The King's Deception_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  But Gary now knew.

  Or at least that’s what Mathews had said.

  They were headed back into London inside the cab, toward The Goring Hotel, where Tanya Carlton should be waiting. He’d trusted the older woman with the flash drive, as it seemed the only play at the time. Now he needed its information.

  “That’s twice you’ve come to my aid,” Richards said to him.

  She was confident and certainly capable, both attractive qualities. Since the divorce he’d been involved with a couple of women like her. He seemed to gravitate toward the smart and the bold. But he wanted to know, “Why’d you take those sheets in Hampton Court and leave?”

  “I thought I was doing my job. Sir Thomas wanted that flash drive. He said national security was involved. I thought I was doing the right thing for once, without questioning.”

  Which made sense.

  One part of his brain was worried about Gary, the other was dissecting the situation. Why would it matter that Elizabeth I may have been a fraud? Why would the CIA want to know, and the British government want that truth suppressed? Vanity? A matter of history? National pride? No. More than that.

  He rolled over several scenarios and one kept recurring. So he found his phone and called Stephanie Nelle in Washington.

  “This is a mess,” Stephanie said to him. “I learned a little while ago that a CIA agent was killed in St. Paul’s Cathedral yesterday, just as you were arriving. He was on Antrim’s team, part of King’s Deception.”

  “And I know who killed him.”

  So he told her.

  Thomas Mathews.

  “This just got worse,” she said. “I only learned that information through a back-channel source. The people at Langley, who called me about you, failed to mention it.”

  No surprise. Honesty was not prevalent in the intelligence business, and the higher up the liar the more lies told. That was the thing about Stephanie Nelle he’d always admired. A straight shooter. True, her frankness sometimes tossed her into political trouble, but she’d survived more than one White House administration, including the current one under President Danny Daniels.

  He told her what Gary was facing.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Stephanie said. “I really am. I got you into this one.”

  “Not really. We were all conned. Right now, I have to find Antrim.”

  “I’ll see what I can do with his bosses at Langley.”

  “Do that. But tell them they have one pissed-off ex-agent over here with absolutely nothing to lose.”

  He knew that would open their ears.

  “What about Mathews,” she asked. “He’s seriously breached protocol. I doubt anyone here is going to roll over and allow two dead agents to go unavenged.”

  “Keep that to yourself. For now. I need Gary safe first.”

  “You got it.”

  He ended the call.

  “I don’t think Blake would hurt the boy,” Richards said to him.

  But her words did not help. He’d left Gary with Antrim. Made that choice. He placed him in the situation. Of course, if Pam had been honest and told him the name of the man she’d had the affair with, he would have known. If she’d been open with Gary, then they both would know. If Malone had not been an ass sixteen years ago and cheated on his wife, none of it might ever have happened.

  And if … and if … and if.

  He told his brain to stop.

  He’d been in tight spots before.

  But never like this.

  ANTRIM HAD TO KNOW WHAT WAS CONTAINED IN THE EMAIL the analyst had forwarded. Denise had died trying to secure that information, but he’d taught her a lesson. Contrary to what the Daedalus Society thought, he wasn’t incompetent. He could handle himself just fine.

  He and Gary had fled the warehouse, running several blocks to the nearest Underground station and boarding the first train that appeared. He decided to take a page from Malone’s playbook and find an Internet café. From there he could access his secured account and find out what was so important.

  “Why’d you have to kill those people?” Gary asked him as they exited the train in a station near the Marble Arch.

  He was in survival mode, and the presence of an inquisitive fifteen-year-old seriously complicated things. But this was a question he wanted to answer.

  “In every operation there are good guys and bad guys. Those were the bad guys.”

  “You blew them up. They had no chance.”

  “And what would have happened if I hadn’t? We’d both be either dead or in custody. I didn’t want either of those to happen.”

  His words came sharp, his voice tight.

