by Steve Berry
Shock filled him. He’d been the leak?
For a moment his gaze drifted through the polished glass a few feet away where he saw the four-hundred-year-old St. Edward’s Crown, the same crown the Archbishop of Canterbury reverently placed upon a monarch’s head, as echoes of God save the king or queen bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey. What was happening here?
He gathered his thoughts.
“The whole thing with the man I saw you with in Brussels. Not real?”
“It was time that we parted ways. So we manufactured a reason that you would not question. We know how you become violent with women. There’s quite a trail behind you, Blake. We needed you to move on, in your own way, where you would be comfortable.”
“What would have happened? Another woman would have taken your place?”
She shrugged. “If need be. We decided to motivate you through other means.”
“By killing my agent in St. Paul’s?”
“The Lords wanted you to know then, and now, what they are capable of accomplishing. It’s important you fully grasp the extent of their resolve.”
She motioned for them to step off the conveyor belt, where they could linger for a few moments. He did, exhaling a short breath.
“These are symbols of what once was,” she said. “Reminders of a time when kings and queens held true positions of power.”
“Everything between us was an act?”
She chuckled. “What else would it have been?”
Her dig hurt.
She motioned at the jewels. “I’ve always believed that the English monarchy did itself a great disservice when it gave up real power in return for survival. They allowed Parliament to rule in exchange for being allowed to stay kings and queens. That downfall started in 1603, with James I.”
He recalled Farrow Curry’s lessons. James, the first from the house of Stuart to sit on the throne, was a weak ineffectual man who cared more about pomp, circumstance, and pleasure than ruling. His first nine years were bearable, thanks to Robert Cecil’s strong hand. But with Cecil’s death in 1612 the remaining thirteen years of his reign were characterized by a calculated indifference, one that weakened the monarchy and ultimately led to his son Charles I’s beheading twenty-three years later.
“Elizabeth I was the last monarch who enjoyed true power on the throne,” she said. “A queen, in every way.”
“Except one.”
Denise pointed a slender finger at him, the nail manicured and polished, like always. “Now that’s the wisdom and wit that you can, at times, express. Such a shame that, otherwise, you are a worthless excuse for a man.”
She was taunting him. In total control.
And he was powerless to respond.
“What does Daedalus want?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, that seems to be changing by the moment. Your Cotton Malone escaped Hampton Court. He’s still alive. Your two agents, though, were not as fortunate.”
Now he realized.
He was alone.
“I work for the CIA. There are plenty more agents.”
She seemed not in the mood for bravado. “But, sadly for you, none is here. We want Ian Dunne.”
“You can have him. He’s at the warehouse, which you obviously know about since your head Lord told me what’s in it.”
“That we do. But I wonder, Blake. I know that deceitful part of you. I’ve seen it. I told the Lords that you are not a truthful man. So, one chance, one opportunity. What else is there we don’t know about?”
And he suddenly realized that he may have a trump card, after all.
The copies of the hard drives.
No one had mentioned those.
“You know all I know.”
She stepped back toward the conveyor belt. Before leaving she stopped and brushed her lips across his cheek. A gentle gesture. More for the benefit of the people around them.
“Dear Blake,” she whispered. “We already have the copies of those hard drives you left with the man you hired. I told the Lords you would lie.”
She stepped onto the conveyor.
“Take care, darling,” she said, blowing him a kiss.
Forty-six
MALONE APPROACHED THOMAS MATHEWS. THEY STOOD AT center court, the spacious rectangle that enclosed them lit from a bright sun pouring through the upper windows.
“Haven’t seen you since London,” he said. “What? Seven years ago?”
“I recall.”
“So do I,” Malone said, and he meant it. Mathews had nearly cost him his life.
“Tell me, Cotton. Did you come back solely for Kathleen Richards?”
“So you’ve been watching?”
“Of course.”
“You make it sound like that was a mistake.”
The older man shrugged. “All depends on your point of view.”
He could tell Mathews was treading lightly, unsure of what, where, and when, at least insofar as things related to a retired American agent right in the middle of an active CIA operation.
“You attacked my men outside the bookstore,” Mathews said.
“Your men? I don’t recall anyone saying that. But it seemed like Richards needed help.” He paused. “And she did.”
“The question is why you felt the need to render assistance.”
But he had no intention of volunteering an answer to that inquiry.
“Henry VIII himself played tennis here,” Mathews said. “It is said he learned of the execution of Anne Boleyn while engaged in a match. A different game from what we call tennis, but nonetheless exciting.”
Everything around him, though encased within an ancient shell, was more modern, the refurbished court still in use today. Real Tennis the game was called, which utilized not only the floor but also the walls and ceiling to maneuver the ball over the net.
“It’s impressive how things so old can still be relevant today,” Mathews said, tossing out more bait—which, this time, Malone decided to snag.
“Like that Elizabeth I may have been male?”
The older man appraised him with cool eyes. This was one of the world’s premier spymasters. Even Stephanie Nelle spoke of him with awe and respect. He vividly recalled their encounter from seven years ago. Mathews had proven formidable. Now Malone was, once again, within the Englishman’s sights.
