by Steve Berry
She spotted Mathews at the far end to her right and marched toward him. He still carried the look of a well-groomed diplomat with his pressed suit and walking stick. In the incandescent light she noticed something not caught earlier. A pale, sullen cast to his skin, along with fleshy jowls.
“I enjoy returning here,” the older man said. “Queen’s College is impressive, but I always thought Pembroke turned out the best-looking, most talented men.”
A tight twist of his thin lips conveyed that he’d made a joke. About himself. Something told her that was a rare event.
“I should have known you were a Pembroke man.”
“Forty-two years ago I took my degree. Not much has changed here since then. That’s the lovely thing about this town. Always the same.”
She wanted to know about Eva Pazan.
“A disturbing thing you reported,” he said. “I failed to realize the scope and breadth of what is clearly afoot. The man who accosted you inside the chapel, we have dealt with his group before. They also confronted Blake Antrim earlier in the Temple Church.”
“Which you obviously knew, since you brought me there.”
“That is right. But we did not know they were aware of your involvement. The idea had been for you and me to observe Antrim, unnoticed. That means I have a security problem.”
“What is this group?”
“In years past they have not presented any major problems. The last time they became so brazen was before the Second World War, when Edward VIII abdicated.”
Every British citizen knew the tale of the king who fell in love with an American divorcée.
“What is this group?”
“It is called the Daedalus Society. Best we can tell it was formed at the beginning of the 17th century by Robert Cecil.”
“Pazan told me about him. He was close to both Elizabeth and James I.”
“He was responsible for James becoming king, with Elizabeth’s help of course. The Scot owed Robert Cecil his throne.”
“Should we not be searching for the professor?”
“No, Miss Richards, we should not. There are people who will deal with what happened, and have already been dispatched. Our task is to move forward. In this business, no one person can do it all.”
His rebuke came in a voice hard as steel, the tone daring her to challenge him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“The presence of this Daedalus Society complicates matters. I urge you to keep your wits about you.”
Your first and final warning.
Leave this be.
“I think I should be issued a firearm.”
Mathews fished beneath his coat, removed an automatic pistol, and handed it to her. “Take mine.”
She checked the magazine and ensured it was fully loaded.
“Don’t trust me?” he asked.
“At the moment, Sir Thomas, I don’t know what to think.”
“I would have thought the excitement you experienced mild, considering your past history.”
He was beginning to rub her the wrong way. “I do what I have to when I have to.”
“I have managed other agents with a similar attitude, most of whom are either now dead or no longer in my employ.”
“I didn’t ask for this assignment.”
“Quite right. I chose you, and I knew what I was getting, right?”
“Something like that.”
He nodded. “You have a healthy attitude, that I will grant you.”
She was waiting for him to tell her what was next.
“If you recall,” he said. “At the Inns of Court I told you about the two Henrys and Katherine Parr, and the great secret that passed among them. A sanctuary, perhaps the vault where the majority of the Tudor wealth was hidden.”
“This is about buried treasure?”
She caught his annoyance.
“Only partly, Miss Richards. And why do you sound so incredulous? That vault could hold a wealth of information. We know that secret passages connected then, and still do, many of the Whitehall government buildings. Something you surely are aware of.”
She was. Accessible today through coded doors. She’d once ventured down into one of the tunnels.
“Henry VIII used similar passages to access his tennis court and bowling alley at Whitehall Palace. We think there were other passages with different uses, ones his father either created or discovered. Ones that have remained hidden for five hundred years.”
Which made sense, as London was crisscrossed with tunnels, dug at differing points in history, new ones discovered all the time.
“Katherine Parr was duty-bound to pass that secret on to Henry’s minor son, Edward, but there is no evidence that she ever did. Twenty-one months after Henry died, Parr herself passed. We think she may have told the secret—not to Edward, but to someone else.”
“Who? The Cecils?”
“Not possible. Henry VIII died fifteen years before William Cecil rose to power with Elizabeth, and thirty years before Robert Cecil succeeded his father. No, Katherine Parr told someone other than the Cecils.”
“How do you know that?”
“Just accept that I do. Professor Pazan was asked to instruct you on Robert Cecil’s notebook and the various possibilities. The deciphering of that notebook holds the key to all of this. The Tudor wealth was never found, nor accounted for. In today’s market it would be worth billions.”
“And the Americans want our treasure?”
“Miss Richards, do you continually question everything? Can you not accept that there are matters here of the highest national security. To know what those matters may be is irrelevant to what is expected from you. I have some specific tasks I need you to perform. Can you not simply do as I ask?”
“I am curious of one thing,” she said. “SIS is charged with protecting against threats on foreign soil. Why isn’t the Security Service, MI5, handling this investigation? Domestic threats are their jurisdiction.”
“Because the prime minister has ordered otherwise.”
“I was unaware the prime minister could violate the law.”
“You truly are impertinent.”
“Sir Thomas, a woman died a little while ago. I’d like to know why. What’s curious is you don’t seem to care.”
