The King's Deception

by Steve Berry

  “That what this is about?” Antrim asked. “Defending the honor of your ex-wife? You didn’t seem to care much about her sixteen years ago.”

  He refused the bait. “You enjoy beating up women?”

  Antrim shrugged. “Yours didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

  The words stung, but he kept his cool.

  “If it’s any comfort, Malone. The boy means nothing. I just wanted to see if it could be done. Pam pissed me off a few months ago. She thought she could tell me what to do. One rule I always live by. Never let a woman be in control.”

  GARY HEARD MORE OF WHAT ANTRIM SAID.

  A wave of revulsion and anger welled inside him.

  He moved to rush into the chamber, but Ian again grabbed him and shook his head.

  “Let your dad handle it,” Ian breathed. “It’s his fight right now.”

  Ian was right. This was not the time. Him suddenly appearing would only complicate things. Let his dad handle it.

  “You okay?” Ian breathed.

  He nodded.

  But he wasn’t.

  ANTRIM WAS TAUNTING MALONE, PUSHING EVERY BUTTON, goading him into a reaction. But he wasn’t lying, either. Not about Pam or Gary. Neither mattered anymore. He would have to take Malone down, then flee out the other entrance, detonating the explosives as he left. Fifty feet would be more than enough protection, considering the dirt walls that surrounded him. The resulting heat and concussion would surely crack the stone and collapse the chamber, providing a proper grave for ex–Magellan Billet agent Cotton Malone. All he had to do was get through the doorway ten feet away.

  That meant incapacitating Malone for a mere few seconds.

  Enough for him to bolt and press the detonator in his pocket.

  Careful, though.

  He could not engage in too much jostling, as he did not want the button jammed accidentally.

  But he could handle this.

  MALONE LEAPED, HIS ARMS CATCHING ANTRIM AROUND THE waist.

  He and Antrim pounded to the stone floor.

  But he held tight.

  IAN HEARD BODIES THUD AND A GRUNT FROM ONE OF THE TWO men. He risked a look and saw that they were fighting, Antrim flipping Malone off him and springing to his feet. Malone, too, was up and swung his fist, the blow blocked, a counterpunch delivered to the stomach.

  Gary watched, too.

  Ian’s gaze raked the chamber and located the gun, to the right of the entrance, at the base of steps that led down into the room.

  “We need to get that gun,” he said.

  But Gary’s attention was on the fight.

  “Antrim has explosives.”

  GARY SAW THAT IAN WAS SURPRISED BY WHAT HE’D REVEALED. “In that pack on the floor. The detonator is in his pocket.”

  “And you’re just now mentioning this?”

  He’d seen what those packs of clay could do to bodies.

  Special stuff, Antrim had said.

  He recalled that Antrim had been around fifty feet away from the carnage in the warehouse and had been unharmed. If he could toss the backpack out the doorway on the other side of the room, that might do it. He doubted Antrim planned to blow anything as long as he was still around.

  But the detonator.

  In Antrim’s pocket.

  It could accidentally be pressed in the fight.

  His dad was in trouble.

  “You get the gun,” he said to Ian. “I’ll toss that backpack.”

  MALONE DODGED A RIGHT JAB AND SWUNG HARD, CATCHING Antrim in the face. His opponent staggered back against the chamber wall, then charged.

  More blows rained down.

  One caught him in the lip. A salty taste filled his mouth. Blood. He landed more blows to the head and chest but, before he could punch again, Antrim reached for one of the metal pitchers on the shelves and propelled it toward him.

  He ducked the projectile.

  Then Antrim was on him, slamming something heavy into the nape of his neck, which hurt. He grabbed hold of himself and joined his hands together, sweeping his arms upward, the double fist clipping Antrim below the chin.

  A bronze flask clanged to the floor.

  His head spun, the throbbing in his temple became a blinding ache. A kick to his legs twisted him sideways.

