The King's Deception

Thirty

Gary was still stunned by Blake Antrim’s revelations. All of the doubt that had filled him ever since his mother told him the truth had been replaced with a strange anxiety. He hadn’t had a chance to prepare himself. Instead, reality just found him.

He and Antrim were back inside the office.

“Do you want to take the DNA test?” Antrim asked him.

“I think so.”

“It’ll tell us with certainty.”

Antrim produced a sealed plastic bag that contained two vials, a swab in each. He opened the bag and swirled one of the swabs inside his cheek, then sealed it into one of the vials.

“Open up.”

Gary stood while Antrim did the same to his mouth.

“We’ll have the results by tomorrow.”

“We may not be here then.”

Which brought to mind the next uncomfortable step. Telling his dad. Or Cotton Malone. Or whatever he should call him. He suddenly realized that finding his birth father called into question the man who’d raised him all of his life.

A man entered the office.

Antrim handed over the bag with the samples and provided an address where they were to be taken.

The man nodded and left.

“We haven’t heard from your dad yet,” Antrim said. “Hopefully, he’ll find Ian Dunne.”

“What is it Ian stole?”

“The guy who died in the Underground station, Farrow Curry, worked for me. He deciphered the coded book I showed you out there. Unfortunately, he took his work with him on a flash drive that we think Ian stole. We just want it back, that’s all.”

“What does the coded book say?”

Antrim shrugged. “I don’t know. On the day Curry died he called and said he made a breakthrough. He asked that one of my men meet him at Oxford Circus. My man arrived just as Curry fell onto the tracks. He spotted Ian Dunne, with the flash drive, but lost him in the crowd.”

“How did you meet my mom?”

He truly wanted to know.

“Like I said, she and your dad were living in Germany. So was I. She was unhappy. Your father had cheated on her. She was hurt. Angry. One day, there she was, in Wiesbaden, at the produce market. We started to talk. That led to more talking and then to other things.”

“Were you married?”

Antrim shook his head. “I’ve never been married.”

“But she was.”

“I know. It was wrong. But I was much younger then. So was she. We all do things when we’re young that we regret later. I’m sure she feels the same.”

“She said something close to that, too.”

“Gary, your mother was lonely and felt betrayed. I have no idea what happened between her and … your dad. All I did was make her feel better for a little while.”

“Doesn’t seem right.”

“I can see how you’d think that. But put yourself in your mother’s shoes. Our relationship was a way for her to deal with the hurt she was feeling. Was it right? Of course not. But it happened and you’re the result. So how can it be all bad?”

“Why do you think she wouldn’t tell me about you?”

Antrim shrugged. “Probably because everything she’d say would only raise more questions. She surely doesn’t want you to think bad of her. Unfortunately, she didn’t take into account your — or my — feelings.”

No, she hadn’t.

“I don’t think she’d like it that you and I met.”

“Probably not. She made that clear to me when we spoke at her office. She never wanted us to meet. Told me to get out and not come back.”

“I don’t agree with that.”

“Neither do I.”

Antrim told himself to choose every word with caution. This was the moment when he would either win the boy over or scare him away. There was no doubt that Gary believed him to be his birth father. Having their DNA matched was a good thing for them both, but Pam had already made clear the results of that test. What he needed was for this fifteen-year-old to start questioning who was his father. The man who raised him? Or the man who provided his genes? It wasn’t Antrim’s fault that he hadn’t been a part of the boy’s life, and it seemed that Gary realized that, too.

His mother was to blame.

But he didn’t want him questioning her just yet.

That would come later.

Pam would be furious once she discovered what had happened here and, if he knew her at all, there was no telling what she’d say to Gary about him. But if this were played right, it wouldn’t matter. By then the boy would be far more suspect of her than of him. After all, she was the one who’d lied all of his life. Why should Gary believe her now?

But there was still the matter of Cotton Malone, who was nearby and could reassert himself before Gary had time to digest everything.

He could not allow that to happen.

Hopefully, the chat they’d just had would begin to raise questions in Gary’s mind. He needed him to recognize that his dad bore some responsibility for this, too. Worked right, the boy might just begin to blame Cotton Malone. Which would make what he’d decided to do that much easier for Gary to accept.

“I need to make a call,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Gary watched as Antrim left the office, leaving him alone inside. Through the window he saw the tables with the books and computers. He had no idea what all of this was about, only that it seemed important. He wondered what his dad was doing.

And he hoped Ian wasn’t in too much trouble.

His mother had made clear that she never wanted his birth father to be part of their life. No reasons had been offered and he’d not understood why.

Now he was even more confused.

Blake Antrim seemed like an okay guy. And just like everyone else, he hadn’t known the truth until recently.

And when he did find out, he’d immediately acted.

That said something.

What was he to do?

He’d been presented with an unexpected opportunity. He had a ton of questions for both Antrim and his dad. Tops on the list? Would his mother have ever been with another man if not for what his dad had done with other women? Antrim had been there. He saw things firsthand. And he’d made clear that his mother was really hurt.

He needed to talk about this with someone.

But who?

He couldn’t call his mother. Big mistake.

And his dad was seeing about Ian.

There was no one who’d even possibly understand his anger and confusion.

Other than Blake Antrim.

Thirty-one

Malone watched as Kathleen Richards kept her gun lowered but her gaze locked on him. He, too, still held his weapon. He turned to Miss Mary and asked, “What happened?”

“The man who fell from the steps tried to leave, but this officer was outside and shot through the glass.”

“He had a gun strapped to his leg,” Richards added. “I decided not to wait around and see what happened.”

“The bloke started firing,” Ian said. “People were scattering everywhere. She”—Ian pointed at Richards—“hit the pavement. Then he darted away.”

“I couldn’t get a clean shot at him,” Richards said, “because of the crowd.”

“And no one was hit?”

Richards shook her head. “Everyone is okay.”

Sirens could be heard, growing louder.

“The Met,” Richards said to him. “Let me handle them.”

“Gladly. We’re leaving.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Malone. I must speak with you. Can you hang around a bit, just until I’ve dealt with the police? A few minutes is all I need.”

He considered her request. Why not?

Besides, he had a few questions of his own.

“Upstairs,” Miss Mary said. “In the apartment. Wait there until they’re gone. I’ll help this young lady. I can say it was a robbery attempt gone wrong. She interrupted the thieves and scared them off.”

Worked for him.

“Okay. Ian and I will be upstairs.”

Kathleen had made a fast summation of Cotton Malone. Intense. Focused. And gutsy. He’d challenged her without a hint of concern.

She’d had no choice but to fire at the man in the store. He’d returned fire and she’d been concerned about people on the sidewalk. But either the man was the worst shot she’d ever seen, or he’d aimed high, intentionally not placing anyone in danger. Because of what she’d learned during the past few hours she gravitated to the latter conclusion, which only added to her mounting confusion.

The sirens grew loud and two Metropolitan Police cars stopped on the street, their lights flashing. Four uniformed officers emerged and rushed to the store. She already held her SOCA identification, which the lead officer seemed not to care about.

“Hand over your weapon.”

Had she heard him right? “Why do I have to do that?”

“Someone tried to rob my store,” the older lady said. “He had a gun. This woman stopped that.”

Two officers guarded the front door. The other two seemed unconcerned about the possibility that any crime had occurred.

