The King's Deception

One

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.

They left Customs and claimed their luggage.

Both he and Gary had packed light.

“The police going to take me?” Ian asked.

“That’s what I’m told.”

“What will happen to him?” Gary asked.

He shrugged. “Hard to say.”

And it was. Especially with the CIA involved.

He shouldered his bag and led both boys out of the baggage area.

“Can I have my things?” Ian asked.

When Ian had been turned over to him in Atlanta, he’d been given a plastic bag that contained a Swiss Army knife with all the assorted attachments, a pewter necklace with a religious medal attached, a pocket Mace container, some silver shears, and two paperback books with their covers missing.

Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.

Their brown edges were water-stained, the bindings veined with thick white creases. Both were thirty-plus-year-old printings. Stamped on the title page was ANY OLD BOOKS, with an address in Piccadilly Circus, London. He employed a similar branding of inventory, his simply announcing COTTON MALONE, BOOKSELLER, HØJBRO PLADS, COPENHAGEN. The items in the plastic bag all belonged to Ian, seized by Customs when they took him into custody at Miami International, after he’d tried to enter the country illegally.

“That’s up to the police,” he said. “My orders are to hand you and the bag over to them.”

He’d stuffed the bundle inside his travel case, where it would stay until the police assumed custody. He half expected Ian to bolt, so he remained on guard. Ahead he spied two men, both in dark suits walking their way. The one on the right, short and stocky with auburn hair, introduced himself as Inspector Norse.

He extended a hand, which Malone shook.

“This is Inspector Devene. We’re with the Met. We were told you’d be accompanying the boy. We’re here to give you a lift to Gatwick and take charge of Master Dunne.”

“I appreciate the ride. Wasn’t looking forward to an expensive taxi.”

“Least we can do. Our car is just outside. One of the privileges of being the police is we can park where we want.”

The man threw Malone a grin.

They started for the exit.

Malone noticed Inspector Devene take up a position behind Ian. Smart move, he thought.

“You responsible for getting him into the country with no passport?”

Norse nodded. “We are, along with some others working with us. I think you know about them.”

That he did.

They stepped out of the terminal into brisk morning air. A bank of dense clouds tinted the sky a depressing shade of pewter. A blue Mercedes sedan sat by the curb. Norse opened the rear door and motioned for Gary to climb in first, then Ian and Malone. The inspector stood outside until they were all in, then closed the door. Norse rode in the front passenger seat, while Devene drove. They sped out of Heathrow and found the M4 motorway. Malone knew the route, London a familiar locale. Years ago he’d spent time in England on assignments. He’d also been detached here for a year by the navy. Traffic progressively thickened as they made their way east toward the city.

“Would it be all right if we made one stop before we head for Gatwick?” Norse asked him.

“No problem. We have time before the plane leaves. The least we can do for a free ride.”

Malone watched Ian as the boy gazed out the window. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to him. Stephanie’s assessment had not been a good one. A street kid, no family, completely on his own. Unlike Gary, who was dark-haired with a swarthy complexion, Ian was blond and fair-skinned. He seemed like a good kid, though. Just dealt a bad hand. But at least he was young, and youth offered chances, and chances led to possibilities. Such a contrast with Gary, who lived a more conventional, secure life. The thought of Gary on the streets, loose, with no one, tore at his heart.

Warm air blasted the car’s interior and the engine droned as they chugged through traffic.

Malone’s eyes surrendered to jet lag.

When he woke, he glanced at his watch and realized he’d been out about fifteen minutes. He willed himself to alertness. Gary and Ian were still sitting quietly. The sky had darkened further. A storm was approaching the city. He studied the car’s interior, noticing for the first time no radio or communications equipment. Also, the carpets were immaculate, the upholstery in pristine condition. Certainly not like any police car he’d ever ridden in.

He then examined Norse.

The man’s brown hair was cut below the ears. Not shaggy, but thick. He was clean-shaven and a bit overweight. He was dressed appropriately, suit and tie, but it was the left earlobe that drew his attention. Pierced. No earring was present, but the puncture was clear.

“I was wondering, Inspector. Might I see your identification? I should have asked at the airport.”

Norse did not answer him. The question aroused Ian’s attention, and he studied Malone with a curious look.

“Did you hear me, Norse? I’d like to see your identification.”

“Just enjoy the ride, Malone.”

He didn’t like the curt tone so he reached for the front seat and pulled himself forward, intending to make his point clearer.

The barrel of a gun came around the headrest and greeted him.

“This enough identification?” Norse asked.

“Actually, I was hoping for a picture ID.” He motioned to the weapon. “When did the Metropolitan Police start issuing Glocks?”

No reply.

“Who are you?”

The gun waved at Ian. “His keeper.”

Ian reached across Gary and wrenched the chrome handle up and down, but the door would not open.

“Great things, child locks,” said Norse. “Keeps the wee ones from slipping away.”

Malone said, “Son, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Ian said nothing.

“These men have apparently gone to a lot of trouble to make your acquaintance.”

“Sit back, Malone,” Norse said. “This is none of your concern.”

He reclined in the seat. “On that we agree.”

Except his son was in the car, too.

Norse kept his head turned back toward them, his gaze and the gun glued on Malone.

The car continued through morning congestion.

He absorbed what was whirling past outside, recalling what he could about the geography of North London. He realized the bridge they’d just crossed was for Regent’s Canal, a corridor-like waterway that wound a snaking path through the city, eventually spilling into the Thames. Stately trees lined the four-laned promenade. Traffic was heavy. He spotted the famous Lord’s Cricket Ground. He knew that the fictional Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes lay a few blocks over. Little Venice wasn’t far away.

They crossed the canal again and he glanced down at brightly painted houseboats dotting the waterway. Longboats dotted the canal, no more than ten feet high, designed to fit under the tight bridges. Rows and rows of Georgian houses and flats lined the boulevard, fronted with tall trees less their leaves.

Devene turned the Mercedes onto a side lane. More houses rolled past on either side. The scene was not unlike Atlanta, where his own house had once stood. Three more turns and they entered a courtyard enclosed on three sides by high hedges. The Mercedes stopped outside a mews constructed of pastel-colored stones.

Norse exited. Devene also climbed out.

Both rear doors were released from the outside.

“Get out,” Norse said.

Malone stood on cobblestones outlined by emerald lichens. Gary and Ian emerged on the other side.

Ian tried to bolt.

Norse slammed the boy hard into the car.

“Don’t,” Malone called out. “Do as he says. You too, Gary.”

Norse shoved the gun into Ian’s neck. “Stay still.” The man’s body pinned Ian to the car. “Where’s the flash drive?”

“What drive?” Malone asked.

“Shut him up,” Norse called out.

Devene jammed a fist into Malone’s gut.

“Dad,” Gary called out.

He doubled over and tried to regain his breath, motioning to Gary that he was okay.

“The flash drive,” Norse said again. “Where is it?”

Malone rose, arms hugging his stomach. Devene drew back to swing again, but Malone jammed his knee into the man’s groin, then smacked Devene’s jaw with his right fist.

He may have been retired and jet-lagged, but he wasn’t helpless.

He whirled in time to see Norse aim the gun his way. The retort from a single shot came the instant after Malone lunged for the pavement, the bullet finding the hedges behind him. He stared up into the Mercedes’ passenger compartment and saw Norse through the half-open doors. He sprang to his feet, pivoted off the hood, and propelled his legs through the car’s interior into the far-side door.

The panel flew out and smashed into Norse, sending the phony inspector reeling backward into the mews.

He shoved himself through the open door.

Ian was running from the courtyard, toward the street.

Malone’s gaze met Gary’s. “Go with him. Get out of here.”

He was tackled from behind.

His forehead slapped wet stone. Pain shuddered through him. He’d thought Devene out of commission.

A mistake.

An arm wrapped around his throat and he tried to release the stranglehold grip. His prone position gave him little room to maneuver and Devene was hinging his spine at an unnatural angle.

The buildings around him winked in and out.

Blood trickled down his forehead and into his eye.

The last thing he saw before blackness enveloped him was Ian and Gary, disappearing around a corner.

Two

Blake Antrim was not a fan of cocky women. He endured them, as the Central Intelligence Agency was loaded with wiseass females. But that did not mean he had to tolerate them once off the clock. If a team leader, responsible for nine agents scattered across England and Europe, could ever truly be on his own time.

Denise Gérard was both Flemish and French, a combination that had produced a tall, svelte package with exquisite dark hair. She had a face that begged for attention, and a body that you wanted to embrace. They’d met inside the Musée de la Ville de Bruxelles, where they’d discovered a mutual love of old maps, architectural relics, and paintings. Since then they’d spent a lot of time together, making a few trips outside Brussels, one to Paris that had proven quite memorable.

She was excitable, discreet, and devoid of inhibition.

Ideal.

But not anymore.

“What have I done?” she asked, her voice soft. “Why end it now?”

No sadness or shock laced her plea. The words were spoken matter-of-factly, her way of shifting a decision she’d already made onto him.

Which irritated him even more.

She wore a striking silk skirt with a short hem that accentuated both her firm breasts and her long legs. He’d always admired her flat belly and wondered if it was from exercise or a surgeon’s touch. He’d never noticed any scars, her caramel-colored flesh smooth as porcelain.

And her smell.

Sweet lemons mixed with rosemary.

She was something in the perfume industry. She’d explained her job one afternoon over coffee near the Grand Place, but he hadn’t been listening, that day consumed with an operation gone wrong in western Germany.

Which seemed his lot of late.

One failure after another.

His title was coordinator of special counter-operations, European Theater. Sounded like he was part of a war — which, in a sense, he was. That undeclared one on terrorism. But he shouldn’t mock it. Threats definitely existed, and came from the oddest places. Of late, they seemed to originate more from America’s allies than its enemies.

Hence, the purpose of his unit.

Special counter-operations.

“Blake, tell me how I can make it better. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

But she didn’t mean it, and he knew it.

She was playing with him.

They sat in her apartment, an expensive, turn-of-the-century flat that overlooked the Parc de Bruxelles, a formal patch of greenery flanked by the Palais Royal and the Palais de la Nation. Past the open third-floor terrace doors he saw the trademark classical statues, framed by trees with meticulously trellised branches. The throngs of office workers, joggers, and families that normally filled the park were gone for the day. He figured her rent had to be several thousand euros a month. Nothing he could afford on his government salary. But most of the women he connected with made more than him, anyway. He seemed drawn to the professional type.

And cheaters.

Like Denise.

“I was out and about yesterday,” he said. “Near the Grand Place. I heard the Manneken Pis was dressed as an organ grinder.”

The famous statue was located not far from town hall, a two-foot-high, bronze sculpture depicting a naked boy peeing into the fountain basin. It had stood since 1618 and had become a national landmark. Several times a week the bronze boy was dressed in a costume, each one unique. Blake had been nearby to meet a contact and have a quick chat.

And saw Denise.

With another man.

Her arm in his, enjoying the cool midday air, the two stopping to admire the spectacle and share a few kisses. She seemed utterly at ease, just as she always was with him. He’d wondered then, and still did now, how many men she kept around.

“In French we call him le petit Julien,” she said. “I have seen him dressed many ways, but not as an organ man. Was it delightful?”

He’d offered her a chance to tell the truth, but dishonesty was another common denominator of the women that attracted him.

One last chance.

“You missed that yesterday?” he asked, a trace of incredulity in his voice.

“I was working out of the city. Perhaps they will dress him again like that.”

He stood to leave.

She rose from her chair. “Perhaps you could stay for a while longer?”

He knew what she meant. Her bedroom door was open.

But not today.

He allowed her to drift close.

“I’m sorry that we will not see each other again,” she said.

Her lies had stirred a familiar fury. He’d tried to resist, but finally surrendered, his right hand whipping upward and grabbing her throat. He lifted her thin frame off the floor and slammed her into the wall. He tightened his grip on her neck and stared hard into her eyes.

“You’re a lying whore.”

“No, Blake. You are a deceitful man,” she managed to say, her eyes unafraid. “I saw you yesterday.”

“Who was he?”

He relaxed his grip enough so she could speak.

“No one of your concern.”

“I. Don’t. Share.”

She smiled. “Then you are going to have to adjust your ways. Plain girls have to be grateful for love. Those of us not so plain fare much better.”

The truth of her words enraged him more.

“You simply do not offer enough for someone to exclude all others,” she said.

“I heard no complaints from you.”

Their mouths were inches away. He could feel her breathe, smell the sweet scent that seeped from her skin.