“I was saddened by your retirement,” Mathews said. “You were an excellent operative. Stephanie must miss your talents.”
“She has plenty of other agents.”
“And modest. Always modest. That I recall about you, too.”
“Get to the point,” he said.
“You may not think the fact that Elizabeth I was an imposter would matter four hundred years later but, I assure you, Cotton, it does a great deal.”
“Enough to kill Farrow Curry?”
“Is that what the boy said?”
He nodded. “That’s why you want him. Not the flash drive. You want the boy. He’s a witness. You want to shut him up.”
“Unfortunately, these circumstances demand extraordinary actions. Ones, normally, I would never sanction. Especially here, on British soil.”
“You won’t harm a hair on that kid’s head. That much I guarantee.”
“From anyone else I would take that as unsubstantiated bravado. But I believe you. What about your own son? Is his life equally valuable?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“It may not be, considering who has him, right now, as we speak.”
He stepped close to Mathews. “Enough bullshit. What the hell is going on here?”
KATHLEEN SAT AT THE TABLE INSIDE THE SMALL ROOM, EVA Pazan positioned near the door.
“That show at Jesus College was for your benefit,” Pazan said. “A way to invest you in the situation.”
“Seems like a waste of time. You could have just told me. Who pressed my face to the floor with their shoe?”
Pazan chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t like that. That was my
colleague outside the door. We thought a demonstration of violence, coupled with an attack on me, might keep you focused. Unfortunately, we were wrong.”
“Are you part of the Daedalus Society?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
That did not surprise her. “Thomas Mathews created it. Right?”
Pazan nodded. “If you realized that, why run inside the palace?”
“It’s hard to be sure of anything around here. And, the last I checked, Mathews wanted me dead.”
Her captor smiled. “The intelligence business is not like yours. You hunt down facts and work for convictions. We have no courts. No prisons. This is life or death, and success is the only thing that matters.”
“Mathews created Daedalus for Antrim, didn’t he? He wanted to manipulate him, but could not reveal SIS was involved.”
“Smart girl. We’ve been watching Antrim and his operation since the beginning. We needed a way to get close, without any fingerprints. A fictional, ancient society seemed the best way and, lucky for us, Antrim bought it. But you didn’t.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Hardly. You’ve proven quite a chore. We thought you might be helpful with Antrim, but things have changed.”
And she knew why.
“Because of Cotton Malone.”
MALONE WAITED FOR AN ANSWER TO HIS QUESTION, BUT DECIDED to add, “I know about the release of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi.”
“Then you also know that your government doesn’t want that to happen. They want us to stop Edinburgh.”
“Which you can.”
He’d been thinking about why that wasn’t possible. And only one explanation made sense.
Oil.
“What is it you want from the Libyans? What’s the deal they offered for al-Megrahi’s release?”
“Let’s just say that we could not ignore their humanitarian request.”
“So you sold out for oil price concessions?”
Mathews shrugged. “This nation has to survive. We are stretched, as is everyone, to the limit. We have something they want. They have something we want. It’s a simple trade.”
“He murdered British, Scottish, and American citizens.”
“That he did. And he will soon meet his maker and atone for those sins. He has terminal cancer. It isn’t like we are releasing him to live a long life. If letting him go gains us more over the long run, then why not do it?”
He now understood why the British government had stayed silent. If any hint of a trade leaked out, the repercussions would be enormous. The headlines devastating. GREAT BRITAIN DEALS WITH TERRORISTS. The American position was, and always had been, no negotiations with terrorists, period. That didn’t mean no talking with them, just use the talk to buy enough time to act.
“Cotton, look at this another way. After World War II, both the United States and Britain utilized former Nazis. Your space program was born from them. Your aviation and electronics industries excelled. Intelligence services expanded. All thanks to ex-enemies. Postwar Germany was governed with their open assistance. We both used them to keep the Soviets off base. Was that any different than here?”
“If it’s such a great idea, why not tell the world what you’re doing?”
“I wish things were so black and white.”
“That’s another reason I got out. I can actually do what’s right now.”
Mathews smiled. “I always liked you, Cotton. A man with courage and honor. Unlike Blake Antrim.”
He said nothing.
“Antrim has been running a CIA-sanctioned operation called King’s Deception, here, on British soil, for over a year now. He’s been systematically stealing our national treasures. Delving into our secrets. Over the past forty-eight hours he sanctioned the violation of Henry VIII’s tomb in St. George’s Chapel. He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab, then rummaged through the royal remains. He also accepted five million pounds to end Operation King’s Deception. Half has been paid, another half will soon be owed.”
That grabbed his attention. “How do you know that?”
“Because I engineered the payment. I created a mythical opponent. The Daedalus Society. And convinced Antrim of its sincerity.”
“By killing Farrow Curry?”
“You know that course is necessary, at times. Curry became far too knowledgeable. He learned our secret. I thought his death would solve the problem. Unfortunately, we had to kill another.”
That he knew nothing about.