  He turned, pretended to have lost his breath, and readied himself to attack.

  Ian rushed into the room, leaping down the stone stairs, heading straight for the gun.

  Then Gary appeared.

  What the hell?

  Their appearance momentarily stunned him.

  Ian reached for the gun, but Antrim was on him, yanking the weapon free, backhanding the boy across the face.

  Gary grabbed the backpack from the floor and tossed it into the darkness of the other room.

  ANTRIM’S FINGER FOUND THE TRIGGER AND HE AIMED THE weapon. “Enough.”

  Malone seemed woozy, the boys staring at him.

  Ian rubbed his face from the blow.

  Fear surged through him. His sweat cast a sweet, musky scent.

  One thought filled his brain.

  Leave. Now.

  “All of you, over there, by the stairs.”

  His left eye was swollen from Malone’s fist, his chin, temple, and brow aching. He retreated toward the second doorway, his pounding heart rising against his ribs.

  Malone moved slow so he aimed the gun straight at Gary and yelled, “Would you rather I shoot him? Get over there.”

  Malone straightened up and stepped back, Ian and Gary joining him.

  “You okay?” Malone asked Ian.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Gary stepped forward. “Would you shoot me? Your own son?”

  No time for sentiment. “Look, we haven’t known each other in fifteen years. No need to start now. So, yes, I would. Now shut the hell up.”

  “So this was all about hurting my mom?”

  “You were listening outside? Good. So I don’t have to repeat myself.”

  Malone laid his hand on Gary’s shoulder and drew him back close, but the boy’s gaze never left Antrim.

  Antrim found the exit, a quick glance confirming that the chamber beyond was safe. The darkness was thick, but enough light spilled in for him to see the outline of another exit thirty feet away.

  He reached into his pocket and found the detonator.

  “Stay right there,” he told Malone.

  He backed from the room, keeping the gun trained.

  Sixty-two

  KATHLEEN AIMED THE GUN STRAIGHT AT THOMAS MATHEWS. Never had she imagined that she would be in a face-off with Britain’s chief spy. But that’s exactly what the past two days had been.

  “Give me the key to the door,” she said again.

  “And what will you do?”

  “Help them.”

  He chuckled. “What if they don’t need your help?”

  “All of your problems are in there, right? Nice and neat. Tucked away.”

  “Good planning and preparation made that result possible.”

  But how could Mathews know that all of his problems would be solved? So she asked, “What makes this a sure thing?”

  “Ordinarily, I would not answer that. But I’m hoping this will be a learning experience for you. Your Blake Antrim brought percussion explosives with him. The same type used in St. George’s Chapel.”

  The dots connected. “Which you want him to detonate.”

  He shrugged. “It matters not how it ends. Intentional. Accidental. So long as it ends.”

  “And if Antrim makes it out, after blowing everyone else up?”

  “He will be killed.”

  Now she realized Mathews was stalling, allowing whatever was happening behind the locked door to play out.

  That meant time was short.

  And those two kids were in there.

  “Give me the key.”

  He displayed it in his right hand, the one that held the radio.

  Then he thrust his arm over the side
of the bridge.

  “Don’t do it,” she said.

  He dropped the key.

  Which disappeared into the torrent.

  “We do what we have to do,” he said to her, his face as animated as a death mask. “My country comes first, as I suspect it does with you.”

  “Country first means killing children?”

  “In this case it does.”

  She hated herself for not stopping Ian and Gary sooner. It was her fault they were now behind that locked door. “You’re no different from Antrim.”

  “Oh, but I am. Quite different, in fact. I am no traitor.”

  “I will shoot you.”

  He smiled. “I think not. It’s over, Miss Richards. Let it be.”

  She saw his fingers flick a switch on the radio. Surely there were more men nearby, which meant that shortly they would not be alone. She’d heard about moments when a person’s entire existence flashed before them. Those instances when life-changing decisions were either made or avoided. Turning points, some called them. She’d come close several times to such an instant, when her life had been on the line.