“I have many men, Blake. You are but one.”

As far as she knew he worked for the State Department, dispatched to the American embassy in Belgium.

“I’m an important person,” he told her, his hand still around her throat.

“But not enough to command me solely.”

He admired her courage.

Foolish. But still admirable.

He released his grip, then kissed her hard.

She reciprocated, her tongue finding his and signaling that all might not be lost.

He ended the embrace.

Then kneed her in the gut.

Her breath spewed out in an explosive burst.

She doubled over, arms wrapping around her stomach. She began to choke as nausea enveloped her.

She shrank to her knees and vomited on the parquet floor.

Her composure had vanished.

Excitement surged through him.

“You are a worthless little man,” she managed to spit out.

But her opinion no longer mattered.

So he left.

He entered his office in the American embassy, located on the east side of the Parc de Bruxelles. He’d walked back from Denise’s apartment feeling satisfied, but confused. He wondered if she would involve the police. Probably not. First, it was a he-said-she-said thing with no witnesses, and second, her pride would never allow it.

Besides, he’d left no marks.

Women like her took their lumps and moved on. But her confidence would never again be so certain. She’d always wonder. Can I play this man? Or does he know?

Like Blake knew.

Her doubts pleased him.

But he felt bad about the knee. Why she pushed him to such extremes he did not know. Cheating was bad enough. But lying only made it worse. It was her own fault. Still, he’d send her flowers tomorrow.

Pale blue carnations. Her favorite.

He logged into his computer and provided the day’s access code. Not much had arrived since early afternoon, but a FLASH ALERT from Langley caught his eye. A post-9/11 thing. Far better to disseminate information across the grid than keep it to yourself and shoulder all of the blame. Most of the alerts did not concern him. His area was special counter-operations, targeted assignments that were, by definition, not the norm. All were highly classified and he reported only to the director of counter-operations. Five missions were currently ongoing, another two in the planning stages. This alert, though, was addressed only to him, decrypted automatically by his computer.

Not entirely unexpected.

Things had not been going right in England.

Until a few days ago, when they’d finally caught a break.

He needed to know more and reached for the desk phone, calling his man in London, who answered on the second ring.

“Ian Dunne and Cotton Malone are on the ground at Heathrow,” he was told.

He smiled.

Seventeen years with the CIA had taught him how to get things done. Cotton Malone in London, with Ian Dunne, was proof of that.

He’d made that happen.

Malone had once been a hotshot Justice Department agent at the Magellan Billet, where he served a dozen years before retiring after a shootout in Mexico City. Malone now lived in Copenhagen and owned an old-book shop but maintained a close relationship with Stephanie Nelle, the Billet’s longtime head. A connection he’d used to draw Malone to England. A call to Langley led to a call to the attorney general, which led to Stephanie Nelle, who’d contacted Malone.

He smiled again.

At least something had gone right today.

Three

Kathleen Richards had never been inside Windsor Castle. For a born-and-bred Brit that seemed unforgivable. But at least she knew its past. First built in the 11th century to guard the River Thames and protect Norman dominance on the outer reaches of a fledgling London, it had served as a royal enclave since the time of William the Conqueror. Once a motte-and-bailey castle built of wood, now it was a massive stone fortification. It survived the First Barons’ War in 1200, the English Civil War in the 1600s, two world wars, and a devastating fire in 1992 to become the largest inhabited castle in the world.

The twenty-mile drive from London had been through a late-autumn rain. The castle dominated a steep chalk bluff, the gray walls, turrets, and towers — thirteen acres of buildings — barely discernible through the evening storm. The call had come from her supervisor an hour ago, telling her to head there.

Which shocked her.

She was twenty days into a thirty-day suspension without pay. An operation in Liverpool involving illicit arms to Northern Ireland had turned ugly when the three targets decided to run. She’d given motor chase and corralled them, but not before havoc had erupted on the local highways. Eighteen cars ended up wrecked. A few injuries, some serious, but no fatalities. Her fault? Not in her mind.

But her bosses had thought differently.

And the press had not been kind to SOCA.

The Serious Organized Crime Agency, England’s version of America’s FBI, handled drugs, money laundering, fraud, computer crimes, human trafficking, and firearms violations. Ten years she’d been an officer. When hired she’d been told that four qualities made for a good recruit — working with others, achieving results, leadership, making a difference. She’d like to think at least three of those were her specialty. The “working with others” part had always presented problems. Not that she was hard to get along with, it was just that she preferred to work alone. Luckily, her performance evaluations were excellent, her conviction record exemplary. She’d even received three commendations. But that sense of rebellion — which seemed part of her character — constantly brought trouble her way.

And she hated herself for it.

Like during the past twenty days, sitting around her flat, wondering when her law enforcement career would end.

She had a good job. A career. Thirty-one days of annual leave, a pension, plenty of training and development opportunities, and generous maternity and child care services. Not that she’d ever need those last two. She’d come to accept that marriage might not be for her, either. Too much sharing.

She wondered what she was doing here, walking on hallowed ground inside Windsor Castle, being escorted through the rain toward St. George’s Chapel, a Gothic church built by Edward IV in the 15th century. Ten English monarchs lay buried inside. No explanations had been offered as to why she was needed and she’d not asked, chalking it up to that element of the unexpected that came with being a SOCA agent.

She entered, shook the rain from her shoulders, and admired the high vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows, and ornate wooden stalls that guarded both sides of the long choir. Colorful banners from the Knights of the Garter hung at attention above each bench, forming two impressive rows. Enameled brass plates identified the current and prior occupiers. A checkerboard marble floor formed a center aisle, polished to a mirror shine, marred only by a gaping hole before the eleventh stall. Four men gathered around the gash, one her director, who met her halfway and led her away from the others.

“The chapel has been closed all day,” he said to her. “There was an incident here last night. One of the royal graves was violated. The intruders used PEs to crack the floor and gain access.”

Those she knew. Percussion explosives inflicted massive damage through heat, with little concussion and minimal noise. She’d caught the odor when entering the chapel, a sharp carbon smell. It was a sophisticated material, not available for sale on the open market, reserved only for the military. The question immediately formed in her mind. Who would have access to that type of explosive?

“Kathleen, you realize that you are about to be fired.”

She did, but to hear the words shook her.

“You were warned,” he said. “Told to tone your manner down. God help you, your results are wonderful, but how you achieve those is another matter entirely.”

Her file was loaded with incidents similar to the one in Liverpool. A corrupt dock crew caught with 37 kilos of cocaine, but two boats sunk in the process. A raging fire she set to flush out drug traffickers that destroyed an expensive estate, which could have been sold for millions as a seized asset. An Internet piracy gang stopped, but four people shot during the arrest. And the worst, a ring of private investigators who illegally gathered confidential information, then sold it to corporate clients. One of the targets challenged her with his gun and she shot him dead. Though it was deemed a proper kill — self-defense — she’d been required to attend counseling sessions, and the therapist concluded that risks were her way of dealing with an unfulfilled life. Whatever that meant, the silly prat of a doctor never explained himself. So after the required six sessions, she’d not returned for more.

“I have fourteen other agents under my command,” her supervisor said. “None brings me the grief that you do. Why is it they, too, achieve results, but with none of the residual effects?”

“I did not tell those men to run in Liverpool. They chose that course. I decided stopping them, and the ammunition they were smuggling, was worth the risk.”

“There were injuries on that motorway. Innocent people, in their cars. What happened to them is inexcusable, Kathleen.”

She’d heard enough rebukes at the time of her suspension. “Why am I here?”

“To see something. Come with me.”

They walked back to where the three other men stood. To the right of the dark chasm in the floor she studied a black stone slab that had been neatly cracked into three manageable pieces, laid close together, as originally joined.

She read what was engraved on the face.

One of the other men explained how Henry VIII had wanted a grand monument here, in St. George’s, to overshadow his father’s in Westminster. A metal effigy and massive candlesticks were cast, but Henry died before the edifice was completed. An era of Radical Protestantism came after him, a time when church monuments were not erected but hauled down. Then his daughter Mary ushered in a brief return to Rome and remembering Henry VIII, the king of the Protestants, became dangerous. Eventually, Cromwell melted the effigy and sold the candelabra. Henry was finally buried beneath the floor, with only the black marble slab marking the spot.

She stared into the hole under the chapel. A power cable snaked a path across the floor, disappearing downward, ambient light illuminating the space beyond.

“Only once before has this crypt been opened,” another of the men said.

Her director introduced him as the keeper of the grounds.

“April 1, 1813. At the time, no one knew where the beheaded Charles I had been buried. But since many believed his remains might be with those of Henry VIII and his third wife, Jane Seymour, this vault was breached.”

Now, apparently, it had been opened again.

“Gentlemen,” her director said. “Will you excuse Inspector Richards and myself? We need a few moments.”

The other men nodded and retreated toward the main doors, twenty meters away.

She liked to hear her title. Inspector. She’d worked hard to earn it and hated that it might now be lost.

“Kathleen,” her director said, his voice low. “I implore you, for once, to keep your mouth shut and listen to me.”

She nodded.

“Six months ago the archives at Hatfield House were pilfered. Several precious volumes stolen. A month later, a similar incident occurred at the national archives in York. Over the ensuing weeks there were a series of thefts of historical documents from around the nation. A month ago a man was caught photographing pages within the British Library, but he evaded capture and fled the premises. Now this.”

Her fear dissipated as her curiosity arose.

“With what has happened here,” her director said, “the matter has escalated. To come into this sacred building. A royal palace.” He paused. “These thieves have a clear purpose.”

She crouched down to the opening.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Have a peek.”

It seemed irreverent to disturb the last tangible bits of someone who’d existed so long ago. Though her bosses at SOCA might think her brash and uncaring, certain things did matter to her. Like respect for the dead. But this was a crime scene, so she lay flat on the checkerboard marble and poked her head below.

The crypt was supported by a brick arch, maybe two and a half meters wide, three meters long, and a meter and a half deep. She counted four coffins. One pale and leaden bearing the inscription of King Charles, 1648, a square opening surgically cut in the upper part of the lid. Two smaller coffins were entirely intact. The fourth was the largest, pushing over two meters. An outer shell of wood, five centimeters thick, had decayed to fragments. The inner leaden coffin had also deteriorated and appeared to have been beaten by violence around its middle.

She knew whose bones were visible.

Henry VIII.

“The unopened coffins are for Jane Seymour,” the director said, “the queen buried with her king, and an infant of Queen Anne’s who died much later.”

She recalled that Seymour had been wife number three, the only one of the six who provided Henry with a legitimate son, Edward, who eventually became king, ruling six years, dying just before his sixteenth birthday.

“It appears Henry’s remains were rummaged through,” he said. “The opening in Charles’ coffin was made two hundred years ago. He, and the other two, seem to have been of no interest.”

In life, she knew, Henry VIII had been a tall man, over six feet, but toward the end of his life his body had swelled with fat. Here lay the mortal remains of a king who fought with France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Emperor, transforming England from an island at the edge of Europe into an empire-in-the-making. He defied popes and possessed the courage to found his own religion, which continued to thrive five hundred years later.

Talk about audacity.

She stood.

“Serious things are happening, Kathleen.”

He handed her one of his business cards. On the back was an address written in blue ink.

“Go there,” he said.

She noted the address. A familiar place. “Why can’t you tell me what this is about?”

“Because none of this was my idea.” He handed back her SOCA badge and credentials, which had been confiscated three weeks ago. “Like I said, you were about to be dismissed.”

She was perplexed. “So why am I here?”

“They asked, specifically, for you.”

Four

Ian knew exactly where he was. His aunt lived nearby and he’d many times wandered Little Venice, especially on weekend afternoons when the streets were filled with people. When he finally ran away, the posh villas and modern tower blocks had offered him his first education in life on his own. Tourists flocked to the area, drawn by the quaint neighborhoods, the blue iron bridges, and the many pubs and restaurants. Houseboats and water buses plowed the brown waters of the canal between here and the zoo — offering exactly the kind of distractions that helped with stealing. Right now, he needed a distraction to lose Norse and Devene, who would surely be after him once they were through dealing with Cotton Malone.

Maybe his aunt’s flat would offer him a safe place to hide, but the thought of appearing on her doorstep turned his stomach. As much trouble as he was now apparently facing, the prospect of listening to that fat prat seemed worse. Besides, if whoever was after him knew enough to know that he was returning today, they surely would have learned about his aunt.

