by Steve Berry
Cecil’s first son, Thomas, was more suited to soldiering than government. William himself held the work of an army in low esteem. A reign gaineth more by one year’s peace than ten years’ war. William eventually became high treasurer, was knighted and made a baron, Lord Burghley. He served the queen until his death in 1598 when his second son, Robert, became Lord Burghley and assumed the post as Elizabeth’s chief adviser.
“William Cecil was quite an administrator,” Eva said. “One of the best in our history. Elizabeth owes much of her success to him. He founded the Cecil barony, which still exists today. Two prime ministers have come from that family.”
“But aren’t they all Cambridge graduates?” Kathleen asked, with a smile.
“We won’t hold that against them.
“Robert Cecil was like his father,” Eva said, “but more devious. He died young, age 48, in 1612. He served Elizabeth the last five years of her reign and James I for the first nine of his, both as secretary of state. He was also James’ spymaster. He discovered the Gunpowder Plot and saved James I’s life. The great Francis Walsingham was his teacher.”
She knew that name, the man regarded as the father of British intelligence.
“Walsingham was an odd man,” Eva said. “He constantly wore dark clothes and cast himself in secrecy. He was rude and could be quite crude, but the queen valued his advice and respected his competency, so she tolerated his eccentricities. It was Walsingham who uncovered the treasonous evidence that forced Elizabeth to execute her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. Walsingham who laid the groundwork for the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Eventually, Elizabeth knighted him. I tell you this because I want you to understand the personalities who trained Robert Cecil. Unfortunately, Robert, like his father, left few written records. So it is difficult to say exactly what Robert Cecil may or may not have known and what he truly accomplished. But there is one thing history confirms.”
She was listening.
“He ensured that James I succeeded Elizabeth.”
How all of this related to Blake Antrim escaped her, but obviously it did. Mathews had sent her here for a reason.
So she kept listening.
“Elizabeth never married and never birthed a child,” Eva said. “She was the last of five Tudor monarchs, reigning forty-five years. Toward the end everyone was nervous. Who would succeed her? There were many contenders, and the prospect of civil war loomed great. Robert Cecil made sure it would be James, the son of Elizabeth’s dead cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, now the Scottish king. There is a series of letters between Robert and James that have survived, which detail how that was accomplished. This happened between 1601 and Elizabeth’s death in 1603. The Union of Crowns, it’s called. Scotland joined with England. The beginnings of Great Britain. When James assumed both thrones, this country began to change. Forever.”
“Robert Cecil made that happen?”
“Indeed, but Elizabeth herself confirmed that.”
ROBERT CECIL AND THE LORD ADMIRAL CAME CLOSE TO THE BED. ROBERT stood at the foot, the admiral and several other lords on either side.
“Your Majesty,” the lord admiral said. “We must ask this of you. Who do you desire to succeed you?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Where yesterday they had seemed weak and near death, Robert now saw in them something of the fire this old woman had displayed before taking to her bed.
“I tell you my seat hath been the seat of kings. I will have no rascal to succeed me, and who should succeed me but a king?”
The words were barely a whisper, but all there heard them clearly. A few of the lords appeared puzzled by the cryptic response, but Cecil understood perfectly, so he asked, “A name, Your Majesty.”
“Who but our cousin of Scotland?”
The effort seemed to tax what little strength she possessed.
“I pray you trouble me no more,” she said.
The lords withdrew and discussed what they’d heard. Many were unsure, as Cecil thought would be the case. So the next day they returned to Elizabeth’s bedside with a larger, more representative group. Unfortunately, the queen’s ability to speak had waned. She was fading fast.
Cecil bent close and said to her, “Majesty, these gentlemen require a further sign that your cousin, King James of Scotland, is your choice. I beg you to provide them that.”
Elizabeth’s eyes signaled that she understood and the men waited. Slowly, her arms rose from the sheets to her head. Her fingers joined in a circle, forming a crown, which she held there for a moment.
No one could now argue as to her intent.
A few hours later, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, died.
“Cecil was ready,” Eva said. “He assembled the council and informed them of her announced choice. The witnesses who were there confirmed the truth. Then, the next morning, from Whitehall Palace, heralded by trumpets, he personally read a proclamation declaring King James VI of Scotland, James I, King of England. That same proclamation was read all over the land throughout that day. Not a word of opposition was raised. In one clean move, Robert Cecil ensured a swift, bloodless succession from a monarch who left no direct heirs. Pretty skilled, wouldn’t you say?”
“But you’re going to have to explain what all this means in relation to what Sir Thomas wants me to do.”
“I know. And I plan to. The rain seems to have finally abated outside, let’s enjoy the quad.”
They stepped from the hall into one of the college’s grassy quadrangles. Gothic buildings, most of their windows dark, enclosed them on all four sides. Darkened archways and doors led in and out. The rain was indeed gone, the night sky clear.
They were alone.
“Though both Cecils were secretive,” Eva said, “and left nearly nothing in the way of personal papers, there is one artifact from them that survived. I am told that you saw an image of it earlier.”
