Read Online The Lost Key by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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flooded through him. And then all was dark.
11
Berlin
5:00 p.m.
Havelock watched Alfie Stanford die. He wanted to stay dispassionate, but the writhing and flopping about was so clearly painful, and the old fool was so helpless, he couldnât help but become aroused. He was tempted by the thought of trying the smallest bit out on himself, not enough to kill, but no. That wasnât a good idea. The dosage needed to bring on cardiac arrest was so nominal, he could miscalculate and end up killing himself all in the name of pleasure. He replayed the footage to watch again.
He wondered, had it been this way for his own father, dropping to the floor in the middle of his gym, everyone gathering around to watch him die? The old man had been in the ground for less than a month now, and Havelock had done his part, looking all grave and somber, in black, finding an errant tear, and heâd thought, finally,
Iâve cleared the path for my journey to begin.
Had he really wanted his father to die? He didnât want to think about that, only that his death had been a necessary evil.
His mother, on the other handâthe wondrous terror in her eyes before he flung her into the sea was something treasured and precious, brought out to be examined at his leisure like his favorite painting, Goyaâs
The Colossus.
He wallowed in the dark brute power of it. He was the colossus with his raised fist, the giant that men feared and worshipped.
He fingered one of the scars on his arm through the heavy fabric of his bespoke blue oxford. His motherâs voice rang in his ears, the waking nightmare he returned to every time failure was possible. Her stark, never-changing litany bit deeper than the belt, even after her cherished death.
You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You will never lead men. You are a sniveling child
.
And now you will be punished.
He tossed back the scotch and poured another, raised the glass toward the sky. âA child, Mother? I was strong enough to take your life from you. I do hope you are rotting in hell.â
You are worthless.
Did he hear her words again? Was her ghost mocking him still? Havelock hurled the glass across the room, watched it shatter against the marble floor. He felt better now, more in control.
He smoothed down his black hair, gone gray at the temples in a most distinguished manner, shot his cuffs, straightened his collar. At least Mr. Z had succeeded in eliminating Stanford, and now confusion and mayhem were under way in London. At least one part of his day had gone according to plan.
But Mr. X had failed, and how could that have happened? Havelock had designed the perfect plan, and it had been, until the fool had died with Havelockâs implant in his head. All of them knew the chip would be found in autopsy, knew the Americanswould figure out what it was, and then they would come. It forced his hand. He would have to move faster than heâd planned.
He needed the Messengerâs son, he needed Adam Pearce, and he needed him now.
Havelock sat back in his chair and uploaded all the video from Mr. Xâs brief New York sojourn. He tapped a few keys on the flat dynamic keyboard embedded in the wood, then placed a small metal neuro-cap on his head, snapping the edges down tight so it would have perfect contact with his skin. He waited for the neural pathways to link.
Ten seconds later, he was viewing video footage from Mr. Xâs last twenty-four hours. He saw the world through Mr. Xâs eyes, heard the voices Mr. X heard, all of it uploaded to Havelockâs servers.
Havelock was working on a way to merge two sets of brain waves, so he could actually link into his assetsâ thoughts and tell them what to do from afar, almost like calling on a mobile phone, but with his mind. He hadnât perfected the technology yet, nor did he know how to solve the one huge obstacle: those test subjects who heard a second voice inside their headsâhis
11
Berlin
5:00 p.m.
Havelock watched Alfie Stanford die. He wanted to stay dispassionate, but the writhing and flopping about was so clearly painful, and the old fool was so helpless, he couldnât help but become aroused. He was tempted by the thought of trying the smallest bit out on himself, not enough to kill, but no. That wasnât a good idea. The dosage needed to bring on cardiac arrest was so nominal, he could miscalculate and end up killing himself all in the name of pleasure. He replayed the footage to watch again.
He wondered, had it been this way for his own father, dropping to the floor in the middle of his gym, everyone gathering around to watch him die? The old man had been in the ground for less than a month now, and Havelock had done his part, looking all grave and somber, in black, finding an errant tear, and heâd thought, finally,
Iâve cleared the path for my journey to begin.
Had he really wanted his father to die? He didnât want to think about that, only that his death had been a necessary evil.
His mother, on the other handâthe wondrous terror in her eyes before he flung her into the sea was something treasured and precious, brought out to be examined at his leisure like his favorite painting, Goyaâs
The Colossus.
He wallowed in the dark brute power of it. He was the colossus with his raised fist, the giant that men feared and worshipped.
He fingered one of the scars on his arm through the heavy fabric of his bespoke blue oxford. His motherâs voice rang in his ears, the waking nightmare he returned to every time failure was possible. Her stark, never-changing litany bit deeper than the belt, even after her cherished death.
You are not good enough. You are not smart enough. You will never lead men. You are a sniveling child
.
And now you will be punished.
He tossed back the scotch and poured another, raised the glass toward the sky. âA child, Mother? I was strong enough to take your life from you. I do hope you are rotting in hell.â
You are worthless.
Did he hear her words again? Was her ghost mocking him still? Havelock hurled the glass across the room, watched it shatter against the marble floor. He felt better now, more in control.
He smoothed down his black hair, gone gray at the temples in a most distinguished manner, shot his cuffs, straightened his collar. At least Mr. Z had succeeded in eliminating Stanford, and now confusion and mayhem were under way in London. At least one part of his day had gone according to plan.
But Mr. X had failed, and how could that have happened? Havelock had designed the perfect plan, and it had been, until the fool had died with Havelockâs implant in his head. All of them knew the chip would be found in autopsy, knew the Americanswould figure out what it was, and then they would come. It forced his hand. He would have to move faster than heâd planned.
He needed the Messengerâs son, he needed Adam Pearce, and he needed him now.
Havelock sat back in his chair and uploaded all the video from Mr. Xâs brief New York sojourn. He tapped a few keys on the flat dynamic keyboard embedded in the wood, then placed a small metal neuro-cap on his head, snapping the edges down tight so it would have perfect contact with his skin. He waited for the neural pathways to link.
Ten seconds later, he was viewing video footage from Mr. Xâs last twenty-four hours. He saw the world through Mr. Xâs eyes, heard the voices Mr. X heard, all of it uploaded to Havelockâs servers.
Havelock was working on a way to merge two sets of brain waves, so he could actually link into his assetsâ thoughts and tell them what to do from afar, almost like calling on a mobile phone, but with his mind. He hadnât perfected the technology yet, nor did he know how to solve the one huge obstacle: those test subjects who heard a second voice inside their headsâhis
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