The King's Deception

by Steve Berry

  Like Blake knew.

  Her doubts pleased him.

  But he felt bad about the knee. Why she pushed him to such extremes he did not know. Cheating was bad enough. But lying only made it worse. It was her own fault. Still, he’d send her flowers tomorrow.

  Pale blue carnations. Her favorite.

  He logged into his computer and provided the day’s access code. Not much had arrived since early afternoon, but a FLASH ALERT from Langley caught his eye. A post-9/11 thing. Far better to disseminate information across the grid than keep it to yourself and shoulder all of the blame. Most of the alerts did not concern him. His area was special counter-operations, targeted assignments that were, by definition, not the norm. All were highly classified and he reported only to the director of counter-operations. Five missions were currently ongoing, another two in the planning stages. This alert, though, was addressed only to him, decrypted automatically by his computer.

  KING’S DECEPTION IS NOW TIMELINED. IF NO RESULTS IN NEXT 48 HOURS CEASE OPERATIONS AND EXIT.

  Not entirely unexpected.

  Things had not been going right in England.

  Until a few days ago, when they’d finally caught a break.

  He needed to know more and reached for the desk phone, calling his man in London, who answered on the second ring.

  “Ian Dunne and Cotton Malone are on the ground at Heathrow,” he was told.

  He smiled.

  Seventeen years with the CIA had taught him how to get things done. Cotton Malone in London, with Ian Dunne, was proof of that.

  He’d made that happen.

  Malone had once been a hotshot Justice Department agent at the Magellan Billet, where he served a dozen years before retiring after a shootout in Mexico City. Malone now lived in Copenhagen and owned an old-book shop but maintained a close relationship with Stephanie Nelle, the Billet’s longtime head. A connection he’d used to draw Malone to England. A call to Langley led to a call to the attorney general, which led to Stephanie Nelle, who’d contacted Malone.

  He smiled again.

  At least something had gone right today.

  Three

  WINDSOR, ENGLAND

  5:50 PM

  KATHLEEN RICHARDS HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE WINDSOR CASTLE. For a born-and-bred Brit that seemed unforgivable. But at least she knew its past. First built in the 11th century to guard the River Thames and protect Norman dominance on the outer reaches of a fledgling London, it had served as a royal enclave since the time of William the Conqueror. Once a motte-and-bailey castle built of wood, now it was a massive stone fortification. It survived the First Barons’ War in 1200, the English Civil War in the 1600s, two world wars, and a devastating fire in 1992 to become the largest inhabited castle in the world.

  The twenty-mile drive from London had been through a late-autumn rain. The castle dominated a steep chalk bluff, the gray walls, turrets, and towers—thirteen acres of buildings—barely discernible through the evening storm. The call had come from her supervisor an hour ago, telling her to head there.

  Which shocked her.

  She was twenty days into a thirty-day suspension without pay. An operation in Liverpool involving illicit arms to Northern Ireland had turned ugly when the three targets decided to run. She’d given motor chase and corralled them, but not before havoc had erupted on the local highways. Eighteen cars ended up wrecked. A few injuries, some serious, but no fatalities. Her fault? Not in her mind.

  But her bosses had thought differently.

  And the press had not been kind to SOCA.

  The Serious Organized Crime Agency, England’s version of America’s FBI, handled drugs, money laundering, fraud, computer crimes, human trafficking, and firearms violations. Ten years she’d been an officer. When hired she’d been told that four qualities made for a good recruit—working with others, achieving results, leadership, making a difference. She’d like to think at least three of those were her specialty. The “working with others” part had always presented problems. Not that she was hard to get along with, it was just that she preferred to work alone. Luckily, her performance evaluations were excellent, her conviction record exemplary. She’d even received three commendations. But that sense of rebellion—which seemed part of her character—constantly brought trouble her way.

  And she hated herself for it.

  Like during the past twenty days, sitting around her flat, wondering when her law enforcement career would end.

  She had a good job. A career. Thirty-one days of annual leave, a pension, plenty of training and development opportunities, and generous maternity and child care services. Not that she’d ever need those last two. She’d come to accept that marriage might not be for her, either. Too much sharing.

  She wondered what she was doing here, walking on hallowed ground inside Windsor Castle, being escorted through the rain toward St. George’s Chapel, a Gothic church built by Edward IV in the 15th century. Ten English monarchs lay buried inside. No explanations had been offered as to why she was needed and she’d not asked, chalking it up to that element of the unexpected that came with being a SOCA agent.

  She entered, shook the rain from her shoulders, and admired the high vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows, and ornate wooden stalls that guarded both sides of the long choir. Colorful banners from the Knights of the Garter hung at attention above each bench, forming two impressive rows. Enameled brass plates identified the current and prior occupiers. A checkerboard marble floor formed a center aisle, polished to a mirror shine, marred only by a gaping hole before the eleventh stall. Four men gathered around the gash, one her director, who met her halfway and led her away from the others.

  “The chapel has been closed all day,” he said to her. “There was an incident here last night. One of the royal graves was violated. The intruders used PEs to crack the floor and gain access.”