“The weapon,” the officer said again.

She handed him the gun.

“Take her.”

The other officer grabbed her arms and twisted both behind her back.

She whirled, reversed his grip, and slammed her knee into his stomach. He doubled forward and she kicked him hard, turning to deal with the other policeman.

“Down on the floor,” the officer ordered, the gun now aimed at her.

She held her ground. “Why are you doing this?”

“Now.”

The two other officers fled their position at the front door and appeared to her right. She debated challenging them, then decided three-to-one odds were not good.

“Hands in the air,” the first officer said. “And down to the floor.”

She complied and they secured her wrists behind her back with a plastic binding that dug into her flesh.

Then they wrestled her up and led her from the store.

Malone faced Ian and asked, “Where’s the flash drive?”

The boy smiled. “I didn’t think you were fooled by what Miss Mary did.”

She’d been far too eager to direct him to that metal box — and the color of the drive was not the same from earlier.

Ian stuffed a hand into his pant pocket and removed a drive, which he tossed over.

“Miss Mary is pretty smart, isn’t she?” Ian asked.

That she was. And bold, too. With a gun to her head she’d managed to play out the bluff. “I imagine those men might be a little agitated when they realize they were fooled.”

“That could be a bother. Can you look after Miss Mary?”

“You can count on it.”

He studied the drive, recalling all that he’d read. And the password-protected file — that had to be the prize.

“Why did you run at the café?” he asked Ian, not having received an answer when he inquired earlier.

“I don’t like strangers. Especially those who look like police.”

“I’m a stranger.”

“You’re different.”

“What spooked you in the car that night, after you stole this drive?”

Ian’s face froze as he considered the question. “Who said I was scared?”

“You were.”

“Those two men would have killed me. I could see it on the old guy’s face before I pepper-sprayed him. He wanted the drive, then he was going to kill me. I never faced that before.” The boy paused. “You’re right. It scared me.”

He realized how hard that admission must have been, especially for someone who trusted no one and nothing.

“It’s why I ran from you at the café. I saw men in coats with a look in their eye. I don’t like that look. I never had anyone wanting me dead before.”

“Is that why you left for the United States?”

Ian nodded. “I stumbled onto the bloke one day. He offered me a trip to the States and I thought it the best place to go. I could see he was trouble. But it was better than here. I just wanted to get away.”

Downstairs was silent.

Malone found his phone and punched in the number provided to him earlier.

“I have Ian and the drive,” he told Antrim. “But there’s a problem.” And he reported what had happened, including the appearance of a SOCA agent, name unknown.

“I don’t like that the authorities are there,” Antrim said. “Can you get out?”

“That’s the plan. How’s Gary?”

“Doing great. All quiet here.”

“And where’s here?”

“Not on this open phone. When you’re ready to leave, call me back and I’ll provide a meet point. And, Malone, the sooner the better.”

“You got that right.”

He clicked off the phone and wondered what was happening below.

So he stepped over to the window for a look.

Kathleen was led outside, her wrists bound behind her back. People on the sidewalk were stopped by the officers so she could pass and she hated the looks on their faces, wondering who she was and what she may have done. What was the purpose of taking her into custody? Of humiliating her? She was a veteran SOCA officer who’d done nothing wrong.

They crossed the street and the rear door to one of the police cars was opened. She was helped inside, the door slammed closed. She sat in muted silence, people hustling back and forth outside. Through the tinted window she could see inside the bookstore and the older woman. None of the four officers had made any effort to speak to the proprietor, which only made her more suspicious.

What was this about?

Malone watched as Richards, hands behind her back, was led across the street and stuffed into the back of a police car.

“Why did they take her?” Ian asked.

“Maybe she wasn’t SOCA at all.”

“She was real,” Ian said.

He agreed. Everything about her had rung true.

Traffic on the narrow street had returned, cars edging along in both directions, the two police cars parked against the far curb, their lights still flashing. What should he do now? Obviously, there’d be no talk between them. Should he just hand over the flash drive to Antrim and go home?

Something was wrong.

How had the two men known to come here to this bookstore? How had a SOCA agent known to be here, one who knew his name?

And Ian’s safety.

That was still in question.

A black sedan stopped in the street and a man stepped out. Older. Silver haired, dressed in a three-piece suit. He walked with the aid of a cane, crossing the opposite lane of traffic, rounding the police car that held the bound agent, then opening its rear door and easing inside.

Ian could not believe his eyes as he watched the older man with the cane.

A face he would never forget.

“In the car that night, outside Oxford Circus,” he said. “The man who wanted the flash drive. The man who told the other bloke to kill me. That’s him.”

Thirty-two

Kathleen should have known.

Sir Thomas Mathews.

Who sat beside her in the car.

“Will you never learn?” he asked. “Shooting up that store. People could have been killed.”

“But they weren’t. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is there some implication in that observation?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I can see now why your supervisors warned me against involving you in this matter. Not worth the bother, I believe, was the phrase they used.”

“The man had a gun. There was a woman and child inside. I did what was necessary.”

“And where are Mr. Malone and Ian Dunne?”

“The Metropolitan Police didn’t find them?”

Mathews smiled, a wiry grin that signaled more agitation than amusement. “You would think that, at some point, you might actually learn from your mistakes.”

Actually, she had. “Where’s Eva Pazan?”

“Dead, I presume. As you reported.”

“You and I both know that is not the case. She doesn’t exist. At least not at Oxford.”

Mathews sat with both hands resting atop the ivory globe at the end of the walking stick. He kept his gaze out the car’s windscreen.

“I underestimated you,” he finally said.

“Does that mean I’m not as daft as you thought I would be?”

He turned his head and faced her. “It means I underestimated you.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am protecting this nation. At the moment it faces a serious threat, one with potentially dire consequences. It’s all quite remarkable, actually. Something that occurred five hundred years ago, and yet could still cause so much trouble today.”

“I don’t suppose you would share what that is?”

“Hardly. But let me make something clear. It is a real threat, one that cannot be ignored, one that your Blake Antrim has forced us, after many centuries, to finally face.”

Malone stared at Ian. “Are you sure that’s the man?”

“He had that same cane. A white ball on the end with markings on it, like a globe. Wore a suit just like that one he has on now. It’s him.”

The boy’s revelation was even more incredible considering the man.

Thomas Mathews.

Longtime head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

While with the Justice Department he’d several times worked with MI6, twice dealing with Mathews. The man was shrewd, clever, and careful. Always careful. So his presence outside Oxford Circus a month ago, when Farrow Curry was killed, raised a ton of questions.

But one rose to the top.

“You told me that the man who forced you into the car was the same guy who pushed Curry into the train. That still true?”

Ian nodded. “Same bloke.”

He realized that killing was part of the intelligence business.

But outright murder? Here, on British soil, by British agents? The victim an employee of a close ally? And the head man himself personally involved? That raised the stakes to unimaginable levels.

Antrim was into something massive.

“He’s been in that car with her awhile,” Ian said.

He caught the concern and agreed.

“You think she’s in trouble?” Ian asked.

Oh, yeah.

Kathleen realized her situation was strained. She was at Mathews’ mercy.

“Miss Richards, this is a vital matter the prime minister himself is aware of. As you noted at Queen’s College, laws have been bent, if not outright broken. National interests are at stake.”