She recalled the page with gibberish.
“Robert’s coded notebook was preserved at Hatfield House, where he lived until he died in 1612. Unfortunately, that original volume was stolen almost a year ago.”
One of those thefts her supervisor had described. “I was told a man named Farrow Curry may have solved the code.”
“He may have. Which is why it is imperative that you retrieve whatever data Curry may have accumulated.”
“The page I saw was incomprehensible.”
“Exactly how Cecil wanted it to be. That code has never been cracked. But we have clues as to how that might be accomplished. Would you like to see more images from the journal?”
She nodded.
“I have them inside. You wait here, and I’ll retrieve them.”
The professor turned and headed back toward the lit hall.
Kathleen heard a pop, like hands clapping.
Then another.
She turned.
A ragged hole exploded in the knit material at Eva’s right shoulder. The older woman let out a strangled grunt.
Another pop.
Blood spewed.
Eva fell forward to the stone.
Kathleen whirled and spotted the outline of a shooter on the far roof, maybe thirty meters away.
Who was readjusting his rifle’s aim.
At her.
Seventeen
ANTRIM APPROACHED THE TOWER OF LONDON. THE ANCIENT taupe-colored citadel nestled near the Thames, the picturesque Tower Bridge nearby. What was once an enormous moat encircling the fortress was now a sea of emerald grass, lit by a sodium vapor glow, that spanned a void between the imposing wall curtain and the street. A cool night breeze, which had blown away the storm, eased off the river.
He knew the area from his childhood, recalling the array of nearby textile sweatshops, clothing stores, and Bengali restaurants. The East End was once the city’s dumping ground, a place where immigrants first settled. Tomorrow, Saturday, market day, meant the alleys would be filled with vendors hawking fresh fruit and secondhand clothes. He rem
embered as a kid roaming these streets, getting to know the peddlers, learning about life.
His target was strolling ahead of him at a brisk pace, but lingered a few moments before a music hall advertising a cabaret show.
Then the man crossed the street.
A multistory car park rose to the right, but the dark-haired gentleman kept strolling, the Union Jack, lit by floodlights, fluttering high above the Tower. The site was closed for the day, the admission booths dark and empty. Beyond, on the banks of the Thames, people milled back and forth, the illuminated Tower Bridge in the distance heavy with stop-and-go traffic. The dark-haired man ventured to the riverbank, then sat on one of the benches.
Antrim approached and sat beside him.
Winter’s prelude clawed its way from the cold stone through the seat of his pants. Thank goodness he’d worn gloves and a lined coat.
“I hope this is important,” the other man said to him. “I had plans tonight.”
“One of my men was just killed.”
The man kept his gaze out to the river.
He explained what had happened inside St. Paul’s. The man, a senior deputy to America’s ambassador to the United Kingdom, faced him. “Do the Brits know what we’re doing?”
The meeting had been arranged by Langley, after he’d reported some but not all of what happened. He’d specifically omitted who’d killed his man in St. Paul’s and what happened in the Temple Church.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s under control.”
“Is it, Antrim? Really? Under control?”
They were in public, so decorum was required.
“Do you understand what’s at stake here?” the man asked.
Sure he did, but thought it best to cast a smoke screen of goodwill. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“The Scottish government is about to release al-Megrahi. That insanity is happening. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died on that plane. Eleven Scots died on the ground. But everyone seems to have forgotten all that.”
“The CIA lost a station chief on Pan Am 103. So did the Defense Intelligence Agency and the Diplomatic Security Service. Four agents flying home. I understand what’s at stake.”
“And we were told that you had a way to stop it. That, of course, was a year ago. Yet here we are, no closer to stopping anything. That prisoner release will show just how weak we are in the world right now. Can you imagine how this is going to play? Kaddafi will laugh in our faces. He’ll parade al-Megrahi before every news camera he can find. The message will be crystal clear. We can’t even get one of our allies to hold on to a mass murderer—a man who killed some of their own people. I need to know. Can you stop this?”
He was awaiting word that everything had gone right in that mews with Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne, but was a bit disturbed that he hadn’t received any further reports.
“The way to stop this,” he said, “is to force the British to intervene. The Scots normally can’t take a crap without London’s consent. They have little to no home rule. So we both know the Scottish government is acting with the Brits’ tacit consent. One word from London and that deal with the Libyans would be off.”
“Like I don’t know that.”
“I’m working on leverage that could force the British to act.”
“Which we have not been briefed on.”
“And you won’t, until we have it. But we’re close. Real close.”
“Unfortunately, your time is about up. We’re told this transfer is going to happen within the next few days.”
News to him. Langley had omitted that tidbit, most likely since, per the flash alert earlier, King’s Deception was about to be scrapped. The death of an agent just made that decision more imperative. He wondered, were they setting him up to fail? He’d seen it done before. Nobody at the director level was going to take the blame for these mistakes when there was someone lower on the pole available.
You are a worthless little man.
