by Steve Berry
Sir Thomas Mathews.
Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
Only 16 men had ever led that agency, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the beginning of the 20th century. Americans liked to call it MI6, a tag attached during World War II.
She stood on the oak plank floor, not quite knowing what to say or do.
“I understand you are a member of the Middle Temple,” he said to her, his voice low and throaty.
She nodded, catching the cockney accent in his vowels. “After I studied law at Oxford, I was granted membership. I ate many a meal in this hall.”
“Then you decided enforcing the law would be more intriguing than interpreting it?”
“Something like that. I enjoy my job.”
He pointed a thin finger at her. “I am familiar with what you did a couple of years ago with the fish.”
She recalled the batches of tropical fish, imported from Colombia and Costa Rica to be sold in British pet stores. Smugglers had dissolved cocaine in small plastic bags, which hung invisibly as they floated with the fish.
But she’d found the ruse.
“Quite clever on your part, discovering that scheme,” he said. “How unfortunate that your career is now in jeopardy.”
She said nothing.
“Frankly, I can sympathize with your superiors. Agents who refuse to show good judgment eventually get themselves, or someone else, killed.”
“Forgive me, but I’ve been insulted enough for one evening.”
“Are you always so forward?”
“As you mentioned, my job is probably gone. What would be gained by being coy?”
“Perhaps my support in saving your career.”
That was unexpected. So she asked, “Then, could you tell me what you want?”
Mathews motioned with his walking stick. “When was the last time you were here, in Middle Hall.”
She thought back. It had been almost a year. A garden party for a friend who’d attainted the rank of bencher, one of the select few who governed the Middle Temple.
“Not in a long time,” she said.
“I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, all stood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”
“Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”
Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”
She maintained a stiff face.
“May I tell you a story?”
PRINCE HENRY ENTERED THE PRIVY CHAMBER AT RICHMOND PALACE. He’d been summoned from Westminster by his father, King Henry VII, and told to come at once. Not an unusual request, considering the odd relationship they’d forged over the past seven years, ever since his brother, Arthur, died and he became heir to the throne. There’d been many summonses, most to either instill or extract a lesson. His father was desperate to know that his kingdom would be safe in the hands of his second son.
The king lay upon a cloth of scarlet and gold, amid pillows, cushions, and bolsters. Tonsured clerics, physicians, and courtesans surrounded the canopy on three sides. The sight shocked him. He’d known of previous illnesses. First a throat infection, then rheumatic fever, chronic fatigue, loss of appetite, and bouts of depression. But he’d not been informed of this latest affliction, one that appeared quite serious.
A confessor stood near the foot of the bed, administering last rites, anointing the bare feet with holy oil. A crucifix was brought close to his father’s lips, which was kissed, then he heard the raspy voice that had so many times chastised him.
“With all his might and power, I call on the Lord for a merciful death.”
He stared at the crafty and calculating man who’d ruled England for twenty-three years. Henry VII had not inherited his crown. Instead, he’d won it on the battlefield, defeating the despicable Richard III at Bosworth Field, ending the time of the Yorks and Lancasters, and creating a new dynasty.
The Tudors.
His father motioned for him to approach. “Death is an enemy who cannot be bought off or deceived. No money or treachery has any effect. For me, finally, death has presented itself.”
He did not know what to say. Experience had taught him that silence worked best. He was the second son, the Duke of York, never intended to be king. That duty was for his older brother, Arthur, his romantic name an effort to further legitimize the Tudor claim to the English throne. Every privilege had been extended to Arthur, including a marriage to the stately Katherine of Aragon, part of a treaty with Spain that solidified England’s growing European position. But Arthur died five months into the marriage, barely sixteen years old, and much had changed in the ensuing seven years.
The Borgia pope Alexander was dead. Pius III lasted only twenty-six days in Peter’s chair. Julius II, boasting that he owned the Sacred College of Cardinals, had been elected God’s vicar. Such a man would listen to reason and, the day after Christmas 1503, at the request of Henry VII, the pope issued a bull of dispensation against the incest of Katherine of Aragon marrying her dead husband’s brother.
So he and Katherine had been betrothed.
But no marriage occurred.
Instead, the dying king in the bed before him had used its possibility as bait with Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, dangling it to obtain more.
“We must speak,” his father said. The throat rattled with each word, lungs gasping for breath. “Your mother, whom I will soon see, held you in great esteem.”
And he’d adored Elizabeth of York. As he was the second son, his mother had actually raised him, teaching him to read and write and think. A beautiful, gentle woman, she died six years ago, not quite a year after her eldest, Arthur. He’d often wondered if any woman would ever measure up to her perfection.
“I loved your mother more than anyone on this earth,” his father said. “Many may not believe that. But it is true.”
