The Tudor Plot

by Steve Berry

  “What are you holding there?” Mathews asked.

  He displayed the bankbooks.

  “I’m familiar with your offshore accounts. Money supposedly safely hidden behind aliases.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”

  Mathews studied more of the leather volumes on the black wood shelves, and Yourstone used the moment to ease open one of the desk drawers.

  Oiled ball bearings made not a sound.

  The gun’s grip came into view.

  Malone bypassed the town house’s front entrance. William had explained the building’s geography, so he knew Yourstone’s study was located on the ground floor, facing west.

  He rounded the corner and headed for the rear.

  A swish of leaves from the treetops, thanks to a stiff breeze, produced the only sound disturbing the chilly night. Not much car traffic here. He climbed a wrought-iron fence and threaded a path through a back garden, weaving among ranks of roses and clipped yews.

  Movement caught his eye from an alcove.

  A glass pane in a door window had been shattered, and lace curtains danced through the opening. He removed the gun from his belt and trotted to the porch. Approaching slowly, he could see through the curtains that the door led into a kitchen. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white tile. Bright lights highlighted an array of stainless-steel appliances. Splotches on the floor caught his gaze.

  Blood.

  He tried the knob.

  Open.

  He swung the door inward and stepped inside. Nobody was in sight. Not a sound, save for a soft whir from two refrigerators. Blood droplets formed a trail to a paneled door. He followed their lead and found a young man, in his late twenties, lying in a pantry that reeked of clove and garlic, his shirt stained red from a fatal chest wound.

  William had also provided photographs of Yourstone’s son.

  Andrew.

  Here he was.

  Dead.

  Yourstone turned his attention away from the gun and kept his face a study in restraint, not wanting to telegraph any of what he was thinking. Mathews remained across the room, near a rack of antique hunting rifles. An 18th-century grandfather clock in the opposite corner ticked with a steady beat that began to unnerve him. Thank heaven for the whiskey, which was lessening his fear of this maniac.

  “This effort failed because of your ego,” Mathews said.

  “It seems it failed because of Cotton Malone. He was a step ahead of you throughout. Was he the one who tossed the homing device into the Thames? If you had bothered to get back to me with information about him earlier, we might have avoided all of this.”

  “And what would you have done?”

  “We’ll never know, now, will we?”

  A smile formed on Mathews’ lips. “No. We won’t. And, yes, it was Malone who thwarted the missile.” The older man gestured with the gun. “How long has your family owned this town house?”

  He wondered about the sudden change in topics, and the thought of a cat toying with a mouse flashed through his mind. But he simply answered, “Two hundred years. Yourstones have served this nation with distinction.”

  “But alas, there will be no Yourstone on the throne.”

  “It seems we are both to be denied.”

  “It’s ironic,” Mathews said. “Three Richards have sat on the throne. All were failures. The first betrayed his father, then spent his life crusading and left the country to ruin. The second was overthrown and murdered. The last was a despot who killed his brother’s children and stole the throne, only to lose it on the battlefield. I shudder to think what havoc Richard IV will reek upon us.”

  “So this was all about love of country?”

  “Unlike you, my lord, I have no personal agenda. No profit or fame or fortune. No glory. My only interest is what is best for the United Kingdom.”

  “And you were willing to kill Albert Saxe-Coburg?”

  Mathews chuckled. “For someone who thinks himself so smart you are quite stupid. I had no intention of Albert dying. On the contrary, he should clearly be king. And you offered the perfect way to make that happen now. As did Cotton Malone. He stopped the missile and exposed Eleanor, which in turn exposes you. All of the conspiratorial rats taken down in one sweep. Richard will be his own downfall. He will never be king.”

  “Nothing exists to stop that now.”

  “Don’t be so sure. There are matters of which you have no knowledge. Be assured, he will not be crowned.”

  Silence passed between them, and he was comforted by the sight of the gun, in the drawer, only inches away. Mathews moved away from the desk and momentarily turned his back on him.

  He eased the drawer fully open.

  Mathews turned and said, “Your son. I heard him earlier. Apparently there is no relationship there?”

  “He is an inept fool.”

  Mathews shrugged, as if agreeing. “My thoughts, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Malone left the kitchen.

  As best he could determine he was in the south wing of the irregular-shaped mansion. Yourstone’s study was west, at the other end, so he began to navigate the wide corridors. The rooms he passed were filled with fine furniture, paintings, tapestries, and ceramics. He passed through a dining room, lit only from lights in the hall, and stopped at the beginning of another long corridor.

  Voices could be heard.

  He crept down a carpet runner, gun drawn, and turned a corner. A small foyer opened before him and contained a settee and two tables. A magnificent crystal lamp burned brightly. A set of double doors were cocked open.

  He heard the voices again.

  One was Yourstone’s.

  The other Thomas Mathews’.

  Yourstone sat still in the chair.

  “What of your son and Eleanor?” Mathews asked. “I take it they will make their own arrangements with the queen?”

  “Royals always look after royals.”

  “That they do. A shame you’re not a royal. Nor married to one.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Then go ahead,” Mathews said.