So he continued running down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction from where she lived, toward an avenue fifty meters ahead.

Gary stopped and said through heavy breaths, “We have to go back.”

“Your dad said to go. Those are bad people. I know.”

“How?”

“They tried to kill me. Not those two buggers, but others.”

“That’s why we need to go back.”

“We will. But first we have to get farther away.”

This American had no idea what it was like on London’s streets. You didn’t stay around and wait for trouble, and you certainly didn’t go find it.

He spotted the red, white, and blue symbol for an Underground station, but since he did not have a travel card or money, and there was no time to steal anything, that escape route would do them little good. He actually liked the fact that Gary Malone seemed lost. The cockiness he’d seen in the Atlanta airport, when Gary tackled him during his own escape attempt, had vanished.

This was his world.

Where he knew the rules.

So he led the way as they ran off.

Ahead he spotted the backwater basin of Little Venice with its fleet of stumpy boats and array of trendy shops. Modern apartment buildings loomed to the left. Traffic encircling the brown-gray pool was moderate, given it was approaching 7:00 PM on a Friday. Most of the stores bordering the street were still open. Several owners were tending moored boats, rinsing off the sides and shining the lacquered exteriors. One was singing as he worked. Strings of lights decorated the basin above him.

Ian decided that would be his opportunity.

He trotted to the stairs and descended from street level to the basin’s edge. The husky man was busily cleaning a teakwood hull. His boat, like all the others, was shaped like a bulging cigar.

“You going toward the zoo?” he asked.

The man stopped his dousing. “Not at the moment. Maybe later. Why do you ask?”

“Thought we’d hitch a lift.”

The boat people were known for their friendliness, and it wasn’t uncommon for tourists or strangers to be given rides. Two of the water buses that made a living hauling passengers were moored nearby, their cabins empty, the busy weekend coming tomorrow. He tried to appear as this man was surely perceiving him — a young boy itching for some adventure.

“Getting ready for the weekend?” he asked.

The man drenched his scalp with the hose and slicked back his black hair. “I’m readying to leave for the weekend. People will be everywhere here. Too crowded for me. Thought I’d head east, down the Thames.”

The idea sounded appealing. “Need some company?”

“We can’t leave,” Gary whispered.

But Ian ignored him.

The man gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the problem, son? You two in trouble? Where are your parents?”

Too many questions. “No bother. Don’t worry about it. Just thought it would be fun to take a sail.”

He glanced up to street level.

“You seem awful anxious. Got somewhere to be?”

He wasn’t answering any more questions. “See you around.”

He started for the towpath that paralleled the canal.

“Why aren’t you two home?” the man called out as they hustled away.

“Don’t look back,” he muttered.

They kept following the gravelly path.

Off to his right, and above, he spotted a blue Mercedes turn onto the encircling avenue. He hoped it wasn’t the same car, but when Norse climbed out he realized they were in trouble. Their position below the street and by the canal was not good. Escape options were limited to front and back since water flowed to their right and a stone wall rose to their left.

He saw that Gary realized their predicament, too.

All they could do was run down the towpath and follow the canal, but Norse and Devene would certainly catch them. He knew that once they left the basin it would be nearly impossible to escape the canal’s steep banks, as property fronting the waterway was fenced. So he rushed toward a set of stairs and leaped up the stone steps two at a time. At the top he turned right and dashed across an iron bridge that arched over the canal. The span was narrow, pedestrian only, and empty. Halfway toward the other side the Mercedes wheeled up and screeched to a halt. Devene climbed out and started toward the bridge.

He and Gary turned to flee the way they’d come and were met by Norse, who stood ten meters away.

Their pursuers seemed to have anticipated their move.

“Let’s stop this foolishness,” Norse said. “You know what I want. Just give me the drive.”

“I threw it away.”

“Give it to me. Don’t piss me off.”

“Where’s my dad?” Gary asked.

Ian liked the distraction. “Where is his dad?”

“That Yank’s not your problem. We’re your problem.”

Norse and Devene were creeping toward them. The bridge was only two people wide and both ends were now blocked.

His pursuers were less than ten meters away.

To his left he caught sight of the beefy man with black hair motoring his boat away from its moor. Apparently he was heading for the Thames early. The boat’s bow swung left, straight toward the bridge. He needed to buy a few moments so he thrust his right hand into his jacket and lunged toward the iron rail.

He quickly withdrew his hand and plunged it over the side. “Not a step closer or what you want goes into the water.”

Both men stopped their advance.

Norse raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now, there’s no need for that. Give it to us and we’ll be done with you.”

He silently breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, neither man had seen that his closed fist contained nothing. He kept his arm pushed below the railing where the angle did not allow Norse or Devene to discover his ruse.

“How about fifty pounds,” Norse said. “Fifty pounds for the drive and you can go away.”

The chug from the boat’s motor drew closer and the bow disappeared on the far side of the bridge.

This was going to be close.

“Make it a hundred,” he said.

Norse reached into his pocket.

“Jump over the side,” he whispered to Gary. “Onto the boat that’s coming.”

A wad of money appeared in Norse’s hand.

“Do it,” he breathed.

With Norse deciding what he was going to pay and Devene taking his cue from the one clearly in charge, Ian grabbed the iron rail and hurled his body up and over.

He fell the three meters down, hoping to heaven the longboat would be there. He slammed onto the cabin roof feetfirst, then recoiled, losing his balance. He grabbed onto a short metal rail and held on as his legs swung out into open air. His feet grazed the water but he managed to pull himself up as the boat cleared the bridge and continued its cruise down the canal.

The big man with black hair stood at the stern navigating the wheel. “Thought you could use some help.”

He glanced back and saw Norse leap into the air, trying to duplicate what he’d just done. The man’s body hurled down the three meters and found the stern. But the boat’s owner rammed an elbow into Norse’s chest, sending the phony inspector into the water.

He watched as Norse surfaced and climbed from the canal onto the bank.

The lighted bridge was now fifty meters in the distance.

It disappeared as the canal doglegged right.

The last thing he saw was Gary Malone in the clutches of Devene. Why had Gary not jumped? He couldn’t worry about that now.

He had to go.

He searched the path ahead and spied another lit bridge. This one wider, stronger, made of brick. Cars moved back and forth above. As the boat eased toward it he leaped off onto the grassy bank. He heard his rescuer call out as he rolled onto the towpath.

“Where you going? Thought you wanted to sail?”

He stood and waved goodbye as he scampered toward a metal ladder and climbed to the street. Traffic whizzed by in both directions. He crossed the roadway and found refuge in the doorway of a closed pub. Two potted plants shielded the niche from traffic.

He shrank to the ground and gathered himself.

The acrid odor of London soaked his nostrils. He kept a close eye out for the blue Mercedes, but Norse and Devene would not assume he’d stay in the area, particularly after making such a bold escape. He caught the enticing aroma of fresh bread from a bakery a few doors down, which only aggravated his hunger. He’d not eaten since the little bit of lunch offered on the flight hours ago. People occasionally passed by on the sidewalk, but no one paid him any mind. Few ever did. What would it be like to be special? Perhaps even unique. He could only imagine. He’d quit school early, but stayed long enough to learn how to read and write. He was glad for that. Reading provided one of his few joys.

Which brought to mind the plastic bag Cotton Malone had carried.

His things.

A look was worth the chance.

So he fled the alcove.

Five

Blake Antrim climbed from the cab into the misty night. A storm had arrived an hour ago, draping the city in a cool, soggy blanket. Before him rose the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he hoped the weather would discourage the usual throng of visitors.

He paid the driver, then climbed broad concrete steps to the church’s entrance, the massive wooden doors easing shut behind him. The last gong from Big Tom, the clock that filled the south tower, completed its announcement of the half hour.

He’d flown over immediately after speaking to his agent on the ground, utilizing a State Department jet from Brussels to London. On the short flight he’d reviewed all of the reports on King’s Deception, refamiliarizing himself with every detail of the operation.

The problem was simple.

Scotland planned to release Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a former Libyan intelligence officer convicted in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. In 2001 al-Megrahi was sentenced to life imprisonment, but now, after only a few years behind bars, he’d contracted cancer. So, for so-called humanitarian reasons, the Scots were going to allow al-Megrahi to die in Libya. No official announcement of the release decision had occurred as yet, since the highly secret negotiations were still ongoing. The CIA had learned of the proposal over a year ago and Washington had already voiced strong opposition, insisting that Downing Street stop it. But the English had refused, saying this was an internal Scottish affair in which they could not meddle.

Since friggin’ when? the diplomats had asked.

London had been meddling in Edinburgh’s politics for a thousand years. The fact that the two nations were united under the mantle of Great Britain just made things easier.

But they’d still refused.

Al-Megrahi going home to Libya would be a slap in the face to the 189 murdered Americans. It had taken the CIA thirteen years to apprehend the accused, try him, and obtain a guilty verdict.

Now to just let him go?

Kaddafi, Libya’s leader, would rub al-Megrahi’s return in Washington’s face, only amplifying his position among Arab leaders. Terrorists around the world would be fortified, their causes becoming that much more important in light of a weak America that could not even keep a friend from turning a murderer loose.

He unbuttoned his wet overcoat and approached the high altar, passing a side chapel where red-shielded candles sparkled in the amber light. His agent had selected this locale for their meeting because he’d been working in the church’s archives all day, using false journalistic credentials, searching for more information.

He followed the south aisle to the base of a spiral stairway and glanced around one more time. His hopes about the weather seemed to have been granted. Few people milled about. Thankfully, Operation King’s Deception had, so far, generated no British interest.

He stepped through an archway to a staircase that corkscrewed a path upward. He passed the time climbing by counting. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps came and went beneath his leather soles before he reached the Whispering Gallery.

Waiting for him was a fair-skinned man with pale green eyes and a balding head mottled with brownish age spots. What he lacked in looks he made up for in skill, as he was one of Antrim’s best historical analysts, which was exactly what this operation required.

He stepped from the doorway into a narrow circular gallery. A polished iron railing offered the only protection from a one-hundred-foot drop down to the nave’s marble floor. He spotted the design etched into the marble below, a compasslike insignia centered by a brass grille. He knew that beneath that floor, in the crypt, lay the tomb of Christopher Wren, the architect who almost 400 years before had labored to construct St. Paul’s. Encircling the sunlike design was a Latin inscription dedicated to Wren.

Antrim did.

Not bad, at all.

The aisle between the railing and the gallery’s stone wall was little more than a yard wide, usually filled with camera-toting tourists. Tonight it loomed empty, save for them.

“What name are you using?” he asked in a low voice.

“Gaius Wells.”

He allowed his attention to drift up into the dome. Backlit frescoes depicting the life of St. Paul stared back at him.

The sound of rain quickened on the roof.

“We currently have Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne in the car, being transported,” Wells said. “I hope that boy kept the flash drive. If so, this gamble might still pay off.”

He wasn’t so sure.

“The puzzle we’re solving is 500 years old,” his man said. “The pieces were carefully hidden. It’s been tough finding them, but we’re making progress. Unfortunately, Henry VIII’s grave revealed nothing.”

He’d approved that risky move because Farrow Curry’s untimely death had set them back, so the chance had to be taken. The tomb had been inspected only once before, in 1813. At that time the king himself, William IV, had been present and everything that happened was meticulously recorded. No mention of opening Henry’s coffin had appeared anywhere in those accounts. Which meant those remains had laid inviolate since 1548. He was hoping they might discover that the fat old Tudor had taken the secret with him to his grave.

But there’d been nothing but bones.

Another failure.

And costly.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “The Brits will now be on alert. We abused their royal chapel.”

“It was a clean in and out. No witnesses. They’d never suspect us.”

“Do we know any more about how Curry died?”

A month had passed since Farrow Curry either fell or was pushed into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Ian Dunne had been there, picking Curry’s pocket, and had been seen holding a flash drive before assaulting a man, then fleeing the station. They needed to hear what the boy had to say, and they wanted that flash drive.

The rain continued to fall outside.

“You realize that this could all be legend,” Wells said. “Not a shred of truth to any of it.”

“So what was it Curry found? Why was he so excited?”

True, Curry had called a few hours before he died and reported a breakthrough. He was a CIA contract analyst with a degree in encryption, specifically assigned to King’s Deception. But with his sorry lack of progress over the past few months, Antrim had been leaning toward replacing him. The call changed that, and he’d sent a man to meet Curry at Oxford Circus, the two of them off to investigate whatever it was Curry had found. But they never connected. Murder? Suicide? Accident? Nobody knew. Could the flash drive Ian Dunne was seen holding provide answers?