She caught what had not been uttered. So why are you so much trouble?

“You came to me,” she said.

“That I did. A mistake, as I now realize.”

“You never gave me a chance to do anything.”

“That’s where you are wrong. I gave you every chance. Instead, you ventured out on your own.” He hesitated. “I am aware of your questions at Oxford to the security personnel and your visit to the master at the Inns of Court. You should have listened to me at Queen’s College and did as told.”

“You should have been honest with me.”

He chuckled. “Unfortunately, that luxury is not available here.”

She did not agree. “What now?”

“Rogues, such as yourself, eventually reach the end of the road.”

“So I’m unemployed?”

“I wish it were that easy. Those national interests I mentioned, the ones we are protecting, require extraordinary measures to safeguard. Not ones I normally resort to within our borders, but here, I have no choice.”

She did not like the sound of that.

“The last thing we can allow is for an uncontrollable soul, like you, to speak of this.”

He reached for the door latch.

“You’re going to have me killed?” she asked.

He opened the door and slipped out, quickly slamming it behind him.

A panic gripped her.

Two men immediately climbed into the front.

She wiggled her body across the backseat and kicked one of the doors. Then she realized the better play was the window and slammed her foot into it. One of the men curled over the front seat and a gun barrel was pressed into her stomach.

Her eyes found his.

“Stay still,” he said, “or I’ll shoot you right here.”

Malone watched as Thomas Mathews exited the car and two men immediately entered. He saw Richards’ head disappear then the soles of her shoes pound the rear window.

“She’s in trouble,” Ian said.

The street had again congealed with traffic.

The car wasn’t going anywhere fast.

“Let’s help her,” Ian said.

“You have an idea?”

“I think so. At least it’s always worked for me before.”

Kathleen had never experienced this level of fear. She’d found herself in tight situations, her life endangered, but she’d always managed to dodge the worst consequences. Sure, there’d been repercussions with her bosses for the risks she took, but those came later, after the fact, when the danger had long passed.

This was different.

These men intended to kill her.

Inside a police car? She doubted it. But if she continued to resist, they just might shoot her here. So she gave the gun jammed into her gut the respect it deserved and stopped kicking.

“Sit up,” the man ordered.

He dropped back into the front passenger seat but kept a watchful eye and the gun aimed at her. The car eased from the curb and merged with the two-laned traffic, vehicles in both directions stopping and starting on the narrow lane.

Be patient, she told herself.

Stay calm.

Wait for an opportunity.

But when? Where? How?

The prospects did not seem promising.

Thirty-three

Antrim stepped from the warehouse into the late night and walked another fifty yards, where he could talk in private and watch the door, making sure Gary Malone stayed inside. He called the phone number from the book in the Temple Church. Three rings and the same gravelly voice from the Round answered.

“I’m ready to deal,” he told the man on the other end.

“And at so late an hour. Something must be even further wrong.”

He resented the condescending tone. “Actually, no. Things are going good for me. Not so good for you.”

“Care to enlighten me? Before I agree to pay five million pounds.”

“I have an ex-agent, Cotton Malone, who’s freelancing for me. He was one of the best we had, and he found what I’ve been searching for.”

“Ian Dunne?”

It shocked him that the voice knew. This was the first time the name had been mentioned.

“That’s right. Along with the flash drive. Since you know about Dunne, I assume you know about that, too.”

“A correct conclusion. We thought we might acquire both the boy and the drive before you, but that was not the case. Our men failed in that bookstore.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

The older man chuckled. “I suppose I deserve that. After all, we have made a point to remind you of your lack of success. But since the drive is now secure, it seems fortune has smiled on us both.”

Yes, it had.

“Now that you have decided to make a deal,” the older man said, “there are two other matters that must be addressed.”

He waited.

“The materials stored in the warehouse. We want them.”

“You know about those?”

“As I told you in the church, we have been watching closely. We even allowed you to violate Windsor Castle and Henry’s tomb.”

“Probably because you were curious what might be there, too.”

“We were only curious as to how far you might actually take all this.”

“All the way.” He wanted this man to believe that he was not afraid.

A chuckle came from the other end of the line. “All right, Mr. Antrim. We’ll work under the assumption that you would have taken this all the way.” The voice paused. “We have a precise inventory of what you have accumulated in the warehouse. So please make sure nothing disappears.”

“And the other matter?”

“The hard drives.”

Damn. These people knew all of his business.

“We know that you replaced the hard drives from the three computers Farrow Curry utilized, hoping to retrieve his encrypted data from them. We want those, too.”

“This is that important?”

“You seek a truth that has remained hidden a long time. We want to ensure that it stays buried. In fact, we plan to destroy everything you uncovered so that this worry will never arise again.”

He could not care less. He just wanted out. “I have one other matter, too,” he said.

“Five million pounds is not enough?”

“That buys you the end of the operation, with no residual effects, no loose ends from Washington. It goes away, never to be restarted. That’s what you wanted. I’ll make sure it happens, taking the blame and the heat for the failure.”

“Five million pounds buys a comfortable retirement.”

“That’s the way I look at it. Now, you want the physical evidence we accumulated and the hard drives. Okay. I get that. But there’s a matter regarding the flash drive. Cotton Malone needs to be eliminated.”

“We’re not assassins.”

“No, just murderers.” He’d not forgotten about his man in St. Paul’s or Farrow Curry. “Malone read what’s on the flash drive.”

“You know this?”

“He told me. So if you want this operation closed permanently, Malone has to go away. He has an eidetic memory, so he’s not going to forget any detail.”

Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed that the Daedalus Society had no good argument in rebuttal.

“Your point is made,” the older man said. “Does Malone also have the flash drive?”

“He does.”

“How do we find him?”

“I’ll let you know where and when.”

And he ended the call.

Malone leaped from the fire escape. Ian was already on the ground. They’d descended to the first floor and fled the building through the same open window the shooter had utilized earlier. No police were in the dark alley.

They rushed away from the bookstore.

Ian had told him what he had in mind. With his options limited he’d decided to trust the kid.

Besides, the idea could actually work.

At the end of the alley they merged onto a lit sidewalk thick with night revelers and approached an intersection. Two hundred feet to their right was the bookstore, where one police car still sat parked at the curb on the opposite side of the street. The second, the one with the SOCA agent inside, was stuck in traffic fifty feet away, waiting for the signal to turn green. He hoped no one in the car, besides Kathleen Richards, knew him or Ian.

Thomas Mathews was nowhere to be seen.

He signaled and, as Ian trotted off, he dissolved into the weekend crowd bustling before the pubs and shops, easing his way closer to where the police car waited in traffic. Ian was now across the street, on the far sidewalk, keeping pace.

The traffic signal changed to green and cars began to creep forward.

Ian liked that Malone had listened to him.

He wanted to help.

The old man with the cane was dangerous. He knew that firsthand. The lady SOCA agent had flushed the other man from the bookstore, protecting both himself and Miss Mary.

So she was all right with him.

What they were about to do he’d done several times before. A two-person operation, sometimes even three, where the rewards could be great.

But so were the risks.

He’d seen it go wrong twice.

And hoped tonight would not be the third time.

Malone watched as Ian darted in front of the police car.

Brakes locked and tires grabbed pavement.

The vehicle jerked to a stop.

