The King's Deception cm-8

by Steve Berry

  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.

  And nothing was falling.

  “We’re out,” he called to the darkness.

  “I’m here,” Richards said.

  Directly ahead.

  Not far.

  He kept moving, each step cautious.

  “There’s nothing out here,” Gary said. “It’s an empty room.”

  Good to know.

  “Keep talking,” he said to Richards.

  She started counting again. He kept edging the boys toward the voice, picking through the dark, his right hand finding familiarity at a wall.

  His fingers, curved into a claw, led the way.

  The chamber they’d just fled seemed to be imploding, the crashes escalating to a crescendo.

  His hand found air.

  And Richards.

  She grabbed hold and drew him into another tunnel, leading them away. Around two bends and he spotted a faint glow. Bluish. Like the pale wash of moonlight.

  They stepped through an exit.

  He noticed the door, its lock shot through. They stood on a bridge above another portion of the river tunnel he’d ventured through earlier. The pull of the tides had thrown up a wall of water, flooding the passage, raising the Fleet another eight to ten feet. Luckily, the bridge spanned above it with three feet to spare.

  He checked on Gary and Ian.

  Both boys were fine.

  He faced Richards. “Thanks. We needed that.”

  He noticed something lying on the bridge behind her.

  Robert Cecil’s journal.

  Then he saw the gun.

  And knew.

  He lifted the weapon and snapped out the magazine.

  Empty.

  “You found Mathews?”

  She nodded.

  “The older man knew Antrim had those explosives,” Gary said. “He told him he might have use for them.”

  Malone understood. Mathews had clearly wanted Antrim to kill him. He was probably hoping that Antrim would also kill himself in the process. If not, then surely SIS agents would have taken him out. Antrim was either too foolish or too anxious to realize he could not win.

  “Mathews also knew Gary and Ian were in there,” Richards said.

  “He saw us,” Ian said. “When he left.”

  He knew the drill. No witnesses.

  The son of a bitch.

  He stepped close, still holding the gun, and caught the truth in Kathleen Richards’ eyes. She’d killed the head of SIS.

  Better not to say a word.

  Same rule.

  No witnesses.

  But he wanted her to know something.

  So he stared back and sent her a message.

  Good job.

  Sixty-three

  HATFIELD HOUSE

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23

  9:45 AM

  Malone entered the mansion, located twenty miles north of London. He’d taken the train with Kathleen Richards, Ian, Gary, Tanya, and Miss Mary, the station located immediately adjacent to the estate. The day had begun typically English in late fall — occasional sunshine, sudden showers. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep without any turbulent dreams. They’d all showered, changed clothes, and eaten breakfast. The horror of yesterday was over, everyone relieved but still apprehensive. Calls made long into last night had finally yielded results.

  Washington and London had come to an uneasy peace.

  And neither side was happy.

  Washington was pissed because the Libyan prisoner transfer would occur. London remained angry over what it considered an unwarranted invasion of its historical privacy by an ally. In the end both sides agreed to walk away and leave it alone. The transfer would happen and both sides would drop any notions of retaliation for Operation King’s Deception.

  The deal would be sealed here, at Hatfield House, the ancestral home of the Cecils, still owned by the 7th Marquess and Marchioness of Salisbury, themselves distant relatives of William and Robert Cecil. In 1607 James I traded the property to Robert Cecil, who then built a massive E-shaped brick residence — two wings joined together by a central block — a mixture of Jacobean style and Tudor distinction. Tanya had told Malone that little had changed about the exterior since Robert Cecil’s time.

  “This is a place of great history,” she said. “Many kings and queens have come here.”

  Inside was large and lofty, the furnishings simple in a grand style. The air reeked of varnish from the warm paneling, wax off the polished floors, and the smoky remnants of wood fires.

  “We’ve visited here several times since we were little girls,” Miss Mary said. “And it always smells the same.”

  They stood in Marble Hall, a Jacobean marvel that stretched up two floors and spanned the length of the great house. Oriel windows splashed golden blocks of sunshine on the paneled walls. He admired the minstrel’s gallery, the wall tapestries, and the namesake checkerboard marble floor. A fire crackled in a hearth before a row of oak tables and benches that were identified as original furnishings.

  A few hours ago Thomas Mathews’ body had been fished from the Thames, a bullet hole in his chest. A preliminary autopsy had revealed water in his lungs, which meant he actually drowned. Nothing had been told to Stephanie Nelle about Kathleen Richards killing Mathews. The gun had been tossed into the Fleet River where, by now, it was long gone. Only he and Richards knew the truth, the tragedy officially ruled a consequence of a counter-operation gone wrong. Part of the brokered deal had been that Mathews’ death, along with those of Antrim and the other five agents, would remain unexplained.

