by Steve Berry
The King's Deception
( Cotton Malone - 8 )
Steve Berry
Cotton Malone is back! Steve Berry’s new international adventure blends gripping contemporary political intrigue, Tudor treachery, and high-octane thrills into one riveting novel of suspense.
Cotton Malone and his fifteen-year-old son, Gary, are headed to Europe. As a favor to his former boss at the Justice Department, Malone agrees to escort a teenage fugitive back to England. But after he is greeted at gunpoint in London, both the fugitive and Gary disappear, and Malone learns that he’s stumbled into a high-stakes diplomatic showdown — an international incident fueled by geopolitical gamesmanship and shocking Tudor secrets.
At its heart is the Libyan terrorist convicted of bombing Pan Am Flight 103, who is set to be released by Scottish authorities for “humanitarian reasons.” An outraged American government objects, but nothing can persuade the British to intervene.
Except, perhaps, Operation King’s Deception.
Run by the CIA, the operation aims to solve a centuries-old mystery, one that could rock Great Britain to its royal foundations.
Blake Antrim, the CIA operative in charge of King’s Deception, is hunting for the spark that could rekindle a most dangerous fire, the one thing that every Irish national has sought for generations: a legal reason why the English must leave Northern Ireland. The answer is a long-buried secret that calls into question the legitimacy of the entire forty-five-year reign of Elizabeth I, the last Tudor monarch, who completed the conquest of Ireland and seized much of its land. But Antrim also has a more personal agenda, a twisted game of revenge in which Gary is a pawn. With assassins, traitors, spies, and dangerous disciples of a secret society closing in, Malone is caught in a lethal bind. To save Gary he must play one treacherous player against another — and only by uncovering the incredible truth can he hope to prevent the shattering consequences of the King’s Deception.
Steve Berry
The King's Deception
Epigraph
I tell you my seat hath been the seat of kings.
I will have no rascal to succeed me, and
who should succeed me but a king.
— ELIZABETH I
Prologue
WHITEHALL PALACE
JANUARY 28, 1547
Katherine Parr saw that the end was approaching. only a few more days remained, maybe a mere few hours. She’d stood silent for the past half hour and watched, as the physicians completed their examinations. The time had now come for them to deliver their verdict.
“Sire,” one of them said. “All human aid is now in vain. It is best for you to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”
She stared as Henry VIII considered the advice. The king, prone in his bed, had been uttering loud cries of pain. He ceased them and lifted his head, facing the messenger. “What judge has sent you to pass this sentence on me?”
“We are your physicians. There is no appeal from this judgment.”
“Get away from me,” Henry shrieked. “All of you.”
Though gravely ill the king could still command. The men quickly fled the bedchamber, as did all of the frightened courtiers.
Katherine turned to leave, too.
“I bid you, good queen, to stay,” Henry said.
She nodded.
They were alone.
He seemed to steel himself.
“If a man fills his belly with venison and pork, with sides of beef and pasties of veal, if he washes them down with floodtides of ale and wine that never know neap.” Henry paused. “He will reap his tares in a black hour. He will be none the happier for his swollen estate. That, my queen, is how it is with me.”
Her husband spoke the truth. A malady of his own choosing had consumed him, one that had rotted him away from within, slowly extinguishing his life’s core. He was swollen to the point of bursting, incapable of exercise, no more motion in him than a hill of tallow. This man who in youth was so handsome, who leaped moats and drew the best bow in England, who excelled in jousts, led armies, and defeated popes — now he could not even jostle a lordling or raise a hand with pleasure. He’d become big, burly, small-eyed, large-faced, and double-chinned. Swinish looking.
Hideous.
“Sire, you speak ill of yourself without cause,” she said. “You’re my liege lord, to whom I and all of England owe absolute allegiance.”
“But only so long as I breathe.”
“Which you continue to do.”
She knew her place. Stimulating a controversy between a husband and wife, where the former possessed all of the power and the latter nothing, was a dangerous sport. But, though weak, she was not without weapons. Fidelity, kindliness, a ready wit, her constant care, and brilliant learning — those were her tools.
“A man may sow his own seed a thousand times,” she said. “If he take heed to avoid the plague and live otherwise well and hale, he may stand like an oak at the end and leap like a stag who still lords over his herd. That is you, my king.”
He opened his bloated hand and she laid hers within. His skin was cold and clammy and she wondered if death had already begun to take hold. She knew him to be fifty-six years old, having reigned for nearly thirty-eight years. He’d taken six wives and fathered five children that he acknowledged. He’d challenged the world and defied the Catholic Church, establishing his own religion. She was the third woman named Katherine whom he had married and, thanks be to heaven, it appeared she would be the last.
And that gave her heart hope.