  They headed for the WAY OUT signs and the street above. Gary stayed silent. He decided that he shouldn’t alienate the boy too much. Once this was over and things calmed down he might want to pick up where they left off. And the thought of Pam Malone winning this fight irked him. Cotton Malone was still out there. Delivering Gary in one piece, even if he wasn’t around to see the reunion, would go a long way toward keeping that bulldog off him.

  He stopped.

  “Look. I didn’t mean to jump all over you. A lot is happening and I’m a little tense.”

  Gary nodded. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  KATHLEEN FOLLOWED MALONE INTO THE GORING HOTEL. She knew this place. A hundred years ago a man named Goring persuaded the Duke of Westminister to sell him a plot of land at the rear of Buckingham Palace. There he built the last grand hotel of the Edwardian era, each room a suite, equipped with central heating—which, for its time, was quite remarkable. She’d once enjoyed afternoon tea on its terrace, the biscuits and clotted cream heavenly.

  No time for such niceties today, though.

  Malone was clearly troubled. He’d tried twice more to call Blake Antrim, but with no answer. She sympathized, though she could only imagine his torment. Her SOCA badge made it easy for the front desk to provide Tanya Carlton’s room number. They found the door on the third floor, which was answered by Ian Dunne, who seemed glad to see them both.

  “Why aren’t you two with Gary?” Malone immediately asked.

  She caught the heightened level of concern in Malone’s voice.

  “You were all supposed to be together.”

  Tanya Carlton sat at a small desk, her twin sister standing behind her. A laptop computer was open before them.

  “Gary left with Antrim,” Ian said. “We didn’t want him to go, but he went anyway.”

  “So I decided we should leave,” Miss Mary said. “It was clear Antrim was through with us. I had a bad feeling about that place.”

  “What place?” Malone asked.

  Miss Mary told them about a warehouse near the river.

  “Any idea where Antrim and Gary went?” Malone asked.

  Miss Mary shook her head. “He didn’t say. Only that they would be back soon. But something told me that wasn’t going to happen, so we left. Prior to that, though, Ian managed to steal Mr. Antrim’s cell phone. Which turned out to be a good thing.”

  “How is that?” Malone asked. “I’ve been trying to contact Antrim on that phone.”

  “We left it in the warehouse,” Ian said.

  Which meant either Antrim and Gary had not returned to find it, or something else had happened.

  Tanya pointed to the laptop. “We have discovered what this is all about.”

  Malone nodded.

  “So have I.”

  Fifty-five

  WITHIN THESE PAGES I HAVE REVEALED A MOMENTOUS SECRET, one that would have deep repercussions if ever revealed. My hope is that by the time these words are deciphered the fact that her majesty, Elizabeth I, was not as she appeared would be nothing more than a historical curiosity. My father taught me that truth is fleeting, its meaning fluid, depending on time and circumstances. No greater example of that wisdom exists than what has transpired here. I am sure that the reader has not forgotten what the two King Henrys passed down and what Katherine Parr told the imposter
. Your reward for deciphering this journal is the opportunity to see that which only royalty has been privy to visit. There I have left the wealth of the Tudors. Also, there rests the imposter, safe from all prying eyes, peaceful in his eternal sleep. England was lucky to have him, no matter the fact that he was illegitimate in every legal way. But no more remorse. The time for that is over. I go to my grave with no regrets, glad that I will not be here to witness the downfall of all that my family holds dear. I fear a grave mistake was made in empowering the Stuarts. Kingship is more than a crown. Once I thought of telling James what I know. That was before I realized he was wholly unfit to be king. He knows nothing, nor does any other living soul. I am the last. You, reader, are now the first. Do what you may with your knowledge. My only hope is that you show the wisdom that the good Queen Elizabeth demonstrated during his forty-five years on the throne.

  What you seek can be found beneath the former Blackfriars Abbey. It was placed there long before the abbey existed and found by one of the friars during the reign of Richard III. Access is through what was once the wine cellar, an opening in its floor concealed by one of the casks. Upon the cask is carved an old monk’s prayer. “He who drinks wine sleeps well. He who sleeps well cannot sin. He who does not sin goes to heaven.”