He certainly hoped so.

“I’ll be here, in town, from this point on,” he told Wells.

Tonight he’d visit one of his favorite restaurants. His culinary skills were limited to microwave directions on a box, so he ate most meals out, choosing quality over economy. Maybe a particular waitress he knew would be on duty. If not, he’d give her a call. They’d enjoyed themselves several times in the past.

“I need to ask,” Wells said. “Why involve Cotton Malone in all of this? Seems unnecessary.”

“We can use all the help we can get.”

“He’s retired. I don’t see where he’d be an asset.”

“He can be.”

And that was all he intended to offer.

An exit opened a few feet away, the one he’d used to climb to the gallery. Another waited on the far side. “Stay here until I’m gone. No use being seen together down below.”

He traversed the circular walk, hugging the cathedral’s upper walls and came to the far side. Wells stood a hundred feet away, staring across at him. A placard beside the exit informed him that if he spoke softly into the wall, the words could be heard on the other side.

Hence, the Whispering Gallery.

He decided to give it a try. He faced the gray stone wall and murmured, “Make sure we don’t screw things up with Malone and Dunne.”

A wave confirmed that he’d been understood.

Wells disappeared into the archway. Antrim was about to do the same when a pop echoed across the still air.

Then a cry from the other side.

Another pop.

The cry became a moan.

He raced back across and glanced inside the exit, saw nothing, then advanced forward. A few steps down the circular way he found Wells on the stone steps, facedown, blood pouring from two wounds. He rolled him over and spotted a flicker of disbelief in the eyes.

Wells opened his mouth to speak.

“Hang in there,” Antrim said. “I’ll get help.”

Wells’ hand clutched his coat sleeve.

“Not … supposed to … happen.”

Then the body went limp.

He checked for a pulse. None.

Reality jarred him.

What the hell?

He heard footfalls below, receding away. He was unarmed. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Why would he? He started down the 259 steps, keeping watch, concerned that the shooter could be waiting around the next turn. He came to the bottom and carefully peered out into the nave, seeing only a handful of visitors. Across, in the far transept, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward the exit doors.

A man.

Who stopped, turned, and aimed his gun.

Antrim dove to the floor.

But no bullet came his way.

He sprang to his feet and saw the shooter flee out the exit doors.

He rushed ahead and pushed the bronze portal open.

Darkness had rolled in.

Rain continued to wash down.

He caught sight of the man, beyond the steps that led from the church, trotting away toward Fleet Street.

Six

Gary Malone had been wrestled from the bridge and forced back into the Mercedes. His hands had been tied behind his back, his head covered with a wool mask.

He was afraid. Who wouldn’t be? But he was even more concerned about his dad and what may have happened in that garage. He never should have run, but he’d followed his father’s order. He should have ignored Ian and stayed close by. Instead, Ian leaped off that bridge. Sure, he’d been told to jump, too. But what sane person would have done that? Norse tried and failed, the man, in his wet clothes, cursing all the way during the drive in the car.

Ian Dunne had guts, that he’d give him.

But so did he.

Yesterday he was home packing, his mind in turmoil. Two weeks ago his mother told him that the man he’d called dad all of his life was not his natural father. She’d explained what happened before he was born — an affair, a pregnancy — confessing to her mistake and apologizing. At first he’d accepted it and decided, what did it matter? His father was his father. But he quickly began to question that decision.

It did matter.

Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he belong? With his mother, as a Malone? Or with someone else?

He had no idea.

But he wanted to know.

He didn’t have to return to school for another ten days, and was looking forward to a Thanksgiving holiday in Copenhagen, thousands of miles from Georgia. He had to get away.

At least for a while.

A swarm of bitter feelings had settled inside him that he was finding increasingly hard to control. He’d always been respectful, obeying his mother, not making any trouble, but her lies were weighing on him. She told him all the time to tell the truth.

So why hadn’t she?

“You ready?” his mother asked him before they’d left for the airport. “You’re off to England, I hear.”

His dad had explained they were going to make a stop in London and drop a boy named Ian Dunne off with the police, then catch a connecting plane for Copenhagen. He noticed her red, watery eyes. “You been crying?”

She nodded. “I don’t like it when you go. I miss you.”

“It’s just for the week.”

“I hope that’s all.”

He knew what she meant, a reference to their conversation from last week when, for the first time, he’d said he might want to live somewhere else.

She bit her lip. “We can work this through, Gary.”

“Tell me who my birth father is.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“No. You won’t. There’s a difference.”

“I promised myself I would never have him part of our life. I made a mistake being with him, but not a mistake in having you.”

He’d heard that explanation before, but was finding it difficult to separate the two. Both were based on lies.

“You knowing who that man is will change nothing,” she said, her voice cracking.

“But I want to know. You lied to me all of my life. You knew the truth but told no one, not even Dad. I know he did bad things, too. There were other women. You told me. But he didn’t lie to me.”

His mother started crying. She was a lawyer who represented people in court. He’d watched her try a case once and saw firsthand how tough and smart she could be. He thought he might like to be a lawyer one day, too.

“I’m fifteen,” he said to her. “I’m not a kid. I’m entitled to know it all. If you can’t tell me where I came from, then you and I have a problem.”

“So you’re going to leave and live in Denmark?” she asked.

He decided to cut her no slack. “I might just do that.”

She stared at him through her tears. “I realize I messed up, Gary. It’s my fault. I take the blame.”

He wasn’t interested in blame. Only in ending the uncertainty that seemed to grow inside him by the day. He didn’t want to resent her — he loved her, she was his mother — but she wasn’t making this easy.

“Spend some time with your dad,” she said, swiping away the tears. “Enjoy yourself.”

That he would.

He was tired of fighting.

His parents divorced over a year ago, right before his dad quit the Justice Department and moved overseas. Since then his mother had dated some, but not much. He’d always wondered why not more. But that was not a subject he was comfortable talking about with her.

Seemed her business, not his.

They lived in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He attended an excellent school. His grades were not extraordinary but above average. He played baseball and basketball. He hadn’t tried a cigarette or any drugs, though opportunities for both had come his way. He’d tasted beer, wine, and some hard liquor but wasn’t sure he liked any of them.

He was a good kid.

At least he thought so.

So why was he so mad?

He was now lying on a sofa, hands tied behind his back, head sheathed in the wool cap, only his mouth exposed. The drive in the Mercedes had taken about thirty minutes. He’d been warned that if he made a sound they would gag him.

So he stayed still.

Which helped his nerves.

He heard movement, but no voices, only the faint sound of chimes in the distance. Then someone came close and sat nearby. He heard a crackle, like plastic being torn, then the sound of chewing.

He was a little hungry himself.

A smell caught his nostrils. Licorice. One of his favorites.

“You got any more of that?” he asked.

“Shut up, kid. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”

Seven

Malone awoke with a pounding headache. What was supposed to have been a simple favor had evolved into a major problem.

He blinked his eyes and focused.

His fingers found dried blood and a nasty knot to his forehead. His neck was sore from Devene’s attack. His and Gary’s travel bags were opened, their clothes strewn across the mews, the plastic bag containing Ian’s personal items still there, its contents scattered about.

He pushed himself up, his legs stiff and tired.

Where was Gary?

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure they found Ian Dunne. Even more troubling was the reach of the information network possessed by whoever they were. Somebody in an official position had given Customs clearance to allow Ian into the country. Granted, Norse and his pal were imposters, but the person or persons who’d managed to bypass Britain’s passport laws were the genuine article.

Norse had demanded a flash drive from Ian.

He had to find Gary. He’d told the boys to run. Hopefully, they were nearby, waiting until all was clear to return.

But where were they?

He checked his watch. Best he could tell he’d been down about twenty minutes. He spotted his cell phone among his clothes. Should he call the police? Or maybe Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet? No. This was his problem. One call he would not be making was to Pam. The last thing he needed was for his ex-wife to know about this. Bad enough that he once risked his own ass on a daily basis.

But to involve Gary?

That would be unforgivable.

He surveyed the mews, noting yard equipment, a couple of gas cans, and a tool bench. Rain fell beyond the open doorway. He stared out to the wet drive that led to the tree-lined side street, expecting to see both boys appear.

He should gather his clothes.

The Metropolitan Police would have to be involved.

That was the smart play.

A noise caught his attention, at the hedges separating the mews from the property next door.

Somebody was pushing through.

The boys?

To be cautious, he decided to lie back down.

He pressed his cheek to the cool cobbles and closed his eyes, cracking his lids open just enough to see.

Ian had hugged the side streets and used the storm, trees, and the fences that fronted the stylish neighborhoods for cover. It took only a few minutes for him to find the courtyard where the Mercedes had first been parked. The mews door remained open, but the car was gone.

He glanced around.

No one seemed to be in any of the surrounding houses.

He stepped into the open garage and saw the contents of both Malones’ travel bags scattered across the pavement. In the dim interior Malone lay sprawled near one wall. Ian crept over, knelt beside him, and heard labored breaths. He wanted to shake Malone awake and see if he was all right, but he hadn’t asked this man to get involved, and there was no need to involve him any further.

He searched for what he came for and found the plastic bag beneath a balled-up shirt. Apparently it had not been considered important. Why would it? Those men were looking for a computer drive. Not some books, a pocketknife, and a few other insignificant items.

He stuffed everything back into the bag and again stared at Cotton Malone. The American seemed like a decent fellow. Maybe his own father had been like him. But thanks to a worthless mother, he would never know who his father had been. He’d seen genuine concern in Malone’s eyes when he learned that Norse was not with Scotland Yard. Fear for both boys. He’d even felt a little better knowing Malone was there in the car. Not many people had ever cared about him, nor had he cared for anyone.

And this wasn’t the time to start.

Life was tough, and Cotton Malone would understand.

Or at least that’s what he told himself as he fled the mews.

Malone rose up and yelled, “Where’s Gary?”

Ian whirled and the shock on the boy’s face quickly changed to relief. “Bloody hell. I thought you were out.”

“I could see your concern. You only came back for your stuff.”

Defiance returned to the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t ask you here. I didn’t involve you. You’re not my problem.”

But a hint of resignation laced the declaration, the expression half defensive, half angry. So he asked again, “Where’s Gary?”

“Those coppers have him.”

He rose to his feet, head spinning. “They’re not police and you know that. How did they get him and not you? You’re the one they wanted.”

“I got away. He didn’t.”

He lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the shoulders. “You left him?”

“I told him to jump with me, but he wouldn’t.”

Jump?

He listened to what had happened in Little Venice, how Ian had leaped from the bridge.

“Those men have Gary,” Ian said.

He yanked the plastic bag away. “Where’s the flash drive they want?”

Ian did not reply. But what did he expect? He was just a street kid who’d learned to survive by keeping his mouth shut.

“I tell you what,” Malone said. “I’m going to let the police deal with you. Then I can find Gary.” He locked his right hand onto Ian’s left arm. “You so much as twitch and I’ll knock the living daylights out of you.”

And he meant it.

He was more than mad. He was furious. At this delinquent and at himself, his anger a crippling mixture of frustration and fear. He’d almost been shot thanks to this kid, and his son was now in danger.

He told himself to calm down.

“What do you plan to do with me?” Ian asked.

“You’re in my custody.”

“I’m not yours.”

“Good thing. Because, if you were, me and you would be having a much more physical chat.”

He saw the boy understood.

“One last chance,” he said. “Why are those men after you?”

“I was there, in Oxford Circus, that day, a month ago, when the man died.”

Eight

Ian stood at the end of the walkway, beneath a lighted WAY OUT sign, and surveyed the crowded train platform.

Who would be next?

His first choice was an older woman in a gray tweed coat who hobbled forward like a dog with a crippled leg. She lugged her purse in the crook of her arm, its gold catch loose, the flap snapping open with each labored step. The invitation was irresistible, and for a moment he thought she might be a decoy. Police sometimes baited the station. But after a few moments of careful observation he concluded she was genuine, so he worked his way through the rush-hour commuters to where she stood.

Oxford Circus was his favorite locale. The Bakerloo, Central, and Victoria Underground lines all converged there. Every morning and evening tens of thousands of people streamed in and out, most headed to the trendy shops and stores that lined Oxford and Bond streets a hundred feet above. Many, like the dowager he now spied, were weighed down with shopping bags — easy marks for someone with the skills he’d spent five of his fifteen years of life perfecting.