“One of Antrim’s operatives who provided us information in return for compensation. But he became greedy and wanted more than he was worth. So we used his death as a way to ingratiate ourselves directly to Antrim. Which, I must say, worked. All was fine, and would have been, but for your appearance.”
“So you sent men to kill me in the tunnel?”
Mathews glared at him.
“That I did.”
KATHLEEN WAS BECOMING ANGRIER BY THE SECOND.
“Malone was an unknown,” Eva said. “His presence has accelerated everything. But this is going to end here, now, today.”
“What is going to end?”
“The Americans want us to do something. We don’t want to do it. So they decided to find some leverage. A way to force us to do what they want. Thankfully, we’ve prevented that. All that remains is to tidy up the mess.”
“Meaning me?”
“And Antrim.”
She thought fast and knew what to do.
“I don’t want to die.”
She stared straight at Pazan.
“I’ll do whatever you want. But I don’t want to die.”
She stood from the chair.
Her eyes watered as she kept her gaze locked on the other woman.
“Please. I’m begging you. I don’t want to die.”
Pazan stared at her.
“I’m tired of running. I get it. You people have the upper hand. I’m in your custody. Can’t you contact Mathews and tell him I did what he wanted?” She found the sheets in her pocket. “I stole these from Malone. It’s what was on the flash drive. I was bringing them to Sir Thomas when you cornered me. I didn’t know you were working with him. How could I?”
She crept closer, the pages leading the way in her trembling left hand.
Pazan reached out to take them.
She handed them over. “I just don’t want any more problems.”
Her right hand balled to a fist and swung up to meet Pazan’s left jaw in a perfect uppercut that propelled the woman backward off her feet. She grabbed one of the chairs and pounded Pazan’s midsection. The SIS agent crumpled forward. A rage consumed Kathleen. She swung the chair upward, then down on Pazan’s head, sending her captor to the floor, not moving.
The door burst open.
The other man who’d been with Pazan inside the palace rushed ahead, the one who’d planted his foot on her face, a gun leading the way.
She whirled the chair into the hand with the gun, jarring the weapon away.
Another swing into his chest stopped him cold.
Raising the chair and slamming it down, she surely cracked the man’s skull, dropping him beside Pazan. She tossed her weapon aside, then found the gun and the pages.
“That makes us even,” she whispered to the man on the floor.
Forty-seven
IAN STOOD BESIDE MISS MARY AS THEY BOTH READ THE FILE emailed to Miss Mary’s phone.
A translation of Robert Cecil’s journal.
I WAS TOLD OF THE DECEPTION BY MY FATHER. HE CALLED ME TO HIS DEATHBED and revealed something extraordinary. When but a child of thirteen, the young princess Elizabeth had died of fever. She was buried in the garden at Overcourt House, inside a stone coffin, with no ceremony, the Lady Kate Ashley and Thomas Parry the only two privy. Both feared for their lives, as King Henry VIII had charged them with his daughter’s safety. Henry was then unhealthy, enormous in girth, his temperament violent and irritable. Though Elizabeth’s death came from
no person’s fault, both Ashley and Parry would have paid for the girl’s death with their lives. But circumstances worked in their favor. First was that the father rarely saw the daughter, his mind consumed with other matters. Thankfully, there were two wars ongoing, one with Scotland, the other with France. Henry’s fifth wife, Katherine Howard, had been unfaithful and was executed for infidelity. Then the wooing of Katherine Parr and his marriage for a sixth time became overriding. The perpetual worry for his legitimate son and heir, Edward, along with his own mortality, further dominated the final years of his reign. So his second daughter was relatively unimportant.
It helped that Elizabeth lived an isolated life away from court, the Lady Ashley, her governess, her only constant companion. With the child dead something had to be done and it was Thomas Parry who proposed a solution. Parry was aware of the illegitimate grandchild of Henry VIII, the son born to Henry FitzRoy and Mary Howard. Until his death in 1536 FitzRoy had stood in great favor with the king. Henry had known of FitzRoy’s marriage to Mary Howard, and approved, but he had forbidden the consummation of the marriage until the young lovers were older. This decree was ignored and a son was born to them in 1533. Of this, Henry was never told.
Parry proposed a substitution. The unknown grandson for the deceased princess. Lady Ashley thought the idea absurd and said they would all lose their heads. But Parry lay forth five principles in making his case. First, the imposter must have the likeness of the princess, as to create no suspicion. This was satisfied since the grandson had inherited the Tudor fairness of skin, the red hair, and the features of his grandfather. Second, there must be a familiarity with the circumstances of the princess’s life. The grandson had been raised in isolation by the Howards, but had been taught of his noble heritage. Third, there must be both education and knowledge similar to what the princess received. This, too, had been provided, the boy schooled in geography, mathematics, history, mechanics, and architecture. Fourth, a skill in the classics and foreign tongues was important. The grandson could speak and write French, Italian, Spanish, and Flemish. Finally, there must be an ease of body and the courtliness of a highborn. This the grandson possessed in abundance, as the Howards were the wealthiest in the realm.
