The King's Deception

by Steve Berry

  Air billowed from another tunnel to her left.

  A few seconds later an Underground train roared past, entering the tunnel where the boys had gone. She rushed over and waited for the cars to pass, then peered into the darkness.

  The two boys had pressed themselves to the concrete walls and were now hustling ahead, finding a door and entering.

  ANTRIM DESCENDED A FLIGHT OF MARBLE STEPS INTO A LIT chamber. The vaulted room was oval-shaped, its ceiling supported by eight evenly spaced pillars. Most of the walls were shelved, the bays divided by chiseled pilasters. Cups, candlesticks, kettles, lamps, bowls, porcelain, chalices, jugs, and tankards were displayed.

  “Royal plate,” Mathews said. “Part of the Tudor wealth. These objects were of great value five hundred years ago.”

  He stepped to the oval’s center, glancing up at vine and scroll decorations that ornamented the columns. Murals of angels were painted above each support, more colorful paintings in the upper arches.

  “This is how it was found,” Mathews said. “Luckily, SIS was the first to enter and it has remained sealed since the 1970s.”

  A stone sarcophagus stood thirty feet away.

  Antrim walked close and saw that its lid was gone.

  He glanced at Mathews.

  “By all means,” the older man said. “Have a look.”

  MALONE CONTINUED TO FOLLOW THE ELECTRICAL CABLES, which eventually left the river chamber and wound a path through another narrow tunnel back into the earth. Not a long way. Maybe twenty feet. Eventually, he noted, as the river rose, its flow would creep inside. But—thanks to a gradual incline—not all the way to its end.

  Which came at an archway with no door.

  Beyond he spotted a darkened chamber about thirty feet across and another doorway, bright with light.

  He heard familiar voices.

  Mathews and Antrim.

  He found his gun and entered the first room, careful with his steps, creeping across the pavement to the second doorway.

  Three pillars supported the ceiling of the empty rectangle, offering some cover. He leaned against the wall and drew short breaths through his nostrils.

  Then peered inside.

  IAN LED THE WAY DOWN THE TUNNEL, GARY CLOSE AT HIS heels. They were following the electrical cables and lights, as that was what Mathews had told Malone to do during the telephone conversation at The Goring. Gary had led him to the metal door, describing the older man who’d been waiting earlier.

  Whom he knew.

  Thomas Mathews.

  He heard a rush of water, growing louder, and found its source just past the place where a metal door hung open. He knew about the Fleet River that ran beneath London, and had even explored the tunnels a couple of times. He recalled a posted warning. High tide came fast and flooded the chambers, so the risk of drowning was great. Now he stood on an iron bridge that spanned the flow, water rushing past its supports, rising rapidly inside a channeled path. The surge vibrated everything beneath his feet.

  “We need to stay out of that,” Gary said.

  He agreed.

  They kept moving, entering another open arch, its metal door swung open, following the lights to a small chamber. The electrical cables snaked a path down the wall, then across the floor into another room.

  Voices disturbed the silence.

  Gary eased to one side of the far doorway.

  Ian fell in behind him.

  Both listened.

  ANTRIM STARED INTO THE SARCOPHAGUS. NOTHING ELABORATE or ornate adorned its exterior. No inscriptions, no artwork. Just plain stone.

  And inside only dust and bones.

  “The body is that of a man who lived to be in his seventies,” Mathews said. “Forensic analysis confirmed that. Thanks to your violation of Henry VIII’s tomb, we obtained a sample from the great king himself.”

  “Glad I could be of service.”

  Mathews seemed not to like the sarcasm. “DNA analysis between the remains there and here showed that this man shared a paternal genetic link with Henry VIII.”

  “So this is what’s left of Henry FitzRoy’s son. The imposter. The man who was Elizabeth I.”

  “There is no doubt now. The legend is real. What was once a fanciful tale to the people in and around Bisley is now fact. Of course, the legend had done no real harm—”

  “Until I came along.”