It helped that few considered him a threat. He was barely five feet tall with thick blond hair that he kept trimmed with a pair of scissors stolen last year from Harrods. He was actually a fairly proficient barber and considered hairstyling as a possible career — one day, after his street time was behind him. For now, the skill allowed him to maintain an image strangers found inviting. Thankfully, the city’s charity shops offered him a varied choice in dress at little or no cost. He liked corduroy pants and buttondown shirts, a carefree look reminiscent of one of his favorite stories, Oliver Twist. An ideal image for an enterprising pickpocket.

His Scottish mother named him Ian, the only thing she gave him besides life. She disappeared when he was three months old and an English aunt took her place and bestowed him with the last name of Dunne. He’d not seen that aunt in three years, ever since he escaped out a second-story window and dissolved into the streets of London where he’d survived through a combination of charity and criminality.

The police knew him. They’d arrested him several times in other stations and once at Trafalgar Square. But never had he stayed in custody. There’d been three foster homes, attempts to stabilize him, but he’d run away from them all. His age worked in his favor, as did his plight. Pity was an easy emotion to manipulate.

He approached the old woman using the crowd for cover. His methodology was the result of much practice, a simple matter to lightly bump into her.

“Sorry,” he said, adding a quick smile.

She instantly warmed to him and returned the friendly gesture. “That’s okay, young man.”

The three seconds it took for the bump to register and for her to respond were all he needed to slip his hand into her purse and palm what he could. He immediately shielded his withdrawn hand under the flap of his jacket and slipped deeper into the crowd. A quick look back confirmed that the woman was unaware of his invasion. He threaded his way out of the gathering throng and stole a glance at what he held.

A small maroon cylinder with a black plastic cap.

He’d hoped it was a cigarette lighter, or something else he could pawn or sell. Instead, it was a canister of pepper spray. He’d managed to lift one or two in the past. He shook his head in disgust and pocketed the object.

His gaze found a second opportunity.

The man was maybe fifty, dressed in a wool jacket. The flap on the right-hand coat pocket, folded inward, offered an opportunity. He’d obtained some of his choicest loot from the pockets of smartly dressed men. This particular target was tall and gangly with a beak-like nose. He was facing away, toward the tracks, and repeatedly studied his watch, his attention alternating between that and an electronic billboard that announced the train was less than a minute away.

A billow of air puffed from the blackened cavern, followed by a rumble that steadily intensified. People massed forward toward the edge, prepared to rush into the cars once the doors opened and the electronic voice warned them to mind the gap.

His second opportunity joined the crowd and managed to place himself where he would be one of the first to enter. This was the time of maximum distraction. Everyone was tired and eager to get home. Their guard was down.

His first opportunity had garnered nothing.

He was hoping for better this time.

He made it to the smartly dressed man and, without delay, slipped his right hand into the jacket pocket. A jostle of bodies provided the perfect camouflage. His fingers wrapped around a rectangular piece of plastic and he withdrew his arm at the precise instant the train rattled into view.

Then two hands shoved the smartly dressed man from the platform into the path of the oncoming train.

Screams echoed through the chamber.

A dry screech of brakes grew to a roaring thunder.

Hydraulics hissed.

Voices rose in disbelief.

Ian suddenly realized he was standing on the platform with whatever he’d slipped from the dead man’s pocket still in his hand, exposed for all to see. Yet no one was paying him any attention — except a tall bloke, with frizzy, ash-gray hair and a matching mustache.

Then he realized.

The hands that had pushed the man off the platform might have belonged to this demon.

Their gazes locked.

Frizzy reached for what Ian held and for some reason he did not want him to have it.

He yanked his hand back and turned to flee.

Two arms instantly wrapped around him from behind. He slammed the sole of his foot onto toes, his heel crushing into thin leather.

Frizzy cried out and released his grip.

Ian raced forward, shoving people aside, heading for the way out.

No one stopped him. The crowd’s attention was on the train and the man who’d fallen onto the tracks. Doors to the cars were opening and people began to stream out onto the platform.

Ian kept edging his way forward. He couldn’t tell if Frizzy was following. This foray into Oxford Circus had turned crazy and all he wanted was to leave.

He found the exit and started up the tiled passage.

Few people were there, most still lingering on the platform. He heard whistles ahead and quickly stepped aside as two coppers raced by him on the way down. He didn’t yet know what he’d managed to snare from the pocket before the man flew off the platform, so he took a moment to study the object.

A computer flash drive.

He shook his head. Worthless. Dinner would have to be found in one of the free missions tonight. And he’d so been looking forward to pizza.

He stuffed the drive into his pocket and rushed for the escalator. At the top he passed through the turnstile using a travel card he’d pilfered earlier from a man in Chelsea. He pushed through dingy glass doors and emerged on the sidewalk into a steady drizzle. Chilly air forced him to zip his jacket and plunge both hands into his pockets. He’d lost his gloves two days ago somewhere on the East End. He hustled down the crowded sidewalk and turned the corner, passing newspaper vendors and cigarette booths, his eyes on the uneven pavement.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a friendly voice said.

He glanced up as Frizzy casually wrapped an arm around his shoulders and diverted him toward a car beside the curb. The tip of a knife blade came beneath his jacket and pressed sharp against the soft flesh of his thigh.

“Nice and quiet,” the man whispered, “or we’ll see how you bleed.”

Three steps and they reached the open rear door of a dark-colored Bentley. He was shoved inside and Frizzy climbed in, sitting across from him in a facing rear seat.

The door shut and the car wheeled from the curb.

Ian kept his hands inside his jacket pockets and sat rigid.

His attention focused on the other man sitting beside Frizzy. Older, wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a waistcoat. He sat straight and stared at Ian through a pair of green eyes flecked with specks of brown that seemed to say that he was not somebody accustomed to disagreement. A thick fleece of white hair covered his head and spilled down onto a creased brow.

“You have something I want,” the older man said in a low, throaty voice, the words perfectly formed.

“I don’t do business with people I don’t know.”

The aloof stare of an aristocrat dissolved into a mirthful grin. “I don’t do business with street urchins. Give me the drive.”

“What’s so important about it?”

“I don’t explain myself, either.”

A cold bead of sweat slid down his back. Something about the two men who faced him signaled desperation.

And that he didn’t like.

So he lied. “I threw it away.”

“Petty thieves, like you, throw nothing away.”

“I don’t keep junk.”

“Kill him,” the older man said.

Frizzy lunged forward, the knife drawn back, ready to thrust.

“Okay. Okay,” Ian said. “I have it.”

The older man’s right hand halted Frizzy’s attack.

The Bentley started to brake in traffic.

Other vehicles could be seen outside the moisture-laden windows slowing for a road signal apparently ahead. Rush hour in London, and nobody moved fast. He quickly reviewed his options and determined they were limited. Frizzy still held the knife and kept a close watch. The other man was equally attentive, and the confines of the car did not allow much room to maneuver.

He withdrew his left hand and displayed the drive. “This what you want?”

“There’s a good boy,” the older man said.

Then Ian’s right hand telegraphed the next move, and he almost smiled.

His fingers curled around the pepper spray. He’d thought it useless. Now it was priceless.

The older man reached for the drive.

Ian whipped out his right hand and sprayed.

Both men howled, pawing their eyes in a vain attempt to relieve the pain.

“Kill him, now,” the older man ordered.

Frizzy, eyes closed, dropped the knife and reached beneath his coat.

A gun came into view.

Ian sprayed again.

Frizzy yelled.

Ian unlatched the door nearest to him and slid out onto wet pavement between two idling cars. Before slamming the door shut, he snatched the knife from the floorboard then sprang to his feet.

A woman in an adjacent vehicle gave him a queer look.

But he ignored her.

He wove a path around the congealed traffic, found the sidewalk, and disappeared into the gloomy evening.

Malone listened to the boy’s story.

“So you were there stealing.”

“I lifted a few things. Then I took the drive off the bloke, just before the bugger pushed him into the train.”

“You saw the guy pushed?”

Ian nodded. “I wasn’t expecting that, so I ran, but ended up getting caught by the man who pushed him, then shoved into a Bentley.”

He held up the plastic bag and asked again, “Where’s the flash drive?”

“I kept it, after I left the car. I thought it could be worth something.”

“And thieves like you don’t throw away things that are worth something.”

“I’m not a thief.”

His patience was running out. “Where’s the damn drive?”

“In my special place. Where I keep my stuff.”

His phone rang.

Which startled him.

Then he realized it could be Gary. He shoved Ian into the mews and dared the boy to make a run for it.

He found the phone and clicked it on. “Gary?”

“We have your son,” the voice said, which he recognized.

Devene.

“You know what we want.”

And he was staring straight at it. “I have Dunne.”

“Then we can trade.”

He was fed up, so he said, “When and where?”

Nine

Antrim yanked up the collar of his coat and braced himself for the chilly rain. The man he was following into the lousy night had just killed an American intelligence operative. He had to know who was behind this and why.

Everything could depend on it.

The pace of the hurrying masses on the sidewalk matched the bustle of traffic. Evening rush hour in a city of eight million people was unfolding. Below he knew trains roared in every direction, people headed down to them where the red circle crossed by a blue bar marked an Underground station. All of this was familiar, as he’d lived in London for the first fourteen years of his life. His father had worked for the State Department, a career employee with the diplomatic service who lasted thirty years until retirement. His parents had rented a flat near Chelsea and he’d roamed London.

To hear his father talk, he’d laid the entire groundwork for the end of the Cold War. Reality was far different. His father was an unimportant man, in an unimportant job, a tiny cog in a massive diplomatic wheel. He died fifteen years ago in the States, living off one-half of his government pension. His mother received the other half, courtesy of an Illinois divorce she’d obtained after thirty-six years of marriage. Neither one of them had the courtesy to even tell him before they split, which summed up their life as a family.

Three strangers.

In every way.

His mother spent her life trying to please her husband, scared of the world, unsure of anything. That’s why she took his father’s shouts, insults, and punches. Which left marks not only on her, but in their son’s memory.

To this day he hated having his face touched.

It started with his father, who’d smack him on the cheek for little or no reason. Which his mother allowed. And why wouldn’t she?

She thought little of herself and even less of her son.

He’d walked Fleet Street many times. The first was nearly forty years ago, as a twelve-year-old, his way of escaping both parents. Named after one of the city’s ghost rivers that flow belowground, this was once home to London’s press. The newspapers left in the 1980s, moving to the outskirts of town. But the courts and lawyers remained, their chambers occupying the warren of buildings and quadrangles surrounding him. He’d once thought about law school, but opted for government service. Only instead of the State Department, he’d managed to be hired by the CIA. His father lived long enough to know that, but never offered a single word of praise. His mother had long since lost touch with reality and languished in a fog. He’d visited her once in the nursing home, the entire experience too depressing to recall. He liked to think that his fears came from her, his audacity from his father, but there were times when he believed the reverse may well be true.

His target was a hundred feet ahead, moving at a steady pace.

He was panicked.

Somebody was finally into the business of Operation King’s Deception.

He scanned the surroundings.

The Thames flowed a few hundred yards to his left, the Royal Courts of Justice only blocks ahead. This was the City, an autonomous district, separately chartered and governed since the 13th century. Some called it the Square Mile, occupied since the 1st century and the Romans. The great medieval craft guilds were founded right here, then the worldwide trading companies. The City remained crucial to Great Britain’s finance and trade, and he wondered if his target had a connection to either.

His man turned left.

He hustled forward, rain tickling his face, and saw that the assailant had entered the Inns of Court, passing through its famous stone gateway.

This place he knew.

It had once been the home of the Templars and the knights stayed until the early 14th century. Two hundred years later Henry VIII dissolved all religious orders and allowed the lawyers to assume the Temple grounds, forming their Inns of Court. James I eventually ensured their perpetual presence with a royal grant. He’d many times, as a kid, wandered through the maze of buildings with their courtyards. He recalled the plane trees, sundials, and green lawns sloping to the Embankment. Its gateways and alleys were legendary, the things of books and movies, many with elegant names like King’s Bench Walk and Middle Temple Lane.

He stared through the entrance and spotted his man making haste down a narrow, brick-paved street. Four men brushed past and headed through the gate, so he joined them, hanging back, using them as cover. Light came from a few windows and wall lamps that illuminated the entrances to the buildings.

His target turned left again.

He rushed past the men ahead of him and found a cloister framed out by archways. A courtyard opened on the other side and he saw the man enter the Temple Church.