  But never anything like this.

  Sir Thomas Mathews was, in essence, saying that she was too weak to do anything.

  He’d dropped the key and dared her.

  Her professional life was over.

  She’d failed.

  But that didn’t mean that she should fail as a person.

  Malone and two kids were in trouble.

  And one old man stood in her way.

  He brought the radio toward his mouth. “They have to die, Miss Richards. It is the only way for this to end.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  May God forgive her.

  She shot him in the chest.

  He staggered toward the low rail.

  The journal dropped to his feet.

  A look of shock filled his face.

  She stepped close. “You’re not always right.”

  And she shoved him over the side.

  He hit the water, surfaced, and gasped for air, arms flailing. Then his strength oozed away and he sank, the current sweeping the corpse into the darkness toward the Thames.

  No time existed for her to consider the implications of what she’d done. Instead, she rushed toward the door and studied the lock. Brass. New. The door itself all metal.

  She kicked it a few times.

  Solid and opening toward her, which meant a metal jam was providing extra strength.

  Only one way.

  She stepped back, aimed the gun, and emptied the magazine into the lock.

  GARY NEVER ALLOWED HIS GAZE TO BREAK.

  Everything happened so fast he doubted Antrim realized that the backpack was gone. His attention had been on Ian and the gun. Antrim continued to back into the darkness of the other room, the gun still aimed their way. He was no longer visible but, thanks to the lights, they remained in full view to him.

  His dad was watching, too.

  “Let him go,” Gary said, his lips barely moving.

  MALONE HEARD GARY’S WORDS.

  “What’s he got?” he quietly asked, keeping his eyes on the dark doorway across the room.

  “Bad explosives,” Gary mumbled. “Superhot. They burn people. He brought them in the backpack.”

  What had Mathews told him at Hampton Court? About Antrim and Henry VIII’s grave? He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab above the remains. He knew their capabilities. And limitations.

  His eyes raked the room, confirming what he’d seen a few moments ago.

  The backpack was gone.

  “Let him go,” Gary breathed again.

  ANTRIM GRIPPED THE DETONATOR IN HIS RIGHT HAND. HE was safe within the second room, Malone and the two boys visible through the doorway in the next chamber. Plenty of protection stood between him and the PEs. He kept his gun aimed, which Malone seemed to respect, as none of the three had moved. A quick glance back and he saw the blackened outline of the other exit only a few feet away. He had no idea where it led, but obviously it was a way out, and far preferable to heading in the direction of Thomas Mathews. His eyes were still accustomed to the lights and he allowed his pupils a moment to dilate, preparing himself for darkness. He carried no flashlight, but neither had Malone, which meant that the way out was easy to follow. He’d just have to keep his eyes shielded during the explosion.

  Thomas Mathews wanted him to kill Malone. The boys? Collateral damage. Two fewer witnesses to all that had transpired.

  Gary?

  It didn’t matter.

  He was no father.

  The past twenty-four hours had proven that.

  He was better off alone.

  And alone he would be.

  He dropped to the floor and prepared to hunker down close.

  He aimed the detonator.

  And pushed the button.

  A flash sparked ten feet away.

  Here.

  In this room.

  The darkness was dissolved by orange, then yellow, and finally blue light.

  He screamed.

  MALONE SAW A FLASH, HEARD A TERRIFIED WHIMPER, AND imagined Antrim’s face, a study in horror as he realized what was coming. He dove left and swept Gary and Ian down with him. Together they hit the floor and he shielded both boys from the concussion that poured from the other chamber, intense heat and light surging upward and engulfing the ceiling. The sarcophagus stood between them and the other exit, which blocked much of its effect. Thank goodness those were PEs and not conventional explosives, as the pressure wave would have annihilated both chambers.

  But the heat wreaked havoc.

