastgir.

“On the surface, Dastgir looked clean. He was bringing us scads of information, helping us run operations on the ground. No one believed he could possibly be a threat, not with all the solid intel he’d given us. Dastgir would sit down to tea with Weston and spout the party line about wanting the Taliban and their informants out of Kabul, out of Afghanistan.

“But he didn’t feel right to me. I came to believe he was a plant. I found his mistress, and in exchange for a wad of cash, she gave him up. I went to Weston, told him what I knew, told him I wanted to bring Dastgir in and interrogate him, but Weston wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted the man was a friend.”

Mike said, “But you were right?”