Henry’s ears always stayed with his feet—on the ground. He listened to the everyday talk and knew that his father—firm, frigid, hard, tight-hearted and tight-handed—was not popular. His father considered England his, as he alone had won it on the battlefield. The nation owed him. And he’d amassed massive revenues from his many estates, most confiscated from those who’d initially opposed him. He understood the value of extortion and the benefit of benevolences from those who could afford to pay for the privileges they enjoyed—thanks to him.
“We are Christians, my son, and we must have consciences even more tender than the Holy Father himself. Remember that.”
More lessons? He was eighteen years old—tall, stocky, powerful of limb and chest, a man in every way—and tired of being taught. He was a scholar, a poet, a musician. He knew how to choose and use men of ability, and he surrounded himself with those of great intellect. He never shied from pleasure and never neglected his work or duties. He was unafraid of failure.
He once desired to be a priest.
Now he would be king.
He’d sensed the recent air of tension and repentance throughout the palace—death was always a time of royal contrition. There’d be a releasing of prisoners, alms distributed, masses paid for souls. The chancery office at Westminster would fill with people willing to pay for a final pardon. Forgiving times—in more ways than one.
“Blast you hard-hearted brat,” his father suddenly said. “Do you hear me?”
He trembled at his rage, a familiar reflex, and returned his attention to the bed. “I hear you.”
“All of you be gone,” his father commanded.
And those around the bed fled the chamber.
Only father and son remained.
“There is a secret you must know,” his father said. “Something about which I have never spoken to you.”
A faraway look crossed his father’s face.
�
�You shall inherit from me a kingdom rich in wealth and bounty. But I learned long ago never to place my trust entirely with others. You must do likewise. Let others believe you trust them, but trust only yourself. I have amassed a separate wealth, rightfully belonging only to Tudor blood.”
Indeed?
“This I have secreted away, in a place long ago known to the Templars.”
He’d not heard that order’s name in some time. Once they’d been a presence in England, but they were gone now two hundred years. Their churches and compounds remained, scattered in all parts, and he’d visited several. Which one held the secret?
He had to know.
So he offered one last submission.
A final obedient glare.
“Your duty,” his father said, “is to safeguard our wealth and pass it on to your son. I fought to bring this family to the throne and, by God, it is your duty to ensure that we remain there.”
On that they agreed.
“You will like this place. It has served me well and so it shall serve you.”
SHE STARED AT MATHEWS. “IS THAT TRUE?”
He nodded. “As far as we know. This account is contained within archives that are unavailable to the general public.”
“It’s five-hundred-year-old information.”
“Which, amazingly, still has explosive relevance today. Hence why we are here.”
How was that possible? But she stayed silent.
“Sir Thomas Wriothesley wrote an account of what happened that day. April 20, 1509. Henry VII died the following day. Unfortunately, Wriothesley’s account did not record what the father actually told the son. That was learned second hand, from Henry VIII himself, many decades later. What we do know is that Henry VIII passed on the information about this special place to his sixth wife, Katherine Parr, just before he died in 1547. We also know that the value of Henry VII’s wealth, at the time of his death, was around four and a half million pounds. In today’s money that would be incalculable, since most of it was in precious metals, the quantity and quality of which is uncertain. But into the billions of pounds would not be out of the question.”
He then told her about what happened at Henry VIII’s deathbed in January 1547. A conversation between husband and wife similar, in so many ways, to the one thirty-eight years before between father and son.
“Henry VIII was foolish when it came to women,” Mathews said. “He misplaced his trust in Katherine Parr, who hated Henry. The last thing she would do is pass that information on to Edward VI.” The older man paused. “Do you know much about Katherine Parr?”
She shook her head.
Mathews explained that she was born to one of Henry VIII’s early courtesans, named after his first wife, Katherine of Aragon. Highly educated, she spoke French, Spanish, and Italian. Henry married her in 1543. When he died in 1547 she was but thirty-six. Shortly after she married a fourth time, to Thomas Seymour, and eventually became pregnant. She moved to Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire and gave birth to a daughter in August 1548, but died six days later. Seymour himself lived until March 1549, when he was executed for treason. After that, Katherine Parr, Thomas Seymour, and their daughter, Mary, faded into oblivion.
“But that may no longer be the case,” Mathews said.
Something serious is happening here. That’s what her supervisor had said at Windsor. All of the talk about her SOCA career being over and being back in Middle Hall had stirred memories of sitting at the tables, with other barristers and students, and taking a meal, a duty required periodically from all Temple members. Once, centuries ago, they’d blow a horn on the hall steps half an hour before dinner. But the horn could not be heard by those hunting hares on the Thames far bank, so it was eventually retired to the vault.
She’d often imagined what it must have been like, hundreds of years ago, living here, reading law. Maybe she’d be back soon, as an ex-agent, to see for herself.