No joy had come from being mated to this tyrant, but she’d fulfilled her duties. She’d not wanted to be his wife, preferring instead to be his mistress, since his wives had not fared well. No, madam, he’d said to her. I look for you in the higher role. She’d consciously showed no enthusiasm at his offer, remaining dull to his royal gestures, mindful that as Henry had grown older heads had fallen faster. Discretion was the only path to longevity. So, with no choice, she’d married Henry Tudor in a grand ceremony before the eyes of the world.
Now four years of marital agony were approaching an end.
But she kept her joy to herself, her face masked with concern, her eyes filled with what could only be perceived as love. She was skilled in holding older men’s hearts, having nursed two previous husbands on their deathbeds. She knew what sacrifices the role demanded. For the king she’d many times laid his stinking, ulcered leg upon her lap, applying fomentations and balms, calming his mind, relieving the pain. She was the only one he would allow to do that.
“Sweetheart,” the king whispered. “I have a final duty for you.”
She gave a nod. “Your Majesty’s faintest wish is the law of this land.”
“There is a secret. One I have kept for a long time. One my father passed to me. I wish it passed to Edward and ask you to do such.”
“It would be my honor to do anything for you.”
The king’s eyes closed and she saw that his brief respite from pain had ended. His mouth opened and he cried, “Monks. Monks.”
Terror laced the words.
Were the ghosts of clerics sent to the flames thronged around his bed, jeering at his dying soul? Henry had laid waste to the monasteries, seizing all of their wealth, punishing their occupants. Ruins and corpses were all that remained of their former grandeur.
He seemed to grab control of himself and fought back the vision. “At his death, my father told me of a secret place. One only for Tudors. I have cherished this place and made fine use of it. My son must know of it. Will you tell him, my queen?”
She was amazed that this man, so ruthless in life, so distrusting of anyone and anything, would, at the hour of his death, bring he
r into his confidence. She wondered if it be another subterfuge to entrap her. He’d tried that once before, months back, when she’d pressed him too far on religion. Bishop Gardiner of Winchester had quickly seized on her error, obtaining royal permission to both investigate and arrest her. Thankfully, she’d learned of the plot and managed to turn the king’s favor back her way. Eventually, it had been Gardiner who’d been banished from court.
“I would, of course, do whatever you request of me,” she said. “But why not tell your dear son and heir yourself?”
“He cannot see me like this. I have not allowed any of my children to see me like this. Only you, sweetheart. I must know that you will carry out this duty.”
She nodded again. “That is not in question.”
“Then, listen to me.”
* * *
Cotton Malone knew a lie would be better, but decided, as part of his new cooperative relationship with his ex-wife, to tell the truth. Pam watched him with an intensity he’d seen on her face before. Only this time her eyes were softened by a difficult reality.
He knew something she didn’t.
“What does the death of Henry VIII have to do with what happened to you two years ago?” she asked him.
He’d started to tell her the story, but stopped. He hadn’t thought about those hours in London in a long while. They’d been eye opening, in more ways than one. A father-and-son experience only an ex-agent for the United States Justice Department could survive.
“The other day, Gary and I were watching the news,” Pam said. “A Libyan terrorist, the one who bombed that plane in Scotland back in the 1980s, died of cancer. Gary said he knew all about him.”
He’d seen the same story. Abdelbaset al-Megrahi had finally succumbed. A former intelligence officer, al-Megrahi was accused in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. But it wasn’t until January 2001 that three Scottish judges, sitting in a special court held in the Netherlands, handed down their guilty verdict and a life sentence.
He wanted to know, “What else did Gary say?”
Depending on what his now seventeen-year-old son had revealed, he might be able to limit his own comments.
Or at least he hoped so.
“Only that in London you two were involved with that terrorist.”
Not exactly true, but he was proud of his son’s hedging. Any good intelligence officer knew that ears-open-and-mouth-shut always works best.
“All I know,” she said, “is that two years ago Gary left here with you for a Thanksgiving break in Copenhagen. Instead, now I learn he was in London. Neither one of you ever said a word about that.”
“You knew I had to make a stop there on the way home.”
“A stop? Sure. But it was more than that and you know it.”
They’d been divorced going on four years. Before that they’d been married eighteen years. His entire naval career had been spent with Pam. He became a lawyer and started with the Justice Department while with her, but he ended his twelve-year career as a Magellan Billet agent as her ex-husband.
And it had not been a good separation.
But they’d finally worked things out.
Two years ago.
Just before all that happened in London.
Maybe she should be told everything.
No more secrets, right?
“You sure you want to hear this?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table inside the Atlanta house where Pam and Gary had moved before the divorce. Just after the marriage ended he’d left Georgia and moved to Denmark thinking he’d left the past behind.
How wrong could someone be?
Did he want to hear what happened again?
Not really.
But it might be good for them both.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
Part One
TWO YEARS AGO
One
LONDON
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21
6:25 PM
Cotton Malone stepped up to the customs window at Heathrow Airport and presented two passports — his own and his son Gary’s. Positioned between himself and the glass-enclosed counter, however, stood a problem.
