by Steve Berry
Off to his right, and above, he spotted a blue Mercedes turn onto the encircling avenue. He hoped it wasn’t the same car, but when Norse climbed out he realized they were in trouble. Their position below the street and by the canal was not good. Escape options were limited to front and back since water flowed to their right and a stone wall rose to their left.
He saw that Gary realized their predicament, too.
All they could do was run down the towpath and follow the canal, but Norse and Devene would certainly catch them. He knew that once they left the basin it would be nearly impossible to escape the canal’s steep banks, as property fronting the waterway was fenced. So he rushed toward a set of stairs and leaped up the stone steps two at a time. At the top he turned right and dashed across an iron bridge that arched over the canal. The span was narrow, pedestrian only, and empty. Halfway toward the other side the Mercedes wheeled up and screeched to a halt. Devene climbed out and started toward the bridge.
He and Gary turned to flee the way they’d come and were met by Norse, who stood ten meters away.
Their pursuers seemed to have anticipated their move.
“Let’s stop this foolishness,” Norse said. “You know what I want. Just give me the drive.”
“I threw it away.”
“Give it to me. Don’t piss me off.”
“Where’s my dad?” Gary asked.
Ian liked the distraction. “Where is his dad?”
“That Yank’s not your problem. We’re your problem.”
Norse and Devene were creeping toward them. The bridge was only two people wide and both ends were now blocked.
His pursuers were less than ten meters away.
To his left he caught sight of the beefy man with black hair motoring his boat away from its moor. Apparently he was heading for the Thames early. The boat’s bow swung left, straight toward the bridge. He needed to buy a few moments so he thrust his right hand into his jacket and lunged toward the iron rail.
He quickly withdrew his hand and plunged it over the side. “Not a step closer or what you want goes into the water.”
Both men stopped their advance.
Norse raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now, there’s no need for that. Give it to us and we’ll be done with you.”
He silently breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, neither man had seen that his closed fist contained nothing. He kept his arm pushed below the railing where the angle did not allow Norse or Devene to discover his ruse.
“How about fifty pounds,” Norse said. “Fifty pounds for the drive and you can go away.”
The chug from the boat’s motor drew closer and the bow disappeared on the far side of the bridge.
This was going to be close.
“Make it a hundred,” he said.
Norse reached into his pocket.
“Jump over the side,” he whispered to Gary. “Onto the boat that’s coming.”
A wad of money appeared in Norse’s hand.
“Do it,” he breathed.
With Norse deciding what he was going to pay and Devene taking his cue from the one clearly in charge, Ian grabbed the iron rail and hurled his body up and over.
He fell the three meters down, hoping to heaven the longboat would be there. He slammed onto the cabin roof feetfirst, then recoiled, losing his balance. He grabbed onto a short metal rail and held on as his legs swung out into open air. His feet grazed the water but he managed to pull himself up as the boat cleared the bridge and continued its cruise down the canal.
The big man with black hair stood at the stern navigating the wheel. “Thought you could use some help.”
He glanced back and saw Norse leap into the air, trying to duplicate what he’d just done. The man’s body hurled down the three meters and found the stern. But the boat’s owner rammed an elbow into Norse’s chest, sending the phony inspector into the water.
He watched as Norse surfaced and climbed from the canal onto the bank.
The lighted bridge was now fifty meters in the distance.
It disappeared as the canal doglegged right.
The last thing he saw was Gary Malone in the clutches of Devene. Why had Gary not jumped? He couldn’t worry about that now.
He had to go.
He searched the path ahead and spied another lit bridge. This one wider, stronger, made of brick. Cars moved back and forth above. As the boat eased toward it he leaped off onto the grassy bank. He heard his rescuer call out as he rolled onto the towpath.
“Where you going? Thought you wanted to sail?”
He stood and waved goodbye as he scampered toward a metal ladder and climbed to the street. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. He crossed the roadway and found refuge in the doorway of a closed pub. Two potted plants shielded the niche from traffic.
He shrank to the ground and gathered himself.
The acrid odor of London soaked his nostrils. He kept a close eye out for the blue Mercedes, but Norse and Devene would not assume he’d stay in the area, particularly after making such a bold escape. He caught the enticing aroma of fresh bread from a bakery a few doors down, which only aggravated his hunger. He’d not eaten since the little bit of lunch offered on the flight hours ago. People occasionally passed by on the sidewalk, but no one paid him any mind. Few ever did. What would it be like to be special? Perhaps even unique. He could only imagine. He’d quit school early, but stayed long enough to learn how to read and write. He was glad for that. Reading provided one of his few joys.
Which brought to mind the plastic bag Cotton Malone had carried.
His things.
A look was worth the chance.
So he fled the alcove.
Five
LONDON
6:30 PM
BLAKE ANTRIM CLIMBED FROM THE CAB INTO THE MISTY night. A storm had arrived an hour ago, draping the city in a cool, soggy blanket. Before him rose the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he hoped the weather would discourage the usual throng of visitors.