  Electrical conduits severed and the lightbulbs burst with a blast of blue sparks. The PEs exhausted themselves in a mere few seconds, like magician’s flash paper, the room plunged into total darkness. He glanced up and caught the bitter waft of spent carbon, the once cool air now midday-warm.

  “You okay?” he asked the boys.

  Both said they were.

  They’d all heard the scream.

  “You did what you had to,” he said to Gary.

  “He would have killed us,” Ian added.

  But Gary remained silent.

  A crack broke the silence. Like wood splintering, only louder, more pronounced. Then another. Followed by more. He tensed as a gnawing anticipation grew within him. He knew what was happening. The centuries-old bricks that made up the walls and ceiling of the adjacent chamber had just been subjected to heat intense enough to crack their surface. Couple that with the pressures of holding back tons of earth and it would not take much for all of it to give way.

  Something crashed in the other room.

  Hard and heavy.

  Followed by another thud powerful enough to shake the floor.

  Ceiling stone was raining down. Their chamber was okay, for the moment. But they needed to leave.

  One problem.

  Total darkness surrounded them.

  He could not even see his hand in front of his eyes.

  No way to know which way to go.

  And little time to find out.

  KATHLEEN TOSSED THE GUN ONTO THE BRIDGE AND LUNGED for the metal door. She’d planted four rounds into the lock, obliterating it. Risky, considering the ricochets off the metal, but she’d had no choice. The door was equipped with no knob or handle, only the lock that kept it shut, an inserted key the way to ease it open once the tumblers were released.

  But she had no key.

  Another kick and the panel jarred loose enough from its jamb for her to curl her fingers inside and yank it outward. Two solid tugs and the mutilated lock gave way, the door bursting open.

  She immediately noticed the odor. Carbon. Burnt. Just like from Henry VIII’s grave at Windsor. Spent percussion explosives.

  Something had happened.

  A passage stretched before her, everything in solid darkness. The only light was what leaked in from the river tunnel, which was barely illuminated by
overhead grates.

  She heard a crash.

  A heavy mass slamming downward.

  No choice on what to do.

  “Ian? Gary? Malone?”

  MALONE HEARD KATHLEEN RICHARDS.

  She’d made it to them.

  Elation and panic mingled within him.

  More stone cascading downward drowned out Richards’ pleas. Then something smashed to pieces only a few feet away. The carnage was spreading and a toxic cloud of dust was enveloping them.

  Breathing was difficult.

  They had to go.

  “We’re in here,” he called out. “Keep talking.”

  IAN HEARD RICHARDS, TOO, HER VOICE FAR OFF, PROBABLY IN the tunnel that led from the bridge.

  “She’s back from where we came,” he said to Malone through the blackness.

  More stone cracked to rubble only a few feet away.

  “Everyone up,” Malone said. “Hold hands.”

  He felt Gary’s grip in his.

  “We’re in a chamber,” Malone called out. “Beyond the tunnel where you are.”

  “I’ll count out,” Richards said. “Follow the voice.”

  GARY HELD HIS FATHER’S AND IAN’S HANDS.

  The chamber was collapsing, and the one in which Antrim had died was probably already gone. The air was stifling and all three of them struggled against fits of coughing, but it was next to impossible not to inhale dust.

  His dad led the way and they found the steps.

  Stone pounded the floor nearby and his father yanked him up the risers. He held on tight and guided Ian up with him.

  He could hear a woman counting from a hundred.

  Backward.

  MALONE FOCUSED ON RICHARDS’ VOICE, CLIMBING THE STEPS. His right hand groped the air ahead, looking for the doorway he recalled seeing, listening to the numbers.

  “87. 86. 85.”

  He moved right.

  The voice grew fainter.

  Back to the left. More rock crumbled to dust behind them as centuries-old engineering succumbed to gravity.

  “83. 82. 81. 80.”

  His hand found the doorway and he led them out.

  The air was better here, breathing easier.