Ian collapsed, grabbing his legs, howling in pain.

Malone smiled. This kid was good.

The uniformed driver emerged, leaving the door open.

Malone crossed between two stopped cars, whirled his target around, and caught him under the rib cage with a right jab.

The man staggered against the car.

He found the man’s shoulder harness and quickly freed the weapon. The officer seemed to recover but Malone gave him no chance, swiping the gun butt across the right temple, the body going limp to the street.

He aimed the gun at the windshield.

The passenger-side door flung open, but Ian was already on his feet and kicked the panel back, preventing any escape. Malone slid into the driver’s seat and aimed the gun straight at the second officer, relieving him of his weapon.

“You ready to go?” he asked Richards, not taking his eyes off the policeman.

The rear door opened.

She climbed out, helped by Ian.

“Stay here,” Malone told the officer.

He exited the car and recrossed the street. Ian and Richards, her hands still bound behind her back, joined him.

“I suggest we leave,” he said.

Thirty-four

Ordinarily, Antrim would be concerned at the level of knowledge the Daedalus Society possessed and the extent of his security leak. Two agents and two analysts had been assigned to King’s Deception. Two more freelancers had been hired separately for his dog-and-pony show with Malone. Two of the six were now dead. Had his man at St. Paul’s been the problem? What were his last words? Not supposed to happen. He’d not understood then what that meant, but he did now. And he wondered. What was supposed to happen in St. Paul’s?

It made sense that the dead man from St. Paul’s could be the leak. But the other four were not beyond suspicion, especially the freelancers. He knew little about any of them except they were sanctioned for this level of operation.

But he didn’t care.

Not anymore.

He was retiring. Played right, thanks to Farrow Curry’s death, Operation King’s Deception would simply end. Langley would definitely blame him and he’d fall on his sword, offering his resignation, which they’d accept.

Nice clean break for all involved.

There’d still be the matter of the dead man in St. Paul’s, but how far could any investigation be pursued? The last thing Washington would want was more attention, especially from the British. Better to allow the shooting to go unexplained, the body unaccounted for. Only he knew the culprit, and he doubted anything could be linked to the Daedalus Society. The only connection was his cell phone, which was a throwaway, bought in Brussels under another name, which would soon be hammered to pieces, then burned.

Only the three hard drives remained.

So he left Gary at the warehouse with one of his men and drove to an apartment building on London’s East End. The man who lived there was Dutch, a computer specialist used on other assignments. An independent contractor who understood that the obscene amounts of money he was paid not only compensated for services rendered, but also kept his mouth shut. He hadn’t involved the CIA’s own decryption specialists because they were too far away. And counter-operations did not routinely employ in-house people anyway. Its whole purpose was to operate outside the system.

“I need all three hard drives back,” he told the man once inside the apartment with the door closed. He’d roused the man from a sound sleep with a phone call.

“This over?”

He nodded. “Plug’s been pulled. The operation is ending.”

The analyst found the three drives on a worktable and handed them over with no questions.

Antrim was curious, though. “Did you find anything?”

“I retrieved about sixty files and was working on the password-protected stuff.”

“You read anything?”

The analyst shook his head. “I knew better. I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll make sure the rest of your fee is deposited tomorrow,” he said.

“You know, I could have retrieved the protected stuff.”

That information grabbed his attention.

“You broke through?”

The man yawned. “Not yet. But I think I could have. I broke one of Curry’s passwords and an encryption. I could get the others. Of course, all of us being on the same side made it easier than normal.”

In order to satisfy the Daedalus Society he would have to turn over everything accumulated in the warehouse, along with the hard drives. But a little backup might be welcomed. Especially when dealing with a total unknown like Daedalus. Besides, after a year’s worth of work he wanted to know what, if anything, had been found.

Curry was so excited on the phone that day.

He seemed to have made a significant breakthrough.

“Did you copy the three hard drives?”

The analyst nodded. “Of course. Just in case. You’re going to want those, too, right?”

The man started to retrieve them.

“No. Keep working with the copies. I want to know what those password-protected files say. Call me the second you have them.”

Kathleen had never been so glad to see a face as the one that had darted before the car, which she’d instantly recognized. She’d hoped Ian Dunne had not come alone and was relieved when Cotton Malone appeared. Now they were blocks over, just outside a closed souvenir shop. Ian carried a pocketknife, which was used to cut her plastic restraints.

“Why did you do that?” she asked Malone.

“You looked like you needed help. What did Thomas Mathews want with you?”

“So you know the good knight.”

“He and I have met. In a past life.”

“He told me you were an ex-agent. CIA?”

Malone shook his head. “Justice Department. An international investigative unit, for twelve years.”

“Now retired.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be listening. What’s Mathews’ interest here?”

“He wants me dead.”

“Me too,” Ian said.

She faced the boy. “That so?”

“He killed a man in Oxford Circus, then he wanted to kill me.” She glanced at Malone, who nodded and said, “He’s telling the truth.”

Then she faced the boy. “You took a chance walking in front of that car. I owe you.”

Ian shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

“Really? Is it a habit of yours?”

“He’s a street pro,” Malone said, adding a smile. “One of them would stop the car and pretend he was hurt, another would steal whatever he could from inside. You were saying? Mathews wants you dead?”

She nodded. “I have apparently outlived my usefulness.”

“Could it have been a bluff?”

“Maybe. But I didn’t want to stay there and find out.”

“How about we trade what we know. Maybe, among the three of us, we’ll actually begin to make some sense out of all this.”

Which they did.

She told Malone everything that happened, since yesterday, at Windsor and Oxford, adding her suspicions about Eva Pazan and what Mathews had told her in the car. Malone recounted his past twenty-four hours, which seemed about as chaotic as hers. Ian Dunne filled in what occurred a month ago at Oxford Circus.

She omitted only three things.

Her current state of SOCA suspension, her past connection to Blake Antrim, and the fact that she’d been led to the Inns of Court specifically to see Antrim. None of that seemed necessary to reveal.

At least not yet.

“How did you find us at the bookstore?” Malone asked.

“Mathews sent me. He knew you’d be there.”

“He say how he knew that?”

She shook her head. “He’s not the most forthcoming individual.”

Malone smiled “What’s a SOCA agent doing working with MI6?”

“I was specially assigned.”

Which was true.

To a point.

Malone wasn’t entirely satisfied with Kathleen Richards’ explanations. But they were strangers, so he couldn’t expect her to provide everything at once. Still, she’d said enough for him to make a few decisions. The first involved Ian. He needed him out of the line of fire, back with Antrim and Gary, but he realized that maneuvering the boy to leave would be tough.

“I’m concerned about Miss Mary.”

He explained to Richards that she was the older woman in the bookstore, then said, “Those men could come back, and we left her there.”

“The Met are no help,” Richards said. “They’re working with Mathews.”

He stared at Ian. “I need you to look after her.”

“You said you would do that.”

“I will, by getting both you and her to where Gary is.”

“I want to go with you.”

“Who says I’m going somewhere?”

“You are.”

This kid was bright, but that didn’t mean he would get his way. “Miss Mary looks after you when you need it. Now it’s your turn for her.”

Ian nodded. “I can do that.”

“I’m going to contact Antrim and have him come get both you and her.”

“And where are you going?” Richards asked.

