The King's Deception

by Steve Berry

  “So he sent you to the bookstore last night to connect with me and Ian. Let me guess. He wants the flash drive?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. I don’t suppose you would share what’s on it?”

  Why not? What did he care? This wasn’t his fight. Besides, it wasn’t all that much. “As amazing as it sounds, Antrim is trying to prove that Elizabeth I was actually a man.”

  He caught the surprise on her face.

  “You must be daft. Mathews was willing to kill me over that?”

  He shrugged. “It gets worse. Mathews was there when Farrow Curry was pushed into an Underground train. One of his men did the pushing. Ian saw that, firsthand.”

  “Which explains why he wants Ian Dunne.”

  “He’s a witness to a murder, on British soil, which runs straight to MI6. Good thing Ian is in the safest place he can be, at the moment, with Antrim, whose interests are clearly opposed to Mathews’.”

  “Does Antrim know all of this?”

  He nodded. “I told him last night on the phone. He said he’d keep a close eye on Ian.”

  Which also explained why Malone was still here. If not for the fact that Ian was clearly in trouble, he and Gary would leave today. But he could not simply walk away. He wanted to play this out a little longer and see if he could help the boy into the clear.

  “Mathews provided me information,” she said, “that points to some sanctuary the Tudors concealed that held their personal wealth.”

  “A point you omitted last night.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure you held back a few things, too.”

  He listened as she told him about what happened when Henry VII and Henry VIII died.

  “I got the impression,” she said, “that the flash drive might lead to this location.”

  But he could recall nothing from what he’d read that pointed the way.

  “Go ahead and finish your breakfast,” he said. “I have to print out some stuff.”

  “From the flash drive?”

  He nodded. “A hard copy would be a good thing to have.”

  “We going somewhere?”

  “To Hampton Court. There’s somebody there we have to talk with.”

  KATHLEEN SURVEYED THE RESTAURANT. NOTHING AND NO one seemed out of the ordinary. Both she and Malone had switched off their cell phones, since Malone had said Antrim had tracked him through his. She was familiar with the technology and knew that a dead phone was a safe phone.

  She wondered why they were going to Hampton Court. Who were they seeing? And what did it matter to her anymore? She’d lost two jobs in the past twelve hours. Not much left for her in this fight. Perhaps she should simply cut her losses and leave. But would that stop Thomas Mathews? Hardly. She still had to make things right with him. Had he seriously intended on killing her? Still difficult to say, but that Met officer would have shot her if she’d not quit resisting.

  She finished her breakfast and waited for Malone, half listening to the murmur of other conversations. The waiter came and cleared the dishes, refilling her coffee cup. She didn’t smoke, drink much, gamble, or do drugs. Coffee was her vice. She liked it hot, cold, sweet, straight—didn’t matter, as long as it was full of caffeine.

  “This is for you.”

  She glanced up.

  The waiter had returned and held an envelope, which she accepted.

  “The front desk brought it over. A woman left it for you.”

  Her mouth dried. Her senses came alive. Who would know she was here? She opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper, upon which was written in black ink.

  CONGRATULATIONS, MISS RICHARDS. YOU ARE IN A UNIQUE POSITION. NO ONE IS CLOSER TO COTTON MALONE AT THE MOMENT THAN YOU. MAKE THE MOST OF THAT. SECURE THE FLASH DRIVE AND DETERMINE EXACTLY WHAT MALONE KNOWS. I GIVE YOU MY WORD, AS A KNIGHT OF THE REALM, THAT YOU SHALL BE REWARDED WITH A POSITION IN MY ORGANIZATION IF YOU ACHIEVE THIS RESULT. OUR COUNTRY IS IN PERIL AND IT IS OUR DUTY TO PROTECT IT. YES, I REALIZE YOU ARE SUSPICIOUS OF ME. BUT CONSIDER THIS. I HAVE KNOWN YOUR LOCATION ALL NIGHT, YET DID NOT ACT. THE FACT THAT YOU ARE READING THIS MESSAGE IS PROOF OF MY CAPABILITIES. ALSO, KNOW THIS. DAEDALUS IS STILL OUT THERE AND THEY TOO ARE CAPABLE OF A GREAT MANY FEATS. THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE AT REDEMPTION. MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL. IF YOU CONCUR IN THIS COURSE, NOD YOUR HEAD. ONCE YOU HAVE THE FLASH DRIVE, CONTACT ME AT THE NUMBER PREVIOUSLY USED.