  Mathews nodded. “Something like that.”

  What Robert Cecil had written was true. The imposter had indeed been buried beneath Blackfriars, and the dead Elizabeth, a mere child of twelve, moved to Westminster and laid to rest with her sister.

  Incredible.

  “This room, when found,” Mathews said, “also contained trunks of gold and silver coin. Billions of pounds’ worth. We melted it down and returned it to the state treasury, where it belonged.”

  “Didn’t keep any for yourself?”

  “Hardly.”

  He caught the indignation.

  “If you would, please, I’d like Robert Cecil’s journal.”

  Antrim slid off the backpack and handed over the book.

  “I saw it earlier,” Mathews said.

  “I didn’t want Daedalus to have it. And what about them? Are they going to be a problem?”

  Mathews shook his head. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

  He was curious. “What are you going to do with this place?”

  “Once this notebook is destroyed, this becomes just another innocuous archaeological site. Its meaning will never be known.”

  “King’s Deception would have worked.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Antrim, you are correct. We could have never allowed the truth about Elizabeth to be known.”

  He was pleased to know that he’d been right.

  “I do have a question,” Mathews said. “You maneuvered Cotton Malone to London, with his son, for a specific purpose. I managed to learn that purpose. The boy is your natural son. What do you plan to do with that situation?”

  “How could you possibly know any of that?”

  “Fifty years in the intelligence business.”

  He decided to be honest. “I’ve decided having a son is a pain in the ass.”

  “Children can be difficult. Still, he is your boy.”

  “But the several million dollars Daedalus paid me is more than enough compensation for the loss of that.”

  Mathews gestured with the journal. “You realize that what you planned to do with all of this was utter foolishness.”

  “Really? It seemed to get your attention.”

  “You clearly have no understanding of Northern Ireland. I knew men and women who died there during the Troubles. I lost agents there. Thousands of civilians died, too. There are hundreds of obsessed fringe groups simply waiting for a good reason to start killing one another again. Some want the English gone. Others want us to stay. Both are willing to slaughter thousands to prove their point. To reveal this secret would have cost many people their lives.”

  “All you had to do was tell the Scots to not release the Libyan.”

  “Such an interesting way to treat one of your allies.”

  “We say the same about you.”

  “This is none of America’s concern. The bombing of that plane occurred in Scottish territory. Scottish judges tried and convicted al-Megrahi. The decision as to what to do with their prisoner was the Scots’ alone.”

  “I don’t know what you, or they, were promised by Libya, but it had to be substantial.”

  “Is that moralizing?” Mathews asked. “From a man who sold out his country, his career, and his son for a few million dollars?”

  He said nothing. No need to explain himself.

  Not anymore.

  “You manipulated Cotton Malone,” Mathews said. “His son, his ex-wife, the CIA, Daedalus. You tried to manipulate my government, but then decided you were more important than any of that. How does it feel, Mr. Antrim, to be a traitor?”

  He’d heard enough.

>   He slid the backpack from his shoulders and dropped it at the base of one of the center pillars.

  The detonators were in place, armed, ready to go.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Mathews smiled. “A little justice, Mr. Antrim.”

  Sixty

  MALONE LISTENED TO THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN ANTRIM and Mathews, growing angrier by the second. Antrim cared for nothing save himself. Gary was meaningless. But where was Gary? He was supposed to be with Antrim. He gripped the gun, finger on the trigger, then stepped from the shadows into the harsh wash of light.

  Mathews stood facing away. Antrim had a clear view and shock filled the American’s face.

  “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Mathews slowly turned. “I invited him. I assume you have been listening?”

  “To every word.”

  “I thought you two needed a private place to resolve your differences. So I led both of you here.” Mathews moved toward the steps and the other doorway out. “I’ll leave you two to work through your dispute.”

  “Where’s Gary?” he asked.