“To get some answers.”

The slip of paper Miss Mary had given him with the phone number was still in his pocket. My sister. I spoke to her a little while ago. She’ll take your call in the morning.

“You going to let me tag along?” Richards asked.

“I’m assuming that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Hardly. But my SOCA badge could prove helpful.”

That it could. Especially for toting weapons.

He handed her one of the guns he’d snatched.

“I have to make a call to Antrim and check on my son,” he said. “Then I’m going to get a few hours’ sleep.”

“I’d offer my flat,” Richards said. “But I’m afraid that’s the first place they’re going to look for me.”

He agreed. “A hotel is better.”

Thirty-five

Malone finished off some cereal and fruit for breakfast. He and Kathleen Richards had spent a few hours at the Churchill, he on the pullout sofa bed, she in the bedroom. They’d arrived after midnight and a suite was all the hotel had to offer. Jet lag from the flight over had finally caught up to him and he’d fallen asleep almost immediately after lying down. But not before calling Antrim and making sure Ian and Miss Mary had arrived and that Gary was okay. Richards had told him that they still needed to have a chat, and asked him to keep her identity between themselves until after they talked. So he’d honored that request and not mentioned her to Antrim.

“I was sent by Mathews because of Blake Antrim,” Richards said to him from across the table.

The Churchill’s restaurant opened off the main lobby with a wall of windows that overlooked busy Portman Square.

“He and I were once involved. Ten years ago,” she said. “Mathews wanted me to use that relationship and make contact.”

“Is Antrim a problem?”

He needed to know, since Gary was in his custody.

She shook her head. “Not that way. Not at all. Your son is fine with him. Now, if he were a girlfriend breaking up with Antrim.” She paused. “Different story.”

He thought he understood. “Doesn’t let go gracefully?”

“Something like that. Let’s just say our parting was memorable.”

“And you agreed to reconnect with him?”

“Antrim is apparently into something that threatens our national security.”

That grabbed his attention.

“Unfortunately, Mathews did not say how.”

“So he sent you to the bookstore last night to connect with me and Ian. Let me guess. He wants the flash drive?”

She nodded. “Exactly. I don’t suppose you would share what’s on it?”

Why not? What did he care? This wasn’t his fight. Besides, it wasn’t all that much. “As amazing as it sounds, Antrim is trying to prove that Elizabeth I was actually a man.”

He caught the surprise on her face.

“You must be daft. Mathews was willing to kill me over that?”

He shrugged. “It gets worse. Mathews was there when Farrow Curry was pushed into an Underground train. One of his men did the pushing. Ian saw that, firsthand.”

“Which explains why he wants Ian Dunne.”

“He’s a witness to a murder, on British soil, which runs straight to MI6. Good thing Ian is in the safest place he can be, at the moment, with Antrim, whose interests are clearly opposed to Mathews’.”

“Does Antrim know all of this?”

He nodded. “I told him last night on the phone. He said he’d keep a close eye on Ian.”

Which also explained why Malone was still here. If not for the fact that Ian was clearly in trouble, he and Gary would leave today. But he could not simply walk away. He wanted to play this out a little longer and see if he could help the boy into the clear.

“Mathews provided me information,” she said, “that points to some sanctuary the Tudors concealed that held their personal wealth.”

“A point you omitted last night.”

She nodded. “I’m sure you held back a few things, too.”

He listened as she told him about what happened when Henry VII and Henry VIII died.

“I got the impression,” she said, “that the flash drive might lead to this location.”

But he could recall nothing from what he’d read that pointed the way.

“Go ahead and finish your breakfast,” he said. “I have to print out some stuff.”

“From the flash drive?”

He nodded. “A hard copy would be a good thing to have.”

“We going somewhere?”

“To Hampton Court. There’s somebody there we have to talk with.”

Kathleen surveyed the restaurant. Nothing and no one seemed out of the ordinary. Both she and Malone had switched off their cell phones, since Malone had said Antrim had tracked him through his. She was familiar with the technology and knew that a dead phone was a safe phone.

She wondered why they were going to Hampton Court. Who were they seeing? And what did it matter to her anymore? She’d lost two jobs in the past twelve hours. Not much left for her in this fight. Perhaps she should simply cut her losses and leave. But would that stop Thomas Mathews? Hardly. She still had to make things right with him. Had he seriously intended on killing her? Still difficult to say, but that Met officer would have shot her if she’d not quit resisting.

She finished her breakfast and waited for Malone, half listening to the murmur of other conversations. The waiter came and cleared the dishes, refilling her coffee cup. She didn’t smoke, drink much, gamble, or do drugs. Coffee was her vice. She liked it hot, cold, sweet, straight — didn’t matter, as long as it was full of caffeine.

“This is for you.”

She glanced up.

The waiter had returned and held an envelope, which she accepted.

“The front desk brought it over. A woman left it for you.”

Her mouth dried. Her senses came alive. Who would know she was here? She opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper, upon which was written in black ink.

She could not believe what she’d read.

Thomas Mathews was watching.

She told herself to stay calm.

Doing what Mathews wanted entailed betraying Cotton Malone. But he was a stranger. Of no consequence. Sure, she’d shared a room with him last night and he seemed like a decent man. But national interests were involved. Her career was at stake. And not as a SOCA agent, but perhaps as a member of Secret Intelligence. People did not apply for jobs there. You were recruited, then proved yourself.

Like now.

Provided, of course, that Thomas Mathews’ word—as a knight of the realm—meant anything.

She sucked in a breath.

Steeled herself.

And nodded her head.

Thirty-six

Antrim paid his admission fee for Westminster Abbey and made his way into the massive church. He passed the black marble slab that marked the grave of the Unknown Warrior, then the choir with its famous wooden benches. Beyond the altar rails, in the sanctuary, was where British kings and queens were crowned. He caught site of a placard that identified the tomb of Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, the only one smart enough to walk away. Over the past year he’d read a lot about Henry, his wives and children, especially Elizabeth. He once thought his own family dysfunctional, but the Tudors proved that there was always something worse.

Crowds were heavy — no surprise as it was the weekend and this one of those must-sees for any visitor to London with its Poets’ Corner, the elaborate chapels, and the dust of so many monarchs. America had nothing to equal it. This church was a thousand years old and had borne witness to nearly everything associated with England since the Norman invasion.

He followed the ambulatory around the sanctuary to polished marble stairs that led up to the chapel of Henry VII. Built by the first Tudor king as his family’s tomb, it eventually acquired the name orbis miraculum, wonder of the world, and rightly so. The massive entrance gates were of bronze, mounted to oak, embellished with roses, fleurs-de-lis, and Tudor badges. Inside was a three-aisled nave with four bays and five chapels. Wooden stalls lined both sides, above which were hung the banner, sword, helmet, and scarf of a Knight of the Bath.

Another one of those ancient groups.

Created by George I, revived by George V, now part of English lore as the fourth most senior order of chivalry.

Unlike the Daedalus Society.

Which seemed to exist only in the shadows.

Richly carved niches, each displaying a statue, encircled the chapel beneath fragile-looking, clerestory windows. But it was the ceiling that captivated. Fan-vaulted with tracery and pendants, suspended as if by magic, the fretted roof more like a fragile cobweb than carved stone.