He hesitated.

He’d been inside before. Small, with few places to hide.

Why go there?

One way to find out.

He stepped back out into the rain and trotted for the church’s side door. Inside, his gaze searched the scattered folds of weak light. Silence reigned, which unnerved him. Beneath the circular roof lay the marble effigies of slumbering crusaders resting in full armor. He noted the marble columns, the interlaced arches, the solid drum of handsome stonework. The round church was embroidered by six windows and six marble pillars. In the rectangular choir to his right, beyond three more lofty arches, the altar was illuminated by a faint coppery glow. His target was nowhere in sight, nor anyone else.

Nothing about this felt right.

He turned to leave.

“Not yet, Mr. Antrim.”

The voice was older with a hollow tone.

He whirled back around.

In the Round, among the floor effigies, six figures appeared from the deep shadows that engulfed the walls. No faces could be seen, just their outline. Men. Dressed in suits. Standing. Arms at their sides, like vultures in the gloom.

“We need to speak,” the same voice said.

From his left, ten feet away, another man appeared, the face too in shadows, but enough was visible for him to see a weapon aimed straight at him.

“Please step into the Round,” the first voice said.

No choice.

So he did as told, now among the floor effigies and encircled by the six men. “You killed my man just to get me here?”

“We killed him because a point needed to be made.”

The shadowy chin on the speaker looked as tough as armor plate.

What had Wells said? Not supposed to happen.

“How did you know I’d be in St. Paul’s?”

“Our survival has always been predicated on operating with excellent intelligence. We have been watching your actions in our country for many months.”

“Who are you?” He truly wanted to know.

“Our founder called us the Daedalus Society. Do you know the story of Daedalus?”

“Mythology never interested me.”

“To you, the seeker of secrets? Mythology should be quite an important subject.”

He resented the condescending tone, but said nothing.

“The name Daedalus means ‘cunning worker,’ ” the older man said.

“So what are you? Some kind of club?”

The other five shadows had neither moved nor said a word.

“We are the keepers of secrets. Protectors of kings and queens. God knows, they have needed protection, and mainly from themselves. We were created in 1605, because of the particular secret you seek.”

Now he was interested. “You’re saying that it’s real?”

“Why do you seek this?” another of the shadows asked, the voice again older and raspy.

“Tell us,” another said. “Why meddle in our affairs?”

“This an interrogation?” he asked.

The first man chuckled. “Not at all. But we are curious. An American intelligence agent delving into obscure British history, looking into something that few in this world know exists. You asked your man in St. Paul’s, what happened to Farrow Curry? We killed him. The hope was that you would abandon the search. But that was not to be. So we killed another of your men tonight. Must we kill a third?”

He knew who that would be, but still said, “I have a job to do.”

“So do we,” one of the shadows said.

“You won’t succeed,” another voice pointed out.

Then a third said, “We will stop you.”

The first man raised a hand, silencing the others.

“Mr. Antrim, you have, so far, not been successful. My feeling is that once you do fail your superiors will forever abandon this effort. All we have to do is make sure that happens.”

“Show yourself.”

“Secrecy is our ally,” the first voice said. “We operate outside of the law. We are subject to no oversight. We decide what is best and appropriate.” A pause. “And we care nothing about politics.”

He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and said, “We’re not going to allow the release of that Libyan murderer. Not without repercussions.”

“As I said, Mr. Antrim, politics matters not to us. But we are curious. Do you truly think that what you seek will stop that?”

He hated the feeling of helplessness that surged through him. “You killed an American intelligence agent. That won’t go unpunished.”

The older man chuckled. “And that is supposed to frighten us? I assure you, we have faced far greater threats from far greater sources. Cromwell and his Puritans beheaded Charles I. We tried to prevent that, but could not. Eventually, though, we engineered Cromwell’s downfall and the return of Charles II. We were there to make sure William and Mary secured the throne. We shepherded George III through his insanity and prevented a revolt. So many kings and queens have come and gone, each more self-destructive than the last. But we have been there, to watch and to guard. We fear not the United States of America. And you and I both know that if your investigations are discovered, no one on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean will acknowledge responsibility. You will be disavowed. Forgotten. Left to your own devices.”

He said nothing because the SOB was right. That had been an express condition of King’s Deception. Take a shot. Go ahead. But if caught, you’re on your own. He’d worked under that disclaimer before, but he’d also never been caught.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We could kill you, but that would only arouse further curiosity and bring more agents. So we are asking you to leave this be.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you are afraid. I see it on your face, in your eyes. Fear is paralyzing, is it not?”

“I came after your man.”

“That you did. But let us be honest with each other. Your past does not include much heroism. Your service record is one of caution and deliberation. We have learned much about you, Mr. Antrim, and, I must say, none of it is impressive.”

“Your insults don’t bother me.”

“We will pay you,” one of the shadows said. “Five million pounds, deposited wherever you choose. Simply tell your superiors there was nothing to find.”

He did the math. Seven million dollars. His. For just walking away?

“We knew that offer would interest you,” the first voice said. “You own little and have saved nothing. At some point your usefulness to your employer will wane, if not already, and then what will you do?”

He stood in a pool of weak light, among the floor effigies, feeling defeated. Had that been the whole idea?

Rain continued to fall outside.

These men had chosen their play carefully and, he had to admit, the offer was tempting. He was fifty-two years old and had thought a lot lately about the rest of his life. Fifty-five was the usual age for operatives to leave, and living off a meager government pension had never seemed all that appealing.

Seven million dollars.

That was appealing.

But it bothered him that these men knew his weakness.

“Think on it, Mr. Antrim,” the first voice said. “Think on it hard.”

“You can’t kill every agent of the U.S. government,” he felt compelled to say.

“That’s true. But, by paying you off, we will ensure that Operation King’s Deception fails, which means no more agents will be dispatched. You will report that failure and assume all blame. We believe this simpler and more effective than force. Lucky for us that someone negotiable, like yourself, is in charge.”

Another insult he allowed to pass.

“We want this over. And with your help, it will be.”

The shadow’s right hand rose, then flicked.

The man with the weapon surged forward.

A paralysis seized Antrim’s body and made him unable to react.

He heard a pop.

Something pierced his chest.

Sharp. Stinging.

His legs went limp.

And he dropped to the floor among the dead knights.

Ten

Kathleen parked her car on Tudor street, just outside the gate. On the card her supervisor had provided was written MIDDLE TEMPLE HALL, which stood within the old Temple grounds, part of the Inns of Court, where for 400 years London’s lawyers had thrived. Two of the great legal societies, the Middle Temple and Inner Temple were headquartered here, their presence dating back to the time of Henry VIII. Dickens himself had been a Middle Templar, and she’d always liked what he’d written about life inside the Inn walls.

Who enters here leaves noise behind.

The sight of Henry’s bones still bothered her. Never had she thought that she’d be privy to such a thing. Who would have burglarized that tomb? Bold, whoever they were, since security within Windsor Castle was extensive. And why? What did they think was there? All of these questions had weighed on her mind as she drove back into London, eager to know what awaited her at Middle Temple Hall.

The rain came in spurts, her short brown hair dry from earlier but once again being doused by a steady mist. No one manned the vehicle gate, the car park beyond empty. Nearly 7:30 PM and the Friday workday was over at the Inns of Court.

Hers, though, appeared to be only just beginning.

She crossed the famous King’s Bench Walk and passed among a cluster of redbrick buildings, every window dark, entering the courtyard before the famous Temple Church. She hustled toward the cloister at the far end, crossing another brick lane and finding Middle Hall. A sign out front proclaimed CLOSED TO VISITORS, but she ignored its warning and opened the doors.

The lit space within stretched thirty meters long and half that wide, topped by a double hammerbeam roof, its oak joists, she knew, 900 years old. The towering windows lining both sides were adorned with suits of armor and heraldic memorials to former Middle Templars. Along with Dickens, Sir Walter Raleigh, William Blackstone, Edmund Burke, and John Marston were all once members. Four long rows of oak tables, lined with chairs packed close together, ran parallel from one end to the other. At the far end beneath five massive oil paintings stretched the ancients table, where the eight most senior barristers had eaten since the 16th century. The portraits above had not changed in two hundred years. Charles I, James II, William III, Charles II, Queen Anne, and, to the left, hidden from view until farther inside, Elizabeth I.

At the far end a man appeared.

He was short, early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was so immaculately coiffed it almost demanded to be ruffled. As he came close she saw that thick, steel-rimmed glasses not only hid his eyes but erased the natural symmetry of his blank features. He wore a stylish, dark suit with a waistcoat, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. He walked dragging a stiff right leg, aided by a cane. Though she’d never met him, she knew who he was.

Sir Thomas Mathews.

Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Only 16 men had ever led that agency, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the beginning of the 20th century. Americans liked to call it MI6, a tag attached during World War II.

She stood on the oak plank floor, not quite knowing what to say or do.

“I understand you are a member of the Middle Temple,” he said to her, his voice low and throaty.

She nodded, catching the cockney accent in his vowels. “After I studied law at Oxford, I was granted membership. I ate many a meal in this hall.”

“Then you decided enforcing the law would be more intriguing than interpreting it?”

“Something like that. I enjoy my job.”

He pointed a thin finger at her. “I am familiar with what you did a couple of years ago with the fish.”

She recalled the batches of tropical fish, imported from Colombia and Costa Rica to be sold in British pet stores. Smugglers had dissolved cocaine in small plastic bags, which hung invisibly as they floated with the fish.

But she’d found the ruse.

“Quite clever on your part, discovering that scheme,” he said. “How unfortunate that your career is now in jeopardy.”

She said nothing.

“Frankly, I can sympathize with your superiors. Agents who refuse to show good judgment eventually get themselves, or someone else, killed.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve been insulted enough for one evening.”

“Are you always so forward?”

“As you mentioned, my job is probably gone. What would be gained by being coy?”

“Perhaps my support in saving your career.”

That was unexpected. So she asked, “Then, could you tell me what you want?”

Mathews motioned with his walking stick. “When was the last time you were here, in Middle Hall.”

She thought back. It had been almost a year. A garden party for a friend who’d attainted the rank of bencher, one of the select few who governed the Middle Temple.

“Not in a long time,” she said.

“I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, all stood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”

“Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”

Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”

She maintained a stiff face.

“May I tell you a story?”

She stared at Mathews. “Is that true?”

He nodded. “As far as we know. This account is contained within archives that are unavailable to the general public.”

“It’s five-hundred-year-old information.”

“Which, amazingly, still has explosive relevance today. Hence why we are here.”

How was that possible? But she stayed silent.

“Sir Thomas Wriothesley wrote an account of what happened that day. April 20, 1509. Henry VII died the following day. Unfortunately, Wriothesley’s account did not record what the father actually told the son. That was learned second hand, from Henry VIII himself, many decades later. What we do know is that Henry VIII passed on the information about this special place to his sixth wife, Katherine Parr, just before he died in 1547. We also know that the value of Henry VII’s wealth, at the time of his death, was around four and a half million pounds. In today’s money that would be incalculable, since most of it was in precious metals, the quantity and quality of which is uncertain. But into the billions of pounds would not be out of the question.”

He then told her about what happened at Henry VIII’s deathbed in January 1547. A conversation between husband and wife similar, in so many ways, to the one thirty-eight years before between father and son.

“Henry VIII was foolish when it came to women,” Mathews said. “He misplaced his trust in Katherine Parr, who hated Henry. The last thing she would do is pass that information on to Edward VI.” The older man paused. “Do you know much about Katherine Parr?”

She shook her head.

Mathews explained that she was born to one of Henry VIII’s early courtesans, named after his first wife, Katherine of Aragon. Highly educated, she spoke French, Spanish, and Italian. Henry married her in 1543. When he died in 1547 she was but thirty-six. Shortly after she married a fourth time, to Thomas Seymour, and eventually became pregnant. She moved to Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire and gave birth to a daughter in August 1548, but died six days later. Seymour himself lived until March 1549, when he was executed for treason. After that, Katherine Parr, Thomas Seymour, and their daughter, Mary, faded into oblivion.

“But that may no longer be the case,” Mathews said.

Something serious is happening here. That’s what her supervisor had said at Windsor. All of the talk about her SOCA career being over and being back in Middle Hall had stirred memories of sitting at the tables, with other barristers and students, and taking a meal, a duty required periodically from all Temple members. Once, centuries ago, they’d blow a horn on the hall steps half an hour before dinner. But the horn could not be heard by those hunting hares on the Thames far bank, so it was eventually retired to the vault.