Denise’s words from Brussels, which still stung.
“The sorry son of a bitch Libyan,” the diplomat said, “should have been hung or shot, but the stupid Scottish have no death penalty. Progressive, they call it. Stupid as hell, if you ask me.”
For some reason, on this issue, the British were willing to snub their closest ally in the world. If not for the CIA learning of the private talks no one would have known until the deal had been done. Luckily, negotiations had dragged on through back channels. But apparently, that time was coming to an end.
“You’re it,” the man said. “We have no way to force London to do anything. We’ve tried asking, offering, reciprocating, even pleading. Downing Street says it’s not getting involved. Your operation is all we have left. Can. You. Make. It. Happen?”
He’d worked for the Central Intelligence Agency long enough to know that when a frustrated politician, in a position of power, asked if you could make something happen, there was but one correct response.
But he knew that would be a lie.
He was no closer to solving the problem than he had been a month ago, or a year ago. Ian Dunne’s reemergence offered hope but, at this point, he had no way of knowing if that hope would be salvation.
So he said the only thing he could, “I don’t know.”
The diplomat turned his head back toward the river. The last of the day’s scenic cruises motored by, headed west, from Greenwich.
“At least you’re being honest,” the man said, his voice low. “That’s more than others can say.”
“I want to know something,” Antrim said. “Why are the British unwilling to intervene? It seems out of character. What do they have to gain by letting that murderer go?”
The diplomat stood.
“It’s complicated and not your concern. Just do your job. Or at least what’s left of it.”
And the man walked off.
Eighteen
OXFORD
KATHLEEN DOVE BEHIND A DAMP STONE BENCH, JUST AS THE shooter aimed her way. Her body was coiled, poised for action. Each exhale of her breath clouded in the brisk night air.
She spotted the gunman, who was using the crenellated roofline high above for cover, the dark slate roof behind him absorbing his shadow. The rifle appeared sound-suppressed—she’d spotted a bulge at the end of its long barrel. She was unarmed. SOCA agents rarely carried guns. If firepower was needed, policy mandated that the local police be involved. The quadrangle was devoid of cover, save for the few concrete benches scattered along the crisscrossing walkways. Six ornamental lights burned with an amber glow. She stole a look at Eva Pazan, who lay facedown, motionless on the steps leading up to the archway.
“Professor Pazan,” she called out.
Nothing.
“Professor.”
She saw the shooter disappear from his perch.
She used the moment and darted left into a covered porch, the mahogany door that led into the building decorated with a shiny brass knob and knocker.
She tried the latch. Locked.
She banged on the knocker and hoped somebody was inside.
No reply.
She was now flush against the building, below the shooter, out of his firing angle, protected by a stone awning above her. But with the door locked and no one responding to her pleas, she remained trapped. Another doorway opened ten meters away, this one more elaborate and pedimented with palms and cherubs in the tympanum. Lights from inside illuminated tracery windows in a dim glow. Greenery formed a narrow bed between a concrete walk and the exterior façade. A bower of wisteria hugged the stone wall and rose toward the roof. If she hurried and stayed close she could make it. The shooter above would have to lean straight down in order to acquire a shot. With a rifle that would take time.
Maybe just enough.
She kept her back to the locked door and stared out into the quadrangle. Training came to mind, where she’d been taught to flatten against a wall to offer the slimmest target.
Her mind race
d.
Who was trying to kill her and the professor?
Who knew she’d be here?
She sucked in a breath and steeled herself. She’d certainly been in tight situations before, but always with backup nearby. Nothing like this.
But she could handle it.
A quick peek beyond the covered doorway and she saw nothing.
One.
Two.
With a burst of adrenaline, she rushed out and ran the ten meters toward the other entrance, quickly finding cover beneath its stone pediment.
No shots came her way.
Was the shooter gone?
Or was he coming down to ground level?
An arched oak door stood closed, but its latch opened. Inside was the college chapel, the nave long and narrow, lined on either side with carved benches beneath tracery windows.
Like St. George’s Chapel, only smaller.
Elaborate patterns of marble made up the floor and a muted stained-glass window loomed over the altar at the far end. Three fixtures threw off an orangey glow. Though she was inside, away from the shooter, a quick look around confirmed that the door she’d just entered was the only way in or out. Above her rose an organ nestled against the building’s rear wall, its pipes reaching toward a vaulted ceiling. A narrow set of stairs led up to where the instrument was played.
From behind the organ, three meters above her, a man appeared.
His face was hooded, and he wore a dark jacket.
He aimed a weapon and fired.
IAN RODE IN THE CAB WITH COTTON MALONE, HOLDING THE plastic bag with its varied contents. Malone had returned it to him.
He unzipped the top and lifted out the books.
Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.
Malone pointed to the title pages. “My books are owner-stamped like that, too.”
“Where’d you get that name? Cotton?”
“It’s shorter than my full name, Harold Earl Malone.”
“But why Cotton?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You don’t like answering questions, either, do you?”