He paid the driver, then climbed broad concrete steps to the church’s entrance, the massive wooden doors easing shut behind him. The last gong from Big Tom, the clock that filled the south tower, completed its announcement of the half hour.
He’d flown over immediately after speaking to his agent on the ground, utilizing a State Department jet from Brussels to London. On the short flight he’d reviewed all of the reports on King’s Deception, refamiliarizing himself with every detail of the operation.
The problem was simple.
Scotland planned to release Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a former Libyan intelligence officer convicted in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. In 2001 al-Megrahi was sentenced to life imprisonment, but now, after only a few years behind bars, he’d contracted cancer. So, for so-called humanitarian reasons, the Scots were going to allow al-Megrahi to die in Libya. No official announcement of the release decision had occurred as yet, since the highly secret negotiations were still ongoing. The CIA had learned of the proposal over a year ago and Washington had already voiced strong opposition, insisting that Downing Street stop it. But the English had refused, saying this was an internal Scottish affair in which they could not meddle.
Since friggin’ when? the diplomats had asked.
London had been meddling in Edinburgh’s politics for a thousand years. The fact that the two nations were united under the mantle of Great Britain just made things easier.
But they’d still refused.
Al-Megrahi going home to Libya would be a slap in the face to the 189 murdered Americans. It had taken the CIA thirteen years to apprehend the accused, try him, and obtain a guilty verdict.
Now to just let him go?
Kaddafi, Libya’s leader, would rub al-Megrahi’s return in Washington’s face, only amplifying his position among Arab leaders. Terrorists around the world would be fortified, their causes becoming that much more important in light of a weak America that could not even
keep a friend from turning a murderer loose.
He unbuttoned his wet overcoat and approached the high altar, passing a side chapel where red-shielded candles sparkled in the amber light. His agent had selected this locale for their meeting because he’d been working in the church’s archives all day, using false journalistic credentials, searching for more information.
He followed the south aisle to the base of a spiral stairway and glanced around one more time. His hopes about the weather seemed to have been granted. Few people milled about. Thankfully, Operation King’s Deception had, so far, generated no British interest.
He stepped through an archway to a staircase that corkscrewed a path upward. He passed the time climbing by counting. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps came and went beneath his leather soles before he reached the Whispering Gallery.
Waiting for him was a fair-skinned man with pale green eyes and a balding head mottled with brownish age spots. What he lacked in looks he made up for in skill, as he was one of Antrim’s best historical analysts, which was exactly what this operation required.
He stepped from the doorway into a narrow circular gallery. A polished iron railing offered the only protection from a one-hundred-foot drop down to the nave’s marble floor. He spotted the design etched into the marble below, a compasslike insignia centered by a brass grille. He knew that beneath that floor, in the crypt, lay the tomb of Christopher Wren, the architect who almost 400 years before had labored to construct St. Paul’s. Encircling the sunlike design was a Latin inscription dedicated to Wren. READER, IF YOU SEEK HIS MONUMENT, LOOK AROUND YOU.
Antrim did.
Not bad, at all.
The aisle between the railing and the gallery’s stone wall was little more than a yard wide, usually filled with camera-toting tourists. Tonight it loomed empty, save for them.
“What name are you using?” he asked in a low voice.
“Gaius Wells.”
He allowed his attention to drift up into the dome. Backlit frescoes depicting the life of St. Paul stared back at him.
The sound of rain quickened on the roof.
“We currently have Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne in the car, being transported,” Wells said. “I hope that boy kept the flash drive. If so, this gamble might still pay off.”
He wasn’t so sure.
“The puzzle we’re solving is 500 years old,” his man said. “The pieces were carefully hidden. It’s been tough finding them, but we’re making progress. Unfortunately, Henry VIII’s grave revealed nothing.”
He’d approved that risky move because Farrow Curry’s untimely death had set them back, so the chance had to be taken. The tomb had been inspected only once before, in 1813. At that time the king himself, William IV, had been present and everything that happened was meticulously recorded. No mention of opening Henry’s coffin had appeared anywhere in those accounts. Which meant those remains had laid inviolate since 1548. He was hoping they might discover that the fat old Tudor had taken the secret with him to his grave.
But there’d been nothing but bones.
Another failure.
And costly.
“Unfortunately,” he said. “The Brits will now be on alert. We abused their royal chapel.”
“It was a clean in and out. No witnesses. They’d never suspect us.”
“Do we know any more about how Curry died?”
A month had passed since Farrow Curry either fell or was pushed into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Ian Dunne had been there, picking Curry’s pocket, and had been seen holding a flash drive before assaulting a man, then fleeing the station. They needed to hear what the boy had to say, and they wanted that flash drive.
The rain continued to fall outside.
“You realize that this could all be legend,” Wells said. “Not a shred of truth to any of it.”
“So what was it Curry found? Why was he so excited?”