She’d often imagined what it must have been like, hundreds of years ago, living here, reading law. Maybe she’d be back soon, as an ex-agent, to see for herself.

Time for a little pushback.

“Why am I here?”

Her supervisor had said, They asked for you.

“Blake Antrim.”

A name she’d not heard in a long time. And to hear it here, in Middle Hall, only compounded her surprise.

“Apparently you are aware that Antrim and I were once close.”

“We were hoping someone within one of our agencies would be familiar with him. A computer search revealed a rather glowing recommendation written by Antrim, as part of your application for SOCA employment.”

“I have not seen or spoken to him in ten years.”

And never wanted to again.

“Your father was a Middle Templar,” Mathews said. “As were your grandfather and great-grandfather. Each a barrister. Your great-grandfather was a bencher. You were to follow them. But you left the law and became an inspector. Yet to this day you diligently retain your Temple membership, never shirking any obligation. Why is that?”

She’d been thoroughly checked out. Some of that was not in her SOCA personnel file. “Why I chose not to practice law is irrelevant.”

“I do not agree. In fact, it might become an overriding truth that none of us can ignore.”

She said nothing and he seemed to sense her hesitancy.

With his mahogany cane Mathews again gestured to the hall. For the first time she noticed the ivory globe that formed its handle, the continents etched in black upon its polished surface. “This building has stood 500 years, and remains one of the last Tudor structures. Supposedly, the War of the Roses started just outside, in the garden. Sides were chosen in 1430 by the pick of a flower. The Lancasterians plucked a red rose — the Yorks white — and fifty-five years of civil war began.” He paused. “These Temple grounds have seen so much of our history — and they endure, becoming more relevant with each passing year.”

He’d still not answered her original question.

“Why did you ask me to come here?”

“May I show you?”

Eleven

Malone gathered up his and Gary’s clothes, replacing everything in their travel bags. He noticed how Gary had packed light, like he’d taught him. His head still hurt from the pounding to the pavement, his field of vision fuzzy. Ian helped him, and made no attempt to leave. To be safe, though, Malone kept Ian between himself and the mews’ rear wall.

He sat back down on the pavement and allowed his mind to clear. The rain outside had slackened to a mist. The air was chilly, which helped, but he was glad for his leather jacket.

“You okay?” Ian asked.

“Not really. My head took a banging.”

He rubbed his scalp, careful of the sore knot. All he could think about was Gary, but he needed information and its main source was right here.

“I didn’t mean to leave your son,” Ian said. “I told Gary to jump.”

“He’s not you.”

“He told me on the plane that you’re not his real dad.”

Hearing that jarred him. “I’m not his birth dad, but I am his real dad.”

“He wants to know who that is.”

“He told you that?”

Ian nodded.

Now was not the time to delve into this. “How much trouble are you in?”

“No bother. I’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t ask you that. How much trouble?”

Ian said nothing.

He needed answers. Pieces were missing. And where before it had not mattered, now, with Gary gone, he had to know.

“How did you get from London to Georgia?”

“After I ran from the car with that flash drive, men started looking for me. Some came to visit Miss Mary, but she told them nothing.”

“Who is that?”

“She owns a bookshop in Piccadilly. The men came there, and to other places I go, asking questions. I finally met a guy who offered me a trip to the States, so I took it.”

Stephanie had told him that Ian had been detained by Customs in Miami, trying to enter the country on a false passport. His traveling companion, an Irish national wanted on several outstanding warrants, had also been arrested. No telling what plans that man ultimately had for Ian. Free trips were never free.

“You know that guy was bad.”

Ian nodded. “I was planning on getting away from him as soon as we left the airport. I can handle myself.”

But he questioned that observation. Obviously the boy had been scared enough to run. Stephanie told him that the CIA had been searching for Ian since mid-October. When caught in Miami — the name flagged — they’d immediately assumed custody, and he was flown to Atlanta.

All they needed was an escort back to England.

Which he became.

“Why’d you run away from me in the Atlanta airport?”

“I didn’t want to come back here.”

“You have no family?”

“Don’t need any.”

“Did you ever go to school?” he asked.

“I’m not thick and wet. I can read. Wouldn’t be any wiser if I went to school every day.”

He’d apparently struck a nerve. “How many times have you been in jail?”

“A few, after a spot of trouble.”

But he wondered how far the tough act went. He’d caught the flicker of fear back in Georgia when Ian first realized they were headed for London.

He’d also spotted the confusion in his own son’s face.

Two weeks ago Gary’s life was certain. He had a mother and father, a family, though scattered on two continents. Now he’d been told that he had a birth father, too. Gary wanted to know who that man was. Pam was wrong withholding the name. Surely it frightened Gary that he was no longer a Malone, at least not by blood. So wanting to know where he’d come from was natural.

“Gary said you were once a secret agent for the government. Like James Bond.”

“Kind of. But for real. Did you ever know your father?”

Ian shook his head. “Never saw him.”

“You ever wonder about him?”

“Don’t care much one way or the other. He was never around. My mum, too. Never had any need for parents. Had the wit early on to know that I had to count on me.”

But that can’t be good. Kids needed moms and dads. Or at least that’s what he’d always thought. “Is it hard living on the streets, with no home?”

“I got a home. I got friends.”

“Like who?”

Ian gestured at the plastic bag. “The book lady. Miss Mary. She gave me those stories. She lets me stay in the store sometimes at night, when it’s cold. That’s when I read whatever I want.”

“I like reading, too. I own a bookshop.”

“Gary told me.”

“You two seemed to have had quite a chat.”

“It was a long flight and neither of us slept much.”

But he wasn’t surprised they’d talked. Who else would Gary have to talk to? Not his mother. She’d offered little to nothing. Or his father, who hadn’t learned the truth till recently, either.

“What did you tell Gary about his birth father?”

“To not be a wee ’un. All’s fine until we come a cropper.”

He scrunched up his face in puzzlement.

“Wee ’un. Children. That’s me and him. And we get into trouble. Come a cropper. All’s good until that happens. Then we get told what to do.”

Silence passed between them for a few moments.

“I told him to do something about it,” Ian said. “Get you to help.”

He assumed that was the boy’s best attempt at a compliment.

“Why didn’t you want to come back here?”

No reply.

Thoughts of Norse and Devene filled his clouded brain. “Is something bad going to happen to you here?”

Ian just glanced out to the night.

Which was the answer he feared.

Twelve

Antrim opened his eyes.

He lay on the stone floor within the Round, beside the Templar effigies. His muscles ached and he knew what had happened. Two projectiles had pierced his chest and 50,000 volts had sent him into unconsciousness. He’d been stunned by a Taser. Better than being shot, but still an experience.

The Daedalus Society.

What the hell was that?

He’d love to dismiss them as crackpots, but those old men killed Farrow Curry and his man in St. Paul’s and knew nearly everything he’d been doing. Clearly, they were a force that had to be dealt with. Just as clearly, he was on to something. His men had methodically acquired historical artifacts and manuscripts from repositories all around England. They’d managed to photograph relevant texts in the British Library. They’d even breached the tomb of Henry VIII. No hint of anyone being aware of their efforts had ever surfaced. Yet this Daedalus Society knew he would be in St. Paul’s Cathedral tonight. He wondered, did they know the most important thing? No mention had been made of Ian Dunne, a flash drive, and what may be on that.

And that gave him hope.

The past three years had been a string of stinging setbacks, the most notable in Poland where his failure had generated consequences. One thing Langley detested was consequences, especially from its special counter-operations unit. His job was to turn things around, not make them worse. Washington was looking for a way to stop Scotland from handing back a convicted mass murderer to Libya. Great Britain was America’s ally. So his instructions from the beginning were clear.

Do it. But don’t. Get. Caught.

He rubbed his sore chest and massaged his eyes with the flat of his palms.

What happened in St. Paul’s, and what happened here, certainly qualified as being caught.

Maybe he should end this?

Five million pounds.

He slowly came to his feet, his damp coat rustling in the silence. The Round and the choir remained empty, the same few lights burning. His mind seemed incapable, as yet, of forming coherent thoughts, but he realized whoever they were had connections with the Middle or Inner Temples. How else could so much privacy have been assured?

He rubbed his scalp, sore from the fall. Once he’d sported a thick patch of auburn hair. Now the crown was nearly bare, only the sides shaded with a gray-brown fringe. His father had gone bald in his forties, too. He’d inherited almost everything else from him, why not that?

He found his phone and checked for messages.

None.

What was happening with Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne?

He needed to know.

Something on the floor between the effigies caught his eye.

A business card.

He bent down and retrieved it.

One of his, from Belgium, part of his State Department cover that noted his office phone and address at the embassy, along with his title, DEPUTY INFORMATION LIAISON OFFICER.

On the back was writing, in blue ink, printed neatly.

He knew what that was. Here. A tiny room at the top of the stairs where Knights Templars who disobeyed the Order’s Rule would be confined for punishment. He’d been inside once as a kid.

His head turned toward the choir.

What was there?

He stepped through the dim interior and found the staircase. Hinges and the catch of a long-missing door still remained. He climbed to the cell. Two small apertures admitted light, one facing the altar, the other opening into the Round. The space was no more than four feet long and two feet wide, impossible to lie down in with any degree of comfort, which, he thought, had been the whole idea.

His man who’d used the alias Gaius Wells, shot dead in St. Paul’s, lay propped against the wall, the body contorted into the tiny space, his head unnaturally cocked to one shoulder.

They’d brought him here?

Of course.

To show him what they could do.

Against the corpse’s chest, both arms wrapped around it, was a book.

Mythology of the Ancient World.

He slipped the volume from the dead man’s grasp. Another of his business cards marked a place about halfway into the text. He should check Wells’ pockets and make sure there was no identification, but he realized this body would never be found.

With the book in hand he descended the stairs and stepped close to one of the choir’s incandescent fixtures. He opened to the marked page and saw a passage circled.

Ovid tells the tale, in his Metamorphoses (VIII: 183–235), of how Daedalus and his young son, Icarus, were imprisoned in a tower on Crete. Escape from land or sea was impossible, as the king controlled both. So Daedalus made wings for both himself and his son. He tied feathers together and secured them with wax, curving them like a bird’s. When finished, he taught Icarus how to use the wings, but he provided two warnings: Do not fly too high or the sun will melt the wax, or too low as the sea will soak the feathers. Using the wings, they made their escape, passing Samos, Delos, and Lebynthos. Icarus was so excited he forgot his father’s warnings and soared toward the sun. The wax melted and the wings collapsed, sending Icarus into the sea, where he drowned.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the circled text, was more blue lettering.

He immediately noticed the difference in spelling.

Son, as opposed to sun.

These men were indeed knowledgeable.

Beneath was another line of scrawl.

And an English phone number.

Sure of themselves. Not call if you want to deal—when.

He sucked a few deep breaths and steeled himself. He was close to panic, but fear and urgency provided his flagging muscles strength.

Maybe they were right.

This was gestating out of control, more so than he was accustomed to handling.

He tore the page from the book and stuffed it into his pocket.

Thirteen

Kathleen followed Mathews from the hall, out into the rain. They crossed Middle Temple Lane, turned left, and entered one of the many office buildings, this one with windows opening to the Pump Court. The little courtyard was named after its mechanisms, once used to fight fires. The reservoir was located deep beneath the flagstones, fed by one of London’s underground rivers. The ancient well remained but the pumps were long gone. On the court’s north side she saw the dark outline of a sundial, legendary thanks to its caption. Shadows we are and like shadows we depart.

All of the office doors inside the building were closed, the hallway quiet. Mathews led the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, his cane click-clacking off the wooden steps. The Inns of Court acquired their name because members once studied and lived on the grounds. Once, they were independent, self-governing legal colleges, a graduate called to the bar, becoming a barrister, able to appear in court as a client’s advocate.

But always under the discipline of the Inn.

The custom then was for clients to consult with their barristers not in chambers but under the porch of the Temple Church or at Westminster Hall, where the courts sat until the end of the 19th century. All of those time-honored practices were now gone, the many buildings within both the Middle and Inner Temple grounds converted to working offices. Only the upper floors remained residences, used collectively by the two Inns.

She climbed with Mathews to the top, where he opened the door to one of the apartments. No lights burned inside. A Regency sofa, chairs, and a glass-fronted curio cabinet loomed in the dark. Bare hooks were evident on the walls, where pictures should have hung. The smell of fresh paint was strong.