  TM

  She could not believe what she’d read.

  Thomas Mathews was watching.

  She told herself to stay calm.

  Doing what Mathews wanted entailed betraying Cotton Malone. But he was a stranger. Of no consequence. Sure, she’d shared a room with him last night and he seemed like a decent man. But national interests were involved. Her career was at stake. And not as a SOCA agent, but perhaps as a member of Secret Intelligence. People did not apply for jobs there. You were recruited, then proved yourself.

  Like now.

  Provided, of course, that Thomas Mathews’ word—as a knight of the realm—meant anything.

  She sucked in a breath.

  Steeled herself.

  And nodded her head.

  Thirty-six

  8:30 AM

  ANTRIM PAID HIS ADMISSION FEE FOR WESTMINSTER ABBEY and made his way into the massive church. He passed the black marble slab that marked the grave of the Unknown Warrior, then the choir with its famous wooden benches. Beyond the altar rails, in the sanctuary, was where British kings and queens were crowned. He caught site of a placard that identified the tomb of Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, the only one smart enough to walk away. Over the past year he’d read a lot about Henry, his wives and children, especially Elizabeth. He once thought his own family dysfunctional, but the Tudors proved that there was always something worse.

  Crowds were heavy—no surprise as it was the weekend and this one of those must-sees for any visitor to London with its Poets’ Corner, the elaborate chapels, and the dust of so many monarchs. America had nothing to equal it. This church was a thousand years old and had borne witness to nearly everything associated with England since the Norman invasion.

  He followed the ambulatory around the sanctuary to polished marble stairs that led up to the chapel of Henry VII. Built by the first Tudor king as his family’s tomb, it eventually acquired the name orbis miraculum, wonder of the world, and rightly so. The massive entrance gates were of bronze, mounted to oak, embellished with roses, fleurs-de-lis, and Tudor badges. Inside was a three-aisled nave with four bays and five chapels. Wooden stalls lined both sides, above which were hung the banner, sword, helmet, and scarf of a Knight of the Bath.

  Another one of those ancient groups.

  Created by George I, revived by George V, now part of English lore as the fourth most senior order of chivalry.

  Unlike the Daedalus Society.

  Which seemed to exist only in the shadows.

  Richly carved niches, each displaying a statue, encircled the chapel beneath fragile-looking, clerestory windows. But it was the ceiling that captivated. Fan-vaulted with tracery and pendants, suspended as if by magic, the fretted roof more like a fragile cobweb than carved stone.

  At the far end stood Henry VII’s tomb. A focal point and a contradiction. More Roman than Gothic. Understandable, considering an Italian created it. Maybe seventy-five people were admiring the chapel. He’d made the call last night, after leaving the analyst’s apartment, and was told to come at opening time, with the hard drives, which he carried in a plastic shopping bag. This place, with its many visitors, offered him some comfort regarding security, but not much. The people he was bargaining with were connected, determined, and bold.

  So he told himself to stay on guard.

  “Mr. Antrim.”

  He turned to see a woman, late fifties, short, petite, gray-blond hair drawn into a bun. She wore a navy pantsuit with a short jacket.

  “I was sent to meet with you,” she said.

  “You have a name?”

  “
Call me Eva.”

  GARY HAD BEEN GLAD, LAST NIGHT, TO SEE IAN. AND HE INSTANTLY liked the older woman who introduced herself as Miss Mary.

  She was a lot like his dad’s mother, who lived a few hours south of Atlanta in middle Georgia. He always spent a week with her in the summer, as his mother maintained a good relationship with her ex-mother-in-law. But it was hard not to like Grandma Jean. Soft-spoken, easygoing, never a bad word uttered.