  Those she knew. Percussion explosives inflicted massive damage through heat, with little concussion and minimal noise. She’d caught the odor when entering the chapel, a sharp carbon smell. It was a sophisticated material, not available for sale on the open market, reserved only for the military. The question immediately formed in her mind. Who would have access to that type of explosive?

  “Kathleen, you realize that you are about to be fired.”

  She did, but to hear the words shook her.

  “You were warned,” he said. “Told to tone your manner down. God help you, your results are wonderful, but how you achieve those is another matter entirely.”

  Her file was loaded with incidents similar to the one in Liverpool. A corrupt dock crew caught with 37 kilos of cocaine, but two boats sunk in the process. A raging fire she set to flush out drug traffickers that destroyed an expensive estate, which could have been sold for millions as a seized asset. An Internet piracy gang stopped, but four people shot during the arrest. And the worst, a ring of private investigators who illegally gathered confidential information, then sold it to corporate clients. One of the targets challenged her with his gun and she shot him dead. Though it was deemed a proper kill—self-defense—she’d been required to attend counseling sessions, and the therapist concluded that risks were her way of dealing with an unfulfilled life. Whatever that meant, the silly prat of a doctor never explained himself. So after the required six sessions, she’d not returned for more.

  “I have fourteen other agents under my command,” her supervisor said. “None brings me the grief that you do. Why is it they, too, achieve results, but with none of the residual effects?”

  “I did not tell those men to run in Liverpool. They chose that course. I decided stopping them, and the ammunition they were smuggling, was worth the risk.”

  “There were injuries on that motorway. Innocent people, in their cars. What happened to them is inexcusable, Kathleen.”

  She’d heard enough rebukes at the time of her suspension. “Why am I here?”

  “To see something. Come with me.”

  They walked back to
where the three other men stood. To the right of the dark chasm in the floor she studied a black stone slab that had been neatly cracked into three manageable pieces, laid close together, as originally joined.

  She read what was engraved on the face.

  IN A VAULT

  BENEATH THIS MARBLE SLAB

  ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS

  OF

  JANE SEYMOUR QUEEN OF KING HENRY VIII

  1537

  KING HENRY VIII

  1547

  KING CHARLES I

  1648

  AND

  AN INFANT CHILD OF QUEEN ANNE

  THIS MEMORIAL WAS PLACED HERE

  BY COMMAND OF

  KING WILLIAM IV, 1837

  One of the other men explained how Henry VIII had wanted a grand monument here, in St. George’s, to overshadow his father’s in Westminster. A metal effigy and massive candlesticks were cast, but Henry died before the edifice was completed. An era of Radical Protestantism came after him, a time when church monuments were not erected but hauled down. Then his daughter Mary ushered in a brief return to Rome and remembering Henry VIII, the king of the Protestants, became dangerous. Eventually, Cromwell melted the effigy and sold the candelabra. Henry was finally buried beneath the floor, with only the black marble slab marking the spot.

  She stared into the hole under the chapel. A power cable snaked a path across the floor, disappearing downward, ambient light illuminating the space beyond.

  “Only once before has this crypt been opened,” another of the men said.

  Her director introduced him as the keeper of the grounds.

  “April 1, 1813. At the time, no one knew where the beheaded Charles I had been buried. But since many believed his remains might be with those of Henry VIII and his third wife, Jane Seymour, this vault was breached.”

  Now, apparently, it had been opened again.

  “Gentlemen,” her director said. “Will you excuse Inspector Richards and myself? We need a few moments.”

  The other men nodded and retreated toward the main doors, twenty meters away.

  She liked to hear her title. Inspector. She’d worked hard to earn it and hated that it might now be lost.

  “Kathleen,” her director said, his voice low. “I implore you, for once, to keep your mouth shut and listen to me.”

  She nodded.

  “Six months ago the archives at Hatfield House were pilfered. Several precious volumes stolen. A month later, a similar incident occurred at the national archives in York. Over the ensuing weeks there were a series of thefts of historical documents from around the nation. A month ago a man was caught photographing pages within the British Library, but he evaded capture and fled the premises. Now this.”

  Her fear dissipated as her curiosity arose.

  “With what has happened here,” her director said, “the matter has escalated. To come into this sacred building. A royal palace.” He paused. “These thieves have a clear purpose.”

  She crouched down to the opening.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Have a peek.”

  It seemed irreverent to disturb the last tangible bits of someone who’d existed so long ago. Though her bosses at SOCA might think her brash and uncaring, certain things did matter to her. Like respect for the dead. But this was a crime scene, so she lay flat on the checkerboard marble and poked her head below.

  The crypt was supported by a brick arch, maybe two and a half meters wide, three meters long, and a meter and a half deep. She counted four coffins. One pale and leaden bearing the inscription of King Charles, 1648, a square opening surgically cut in the upper part of the lid. Two smaller coffins were entirely intact. The fourth was the largest, pushing over two meters. An outer shell of wood, five centimeters thick, had decayed to fragments. The inner leaden coffin had also deteriorated and appeared to have been beaten by violence around its middle.