True, Curry had called a few hours before he died and reported a breakthrough. He was a CIA contract analyst with a degree in encryption, specifically assigned to King’s Deception. But with his sorry lack of progress over the past few months, Antrim had been leaning toward replacing him. The call changed that, and he’d sent a man to meet Curry at Oxford Circus, the two of them off to investigate whatever it was Curry had found. But they never connected. Murder? Suicide? Accident? Nobody knew. Could the flash drive Ian Dunne was seen holding provide answers?
He certainly hoped so.
“I’ll be here, in town, from this point on,” he told Wells.
Tonight he’d visit one of his favorite restaurants. His culinary skills were limited to microwave directions on a box, so he ate most meals out, choosing quality over economy. Maybe a particular waitress he knew would be on duty. If not, he’d give her a call. They’d enjoyed themselves several times in the past.
“I need to ask,” Wells said. “Why involve Cotton Malone in all of this? Seems unnecessary.”
“We can use all the help we can get.”
“He’s retired. I don’t see where he’d be an asset.”
“He can be.”
And that was all he intended to offer.
An exit opened a few feet away, the one he’d used to climb to the gallery. Another waited on the far side. “Stay here until I’m gone. No use being seen together down below.”
He traversed the circular walk, hugging the cathedral’s upper walls and came to the far side. Wells stood a hundred feet away, staring across at him. A placard beside the exit informed him that if he spoke softly into the wall, the words could be heard on the other side.
Hence, the Whispering Gallery.
He decided to give it a try. He faced the gray stone wall and murmured, “Make sure we don’t screw things up with Malone and Dunne.”
A wave confirmed that he’d been understood.
Wells disappeared into the archway. Antrim was about to do the same when a pop echoed across the still air.
Then a cry from the other side.
Another pop.
The cry became a moan.
He raced back across and glanced inside the exit, saw nothing, then advanced forward. A few steps down the circular way he found Wells on the stone steps, facedown, blood pouring from two wounds. He rolled him over and spotted a flicker of disbelief in the eyes.
Wells opened his mouth to speak.
“Hang in there,” Antrim said. “I’ll get help.”
Wells’ hand clutched his coat sleeve.
“Not … supposed to … happen.”
Then the body went limp.
He checked for a pulse. None.
Reality jarred him.
What the hell?
He heard footfalls below, receding away. He was unarmed. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Why would he? He started down the 259 steps, keeping watch, concerned that the shooter could be waiting around the next turn. He came to the bottom and carefully peered out into the nave, seeing only a handful of visitors. Across, in the far transept, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward the exit doors.
A man.
Who stopped, turned, and aimed his gun.
Antrim dove to the floor.
But no bullet came his way.
He sprang to his feet and saw the shooter flee out the exit doors.
He rushed ahead and pushed the bronze portal open.
Darkness had rolled in.
Rain continued to wash down.
He caught sight of the man, beyond the steps that led from the church, trotting away toward Fleet Street.
Six
GARY MALONE HAD BEEN WRESTLED FROM THE BRIDGE AND forced back into the Mercedes. His hands had been tied behind his back, his head covered with a wool mask.
He was afraid. Who wouldn’t be? But he was even more concerned about his dad and what may have happened in that garage. He never should have run, but he’d followed his father’s order. He should have ignored Ian and stayed close by. Instead, Ian leaped off that bridge. Sure, he’d been t
old to jump, too. But what sane person would have done that? Norse tried and failed, the man, in his wet clothes, cursing all the way during the drive in the car.
Ian Dunne had guts, that he’d give him.
But so did he.
Yesterday he was home packing, his mind in turmoil. Two weeks ago his mother told him that the man he’d called dad all of his life was not his natural father. She’d explained what happened before he was born—an affair, a pregnancy—confessing to her mistake and apologizing. At first he’d accepted it and decided, what did it matter? His father was his father. But he quickly began to question that decision.
It did matter.
Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he belong? With his mother, as a Malone? Or with someone else?
He had no idea.
But he wanted to know.
He didn’t have to return to school for another ten days, and was looking forward to a Thanksgiving holiday in Copenhagen, thousands of miles from Georgia. He had to get away.
At least for a while.
A swarm of bitter feelings had settled inside him that he was finding increasingly hard to control. He’d always been respectful, obeying his mother, not making any trouble, but her lies were weighing on him. She told him all the time to tell the truth.
So why hadn’t she?
“You ready?” his mother asked him before they’d left for the airport. “You’re off to England, I hear.”
His dad had explained they were going to make a stop in London and drop a boy named Ian Dunne off with the police, then catch a connecting plane for Copenhagen. He noticed her red, watery eyes. “You been crying?”
She nodded. “I don’t like it when you go. I miss you.”
“It’s just for the week.”
“I hope that’s all.”
He knew what she meant, a reference to their conversation from last week when, for the first time, he’d said he might want to live somewhere else.
She bit her lip. “We can work this through, Gary.”
“Tell me who my birth father is.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“No. You won’t. There’s a difference.”
“I promised myself I would never have him part of our life. I made a mistake being with him, but not a mistake in having you.”
