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He’d never seen anything so scary in his life. Especially when he took into account the key to Marie’s weapon the Order wanted to find and destroy. To keep the world safe.
From all he’d seen, Havelock wasn’t only going after the weapon the Order had been trying to locate for the past hundred years, he was planning to overthrow the entire Order, planting his own people to coerce the other members to do what he ordered, until he could get rid of them. He’d killed his own father, why not Alfie Stanford? Yes, of course he had. His assault had begun and now all he needed were Adam’s coordinates to the lost U-boat.
The Order. No, the Highest Order, the group’s original formal name. Adam’s father had steeped him in its long, tortuous history, beginning with its inception at the end of Queen Anne’s reign. Powerful men in England did not want to see the Catholic Jacobites bring back bloody revolution to England. They formed the Highest Order to help quash the Jacobites, and succeeded. And once their initial goal of keeping the Catholics off England’s throne was accomplished, they moved on; their goal, to keep England safe. His father talked about one of their biggest failures in the nineteenth century, the needless bloody war in the Crimea—and one of their successes—their discovery that Jack the Ripper was one of Queen Victoria’s family—and they’d ensured he was confined since he couldn’t be arrested, all the proof still in the old files, kept under lock and key.
After World War I, the Order became a multinational group of fifteen high-powered men whose primary goal was to maintain the safety and security of the world by helping countries avoid wars and other destabilizing events. Adam knew if Havelock managed to take over the Order, he would pervert all the Order’s goals. He would also be in a position to take down all world powers—whether they were on his side or against him.
His father was gone. It was up to Adam to make sure Havelock’s plan didn’t happen. He must protect the Order, protect its legacy—his legacy. And now he, a nineteen-year-old hacker, was charged with being their hero. Him, Superman. He thought about himself in tights and laughed.
Adam didn’t leave cyberspace until the six-hour flight was nearly over. He’d drunk five cups of coffee, his fingers were jittery and sore, his body hopped up on caffeine and adrenaline and fury. He’d done some of the most beautiful work of his life, and Havelock’s world would never be the same. He’d actually amazed himself. He’d captured all the data from Havelock’s computers and encoded it, sending it back into the system with line after line of bugged code. Adam now owned everything Manheim Technologies had on their databases. Havelock would have to back off or Adam would sell it off to the highest bidder.
He sat back in the luxurious seat and shut his eyes for a moment, resting them from the glare of the screen. He was good, he knew that, better than good, but still, he needed a fail-safe. Something to insulate the data he’d assembled and destroyed. This was bigger than his concerns of going to jail, of never seeing the light of day again.
He opened his e-mail, and wrote a single line of code. He then created a false e-mail account, and filled out his father’s e-mail address. He knew the FBI were in control of his father’s accounts, and that Drummond character had close ties to the Order, no matter he didn’t realize it. Drummond would see this e-mail, if he was looking hard enough.
It was all Adam could think to do under the circumstances. He could not, would not, allow the Order to be compromised, nor, he realized, could he let the Order’s existence come to light, every media outlet in the world would tear them apart, blame them for everything that had gone wrong, not even realizing the Order had always endeavored to keep things in check. Without the members of today’s Order, scattered across the globe, the world would be in far worse shape than anyone could imagine.
But Drummond—he was the safest bet. Had he seen the coordinates to the sub Adam had sent his dad? If he had, well, there was nothing he could do about it now. At least if he had the coordinates, Adam wasn’t alone. He didn’t hesitate; he memorized the coordinates to the sub, and erased them from his hard drive.
Adam realized he’d taken on his father’s role, the protector, the guardian of the Order’s secrets. Adam knew them all, and now it was his job to protect the Order.
He reread the e-mail, the line of code. If Drummond was as much of a hotshot programmer as people said, he’d figure it out. This was the only thing to do. As much as he hated to even think it, Adam couldn’t trust anyone in the Order, not now that Mr. Stanford was dead.
He hit send.
The e-mail scrambled through Adam’s system, then shot off with a whoosh, bounced off fifty servers around the world, and was gone.
He started to close the lid of the laptop, but something caught his eye. The screen began to flash. As he watched, horrified, the corners of the screen shattered, like a piece of glass, and began to fold in on themselves, getting smaller and smaller and smaller, until all he could see was a tiny brown three-dimensional box superimposed on the black background, spinning and flashing, his name underneath.
Adam couldn’t believe this, didn’t have a clue how it could have happened—he himself had been hacked. Who could have done this? The FBI? No, there was no way. They were good, but not good enough to get into his system, not that quickly. And they wouldn’t play games, either. They’d just shut the whole thing down and track him to his nearest location.
Reality hit him. He was too late. Dear God in heaven, he was too late. The Order was already compromised. Havelock was already in control. Had he really destroyed Havelock’s assets? He didn’t know.
With shaking hands, he clicked on the box.
The screen went black, then a message began scrolling across the empty screen and Adam felt all the blood leave his head.
We Have Your Sister. Come to London. Now.
42
Nicholas’s House
Midnight
The ambulance had been prompt, the EMTs thorough, and as Nicholas watched Nigel sitting up, an ice pack on his neck, arguing with the EMTs, he counted his blessings.
They wanted to cart Nigel off to Lenox Hill Hospital for overnight observation, but Nigel was having none of it. Nicholas wasn’t sure he agreed. Even though Nigel had regained consciousness quickly, he seemed a bit loopy.
But he refused to go and that was that.
The EMTs reluctantly agreed not to haul him in. The injection contained some sort of mild sedative, and it clearly wasn’t long-lasting. As a precaution, they gave him a shot of Narcan, an overdose medication that would knock whatever drug he’d been injected with out of his system, and he’d be good as new in the morning.
Nigel insisted Nicholas continue working on the case, that all he needed was a lovely night’s rest.
One of the EMTs said, “He’ll be okay. Make sure he gets plenty of fluids. If he decompensates unexpectedly—he’s not gonna, don’t you worry, but just in case—you call us right back.”
The ambulance pulled away, the neighbors shuffled inside, and the night became quiet again. The spring evening had grown chilly, and combined with the sudden silence, the air seemed oddly clear and easily breakable. Like glass.