She caught the annoyance on the older man’s face. He was clearly unaccustomed to challenges.
“If I did not require your assistance, I would join with your supervisors in terminating your employment.”
“Lucky for me I’m so valuable at the moment.”
“And lucky for you the situation has changed. Antrim has involved that ex-American-agent I mentioned to you before. Cotton Malone. He has gone out of his way to draw Malone into this fray. I need you to find out why. As I mentioned, the deciphering of Robert Cecil’s journal is vital to the resolution of this matter. Within the next few hours Antrim may well possess the means to do just that. Tell me, is he capable of capitalizing on his good fortune?”
“He’s not daft, if that’s what you’re asking. But he’s not overly clever, either. More devious and deceitful.”
“Exactly my assessment. His operation has not gone well. He is frustrated. His superiors are pressuring for results. Thankfully, time is short and what he seeks is difficult to find.”
Mathews checked his watch, then stared out into the quad. People hustled back and forth from the street toward the college.
“I want you to travel back to London,” he said. “Immediately.”
“Professor Pazan did not tell me what I need to know. She was on her way back inside to show me more of the coded pages.”
“Nothing was found in the dining hall.”
Why wasn’t she surprised? “Seems everything here is unexplained. I’m not accustomed to working like this.”
“And how many intelligence operations have you worked on?”
Another rebuke, but she had to say, “I’ve handled thousands of investigative cases. Granted, no
ne involved national security, but lives, property, and public safety were at stake. I understand the gravity of situations.”
Mathews leaned on his walking stick, and she noticed again the unique handle.
“That cane is quite unusual.”
“A gift to myself several years ago.” He held up the stick. “A solid piece of ivory carved with the world on its face. I hold it in my hand every day as a reminder of what is at stake with what we do.”
She caught the message.
This is important. Work with me.
“All right, Sir Thomas. No more questions. I’ll head back to London.”
“And I shall arrange for another briefing for you. In the meantime, be alert.”
Twenty-one
MALONE FOUND AN INTERNET CAFÉ NOT FAR FROM HOLBORN and immediately surveyed the crowd. Mostly middle-aged. Unassuming. Probably lawyers, which made sense as they were not far from the Inns of Court. He purchased time on a desktop and logged in. Ian stayed close and seemed interested, not making any attempt to flee. His phone had yet to ring and he was becoming concerned. He was accustomed to pressure, but things were definitely different when one of your own was at risk. What provided him solace was the fact that the men who had Gary knew the boy was their only bargaining chip.
He inserted the drive.
Three files appeared.
He checked the kilobytes and noticed that they varied, one small, the other two quite large.
He clicked on the smallest first.
Which opened.
ELIZABETH I WAS FOURTEEN WHEN HER FATHER, HENRY VIII, DIED AND her half brother, Edward VI, became king. Katherine Parr, her father’s widow, quickly discovered what it meant to be an ex-queen, having been denied any involvement with her stepson. The regency council provided for in Henry VIII’s will assumed complete command. Edward Seymour, the king’s uncle, maneuvered himself into the role of Protector. To placate Parr, the young Elizabeth was placed in Parr’s household at Chelsea, a redbrick mansion that overlooked the Thames, where Elizabeth lived for a little over a year.
In 1547 an old suitor of Katherine Parr’s reemerged—Thomas Seymour, brother to the Protector, and the second uncle to Edward VI. Thomas had lost Katherine to Henry VIII when the king decided she would become his sixth wife. A near-contemporary description of Thomas said he was “fierce in courage, courtly in fashion, in personage stately, in voice magnificent, but somewhat empty of matter.” He was also recklessly ambitious, ruthless, and self-absorbed. Today he would be called a confidence man, someone who, through charm and guile, convinces his victims to do what they otherwise might never do.
Befitting the new king’s uncle, Thomas was made Duke of Somerset and bestowed the title Lord High Admiral. This should have placated him, but he was furious that his brother was Protector. So Thomas decided to change his lot. Being a bachelor provided him options, and a smart marriage could shift things dramatically. Henry VIII’s will specifically provided that his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, could not marry without the regency council’s approval. Thomas tried to secure permission to marry one or the other, but was rebuked. So he turned his attention to the Queen Dowager.
Katherine Parr was thirty-four in 1547 and still retained a great beauty. She and Seymour had once been lovers so, when he appeared at Chelsea and began to romance her, the result was inevitable. They married secretly sometime in the spring, the young king not providing his blessing until months later.
It was after this that something curious began to occur. Seymour, Parr, and Elizabeth lived together at Chelsea, or in the country at Hanworth, or at Seymour Place, Thomas’ London residence. The atmosphere was light and merry. When at Chelsea, Seymour began to visit Elizabeth’s chambers, early, and bid her a good day, occasionally striking her upon the bottom. This he also did with other maidens in her household. If Elizabeth was still in bed, he’d open the curtains and attempt to climb into the bed with her. Witnesses reported that Elizabeth would shrink beneath her covers, seeking refuge. One morning he even attempted to kiss her but Kate Ashley, Elizabeth’s governess, chased him away. Eventually, Elizabeth began to rise earlier and be dressed, ready for his visits. Lady Ashley eventually confronted Seymour, who was unrepentant about his actions. Parr herself at first thought the matter harmless, but soon changed her opinion. She became angry at her husband’s flirtations with the princess, realizing that he’d married her only because his attempts to secure Mary or Elizabeth were refused by the council. She was, in essence, third choice. Now he was trying to directly ingratiate himself with Elizabeth.