At the far end stood Henry VII’s tomb. A focal point and a contradiction. More Roman than Gothic. Understandable, considering an Italian created it. Maybe seventy-five people were admiring the chapel. He’d made the call last night, after leaving the analyst’s apartment, and was told to come at opening time, with the hard drives, which he carried in a plastic shopping bag. This place, with its many visitors, offered him some comfort regarding security, but not much. The people he was bargaining with were connected, determined, and bold.

So he told himself to stay on guard.

“Mr. Antrim.”

He turned to see a woman, late fifties, short, petite, gray-blond hair drawn into a bun. She wore a navy pantsuit with a short jacket.

“I was sent to meet with you,” she said.

“You have a name?”

“Call me Eva.”

Gary had been glad, last night, to see Ian. And he instantly liked the older woman who introduced herself as Miss Mary.

She was a lot like his dad’s mother, who lived a few hours south of Atlanta in middle Georgia. He always spent a week with her in the summer, as his mother maintained a good relationship with her ex-mother-in-law. But it was hard not to like Grandma Jean. Soft-spoken, easygoing, never a bad word uttered.

They’d spent the night at the house where he and his dad had been taken yesterday. Ian had told him what happened at the bookstore, then after when they rescued the SOCA agent. Gary was concerned but pleased that his dad had handled things. Antrim had not stayed with them, but called to say that all was well with his dad.

“He’s going to follow up on a few things in the morning,” Antrim said. “I told him you were fine here.”

“Did you mention anything about you and me?”

“We’ll do that together, face-to-face. He’s got a lot to deal with at the moment. We can tell him tomorrow.”

He’d agreed.

Now they were back in the warehouse office, alone, the other two agents outside. Antrim nowhere around.

“Do you know where my dad was headed?” he asked Ian and Miss Mary.

Ian shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

Yesterday he’d wanted to talk more with Antrim, but that had not been possible. He had to talk about it. So he told them what he’d learned last night.

“Are you sure this is true?” Miss Mary asked him when he finished.

He nodded. “We took a DNA test that will prove it.”

“What a shock this must be to you,” she said. “Finding your birth father. Here.”

“But at least you found out,” Ian said. “Your mom should have told you.”

“Perhaps she had a good reason for keeping that name to herself,” Miss Mary said.

Gary, though, was sure. “I’m glad I know.”

“And what will you do with this information?” Miss Mary asked him.

“I don’t know yet.”

“And where is Mr. Antrim?”

“He’ll be here. He’s a CIA agent, on assignment. My dad’s helping him out.”

But he was still concerned.

He recalled his parents’ divorce, when his mother had explained how years of worrying had taken a toll. He’d not understood what she meant then, but he did now. The uncertainty of not knowing if someone you loved was in trouble worked on you. He’d only experienced it for a few hours. His mother had endured it for years. He’d been angry when his parents divorced, unsure exactly why they were better off apart, as they’d both made clear. Afterward, he’d witnessed firsthand the bitterness between them. Peace had only been made between his parents a month ago with all that happened in Austria and the Sinai, but he hadn’t noticed much of a change in his mother. Still anxious. Still agitated. Still short-tempered.

Then he’d learned why, when she told him the truth.

And he hadn’t made things easy for her.

Demanding to know his birth father’s identity. She refusing. He threatening to live in Denmark.

Lots of conflict.

More than either of them was accustomed to.

He needed to speak with his mother.

And when Antrim or his dad returned, he’d do that.

Antrim decided to allow Eva her moment and asked, “Why are we here?”

“Walk with me.”

She led him toward the tomb of Henry VII.

“This is, perhaps, the greatest single chapel in all of England,” she said, her voice low. “Henry is there, with his queen, Elizabeth of York. Below is the Tudor vault, where James I and the boy Edward VI lie. Around us are the tombs of Mary, Queen of Scots, Charles II, William III, Mary II, George II, and Queen Anne. Even the two princes of the Tower, Edward IV’s sons, murdered by their uncle Richard III, are here.” She turned left and stopped before one of the pointed arches, opening into a side bay. “And, then, there is this.”

He stared at the black-and-white marble monument with its columns and gilded capitals. The woman lying atop, carved in stone, wore regal robes.

“The final resting place of Elizabeth I,” Eva said. “She died March 24, 1603, and was first buried over there, with her grandfather, in the vault beneath. But her named successor, James I, erected this monument, so she was moved in 1606, and has stayed here ever since.”

They approached the tomb, along with a small crowd.

“Notice her face,” Eva whispered.

He stepped close and saw that it was that of an old woman.

“The Mask of Youth had been imposed by law during the final years of her reign. No artist could depict Elizabeth except as a young woman. But here, on her grave, for all eternity, that mandate was not followed.”

The effigy wore a crown and collar and held an orb and scepter in either hand.

“There are two bodies in this tomb,” Eva said. “Elizabeth and her half sister, Mary, who reigned before her. By now, their bones have merged. Look here.”

She pointed to a Latin inscription at the base of the monument.

“Can you read it?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Partners in throne and grave, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of the Resurrection.”

“Odd, wouldn’t you say? Burying them together.”

He agreed.

“Both were monarchs, each entitled to her own tomb,” she said. “But instead they rest together. Another clever move on Robert Cecil’s part, allowing the remains to mingle. No one would ever know who was who. Of course, Cecil knew nothing of comparative anatomy and DNA testing. For his day, burying them together would have concealed everything.”

“Has anyone ever looked inside?”

She shook her head. “This tomb has never been opened. Not even during the Cromwell years and civil war.”

He still wanted to know, “Why am I here?”

The tourists moved on to another site.

“The Lords thought you might like to see how the secret you seek hides in so public a place.”

“The Lords?”

“You met them, in the Round. They govern our society. Each acquires his post hereditarily, and have since 1610 when Daedalus was first started by Robert Cecil. You, of course, understand Cecil’s connection to Elizabeth.”

Yes, he did. He served as her secretary of state at the time of her death. “But Cecil died in 1612.”

She nodded. “He was always a sickly man. The Daedalus Society was part of his legacy. He knew of the great secret, one nobody has really cared about until the last few decades. To your credit, you managed to delve deeper than anyone thought possible.”

But he’d had help from that old CIA briefing memo, detailing what a few intrepid Irish lawyers had tried to do forty years ago.

Eva pointed at the tomb. “This monument to Elizabeth is the last one ever erected in Westminster over the spot where a sovereign was buried. Isn’t it interesting that, though two are buried here, only Elizabeth is displayed on top? And as an old woman, directly contrary to her wishes?”

He was listening.

“Robert Cecil oversaw Elizabeth’s funeral and her entombment. He then served her successor, James I, as secretary of state and personally oversaw the building of this monument. Again, only you would understand the significance of that fact.”

He did. Farrow Curry had taught him about both Cecils, and especially Robert. He was a short man with a crooked back, who walked awkwardly on splayed feet. He had a penetrating gaze from black eyes, but was consistently noted as courteous and modest, with a gentle sweetness. Aware of his lack of physical attraction he became a man of two personalities. One as a public servant — prudent, rational, and reliable. The other as a private gentleman — extravagant, a reckless gambler, a lover of women, subject to prolonged bouts of deep depression. His popularity with the people waned the longer he served. Enemies amassed. His influence eventually slipped and his ability to produce results dimmed. By the time he died he was hated, called the Fox for unflattering reasons. He recalled a rhyme Curry had said was popular at the time.