Fifteen-year-old Ian Dunne.
“This one doesn’t have a passport,” he told the attendant, then explained who he was and what he was doing. A brief call to somebody led to verbal approval for Ian to reenter the country.
Which didn’t surprise Malone.
He assumed that since the Central Intelligence Agency wanted the boy in England they’d make the necessary arrangements.
He was tired from the long flight, though he’d caught a few hours of sleep. His knee still hurt from the kick Ian had delivered in Atlanta, before trying to flee from that airport. Luckily, his own fifteen-year-old, Gary, had been quick to tackle the pesky Scot before he’d escaped the concourse.
Favors for friends.
Always a problem.
This one for his former boss, Stephanie Nelle, at the Magellan Billet.
It’s the CIA, she’d told him. Langley had called directly. Somehow they were aware Malone was in Georgia and wanted him to escort the boy back to London, handing him over to the Metropolitan Police. After that he and Gary could head on to Copenhagen. In return, they’d received first-class tickets all the way home to Denmark.
Not bad. His own were coach.
Four days ago he’d flown to Georgia for two reasons. The State Bar of Georgia required twelve hours of continuing legal education from all of its licensed lawyers. Though he’d retired from the navy and the Magellan Billet, he still kept his law license active, which meant he had to satisfy the annual education mandate. Last year he’d attended a sanctioned event in Brussels, a three-day meeting on multinational property rights. This year he’d chosen a seminar in Atlanta on international law. Not the most exciting way to spend two days, but he’d worked too hard for that degree to simply allow his ticket to lapse.
The second reason was personal.
Gary had asked to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with him. School was out and his ex-wife, Pam, thought an overseas trip a good idea. He’d wondered why she was so reticent, and found out last week when Pam called his bookshop in Copenhagen.
“Gary’s angry,” she said. “He’s asking a lot of questions.”
“Ones you don’t want to answer?”
“Ones I’m going to have a tough time answering.”
Which was an understatement. Six months ago she’d revealed a harsh truth to him during another call from Atlanta to Denmark. Gary was not his natural son. Instead, the boy was the product of an affair some sixteen years past.
Now she’d told Gary that truth, and his son was not happy. For Malone, the news had been crushing. He could only imagine what it had been for Gary.
“Neither one of us was a saint back then, Cotton.”
She liked to remind him of that reality — as if somehow he’d forgotten that their marriage supposedly ended because of his lapses.
“Gary wants to know about his birth father.”
“So do I.”
She’d told him nothing about the man, and refused his requests for information.
“He has no involvement here,” she said. “He’s a total stranger to all of us. Just like the women you were with have nothing to do with this. I don’t want to open that door. Ever.”
“Why did you tell Gary about this? We agreed to do that together, when the time was right.”
“I know. I know. My mistake. But it had to be done.”
“Why?”
She did not answer him. But he could imagine the reason. She liked to be in control. Of everything. Only she wasn’t in control here. Nobody was, actually.
“He hates me,” she said. “I see it in his eyes.”
“You turned the boy’s life upside down.”
“He told me today that he might want to live with you.”
He had to say, “You know I would never take
advantage of this.”
“I know that. This is my fault. Not yours. He’s so angry. Maybe a week with you would help ease some of that.”
He’d come to realize that he didn’t love Gary one drop less because he carried no Malone genes. But he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t bothered by the fact. Six months had passed and the truth still hurt. Why? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been faithful to Pam while in the navy. He was young and stupid and got caught. But now he knew that she’d had an affair of her own. Never mentioned at the time. Would she have strayed if he hadn’t?
He doubted it. Not her nature.
So he wasn’t blameless for the current mess.
He and Pam had been divorced for over a year, but only back in October had they made their peace. Everything that happened with the Library of Alexandria changed things between them.
For the better.
But now this.
One boy in his charge was angry and confused.
The other seemed to be a delinquent.
Stephanie had told him some. Ian Dunne had been born in Scotland. Father unknown. Mother abandoned him early. He was sent to London to live with an aunt and drifted in and out of her home, finally running away. He had an arrest record — petty theft, trespassing, loitering. The CIA wanted him because a month ago one of their people was shoved, or jumped, into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Dunne was there, in Oxford Circus. Witnesses say he might even have stolen something from the dead man. So they needed to talk to him.
Not good, but also not his concern.
In a few minutes his favor for Stephanie Nelle would be over, then he and Gary would catch their connecting flight to Copenhagen and enjoy the week, depending of course on how many uncomfortable questions his son might want answered. The hitch was that the Denmark flight departed not from Heathrow, but Gatwick, London’s other major airport, an hour’s ride south. Their departure time was several hours away, so it wasn’t a problem. He would just need to convert some dollars to pounds and hire a taxi.