“They are remodeling,” he said.

Mathews closed the door and led her to a window on the far side. Below stood the Temple Church, smothered by the surrounding buildings, fronted by a wet courtyard.

“Much history has occurred down there, too,” Mathews said. “That church has existed, in one form or another, for nearly 1,000 years.”

She knew that a condition of James I’s royal land grant to the barristers was that the Temple Church must be perpetually maintained as a place of worship. The church itself had garnered an air of mystery and romance, giving rise to improbable legends, but she knew it only as the Inns’ private chapel.

“We Brits have always prided ourselves on the rule of law,” Mathews said. “The Inns were where legal practitioners learned the craft. What has this place been called? The noblest nursery of liberty and humanity in the kingdom. Aptly put.”

She agreed.

“Magna Carta was the start of our faith in the law,” Mathews noted. “What a momentous act, if you think about it. Barons demanding, and obtaining, from their sovereign thirty-seven concessions on royal power.”

“Most of which were never applied and eventually repealed,” she had to say.

“Quite right. Only three still remain in effect. But one overriding principle came from Magna Carta. No free man could be punished except through the law of the land. That singular concept changed the course of this nation.”

Below, in the courtyard, the rain quickened to a drizzle.

The side door leading into the church opened and a figure emerged. A man, buttoning his coat and moving away toward King’s Bench Walk and the gate that led out of the Temple grounds.

“That is Blake Antrim,” Mathews said. “He’s the lead agent on a CIA operation known as King’s Deception that is presently ongoing within our country.”

She watched as Antrim vanished beyond the pale of the wrought-iron lights.

“How close were you and he?” Mathews asked.

“We were only together a year. It was when I studied law at Oxford, then applied for membership here at Middle Temple.”

“And Antrim changed your career path?”

She shrugged. “Not directly. I was drifting toward law enforcement while we were together. I had already applied to SOCA when we separated.”

“You don’t impress me as a woman who would allow a man to affect her so profoundly. Everything I have read or been told about you says you are tough, smart, independent.”

“He was … difficult,” she said.

“Precisely what your supervisors say about you.”

“I try not to be.”

“I notice that you have little to no accent, and your diction and syntax are barely British.”

“My father, a Brit, died when I was eight. My mother was American. She never remarried and, though we lived here, she remained American.”

“Do you know an American named Cotton Malone?”

She shook her head.

“He’s a former intelligence agent. Highly regarded. Competent. Quite different from Antrim. Apparently, Antrim knows him, and made it possible for Malone to be here, in London. There is a young man, Ian Dunne, whom Malone returned here a few hours ago. Antrim has been searching for this boy.”

She had to say, “You do know that Blake and I did not part on the best of terms?”

“Yet he provided a glowing recommendation for your SOCA application.”

“That was before we split,” she said, offering nothing more.

“I chose you, Miss Richards, because of your past relationship with Antrim. If that was hostile, or nonexistent, then you are of no use to me. And as you painfully know, your usefulness to SOCA has already waned.”

“And you can fix that?”

He nodded. “If you can assist me with my problem.”

“I can re-ingratiate myself with Blake,” she said.

“That is what I wanted to hear. He must suspect nothing. At no point can you reveal any involvement with us.”

She nodded.

In the spill of light that leaked in from the window she studied England’s top spymaster. A Cold War legend. She’d heard stories, the exploits, and had often dreamed of being a part of the SIS. But to see and speak to Blake Antrim again? What a price to pay for admission.

“I am of the Inner Temple,” Mathews said. “A member fifty years. I read the law just over there.” He pointed out the window, beyond the Temple Church dome.

“And you opted for law enforcement, too.”

“That I did. See, you and I have something in common.”

“You still have not told me what this is about.”

Mathews stepped toward a tiered desk. He slid out a chair and beckoned for her to sit. She complied and, for the first time, noticed the dark outline of a laptop before her.

He opened the machine and pressed one of the keyboard’s buttons. The screen sprang to life and bathed her in a harsh light. She squinted and gave her eyes time to adjust.

“Read this, then do as instructed.”

Mathews headed for the door.

“How will I find Antrim?” she asked.

“Not to worry, you will have additional information when needed.”

“How will you find me?”

He stopped, turned, and shook his head. “Don’t ask silly questions, Miss Richards.”

And he left.

Fourteen

Malone led Ian away from the mews, back to Little Venice where there were plenty of taxis. No return call had come as yet from Devene. The fact that Gary was in jeopardy tore at his heart. How had he allowed this to happen? It ran counter to everything he’d tried to do when he retired from the Justice Department.

“I’m quitting my job,” he said to Gary.

“I thought you loved what you did.”

He shook his head. “The risks have become too great.”

It happened in Mexico City. He was there helping prosecute three defendants who’d murdered a DEA agent. During a lunch break he’d been caught in the crossfire of an assassination attempt in a public park that turned into a bloodbath. Seven dead, nine injured. He’d finally brought down the shooters, but not before taking a round in his left shoulder. He’d spent a month recovering, and making some decisions about his life.

“You’re thirteen,” he said to Gary. “This is going to be tough for you to understand, but sometimes life has to change.”

He’d already tendered his resignation to Stephanie Nelle, ending his twelve-year career with the Magellan Billet and an even longer stint with the navy. He’d made it to full commander and would have liked to have been a captain, but no more.

“So you’re leaving,” Gary asked. “Moving to another country.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

But he was.

By the time he quit, he and Pam had lived apart five years. He’d come home from an assignment one day to find her gone. She’d rented a house on the other side of town, taking with her only what she and Gary needed. A note informed him of their new address and that the marriage was over. Pragmatic and cold. That was her way. Decisive, too. But neither one of them had sought an immediate divorce, though they only spoke when necessary for Gary’s sake.

A lot of life had passed between them while together. He’d changed from a navy recruit, to a lawyer, to an agent for the Justice Department. She’d become a lawyer herself. He spent his time traveling the world. She prowled the halls of Atlanta’s courthouses. They saw each other every week or so, dividing their time with Gary, who was growing up faster than either of them realized. They’d lived in a neighborhood with friends neither of them really knew. But living was the wrong term. More like existing. Taking that bullet in Mexico City had finally made him ask — was this the life he wanted? Neither he nor Pam was happy. That much they both knew. And the leap from unhappiness to anger was one Pam had easily made.

“Will you ever be satisfied?” she asked him. “The navy, then flight school, law school, JAG, the Billet. Now this sudden retirement. What’s next?”

“I’m moving to Denmark.”

Her face registered nothing. He might as well have said he was moving to the moon. “What is it you’re after?”

“I’m tired of being shot at.”

“Since when? You love the Billet.”

“Time to grow up.”

“So you think moving to Denmark will accomplish that miracle?”

He had no intention of explaining himself. She didn’t care. Nor did he want her to. “It’s Gary I need to talk to. I want to know if he’s okay with that.”

“Since when have you cared what he thought?”

“He’s why I got out. I wanted him to have a father around—”

“That’s bullshit, Cotton. You got out for yourself. Don’t use that boy as an excuse. Whatever it is you’re planning, it’s for you, not him.”

“I don’t need you telling me what I think.”

“Then who does tell you? We were married a long time. You think it was easy waiting for you to come back from who-knows-where? Wondering if it was going to be in a body bag? I paid the price, Cotton. Gary did, too. But that boy loves you. No, he worships you, unconditionally. You and I both know what he’ll say, since his head is screwed on better than either of ours. For all our failures together, he was a success.”

She was right.

“Look, Cotton. Why you’re moving across the ocean is your business. But if it makes you happy, then do it. Just don’t use Gary as an excuse. The last thing he needs is a discontented parent around trying to make up for his own sad childhood.”

“You enjoy insulting me?”

“The truth has to be said, and you know it.”

The truth? Hardly. She’d omitted the most important part.

Gary is not your biological son.

Typical Pam. One set of rules for her, another for everyone else. Now they both had a bad problem.

Ian walked beside him on the sidewalk. The boy had said nothing. Interesting how instinct bred survival, even in adolescence. He’d become angry at Ian in the mews, but he also saw that Ian seemed to tacitly agree that he’d messed up with Gary. He told himself to not allow that to happen again. This boy needed compassion, not hostility.

What did Gary need?

To know his biological father?

What good could possibly come from that, after fifteen years of ignorance. Unfortunately, Pam had not concerned herself with any of that. What had she been thinking?

The answer was obvious.

She hadn’t thought.

Only acted.

Women were not his strong point. He neither knew nor understood how to deal with them. So he avoided them. So much simpler that way.

But at times it could be lonely.

Gary was the one thing no one could take from him.

Or could they?

He suddenly realized why he’d been so apprehensive since learning the truth. No longer was he irrevocably a parent. Being part of birthing a child stamped you forever. Short of a court divesting you of all rights, no matter how many mistakes were made — and he’d made a ton — you never stopped being a father.

But now that could be stripped away.

At least in part.

Gary could meet his biological father. The man could be a great guy. Shocked to discover he had a son. They would bond. Gary’s love would be divided. Where now all of the boy’s emotions belonged to him, he’d have to share them.

Or maybe lose them entirely?

And that possibility crushed him.

Fifteen

Kathleen scanned the information on the laptop. The stories Sir Thomas had told her about what had happened at the deathbeds of Henry VII and Henry VIII were intriguing, but the information on the screen added more.

The narrative ended.

She sat in the dark and stared at the screen.

Thoughts of Blake Antrim filled her mind. They’d dated for a year, she a law student, he supposedly working for the State Department. Eventually, though, he’d told her the truth about himself.

“I work for the CIA,” Antrim said.

She was surprised. She would have never thought that to be the case. “What do you do?”

“Senior field analyst, but I’ll be a team leader soon. Counter-intelligence is my area.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

He shrugged. “I doubt you’re a spy.”

She resented his conclusion. “You don’t think me capable?”

“I don’t think that interests you.”

They’d met in a London pub, introduced by a mutual friend. The end came swiftly when he caught her with another man. By then she’d tired of his ways. Particularly his anger, which could erupt with little or no warning. He hated his job and his superiors, with little good to say about either. She came to view him as a sad, weak man, blessed with good looks but incapable of sincerity.

And that last day.

“You whore.”

Antrim’s eyes blazed with venom. She’d seen him mad, but not like this. He’d appeared at her flat early, unannounced. She’d had a visitor last night who’d only left a few minutes before. When the knock came she’d thought her new lover had returned for another kiss, but instead Antrim stood outside.

“It’s over,” she said. “We’re done.”

He burst inside and slammed the door.

“And this is how you do it?” he asked. “Another man? Here? Where you and I spent all that time?”

“I live here.”

She just wanted him gone. The sight of him turned her stomach. She could not remember exactly when the attraction had turned to loathing. But when someone else showed her interest, one so opposite from the calculating soul she’d spent the last year with, the opportunity had been too inviting to resist.

She’d planned on phoning later today to tell him.

“It’s over,” she said again. “Now leave.”

He sprang at her with a suddenness she’d not expected. A hand clamped onto her throat, her spine slammed down onto a tabletop, the robe open, exposing her naked body. The force of his attack lifted her feet from the ground and she was now pinned to the table, legs dangling.

She’d never been physically attacked before.

He brought his face close. Breathing was difficult for her. She thought about resisting, but everything she knew about this man signaled that he was a coward.

He’d only go so far.

She hoped.

“Rot in hell,” he said.

Then he shoved her to the floor and left.

She’d not thought about that day in a long time. Her hip was sore for a week afterward. Antrim had tried to call, leaving messages of apology, but she’d ignored them. A month before that last encounter he’d written a glowing recommendation for her SOCA application. He’d volunteered to do it, revealing to her then his CIA employment and saying a good word from him couldn’t hurt. She’d been debating whether to forgo the law and become a law enforcement agent, but their violent parting convinced her.

Never again was that going to happen to her.

So she learned to defend herself, carry a badge, fire a weapon.

She also developed a reckless streak, and often wondered if that happened because of Antrim or in spite of him.

Men like Blake Antrim lived by convincing themselves that everyone else was inferior to them. Believing yourself on top was far more important than actually being there. And when that fantasy became fouled by a conflicting reality the response was violence. There was something unhinged about him. Never would he go back. He couldn’t. He not only burned bridges, he left them radioactive, forever impassable.

Forward was the only way for him.

Mathews may have been wrong about this.

Her approaching Antrim, after ten years, could be harder than anyone thought.