But to what end?
By January 1548, Parr was pregnant with her first child by Seymour. She was thirty-five years old and birthing at that age, in that time, was perilous. In February 1548 Parr caught Seymour and Elizabeth together, the princess in the arms of her husband. Parr confronted Lady Ashley about the matter, a conversation that history has never recorded, until now.
The Queen Dowager’s anger burst forth to Lady Ashley. She blamed the governess for not properly chaperoning the young princess. But the Lady Ashley made clear that the Lord Admiral Seymour had ordered her away.
“Do you not understand?” the Queen Dowager asked Ashley. “Surely you, of all people, understand.”
Silence passed between them, the pause long enough for Parr to know that the Lady Ashley did in fact understand, in the fullest sense. The Queen Dowager had wondered how much this dutiful woman knew. Now that depth was clear.
This passage has been translated exactly as it appeared in Robert Cecil’s journal (with some adjustment for modern word usage). I managed to break the code so that the journal can be read. These words have confirmed all that we suspected. Katherine Parr knew not only the secret her husband, Henry VIII, told her on his deathbed. She also knew what had occurred before that. What Henry himself never knew. Her ultimate response to Seymour’s amorous overtures was to have Elizabeth, in April 1548, removed from their household. Never again did Elizabeth and the Queen Dowager see one another as, five months later, Parr was dead. Thomas Seymour did not even attend his wife’s funeral. Instead, he immediately sought out the princess Elizabeth, renewing his intentions to marry her. But nothing ever came of such.
Malone stopped reading.
Ian stood beside him and had read along with him.
“What does it mean?” Ian asked.
“A good question. Farrow Curry seems to have been conducting some interesting historical research.”
“Is that the man who died in Oxford Circus?”
He nodded. “These are his notes, some kind of report he was working on.”
He scanned farther down the screen.
WE NOW KNOW FROM ROBERT CECIL’S JOURNAL THAT KATHERINE PARR left a letter to Elizabeth, which was delivered at Christmas 1548, four months after Parr died. It appears to have been penned before Parr gave birth to her daughter in September 1548, and is a revealing piece of correspondence that, once placed in proper context, answers many questions. I have translated and adjusted the wording to compensate for modern spelling and usage.
There was no choice but to send you away. Please forgive me child, and that is what I have always considered you, my child, though no common blood flows between us. We are linked instead by the bond of your father. My current husband is a man of no character, who cares nothing for anyone save himself. Surely you have seen this and recognize the evil and danger he represents. He knows nothing of what he seeks and would be unworthy to be privy to your truth. God has given you great qualities. Cultivate them always and labor to improve them, for I believe you are destined by heaven to be Queen of England.
This came directly from Cecil’s journal. There are other similar references, all equally compelling. Each confirming that the legend is in fact true.
The narrative continued with a series of shorthand references, as if Curry would return later and finish. Malone scanned them, noticing several mentions of Hatfield House, Robert Cecil’s country estate north of London, and t
he Rainbow Portrait of Elizabeth I that hung there. No further mention of the legend, whatever it might be, and its truth appeared. But a notation at the end explained, only way to know for sure is to go and see.
A second file, the largest in kilobytes, contained images from a handwritten journal, the green-and-gold pages filled with a cryptic script. The file was labeled CECIL JOURNAL ORIGINAL. Apparently what Curry had managed to translate. No explanations or other entries were in the file.
The final file he could not open.
Password-protected.
Which, obviously, was the most important.
“How do you get the password?” Ian asked.
“Experts can get around it.”
His phone rang. He closed the drive.
“Mr. Malone,” a new voice said. “We rescued Gary.”
Had he heard right?
“We’re pulling up at your location now.”
His gaze shot out the café’s front windows.
A car was wheeling to the curb.
“Stay here,” he told Ian, and he darted for the front door.
Outside, the car’s rear door opened and Gary bounded out.
Thank God.
“You okay?” he asked his son.
The boy nodded. “I’m fine.”
A man exited the car. Tall, broad-shouldered, thinning hair. Maybe fifty years old. He wore a navy, knee-length overcoat that hung open. He rounded the trunk and approached, offering his hand to shake.
“Blake Antrim.”
“This is the man who found me,” Gary said.
Two more men emerged from the car’s front seat, both dressed in overcoats. He knew the look.
“You CIA?” he asked Antrim.
“We can talk later. Do you have Ian Dunne?”
“He’s here.”
“Get him.”
Malone turned back to the café, but did not see Ian through the window. He hustled back inside to the computer.
The drive was gone.