  She knew whose bones were visible.

  Henry VIII.

  “The unopened coffins are for Jane Seymour,” the director said, “the queen buried with her king, and an infant of Queen Anne’s who died much later.”

  She recalled that Seymour had been wife number three, the only one of the six who provided Henry with a legitimate son, Edward, who eventually became king, ruling six years, dying just before his sixteenth birthday.

  “It appears Henry’s remains were rummaged through,” he said. “The opening in Charles’ coffin was made two hundred years ago. He, and the other two, seem to have been of no interest.”

  In life, she knew, Henry VIII had been a tall man, over six feet, but toward the end of his life his body had swelled with fat. Here lay the mortal remains of a king who fought with France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Emperor, transforming England from an island at the edge of Europe into an empire-in-the-making. He defied popes and possessed the courage to found his own religion, which continued to thrive five hundred years later.

  Talk about audacity.

  She stood.

  “Serious things are happening, Kathleen.”

  He handed her one of his business cards. On the back was an address written in blue ink.

  “Go there,” he said.

  She noted the address. A familiar place. “Why can’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “Because none of this was my idea.” He handed back her SOCA badge and credentials, which had been confiscated three weeks ago. “Like I said, you were about to be dismissed.”

  She was perplexed. “So why am I here?”

  “They asked, specifically, for you.”

  Four

  LONDON

  IAN KNEW EXACTLY WHERE HE WAS. HIS AUNT LIVED NEARBY and he’d many times wandered Little Venice, especially on weekend afternoons when the streets were filled with people. When he finally ran away, the posh villas and modern tower blocks had offered him his first education in life on his own. Tourists flocked to the area, drawn by the quaint neighborhoods, the blue iron bridges, and the many pubs and restaurants. Houseboats and water buses plowed the brown waters of the canal between here and the zoo—offering exactly the kind of distractions that helped with stealing. Right now, he needed a distraction to lose Norse and Devene, who would surely be after him once they were through dealing with Cotton Malone.

  Maybe his aunt’s flat would offer him a safe place to hide, but the thought of appearing on her doorstep turned his stomach. As much trouble as he was now apparently facing, the prospect of listening to that fat prat seemed worse. Besides, if whoever was after him knew enough to know that he was returning today, they surely would have learned about his aunt.

  So he continued running down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction from where she lived, toward an avenue fifty meters ahead.

  Gary stopped and said through heavy breaths, “We have to go back.”

  “Your dad said to go. Those are bad people. I know.”

  “How?”

  “They tried to kill me. Not those two buggers, but others.”

  “That’s why we need to go back.”

  “We will. But first we have to get farther away.”

  This American had no idea what it was like on London’s streets. You didn’t stay around and wait for trouble, and you certainly didn’t go find it.

  He spotted the red, white, and blue symbol for an Underground station, but since he did not have a travel card or money, and there was no time to steal anything, that escape route would do them little good. He actually liked the fact that Gary Malone seemed lost. The cockiness he’d seen in the Atlanta airport, when Gary tackled him during his own escape attempt, had vanished.

  This was his world.

  Where he knew the rules.

  So he led the way as they ran off.

  Ahead he spotted the backwater basin of Little Venice with its fleet of stumpy boats and array of trendy shops. Modern apartment buildings loomed to the left. Traffic encircling the brown-gray pool was moderate, given it was approaching 7:00 PM on a Friday. Most of the stores bordering
the street were still open. Several owners were tending moored boats, rinsing off the sides and shining the lacquered exteriors. One was singing as he worked. Strings of lights decorated the basin above him.

  Ian decided that would be his opportunity.

  He trotted to the stairs and descended from street level to the basin’s edge. The husky man was busily cleaning a teakwood hull. His boat, like all the others, was shaped like a bulging cigar.

  “You going toward the zoo?” he asked.

  The man stopped his dousing. “Not at the moment. Maybe later. Why do you ask?”

  “Thought we’d hitch a lift.”

  The boat people were known for their friendliness, and it wasn’t uncommon for tourists or strangers to be given rides. Two of the water buses that made a living hauling passengers were moored nearby, their cabins empty, the busy weekend coming tomorrow. He tried to appear as this man was surely perceiving him—a young boy itching for some adventure.

  “Getting ready for the weekend?” he asked.

  The man drenched his scalp with the hose and slicked back his black hair. “I’m readying to leave for the weekend. People will be everywhere here. Too crowded for me. Thought I’d head east, down the Thames.”

  The idea sounded appealing. “Need some company?”

  “We can’t leave,” Gary whispered.

  But Ian ignored him.

  The man gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the problem, son? You two in trouble? Where are your parents?”

  Too many questions. “No bother. Don’t worry about it. Just thought it would be fun to take a sail.”

  He glanced up to street level.

  “You seem awful anxious. Got somewhere to be?”

  He wasn’t answering any more questions. “See you around.”

  He started for the towpath that paralleled the canal.

  “Why aren’t you two home?” the man called out as they hustled away.

  “Don’t look back,” he muttered.

  They kept following the gravelly path.