Time for a little pushback.
“Why am I here?”
Her supervisor had said, They asked for you.
“Blake Antrim.”
A name she’d not heard in a long time. And to hear it here, in Middle Hall, only compounded her surprise.
“Apparently you are aware that Antrim and I were once close.”
“We were hoping someone within one of our agencies would be familiar with him. A computer search revealed a rather glowing recommendation written by Antrim, as part of your application for SOCA employment.”
“I have not seen or spoken to him in ten years.”
And never wanted to again.
“Your father was a Middle Templar,” Mathews said. “As were your grandfather and great-grandfather. Each a barrister. Your great-grandfather was a bencher. You were to follow them. But you left the law and became an inspector. Yet to this day you diligently retain your Temple membership, never shirking any obligation. Why is that?”
She’d been thoroughly checked out. Some of that was not in her SOCA personnel file. “Why I chose not to practice law is irrelevant.”
“I do not agree. In fact, it might become an overriding truth that none of us can ignore.”
She said nothing and he seemed to sense her hesitancy.
With his mahogany cane Mathews again gestured to the hall. For the first time she noticed the ivory globe that formed its handle, the continents etched in black upon its polished surface. “This building has stood 500 years, and remains one of the last Tudor structures. Supposedly, the War of the Roses started just outside, in the garden. Sides were chosen in 1430 by the pick of a flower. The Lancasterians plucked a red rose—the Yorks white—and fifty-five years of civil war began.” He paused. “These Temple grounds have seen so much of our history—and they endure, becoming more relevant with each passing year.”
He’d still not answered her original question.
“Why did you ask me to come here?”
“May I show you?”
Eleven
MALONE GATHERED UP HIS AND GARY’S CLOTHES, REPLACING everything in their travel bags. He noticed how Gary had packed light, like he’d taught him. His head still hurt from the pounding to the pavement, his field of vision fuzzy. Ian helped him, and made no attempt to leave. To be safe, though, Malone kept Ian between himself and the mews’ rear wall.
He sat back down on the pavement and allowed his mind to clear. The rain outside had slackened to a mist. The air was chilly, which helped, but he was glad for his leather jacket.
“You okay?” Ian asked.
“Not really. My head took a banging.”
He rubbed his scalp, careful of the sore knot. All he could think about was Gary, but he needed information and its main source was right here.
“I didn’t mean to leave your son,” Ian said. “I told Gary to jump.”
“He’s not you.”
“He told me on the plane that you’re not his real dad.”
Hearing that jarred him. “I’m not his birth dad, but I am his real dad.”
“He wants to know who that is.”
“He told you that?”
Ian nodded.
Now was not the time to delve into this. “How much trouble are you in?”
“No bother. I’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t ask you that. How much trouble?”
Ian said nothing.
He needed answers. Pieces were missing. And where before it had not mattered, now, with Gary gone, he had to know.
“How did you get from London to Georgia?”
“After I ran from the car with that flash drive, men started looking for me. Some came to visit Miss Mary, but she told them nothing.”
“Who is that?”
“She owns a bookshop in Piccadilly. The men came there, and to other places I go, asking questions. I finally met a guy who offered me a trip to the States, so I took it.”
Stephanie had told him that Ian had been detained by Customs in Miami, trying to enter the country on a false passport. His traveling c
ompanion, an Irish national wanted on several outstanding warrants, had also been arrested. No telling what plans that man ultimately had for Ian. Free trips were never free.
“You know that guy was bad.”
Ian nodded. “I was planning on getting away from him as soon as we left the airport. I can handle myself.”
But he questioned that observation. Obviously the boy had been scared enough to run. Stephanie told him that the CIA had been searching for Ian since mid-October. When caught in Miami—the name flagged—they’d immediately assumed custody, and he was flown to Atlanta.
All they needed was an escort back to England.
Which he became.
“Why’d you run away from me in the Atlanta airport?”
“I didn’t want to come back here.”
“You have no family?”
“Don’t need any.”
“Did you ever go to school?” he asked.
“I’m not thick and wet. I can read. Wouldn’t be any wiser if I went to school every day.”
He’d apparently struck a nerve. “How many times have you been in jail?”
“A few, after a spot of trouble.”
But he wondered how far the tough act went. He’d caught the flicker of fear back in Georgia when Ian first realized they were headed for London.
He’d also spotted the confusion in his own son’s face.
Two weeks ago Gary’s life was certain. He had a mother and father, a family, though scattered on two continents. Now he’d been told that he had a birth father, too. Gary wanted to know who that man was. Pam was wrong withholding the name. Surely it frightened Gary that he was no longer a Malone, at least not by blood. So wanting to know where he’d come from was natural.
“Gary said you were once a secret agent for the government. Like James Bond.”