  They’d spent the night at the house where he and his dad had been taken yesterday. Ian had told him what happened at the bookstore, then after when they rescued the SOCA agent. Gary was concerned but pleased that his dad had handled things. Antrim had not stayed with them, but called to say that all was well with his dad.

  “He’s going to follow up on a few things in the morning,” Antrim said. “I told him you were fine here.”

  “Did you mention anything about you and me?”

  “We’ll do that together, face-to-face. He’s got a lot to deal with at the moment. We can tell him tomorrow.”

  He’d agreed.

  Now they were back in the warehouse office, alone, the other two agents outside. Antrim nowhere around.

  “Do you know where my dad was headed?” he asked Ian and Miss Mary.

  Ian shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

  Yesterday he’d wanted to talk more with Antrim, but that had not been possible. He had to talk about it. So he told them what he’d learned last night.

  “Are you sure this is true?” Miss Mary asked him when he finished.

  He nodded. “We took a DNA test that will prove it.”

  “What a shock this must be to you,” she said. “Finding your birth father. Here.”

  “But at least you found out,” Ian said. “Your mom should have told you.”

  “Perhaps she had a good reason for keeping that name to herself,” Miss Mary said.

  Gary, though, was sure. “I’m glad I know.”

  “And what will you do with this information?” Miss Mary asked him.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “And where is Mr. Antrim?”

  “He’ll be here. He’s a CIA agent, on assignment. My dad’s helping him out.”

  But he was still concerned.

  He recalled his parents’ divorce, when his mother had explained how years of worrying had taken a toll. He’d not understood what she meant then, but he did now. The uncertainty of not knowing if someone you loved was in trouble worked on you. He’d only experienced it for a few hours. His mother had endured it for years. He’d been angry when his parents divorced, unsure exactly why they were better off apart, as they’d both made clear. Afterward, he’d witnessed firsthand the bitterness between them. Peace had only been made between his parents a month ago with all that happened in Austria and the Sinai, but he hadn’t noticed much of a change in his mother. Still anxious. Still agitated. Still short-tempered.

  Then he’d learned why, when she told him the truth.

  And he hadn’t made things easy for her.

  Demanding to know his birth father’s identity. She refusing. He threatening to live in Denmark.

  Lots of conflict.

  More than either of them was accustomed to.

  He needed to speak with his mother.

  And when Antrim or his dad returned, he’d do that.

  ANTRIM DECIDED TO ALLOW EVA HER MOMENT AND ASKED, “Why are we here?”

  “Walk with me.”

  She led him toward the tomb of Henry VII.

  “This is, perhaps, the greatest single chapel in all of England,” she said, her voice low. “Henry is there, with his queen, Elizabeth of York. Below is the Tudor vault, where James I and the boy Edward VI lie. Around us are the tombs of Mary, Queen of Scots, Charles II, William III, Mary II, George II, and Queen Anne. Even the two princes of the Tower, Edward IV’s sons, murdered by their uncle Richard III, are here.” She turned left and stopped before one of the pointed arches, opening into a side bay. “And, then, there is this.”

  He stared at the black-and-white marble monument with its columns and gilded capitals. The woman lying atop, carved in stone, wore regal robes.

  “The final resting place of Elizabeth I,” Eva said. “She died March 24, 1603, and was first buried over there, with her grandfather, in the vault beneath. But her named successor, James I, erected this monument, so she was moved in 1606, and has stayed here ever since.”

  They approached the tomb, along with a small crowd.

  “Notice her face,” Eva whispered.

  He stepped close and saw that it was that of an old woman.

  “The Mask of Youth had been imposed by law during the final years of her reign. No artist could depict Elizabeth except as a young woman. But here, on her grave, for all eternity, that mandate was not followed.”

  The effigy wore a crown and collar and held an orb and scepter in either hand.

  “There are two bodies in this tomb,” Eva said. “Elizabeth and her half sister, Mary, who reigned before her. By now, their bones have merged. Look here.”

  She pointed to a Latin inscription at the base of the monument.

  “Can you read it?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Partners in throne and grave, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of the Resurrection.”

