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“He saw code in some of your victim Jonathan Pearce’s correspondence. He said everything was moving too fast, and it would take him too much time to crack it, and asked for help.”
Another reminder you aren’t the only hotshot computer knife in the drawer here in New York. Nicholas said, “Gray’s exactly right. In some of Mr. Pearce’s correspondence, there are short sections in code, although at first glance, if you’re reading quickly or just skimming, you won’t catch it. Not only is there a sophisticated code, but there’s also a pattern in the correspondence. I’ve identified fifteen people whose letters have the same code. The rest of the correspondence seems to be normal conversations. The problem is, the fifteen names are also in some sort of code. Do you think MAX can crack it?”
Savich gave a little laugh. “Gray pointed out the same things. I got the bit between MAX’s teeth two hours ago, so it’s already done. That was one of the reasons I called.”
“I’m glad to know Gray called first, since I’d seriously wonder if you could read minds from afar.”
Savich went quiet for a moment. “Not quite,” he said finally. “You were on my mind, with the SIRT and all. Then after Gray’s inquiry, and that got me thinking. When MAX broke the code, I cross-referenced the names. I came up with a very interesting list of people. I’m e-mailing you the list now. They’re from all over the world, Nick, mostly Britain, and we’re talking high-level, important men. There’s a zip file with the codex, too.”
“Anyone from Germany, by chance?” Mike asked. “The men we’ve been chasing today are all German nationals.”
They heard tapping, then Savich said, “There is one in the file from Germany, Wolfgang Havelock. He passed away last month, had a massive stroke at his London office. Now here’s where it gets interesting. His son owns a multinational nano-biotech company—Manheim Technologies. His name is Dr. Manfred Havelock. Forty-seven, brilliant, rich as Croesus, and from what MAX has to say, he’s doing some groundbreaking work in the nano-biotech field. The guy holds over seven hundred and fifty patents in neural pathway nanotech.”
Nicholas said, “Brain implants. Savich, this is our best lead yet. Is there anything in the files on him doing less-than-legal work?”
“Right now, it looks like he’s legit, but I’ll set MAX to do some more digging, see if there’s anything off-book we need to know about.”
Nicholas’s heart was beating a rapid tattoo, adrenaline pumping in his veins. “Brilliant. Perfect. Thanks for your help, Savich. You remember Pierre Menard? FedPol? He’s looking into the technology companies for us as well, see what he has to say about Havelock.”
Savich said, “Good. And Nicholas? You see that Mike does the legwork on this. We don’t want you getting yourself in any more trouble since you are, officially, suspended. Am I clear?”
“Clear as glass, Savich. Thanks for the list of names. Sherlock, give your husband a cookie, he deserves it, although I’ve got to say the popcorn really sounds good.”
After Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “Let’s call Menard.”
But Nicholas had stopped moving, was staring intently at the screen. “Hold on. What’s this?”
“What?”
“There’s another file, buried in the system. I didn’t see it earlier, and I guess Gray didn’t, either. It’s encrypted and password protected. Pearce has it set up in a subfolder, and it’s hidden deep in the system files.”
Mike said, “I’ll bet Adam set it up for him. Can you get in?”
He hit some buttons on his keyboard, accessed the file. “Ah, yes, and now that we have the codex, we’ll be able to break the code easily and see what it actually says.”
Nicholas started to whistle, a song Mike recognized from his cell ringtone. The Sex Pistols—“God Save the Queen.” The keys clicked in a steady staccato rhythm, and after a few moments, he said, “We’re in.”
What he saw made his eyes go wide.
“What is it?”
Nicholas flipped the computer around so she could see the screen.
“Ever heard of polonium-two-ten?”
Mike nodded. “Sure. It’s what the Russians allegedly use to assassinate people. Are you saying Pearce has something to do with polonium?”
“There’s a letter here, from Alfie Stanford to another man, Edward Weston. Dated last week. It’s very brief, I’ll read it to you. ‘Weston, Havelock’s making a move in black-market Russian polonium. I trust you’ll see it goes nowhere. He is not to be trusted, and with Adam Pearce getting so close, we must not allow Havelock anywhere near the key. I fear his father may have told him about the U-boat and Marie’s key and book. If so, it isn’t good. Stop him, Edward.’ It’s signed AS.”
“AS—Alfie Stanford. So it is now, officially, tied together. A U-boat? What key, what book? Who’s Marie? What is Mr. Stanford talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
Mike said, “Well, if this Manfred Havelock is trying to buy polonium on the black market, then we know there’s something rotten going on here. Two murders and counting, very bad indeed.”
Nicholas nodded. “Weapons-grade polonium has a very short half-life, which means Havelock would have to use it fast or lose it. Mike, you’re right, this is very bad. We have a very serious problem on our hands.”
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