  Stephanie reported that SIS had tried to penetrate the subterranean chambers where everything had played out, but both were gone. Tiny cameras, used in earthquake rescue, located charred remains among the moraine of stones and smashed artifacts, confirming Antrim’s demise.

  Operation King’s Deception was finished.

  Only one last thing to do.

  From the far side of the hall a woman entered. She was tall, thin, and stately, her honey-colored hair neatly shingled in precise waves. She marched toward them at a steady pace, the sharp ring of her heels absorbed by the paneled walls. He’d been told her name. Elizabeth McGuire. Secretary of state for the Home Department.
Charged with all matters involving national security, including SIS oversight. Thomas Mathews had worked for her.

  She stopped before Malone. “Would the rest of you excuse us? Mr. Malone and I must speak in private.”

  He nodded to the others that it was okay.

  “Enjoy a walk through the house,” McGuire said. “There is no one inside but us.”

  He watched as Richards and the twin sisters led the boys from the hall.

  As they departed, McGuire said, “You caused quite a commotion.”

  “It’s a gift,” he said.

  “Is this amusing to you?”

  Obviously, this woman had not come to swap pleasantries or anecdotes. “Actually, the whole thing was stupid as hell. For both sides.”

  “On that we agree. But let me be clear, the Americans started this.”

  “Really? It was our idea to trade away a terrorist murderer?”

  He wanted her to know on which side of the fence he stood.

  Her face softened. “Stephanie Nelle is a close friend. She said you were once her best agent.”

  “I pay her to tell people that.”

  “I think she and I were both shocked by all that had happened. Particularly regarding Ian Dunne. And your son. Placing young boys in jeopardy was inexcusable.”

  “Yet you still get what you wanted,” Malone said. “The Libyan goes home and Great Britain derives whatever concessions it is Libya promised.”

  “As is the way of the world. The United States makes deals like those every day. So there is no need to become sanctimonious. We do what we have to.” She paused. “Within limits.”

  Apparently the out-of-bounds marker on those limits stretched far, but the time for debate was over.

  She motioned toward the hall’s far end and led him there. “I chose Hatfield House for our meeting because of this portrait.”

  Malone had already noticed the canvas, hanging in the center of a paneled wall, open archways on either side, flanked by two smaller oil images, one of Richard III, the other Henry VI. A carved oak chest stood beneath, veins of silver and gold streaking the ancient wood.

  “The Rainbow Portrait,” McGuire said.

  He recalled its mention in Farrow Curry’s notes and in Robert Cecil’s journal. The face was that of a young woman, though the painting, as McGuire explained, was created when Elizabeth was seventy years old.

  “Lots of symbolism here,” she said.

  And he listened as she explained.

  The bodice was embroidered with spring flowers — pansies, cowslips, and honeysuckles — to allude to springtime. Her orange mantle, powdered with eyes and ears, showed that Elizabeth saw and heard all. A serpent adorned her left sleeve, from whose mouth hung a heart, representing passion and wisdom.

  “It’s the rainbow, held in her right hand, that gives the portrait its name.”

  He noticed its distinct lack of color.

  “Elizabeth was always careful in choosing her portraits. This one, though, was finished after her death, so the artist had free rein.”

  Impressive, he had to admit.

  “The last spectacle of Elizabeth I’s reign happened in this room,” McGuire said. “The queen visited Robert Cecil in December 1602. There was great ceremony and entertainment. A glorious finale to a long reign. Three months later she was dead.”

  He caught the definitive use of the pronoun she.

  He’d also already noticed the phrase that appeared prominently on the left side of the portrait.

  NON SINE SOLE IRIS.

  Latin he understood, along with several other languages, a side effect of his eidetic memory.

  NO RAINBOW WITHOUT THE SUN.

  He pointed to the words.

  “Historians have philosophized about the meaning of that motto,” McGuire said. “Supposedly, Elizabeth was the sun, whose presence alone brings peace to her realm and color to the rainbow.”

  “Yet the rainbow has no color.”

  “Precisely. Others have said that the painting is a subversive undercutting. No rainbow shines because there is no sun. Her magnificence is supposedly false.” The older woman paused. “Not too far off the mark, would you not say?”

  “Then there’s another meaning,” he said. “Taking the phrase for what it says and changing it. No rainbow without the son. S-o-n. Meaning there would have been nothing without him.”

  “Quite right. I’ve read the translation of Cecil’s journal. He had great respect for the imposter. I imagine he gazed upon this image often.”

  “What now?” he asked.