The fact that Cecil created a coded journal was puzzling, and seemed contradictory to his secretive nature. But, as Curry had explained, what better way for posterity to credit him than by leaving the only way to discover the secret’s existence? Everyone who mattered would be dead. Control the information and you control the result. And the only one who would benefit from that would be Robert Cecil.

Eva led him to one side of the monument and pointed at another Latin inscription, which she translated.

He caught the key words.

More meaningless and unimportant phrases, unless you knew that Elizabeth I was not what she had seemed.

“Clever, wouldn’t you say?”

He nodded.

“There is a lot about Robert Cecil that fits into that category. For a Renaissance man it was a sign of a superior spirit to wish to be remembered after death. If Cecil was nothing else, he was that.”

Exactly what Curry had told him.

“By 1606, when this monument was placed here, Robert Cecil was the only person left alive who knew the truth. So he was the only one who could leave these markers.”

She pointed to the shopping bag and he handed over the drives.

“Two and a half million pounds will be deposited within the hour into the account you provided earlier. Once your operation is officially over and the remaining evidence destroyed, the balance will be paid. We need that to happen within the next forty-eight hours.”

“What about my other matter?”

“Where is Cotton Malone?”

He knew the answer, thanks to the call from Malone last night asking him to take custody of Ian Dunne and the bookstore owner. He hadn’t wanted to do either, but to keep Malone in the field he’d dispatched an agent to retrieve them.

“He’s headed for Hampton Court.”

Thirty-seven

Malone loved Hampton Court. The gargantuan redbrick palace, perched on the Thames’ north bank, had stood for five hundred years. Once Templar land, then a possession of the Knights Hospitallers, the locale was eventually acquired by Thomas Wolsey, in 1514, at the peak of his power, just before he became archbishop of York, a cardinal, then lord high chancellor. But six years later Wolsey was falling from favor, unable to secure the divorce Henry VIII wanted from Katherine of Aragon. To placate the king, Wolsey gave Hampton Court to Henry.

Malone loved that story. Especially how the move failed and Wolsey fell victim to the same cruelty he’d meted out onto others, eventually having the good sense to die before he could be beheaded. Henry, though, loved his gift and promptly expanded the palace to suit royal needs. Centuries later, Oliver Cromwell intended to sell it off for scrap but came to regard it as a welcome escape from the smoke and mists of London, so he lived there. The great architect Christopher Wren intended to raze it and build a new palace, but a lack of funds and the death of Mary II stymied his plan. Instead, Wren added a massive baroque annex that still sat in stark contrast to the original Tudor surroundings.

Here, at a crook beside the slow-moving Thames, in a thousand-room palace reminiscent of a small village, the presence of Henry VIII could still be felt. The stone pinnacles, the walls of red brick embellished with blue patterns, the parapets, myriad chimneys — all were Tudor trademarks. Here Henry built his Great Hall and added an astronomical clock, elaborate gateways, and a tennis court, one of the first in England. He refashioned the kitchens and apartments and entertained foreign dignitaries with unmatched extravagance. His wives were deeply connected here, too. At Hampton Court, Katherine of Aragon was cloistered away, Anne Boleyn fell from grace, Jane Seymour gave birth to the heir then died, Anne of Cleves was divorced, Katherine Howard was arrested, and Katherine Parr was married.

If any place was of the Tudors it was Hampton Court.

He and Kathleen Richards had traveled by train the twenty miles from central London. Richards had wisely suggested that her car, parked not far from Miss Mary’s bookstore, could be either under surveillance or electronically tagged. The train offered anonymity and brought them to a station only a short walk from the palace, hundreds of others joining them on the trip. He’d made the call to Miss Mary’s sister, who worked at Hampton Court, and she suggested a meeting, on site, just after opening time.

He was both perplexed and intrigued.

Elizabeth I, queen of England 45 years, regarded as one of its greatest monarchs … a man?

The thought was at first preposterous, but he reminded himself that both the CIA and British intelligence were keenly interested in the revelation.

Why?

Kathleen Richards was also more questions than answers. That Thomas Mathews wanted her dead was troubling on a number of levels. He agreed with her assessment that something was wrong with the “dead” professor at Jesus College, and how the shooter at the bookstore had not injured anyone with stray bullets. Theater? Maybe. He’d seen quite a bit of that during his time with Justice.

But to what end?

They followed a talkative crowd down a wide stone walk, through the main gate, and into a courtyard that led to another gate. Royalty had not lived here in two hundred years, and he knew the tale associated with the second gate. After Henry married Anne Boleyn he had her falcon crest and their initials entwined in a lover’s knot carved into its ceiling panels. Soon after Anne’s head was chopped off the king gave orders to remove all of the falcon crests and replace each A with a J for Jane Seymour, his new bride. In their rush to accomplish that task an A was missed, and still could be seen in the ceiling of the archway now above him.

Entering the paved courtyard beyond, he glanced up at the astronomical clock. An ingenious device, with the earth at its center and the sun revolving around it. In addition to the time of day, its outer dials reflected the phases of the moon and the number of days since the New Year. Even more clever was its ability to tell the high water at London Bridge, vital information in Henry VIII’s time when the tides governed royal travel to and from the palace.

“You described yourself perfectly, Mr. Malone.”

He turned to see a woman strolling toward them. Miss Mary? The same slim figure, silver hair, and congenial smile. An identical face, too, with little makeup, only a touch of lipstick.

“I see my sister did not mention we were twins.”

“She left that detail out.”

The resemblance between the sisters was uncanny, even down to the same mannerisms. She introduced herself as Tanya Carlton and told them both to call her by her first name.

“I live just across the Thames. But I operate the gift shop inside the Clock Court.”

Even their voices were identical.

“I bet you two had some fun when you were young,” he said.

She seemed to understand what he meant. “We still do, Mr. Malone. People have a difficult time telling us apart.”

“You know why we’re here?” Richards asked.

“Mary explained. She knows my interest with all things Tudor, especially Elizabeth.”

“Is this real?” he asked.

The older woman nodded. “It just might be.”

Kathleen was careful not to allow her interest to show. She assumed Mathews was somewhere nearby, watching. She’d acknowledged her consent back at the hotel, then sat quietly until Malone returned with three sheets that he’d printed in the Churchill’s business center.

From the flash drive, he told her.

But he’d not mentioned where the drive was located. She had to assume he was carrying it, but to ask would be foolish.

Just be patient.

And wait for an opportunity.

Antrim was not happy with having Ian Dunne and the bookstore owner around. They interfered with his time with Gary. He had only a few precious hours to make an impact and the fewer interruptions the better. But he could not have refused Malone’s request. He needed the ex-agent dead, and for that to happen he needed him in the field. If the price for that was two more joining the party, then so be it. He’d keep them all together a little while longer. Once he returned to the warehouse, he’d have the woman and Dunne taken back to the safe house.

He’d left Westminster and stopped at a pub to grab a bite to eat. He’d also verified by phone that the one-half payment had in fact been deposited in a Luxembourg account. He was three and a half million dollars richer.

And it felt great.

Though it wasn’t yet 10:00 AM, he decided some lunch would be good. He placed an order for a burger and chips and sat in one of the empty booths. A television played behind the bar, set to the BBC. Its volume was down, but something on the screen caught his eye.