  “Odd, wouldn’t you say? Burying them together.”

  He agreed.

  “Both were monarchs, each entitled to her own tomb,” she said. “But instead they rest together. Another clever move on Robert Cecil’s part, allowing the remains to mingle. No one would ever know who was who. Of course, Cecil knew nothing of comparative anatomy and DNA testing. For his day, burying them together would have concealed everything.”

  “Has anyone ever looked inside?”

  She shook her head. “This tomb has never been opened. Not even during the Cromwell years and civil war.”

  He still wanted to know, “Why am I here?”

  The tourists moved on to another site.

  “The Lords thought you might like to see how the secret you seek hides in so public a place.”

  “The Lords?”

  “You met them, in the Round. They govern our society. Each acquires his post hereditarily, and have since 1610 when Daedalus was first started by Robert Cecil. You, of course, understand Cecil’s connection to Elizabeth.”

  Yes, he did. He served as her secretary of state at the time of her death. “But Cecil died in 1612.”

  She nodded. “He was always a sickly man. The Daedalus Society was part of his legacy. He knew of the great secret, one nobody has really cared about until the last few decades. To your credit, you managed to delve deeper than anyone thought possible.”

  But he’d had help from that old CIA briefing memo, detailing what a few intrepid Irish lawyers had tried to do forty years ago.

  Eva pointed at the tomb. “This monument to Elizabeth is the last one ever erected in Westminster over the spot where a sovereign was buried. Isn’t it interesting that, though two are buried here, only Elizabeth is displayed on top? And as an old woman, directly contrary to her wishes?”

  He was listening.

  “Robert Cecil oversaw Elizabeth’s funeral and her entombment. He then served her successor, James I, as secretary of state and personally oversaw the building of this monument. Again, only you would understand the significance of that fact.”

  He did. Farrow Curry had taught him about both Cecils, and especially Robert. He was a short man with a crooked back, who walked awkwardly on splayed feet. He had a penetrating gaze from black eyes, but was consistently noted as courteous and modest, with a gentle sweetness. Aware of his lack of physical attraction he became a man of two personalities. One as a public servant—prudent, rational, and reliable. The other as a private gentleman—extravagant, a reckless gambler, a lover of women, subject to prolonged bouts of deep depression. His popularity with the people waned the longer he served. Enemies amassed. His inf
luence eventually slipped and his ability to produce results dimmed. By the time he died he was hated, called the Fox for unflattering reasons. He recalled a rhyme Curry had said was popular at the time.

  Owning a mind of dismal ends

  As trap for foes and tricks for friends.

  But now in Hatfield lies the Fox

  Who stank while he lived and died of the pox.

  The fact that Cecil created a coded journal was puzzling, and seemed contradictory to his secretive nature. But, as Curry had explained, what better way for posterity to credit him than by leaving the only way to discover the secret’s existence? Everyone who mattered would be dead. Control the information and you control the result. And the only one who would benefit from that would be Robert Cecil.

  Eva led him to one side of the monument and pointed at another Latin inscription, which she translated.

  “To the eternal memory of Elizabeth, queen of England, France, and Ireland, daughter of King Henry VIII, granddaughter of King Henry VII, great-granddaughter to King Edward IV. Mother of her country, a nursing mother to religion and all liberal sciences, skilled in many languages, adorned with excellent endowments both of body and mind, and excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex. James, king of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, hath devoutly and justly erected this monument to her whose virtues and kingdoms he inherits.”

  He caught the key words.

  Excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex.

  More meaningless and unimportant phrases, unless you knew that Elizabeth I was not what she had seemed.

  “Clever, wouldn’t you say?”

  He nodded.

  “There is a lot about Robert Cecil that fits into that category. For a Renaissance man it was a sign of a superior spirit to wish to be remembered after death. If Cecil was nothing else, he was that.”

  Exactly what Curry had told him.

  “By 1606, when this monument was placed here, Robert Cecil was the only person left alive who knew the truth. So he was the only one who could leave these markers.”

  She pointed to the shopping bag and he handed over the drives.