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Harry hung up, and Nicholas stared at the phone. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all. Oliver Leyland, then. Very well.
Mike was leaning toward him. “What in the world was all that?”
Nicholas placed the phone back in the armrest. “All I’m sure of at the moment is that the first person we’re to see in London is the head of the Bank of England, Oliver Leyland,” and he told her what his father said.
When he finished, she said slowly, “Alfie Stanford, Wolfgang Havelock, and Jonathan Pearce, all members of the Order, all murdered. I’d say they’re under attack.”
“Yes, remember the diplomat’s dossier warned that the Order was changing, and not for the better. My father agrees. I think Alex Shepherd is now working for Havelock against the Order. That’s why he’s kidnapped Sophie, as leverage against Adam to get the final coordinates of the sub. I think it’s time we call Hamish Penderley, see if they’ve sussed out anything important.”
But Mike wasn’t listening anymore. She was sifting through the files, tossing pages to find what she needed.
“What are you doing?” Nicholas asked.
“I saw something a few minutes before you called your dad. Give me a second, I’ll find it. Here it is. Now, it was reported that Wolfgang Havelock supposedly died of a stroke, following an aneurysm repair, right?”
“That’s what Savich said. Why?”
“His autopsy report is in here. Gray found it. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner.”
“Mike, take a breath and tell me what you’re thinking.”
She shoved the paper at him. “Wolfgang Havelock didn’t have a repaired aneurysm. He had a brain implant. He had one of his son’s brain implants in his head.”
55
London
1:00 p.m.
Once all the members of the Order had departed, Weston hurried to the flat he’d secured for Havelock in the building.
He didn’t knock, simply opened the door, walked in, and stopped cold. Havelock was standing spread-eagle in the window, his shirt off. His woman, Elise, held a cat-o’-nine-tails in her left hand. When Weston entered the room, Elise turned and saw him, bent her head in a silent nod of greeting, then hauled off and whacked Havelock square in the back. Havelock jumped with the force of the blow and strained against the ropes that held his wrists bound to the window frame, but he didn’t make a sound.
Weston stared, disbelieving, horrified. “Stop this now! Havelock, what are you doing?”
Havelock grunted a command in guttural German, and Elise reached up and released first the left wrist, then the right. She handed Havelock his shirt. He said, as calm as a judge, “Thank you, Elise. You may go now. I will see you soon.” He kissed her cheek. She gathered her things gracefully and left the room.
Havelock buttoned his shirt, tucked it into his pants. He didn’t look embarrassed or in pain. He looked as if Weston had walked in on a tea party. “Hello, Weston.”
Weston was without words.
“Ah, I see you’re upset. Please don’t concern yourself. I felt the need for release. Elise is always very accommodating, and excellent at her chosen métier.” He walked to the small wet bar in the corner of the room and poured himself a scotch. “Tell me, how did the meeting go?”
Weston swallowed bile, forced the look of awful disgust from his face. “You’ve been voted in. You’re a full-fledged member of the Order.”
“Were there any dissenters?”
“Yes. Oliver Leyland was the most upset, at least verbally. My mention of Gernot sent him stomping out of the room. I backed off since I saw other members were listening to him. Alex Shepherd was voted in as well.”
“And Adam Pearce?”
“Has not been located.”
“This is unacceptable, Weston.”
“There may be another way. The FBI agents, Nicholas Drummond and Michaela Caine, are on a plane to London as we speak. It’s possible they can flush out Adam Pearce once they’re on the ground.”
Weston watched Havelock sit down, lean back and stretch. How could he do that after the beating she’d given him? But Havelock didn’t seem to feel a thing. He seemed cool and collected, ready for anything.