  “A good question. One I’ve been thinking about since last night. Unfortunately, Thomas Mathews did not survive to aid in my analysis. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

  He wasn’t about to fall into that trick bag. “He worked in a risky business, and stuff happens.”

  “Of course, if we were allowed to debrief all of you we might actually learn something relevant.”

  Part of the brokered deal was that no one talked to anyone about anything.

  He shrugged. “It will simply remain a mystery. As will the deaths of two American agents.”

  “And three more from our side.”

  Touché. But this woman was no idiot. She knew that either he, or Richards, killed Mathews. Nothing she could do about it either way. So he made clear, “My son was placed in grave danger. And, as you said, so was Ian Dunne. They’re not players. Never were. Never will be. Go too far in this game and there’s a price to be paid.”

  “I conceded to Stephanie that both sides went too far. Seven deaths is more than enough for us all to learn a lesson.”

  He agreed.

  She motioned to what he carried. Robert Cecil’s journal. Stephanie had told him to bring it. The deal included its return.

  She accepted the old volume, thumbed through its coded pages, then looked at him. “You asked me, what now?”

  She stepped to the hearth and tossed the book into the fire. Flames leaped over the cover. Smoke wreathed the stones, before being sucked up the chimney. In a few seconds the journal was gone.

  He said, “I guess history doesn’t matter around here.”

  “On the contrary, it matters a great deal. In fact, it is history that would have caused all of the damage. Elizabeth I was a fraud, so anything and everything done during that reign would be void. At a minimum it would all be suspect. True, four hundred years have passed. But you’re a lawyer, Mr. Malone. You know the principles of real property. Chain of title is critical. Elizabeth seized Irish land and passed title on to a lot of British Protestants. Every one of those chains of title would now be in question, if not void from the start.”

  “And you British pride yourselves on the rule of law.”

  “Actually, we do. Which makes this scenario that much more frightening.”

  “So if Antrim had not been a traitor and deciphered the journal, it just might have stopped that prisoner transfer?”

  She threw him a calculating gaze. “We’ll never know the answer to that.”

  But he did.

  “There is one other aspect to this, too,” she said. “Elizabeth was also solely responsible for the accession of James I, as king. That would have never happened but for the imposter. James’ mother was Mary, Queen of Scots, the great-niece of Henry VIII, her grandmother Henry’s sister. Henry VIII’s will specifically excluded that branch of the family from ever inheriting the throne. It is doubtful that the real Elizabeth would have gone so contrary to her father’s wishes. The imposter was a wicked one, that I will say. He could birth no heirs, so he chose the one person to succeed him whom his grandfather expressly rejected. Perhaps he did that in deference to his mother, who hated Henry VIII and all of the Tudors. So you see, Mr. Malone, history does indeed matter. History is the whole reason all of this happened.”

  He pointed to the hearth. “But it’s gone now. No more proof.”

  “The translations are likewise gone,” she said. “As is the email the book
store owner sent herself.”

  Miss Mary’s cell phone had been confiscated last night.

  “I believe you have the last version.”

  He produced the flash drive from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She tossed it into the flames.

  * * *

  Malone found everyone outside, in the garden. Elizabeth McGuire was gone, their business concluded. She’d come to make sure the journal and the flash drive were destroyed. True, Ian, Richards, Tanya, and Miss Mary all knew the secret. And could speak of it. But nothing existed to support any of their allegations. Just a wild tale. Nothing more. Like the Bisley Boy legend and Bram Stoker’s account from a hundred years ago.

  “Time for us to leave,” he said to Gary.

  The boys said their goodbyes, then Ian faced him. “Maybe I’ll come see you one day in Denmark.”

  “I’d like that. I really would.”

  They shook hands.

  Miss Mary stood beside Ian, her arm on the boy’s shoulder. He saw the pride on her face and realized that maybe now, finally, she had a son.

  And Ian a mother.

  He said, “Perhaps it’s time for your street days to end.”

  Ian nodded. “I think you’re right. Miss Mary wants me to live with her.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  Tanya stepped close and hugged him. “Good to know you, Mr. Malone. That was quite an adventure you gave us.”

  “If you ever want a job again in the intelligence business, use me for a reference. You did good.”

  “I enjoyed the experience. Something I shall not soon forget.”

  Gary said his goodbyes to the sisters while Malone led Kathleen Richards off to the side.

  “What happened in there?” she asked in a low voice.

  “The journal is gone, as are all the translations. Officially, this never happened.”

  He hadn’t told her much about his conversations last night with Stephanie, but the confirmation came earlier. “You have your job back with SOCA. That’s an order straight from the top. All is forgiven.”

  She tossed him a thankful smile. “I was wondering how I was going to make a living.”

  “I appreciate what you did down there. We owe you our lives.”