  He started to rise from the chair and leave.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He settled back down.

  “Go for the gun.”

  He said nothing.

  “It’s lying there. In the drawer. Reach for it. I want you to have a sporting chance.”

  A cold clammy feeling surged through his body. His face must have betrayed the question that formed in his mind. How did he know?

  “I’ve been a spy a long time.”

  Mathews’ pistol hung at his side, barrel pointed to the floor. Yourstone’s right arm shook. He needed to grip the gun and roll to the floor, using the desk for protection. It was his only chance. His gaze again darted to the drawer, but his hand remained glued to the armrest.

  Sweat beaded on his brow.

  Mathews stood five meters away.

  He realized what he’d become.

  Not longer an ally. Now a problem.

  Yourstone lunged for the weapon and slid from the chair. But his hand never made it to the drawer, nor his body to the floor.

  A bullet slammed into his chest.

  The sensation was at once surprising, then horribly painful. Blood poured from the wound. He tried to ease the hemorrhage with a hand but blood oozed through his clenched fingers.

  He stared at Thomas Mathews.

  “So sorry. But this matter must end here.”

  Mathews stepped to the desk and retrieved the passbooks. “Your money will be put to good use, though. Rest easy on that matter.”

  And the last thing Yourstone saw was Mathews raise his weapon and fire once more.

  Malone heard the distinctive pop of a sound-suppressed gun discharging twice. Thomas Mathews had surely just saved the British government the trouble of prosecuting Nigel Yourstone.

  The double doors swung open.

  Mathews stepped
into the hall, holding a Glock 9mm with sound suppressor in one hand, two booklets in the other.

  Malone stepped from the shadows and raised his weapon.

  The spymaster halted, then slowly turned around. “I didn’t think you were dead.”

  He and Professor Goulding had been flown directly to Reykjavik, the NATO pilot ordered to say they’d been lost in the wilderness. Goulding had been ensconced in a hotel and told to contact no one. Malone had been flown by U.S. military transport to a base in England, then made his way into London by car.

  He kept his gun trained on Mathews’ head, assuming under the tweed suit there might be a Kevlar vest. “It was you, making everything happen. You were Yourstone’s information source.”

  Mathews stood rigid. “You are an interesting man, Cotton. A bit lucky, too. Never underestimate the value of luck.”

  “We were supposed to die out there in Iceland?”

  “That was the idea. I had the camp burned and the tunnel sealed. It seemed a good way to end the problem. You and Goulding both succumbing to natural causes. Few questions would have been asked.”

  “Let the gun fall from your hand. Don’t raise your arm.”

  Mathews’ fingers released their grip, and the Glock thudded on the carpet.

  He said, “I should kill you.”

  “But you are a naval officer. That means you are a man of honor. Taught to respect life. Play fair. Would your father have shot an unarmed man?”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. He was a naval officer, too. Lost at sea. Doing his duty. Another man of honor. Would you disgrace him by shooting a defenseless man?”

  “I wouldn’t characterize you as defenseless.”

  “Lord Yourstone was a traitor. Now he is dead. Prince Albert is safe. This matter is at an end.”

  “The palace must have suspected you, or someone else in intelligence, because they refused to involve you or MI5.”

  “I assumed the same thing. Which explains why they turned to you.”

  “And you set me up at the Tower.”

  “Really? I thought you performed brilliantly. Saving the day, and all that.”

  “What if I hadn’t found that second homer?”

  “I had every confidence you would.”

  “And along the way you allowed Peter Lyon to escape.”

  “We actually never had him. But luckily, we discovered the details of his plan and the launch point.”

  “What if Albert had been killed?”

  Mathews shrugged. “Now, that would have been MI5’s problem.”

  “This was about a turf war?”

  “It’s about the security of this nation. Which I take seriously. But others do not. MI5 was not even aware Lyon was in the country. And that was after the incident of the dead policemen and the C-83, which even Stephanie Nelle uncovered. MI5 does not do its job. A point I’ve tried to make clear to the Home Secretary. Yet she fails to listen.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. He’d heard of Mathews’ determination, how his enemies feared him.

  But this was arrogance and stupidity.

  “Every operation,” Mathews said, “should have at least two objectives, each running parallel to the other. If the primary goal fails, then the secondary becomes paramount. Here, the primary was achieved. You stopped the missile and exposed the conspiracy. I will now finish what Yourstone started, and Richard will abdicate in favor of Albert. All will be right.”

  “And if I had not lived up to your expectations?”

  “Then the secondary objective, of exposing how poor our domestic security measures truly are, would have been realized by a missile striking the Tower of London. I’m sure there was little threat to Albert. You had him away form the impact point, never in any real danger.”

  “But a lot of other people could have died to prove your point.”

  “Every cause has its martyrs.”

  “Like Yourstone’s son, who’s lying dead in the kitchen?”

  “I’m afraid the young Yourstone knew a bit too much. He was one of those loose ends that have a terrible habit of reasserting themselves.”

  “The three men in Iceland fall into that category, too?”