  Mathews stopped and faced him. “I have him. He’s safe. Now deal with Mr. Antrim.”

  GARY HEARD WHAT MATHEWS HAD SAID.

  A lie.

  He started forward to reveal himself.

  His father needed to know he was there.

  Ian grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “You can’t. That man’s a bloody schemer. He wants to kill me, and probably you, too.”

  He stared into Ian’s eyes and saw truth.

  “Sit tight,” Ian breathed. “Wait a bit. Let your dad handle it.”

  MALONE STARED AT BOTH MATHEWS AND ANTRIM, KEEPING his gun aimed and ready.

  Mathews smiled. “Come now, Cotton. You and I both know that you cannot—or, better yet, you will not—shoot me. This entire fiasco was started by Washington. I have done nothing more than defend the security of my country. You understand the gravity of what was at stake. Can you blame me, now? I did exactly what you would have done, if the roles were reversed. The prime minister himself is aware of what is happening here. You can kill me, but that prisoner transfer is going to occur and my death would only make a bad situation for Washington horrendous.”

  He knew the old man was right.

  “Actually, this problem is his creation.” Mathews pointed at Antrim. “And, frankly, I hope you make him suffer. He killed three of my agents.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Antrim said. “I didn’t kill anybody who works for you.”

  Mathews shook his head in disgust. “You ass. I created Daedalus. The people you encountered with them were my agents. The money paid to you came from me. It was all a show. You are not the only one who can manipulate.”

  Antrim stood silent, seemingly absorbing reality, then said, “You killed two of my people. And your three agents came to kill me. I only defended myself.”

  “Which, frankly, shocked me. You are an incompetent fool. How you were able to solve this puzzle is a mystery. It has remained concealed for a long time. But, incredibly, you somehow stumbled into the solution. So I had no choice. You gave me no choice.”

  “I did my job.”

  “Really, now? And at the first opportunity offered you sold out your country. For a few million dollars you were willing to forget it all, including those two dead American agents.”

  Antrim said nothing.

  “Your name. I always thought it ironic. There are six counties in Northern Ireland. Armagh, Down, Fermanagh, Londonderry, Tyrone—” Mathews paused. “—and Antrim. It’s an ancient place. Perhaps somewhere in your lineage there is Irish blood.”

  “What does it matter?” Antrim asked.

  “That’s the point. Nothing really does matter, except you. Now I will leave you two to settle your differences.”

  And Mathews started up the stone risers.

  GARY HAD TAKEN IAN’S ADVICE AND STAYED PUT. EVER SINCE his mother had told him about his birth father, he’d imagined what that man would be like. Now he knew. A liar, traitor, and murderer. Someone vastly different than he’d hoped.

  He heard the soles of shoes scrape across gritty stone.

  Approaching.

  “Someone is coming,” Ian whispered.

  The area where they stood was small. No exit besides the way they’d come and the doorway into the next chamber. A bright bulb inside a wire cage dissolved the darkness, but not entirely. To their right, near the far wall, shadows remained thick. He and Ian fled there and huddled in a corner, waiting to see who appeared in the doorway.

  The older man.

  He stepped out and headed for the second exit.

  Then stopped.

  And turned.

  His gaze locked their way.

  “It’s impressive you both made it here,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “Perhaps that’s best. You both should see what is about to happen.”

  Neither he nor Ian moved.

  Gary’s heart pounded.

  “Nothing to say?”

  Neither boy spoke.

  Finally, Ian said, “You wanted me dead.”

  “That I did. You know things that you should not.”

  In one hand the older man held a book, which Gary recognized. “That’s Cecil’s journal.”

  “Indeed. Apparently you, too, know things you should not.”

  Then he left.

  Entering the tunnel that led to the bridge and the construction site.

  They both hesitated, waiting to be sure he was gone.

  Then they stepped back, closer to the doorway.