  Antrim finished Robert Cecil’s narrative.

  He was inside an Internet café before one of the desktops, Gary standing beside him.

  “Where is Blackfriars Abbey?” the boy asked.

  A good question.

  He knew the name. A locale near the Inns of Court, within the City, on the banks of the Thames, but there was no abbey there. Only an Underground station that bore the name. He typed BLACKFRIARS into Google search and read what he found on one of the sites.

  IN 1276 DOMINICAN FRIARS MOVED THEIR ABBEY FROM HOLBORN TO A SPOT ON THE RIVER THAMES AND LUDGATE HILL. THERE THEY BUILT AN ABBEY, WHICH ACQUIRED THE NAME BLACKFRIARS, THANKS TO THE DARK ROBES WORN BY THE MONKS. THE ABBEY BECAME QUITE FAMOUS, REGULARLY HOSTING PARLIAMENT AND THE PRIVY COUNCIL. IN 1529 THE DIVORCE HEARING OF HENRY VIII AND KATHERINE OF ARAGON WAS HEARD THERE. HENRY VIII CLOSED THE PRIORY IN 1538, PART OF HIS DISSOLUTION OF MONASTARIES. SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE THEATER SAT JUST ACROSS THE RIVER, SO A GROUP OF ACTORS ACQUIRED A LEASE TO SOME OF THE BUILDINGS AND STARTED A COMPETING THEATER. THE SOCIETY OF APOTHECARIES EVENTUALLY OCCUPIED ANOTHER OF THE BUILDINGS IN 1632. THAT STRUCTURE BURNED IN THE GREAT FIRE OF 1666, BUT THE APOTHECARIES HALL REMAINS TODAY. BLACKFRIARS RAILWAY STATION NOW STANDS AT THE LOCALE, ALONG WITH A STOP ON THE CIRCLE AND DISTRICT LINES FOR THE LONDON UNDERGROUND.

  “It doesn’t exist anymore,” he said. “The abbey is gone.”

  A sense of defeat filled him.

  What to do now?

  “Look,” Gary said. “On the screen.”

  His gaze locked on the monitor. An email had appeared in his secured account. He read the FROM line. THOMAS MATHEWS. Then the subject. YOUR LIFE.

  “Wait over there,” he said to Gary.

  The boy’s gaze signaled defiance.

  “This is CIA business. Wait over there.”

  Gary retreated across to the other side of the room.

  He opened the email and read the message.

  Clever, your escape from the Daedalus Society. Three of their operatives are dead. They will not be pleased. I am aware of Operation King’s Deception, as I am sure you now realize. I am also aware that you have learned the location of the Tudor sanctuary from Farrow Curry’s translation. We must speak in person. Why would you do such a thing? Because, Mr. Antrim, if you do not, my next communication will be to the United States and you surely know what the substance of that conversation will be. I know about the money the Daedalus Society paid. Actually, you and I now desire the same thing. So our intentions are similar. If you would like to see that which you have sought, then follow the directions below. I want you there within the next half hour. If not, then I will leave you to your superiors, who will not be pleased to learn what you have done.

  He glanced up from the screen.

  MI6 knew all of his business, too.

  What choice did he have?

  He read the directions. Not far away. He could be there within the half hour. The knapsack he’d taken from the warehouse sat at his feet. Inside was Cecil’s original journal and the remaining PEs. He should have retrieved one of the guns from the bodies in the warehouse, but his main concern had been to get the hell out of there.

  He glanced across the room at Gary, who was staring out of one of the café’s street-front windows.

  Mathews had not mentioned a thing about him.

  Maybe Gary could be used.

  To his advantage.

  GARY WAS CONFUSED.

  This man who was his birth father was so different from his father. Moody. Emotional. Sharp-tongued. But he was a big boy and could handle it, though all of this was a new experience.