  Mathews nodded. “A pity there. They were actually quite good at what they did.”

  He was tired of the banter, ready to end this.

  “I was troubled to learn that your marriage is ending,” Mathews said. “That’s too bad. There’s a son there, correct?”

  Gary was nine years old and dealing with his parents’ separation as best he could. They lived on one side of Atlanta and he on the other.

  “Leave my son out of this.”

  “A measure of a man is the character of his child. I’m told your son is a fine young man.”

  Mathews was sending a message. I can hurt you. Where it counts.

  “I’m leaving,” the spymaster said. “We’re going to assume that this conversation never happened.”

  “I’m one of those loose ends.”

  “That you are. And if you had died in Iceland, as planned, there would have been no problem. Killing you and Dr. Goulding now, though, presents issues that I’m not prepared to deal with. Surely Stephanie Nelle is aware you’re here. I haven’t heard from her officially, as yet, since you were supposedly dead. In any event, I don’t want a war with the Americans. Killing you will mean one of my own will be targeted. So we’ll call it a day.”

  Mathews turned and started to walk away.

  Malone fired into the floor just ahead of the Brit. “The next bullet will be to your head.”

  “No, it won’t. You have the same dilemma as I. Neither one of us can kill the other.” Mathews had stopped but was still facing away. “No matter how much we each would like to.”

  The bastard was right.

  Stalemate.

  Mathews started walking again. Ten feet remained until the hallway right-angled. His adversary kept moving, the cane leading the way.

  Finally, Mathews stopped, turned, and faced the gun.

  “Only you and I know the truth. And that is the way it will stay.”

  He lowered the gun. “One day, Sir Thomas, you’re going to push someone too far.”

  The older man smiled.

  “I doubt that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Malone finished packing his bag. His flight left Heathrow in a little over three hours. The trial was finished and the terrorists convicted, each sentenced to life in prison. His two months in England were over. A light rap on his hotel room door disturbed the silence, and Stephanie Nelle entered. His boss had flown over a few days ago for the verdict.

  “Ready to leave?” she asked.

  “Been ready.”

  “This was a tough one, wasn’t it?”

  “You could say that. My faith in the good guys is beginning to wane.”

  Everything he’d learned from and about Thomas Mathews still bothered him.

  He folded the last of his shirts into the bag and zipped the lid shut.

  In the weeks after the missile attack the press had been told precious little. The two Yourstones’ deaths were blamed on a robbery gone bad. Eleanor was saying nothing, playing the part of the grieving widow. And none of the royals would ever talk. The queen privately extracted a written declaration from her daughter renouncing all claims to the throne. There would be no repeats of regicide, or at least the effort would do her no good. Eleanor was allowed to keep her title, but no more royal duties. The official line was her desire to withdraw from public life and mourn her husband.

  He laid his travel bag on the floor.

  And not a word from the Secret Intelligence Service.

  But he hadn’t expected any.

  “William called,” Stephanie said. “The queen has asked us to come for a quick visit. She wants to say goodbye.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Let’s do it fast.”

  He followed
Stephanie through Buckingham Palace and into the audience hall. Victoria sat at the far side of the long chamber in her wheelchair, Albert standing beside her. William and Prince James stood off to the side. An array of ancient armor and weapons adorned the chamber, the finely carved, cream-colored walls resembling lace.

  “Come in, Mr. Malone,” Victoria said.

  Her pale voice resonated through the vast space, and she sounded upbeat.

  He stepped toward her. “You’re looking well, Your Majesty.”

  “I feel much better. My strength is returning. It is like a new day here.”

  He was glad for her.

  “I was wondering,” Victoria said, “if you might kneel.”

  An odd request, but he could not refuse her.

  “For service to this Crown, which included placing your life in jeopardy, I want to bestow upon you the title, knight of the realm.”

  Albert stepped forward, holding a glistening silver sword, the scabbard afire with rubies and diamonds. He raised the blade and gently touched the tops of Malone’s shoulders.

  “From this day forward,” the queen said, “you shall be known as Sir Harold Earl Malone, Protector of the Realm. This honor is granted by the Crown only to its loyal servants. And you sir, are my most loyal. You saved my grandson’s life. For that I, and this nation, owe you more than a mere knighthood.”

  He was a bit overwhelmed. He hadn’t expected this. He stood. “I’m honored. Thank you.”

  The queen smiled. “Ms. Nelle told me of your displeasure with commendations. She says you’ve refused quite a few. I decided to bestow one upon you that you could not refuse.”

  “As I said yesterday, it would be hard to refuse so gracious a lady.”

  Victoria chuckled. “Still the charmer.”

  “I see you also learned my full given name. I’m not often called Harold Earl.”

  “Ms. Nelle was kind enough to tell us. But I do wonder, where did the name Cotton come from?”

  He smiled. “It’s a really long story.”

  “Let’s agree then that, one day, you will return and tell me.”

  “Absolutely. Might I ask, Your Majesty, what about Richard? What will happen to the succession?”

  “My son has already signed his abdication. He will forfeit his right to the throne in favor of his son. That announcement will be made next week.”