  ANTRIM DID NOT LIKE ANYTHING ABOUT THE SITUATION. Mathews had led him here to confront Malone, who was staring at him holding a gun. The backpack with the explosives lay against one of the columns. Malone had paid it little attention. The remote detonator was tucked in his pocket. He didn’t actually have to remove it. Just a slap to his thigh would do the trick.

  But not yet.

  He was far too close.

  And Mathews had said nothing about the explosives. No warning to Malone. As if he wanted them used. What had the old Brit said. Bring them along. You may have need of them.

  Malone stood between him and the stairs that led up to the doorway through which Mathews had left. But the second exit, the one from which Malone had entered, beckoned.

  That was the way.

  Opposite the path Mathews had taken.

  He needed to end this, go to ground, and enjoy his money.

  “You’re a tough man,” he said to Malone, “with that gun. I’m unarmed.”

  Malone tossed the weapon aside.

  It clattered across the floor.

  Challenge accepted.

  KATHLEEN HAD FOLLOWED IAN AND GARY THROUGH THE metal door and into a lit tunnel, walking slowly, her gun leading the way. She’d stayed back, waiting to see where the path would lead, concerned about the two boys, ready to confront them. A rush of water had grown louder and she came to a metal bridge that spanned a dark, swift current.

  The Fleet River.

  She’d been into its tunnels twice before, once in pursuit of a fugitive, another time to search for a body. Its subterranean path was one tall tunnel after another, at least ten meters high, the water now up to nearly half that height, just below the bridge.

  Movement from the other side caught her eye.

  She retreated back into the shadows.

  Thomas Mathews emerged onto the bridge, then turned and closed the far door behind him. She watched as he inserted a key into the lock and secured the portal. Before leaving the door Mathews reached beneath his jacket and found a small radio.

  She stepped onto the bridge.

  Not a hint of surprise spread across the older man’s face.

  “I was wondering when you would appear,” he said.

  He approached, stopping two meters away.

  She kept her gun aimed at him. “Where are those two boys?”

  “Behind that lo
cked door.”

  Now she knew. “You lured them all here.”

  “Only Antrim and Malone. But Ian Dunne was an unexpected bonus. He and Malone’s son are now there, too.”

  What was happening beyond that door?

  Then she noticed what else Mathews was holding. An old book, bound in brittle leather, clutched tight.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “What I have sought. What, ultimately, you may have discovered for me.”

  Then she realized. “Robert Cecil’s journal.”

  “You are, indeed, an excellent agent. Quite intuitive. Unfortunate that no discipline accompanies that admirable trait.”

  “I get what’s at stake here,” she told him over the water’s roar. “I know what Northern Ireland is capable of starting up again. I don’t agree with the Americans meddling in our business, but I also understand why they did. That bloody terrorist should stay in jail. All of you have handled this wrong.”

  “Sharp criticism from a disgraced agent.”

  She absorbed his insult. “A disgraced agent, who gives a damn about two kids in trouble.”

  “Ian Dunne is a witness to an SIS murder. One, here, on British soil. Which, as you noted at Queen’s College, violates the law.”

  “Quite a scandal for you and the prime minister. Tell me, does he know all that you’ve done.”

  His silence was her answer.

  “Let us say that I am dealing with it, Miss Richards. This must end here. It must end now. For the good of the nation.”

  “And for the good of you.”

  She’d heard enough.

  “Give me the key to that door.”

  Sixty-one

  MALONE’S NERVES JANGLED WITH RAGE, HIS EYES WATCHING Antrim’s every move. “Was all this worth it?”

  “Damn right. I have plenty of money. And in a few minutes you’ll be dead.”

  “So sure of yourself.”

  “I’ve been around a long time, Malone.”

  “I’m not one of your exes. You might find beating up on me a bit more difficult.”

  Antrim shifted to the right, closer to the open sarcophagus. The gun lay ten feet away from them both, but Antrim seemed uninterested, moving in the opposite direction.