  He’d also just watched as this man incinerated three people, then showed no remorse. The woman had obviously known Antrim since she’d twice called him by his first name and, just before Antrim ignited the explosives, he’d taunted her. Rot in hell, Denise.

  His dad had only once spoken about killing. That happened a month ago, when he, his father, and his mother were all in Copenhagen. Not something you like to do, but something you sometimes have to do. He could appreciate that.

  Blake Antrim seemed to take another approach. But that did not make him wrong. Or bad. Just different.

  Antrim now seemed agitated. Upset. Concerned.

  Not the same confidence from yesterday, when he first revealed that he was the man who’d been with Gary’s mother.

  Things had changed.

  He watched as Antrim hoisted the knapsack from the floor and walked over.

  “We have to go.”

  “Where to?”

  “To the place the journal mentions. I know where that is now.”

  “What about my dad?”

  “I have no way of contacting him. Let’s check this out, then we’ll figure out how to find him.”

  That sounded logical.

  “But I’m going to need you to do something for me.”

  Fifty-six

  MALONE WAS READY TO DO SOMETHING. ANYTHING. YET HE was stymied as to the proper course. He had no way of contacting Blake Antrim and no way of finding Gary. He was furious at himself for making a multitude of poor decisions, his son’s welfare now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. Miss Mary and Tanya had shown him the translation of Robert Cecil’s journal, which he and Kathleen Richards had now read in its entirety.

  “Blackfriars Abbey is gone,” Tanya told him. “It has been for a long time.”

  Another piece of bad news, which he added to the growing heap.

  “There’s an Underground station there now,” Tanya said. “It’s presently closed, being totally rebuilt.”

  He listened as the sisters told him about the station, which had existed on the site since the 19th century. Both rail and Underground lines converged there. Last year, the station was demolished and a sleek new glass-fronted building was erected, which was slowly taking shape. No rail trains stopped there now, and hadn’t for over a year. But the Underground still passed beneath.

  “The place is a mess,” Miss Mary said to him. “Construction everywhere. The pavements are closed all around it. That station sits on the riverbank beside a busy street.”

  “What you’re saying is that this four-hundred-year-old puzzle is at a dead end.”

  “Then why is SIS so interested?” Richards asked. “If there’s nothing to find, why does Thomas Mathews care?”

  He knew the answer. “Because there is something to find.”

  He quickly ran through his options and determined that the choices were down to a precious few. Doing nothing? Never. Calling Stephanie Nelle back? Possible, but the time lag before anything happened could be a problem. Trying to find Antrim on his own? Impossible. London was a big place.

  There s
eemed only one path.

  He faced Richards. “Can you contact Mathews?”

  She nodded. “I have a number.”

  He pointed to the room phone. “Dial it.”

  KATHLEEN FORGAVE MALONE FOR HIS ATTITUDE. WHO COULD blame him? He was in a quandary, the only way out possibly coming from a man who’d just tried to kill them both. This spy business was so different from her everyday experience. Things seemed to change by the minute, with no warning and little time to react. That part she actually liked. Still, it was frustrating not knowing who was on what side, and where she fit in.

  But at least she was still standing.

  In the game.

  And that meant something.

  She dialed the number from the note Mathews had provided earlier.

  Two rings.

  Then it was answered.

  “I assumed you would be making contact sooner rather than later,” Mathews said in her ear.

  She handed over the phone.

  MALONE GRIPPED THE HEADSET AND SAID, “LISTEN TO ME. MY son is God knows where. He didn’t ask to be put into this—”

  “No. He was maneuvered into this.”

  “Which you allowed to happen. I didn’t know. You did. You used me, and you used Richards.”

  “I just communicated with Blake Antrim.”

  That’s what he wanted to hear.

  “Does he have Gary?”

  “He does. They’re on the run. Antrim killed three of my agents.”

  “How?”

  “He blew them up, thinking they were his enemy.”