A man.

And a tag scrolled across the bottom.

He spotted a TV remote on the bar, quickly stepped over and increased the volume. The attendant gave him a glance but he told him he wanted to hear what the reporter had to say.

“… Scottish officials have confirmed that Libyan terrorist Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, will be sent back to Libya. Al-Megrahi has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and, for humanitarian reasons, will be returned to Libya to live out his final days. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died that day, December 21, 1988, including eleven on the ground in Scotland. On hearing the news, relatives were shocked. No word, as yet, on Downing Street’s reaction. Sources close to the negotiations, ongoing with Libya, say that the release may come within the next few days. Reports of the release first came from Libya, confirmed by Edinburgh within hours. No one has, as yet, spoken publicly about the possibility, but no one has denied the reports, either. We will be following this closely and will provide additional reports, as they are obtained.”

He muted the volume and returned to his booth.

He knew the drill. A leak designed to gauge public reaction. The news would be allowed to simmer a few days, then more would be leaked. Done correctly, in just the right amounts, the story’s shock value would fade. Unless some groundswell of opposition rose, supported by a relentless media barrage, the story would eventually be forgotten as the world moved on to something else.

Allowing the leak also announced one more thing.

No turning back. Everyone was committed. The idea now was to get it done before anything could stop it. But what were the Brits receiving for their silence? Why allow it to happen? He still wanted to know the answer to that question, along with one other thing.

What was happening at Hampton Court?

Thirty-eight

Kathleen walked with Cotton Malone and Tanya Carlton. They’d paid their admission and entered Hampton Court, along with a swarm of other visitors. Two days ago she was home in her flat wondering what to do with the rest of her life. Now she was a clandestine operative working against a retired American intelligence agent, trying to retrieve a flash drive.

And all for a man who might have tried to kill her.

It didn’t feel right, but she had little choice. Mathews’ invocation of country had worked. Though her mother was an American she’d always felt deeply English, and her entire career had been devoted to upholding the law. If her country needed her, then her path was clear.

They were inside the Great Hall, another Tudor hammerbeam ceiling overhead. Magnificent tapestries draped the towering walls, a nearby guide explaining to a group that they were commissioned by Henry VIII and hung here then.

“Henry built this room and entertained here,” Tanya said. “In his time the bare wood of the ceiling above would have been painted blue, red, and gold. What a sight that would have been.”

They passed through what was identified as the Great Watching Chamber, where the Yeomen of the Guard were once stationed to control access to the king’s apartments. A narrow hall led to a gallery with cream- and olive-colored walls, broken by a chair rail, a threadbare carpet protecting the plank floor. One wall was lined with windows, the other with three paintings spaced between sets of closed doors. Tanya stopped before the center canvas, rectangular in shape, which depicted Henry and four other persons.

“This is quite famous. It’s called The Family of Henry VIII. Henry is seated and, from his stout frame and face, it’s clear that this was painted late in his life. His third wife, Jane Seymour, stands to his left. His heir and son, Edward, to the right. To his far right is his legitimate firstborn, Mary. To his far left, his legitimate second-born, Elizabeth.”

“It’s all imaginary,” Malone said. “Jane Seymour died at childbirth. She never lived to see Edward that old. He looks around seven or eight.”

“Quite right. On both counts. This was painted, we think, around 1545. Maybe two years before Henry died. It’s a perfect example, though, of how the Tudors thought. This is a dynastic statement about Henry’s legacy. His son, standing next to him, embraced by one arm, is his legitimate heir. His third wife, long dead, still a part of his memory. His other two heirs far off to the side. Present, part of the legacy, but distant. Notice the clothing on Elizabeth and Mary. The jewelry they wear. Their hair, even their faces. Nearly identical. As if it were unimportant to distinguish them. What was important was his son, who takes center stage with the king.”

“This is the Haunted Gallery,” Malone said, looking around.

“You know this place?”

“The chapel entrance is there, into the royal pew. Supposedly, when Katherine Howard was arrested for adultery she fled the guards and ran through here, into the chapel, where Henry was praying. She pleaded for mercy, but he ignored her and she was taken away and beheaded. Her ghost, dressed in white, is said to walk this hall.”

Tanya smiled. “In far more practical terms, this was the place where courtiers would lie in wait to be seen by the king on his way to the chapel. But the tour guides love the ghost tale. I especially like the addition of the white gown. Of course, Queen Katherine was anything but pure.”

“We need to know about what Miss Mary discussed with you,” Malone said.

“I must say, I was fascinated by what she told me. Elizabeth was so different from Henry’s other children. None of them lived long, you know. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, miscarried several times before giving birth to Mary. Anne Boleyn the same, before producing Elizabeth. Edward, the son by Jane Seymour, died at fifteen. Henry also birthed several illegitimate children, none of whom ever reached age twenty.”

“Mary, his firstborn, lived to be what — forty?” Malone asked.

“Forty-two. But sickly all of her life. Elizabeth, though, died at seventy. Strong until the end. She even contracted smallpox here, at Hampton Court, nine months into her reign and recovered.”

More people entered the Haunted Gallery. Tanya motioned for them to hug the windows and allow the visitors to pass.

“It’s exciting to have people so interested in these matters. They are not often discussed.”

“I can see why,” Malone said. “The subject matter is … bizarre.”

“Blooming nuts,” Kathleen said. “That describes it better.”

Tanya smiled.

“Tell us what you know,” Malone said. “Please.”

“Mary said you might be an impatient one. I can see that now.”

“You spoke to your sister again last night?” Malone asked.

“Oh, yes. She called to tell me what happened and that you had seen to her safety. That I appreciate, by the way.”

More people passed them by.

“Mary is the timid one. She runs her bookshop and keeps to herself. Neither one of us has ever been married, though mind you, there were opportunities for us both.”

“Are books your passion, too?” Malone asked.

She smiled. “I am half owner of Mary’s store.”

“And Elizabeth I is a subject you’ve studied?”

Tanya nodded. “In minute detail. I feel as if she is a close friend. It’s a shame that every written account that has survived describes her as not a womanly queen, but masculine in many ways. Did you know that she often spoke of herself as a man, dressing more in the style of her father or the lords of the time than the women? Once, at the baptism of a French princess, she chose a man as her proxy, which would have been unheard of then. When she died, no autopsy was allowed on her body. In fact, no one but a select few were permitted to touch her. During her life she refused to allow doctors to physically examine her. She was a thin, unbeautiful, lonely person with a nearly constant energy. Totally opposite of her siblings.”

Kathleen pointed back to the painting on the wall. “She looks like a lovely young woman there.”

“A fiction,” Tanya said. “No one sat for that painting. Henry’s likeness comes from a famous Holbein portrait that, at the time, hung in Whitehall Palace. As Mr. Malone correctly noted, Jane Seymour was long dead. The three children were almost never in the same locale. The painter drew from memory, or from sketches, or from other portraits. Elizabeth was rarely painted prior to assuming the throne. We have little to no idea what she looked like before age twenty-five.”

She recalled what Eva Pazan had told her yesterday about the Mask of Youth. “And what she looked like later in life is in question, too.”

“Goodness, yes. In 1590 she decreed that she would be forever young. All other images of her were destroyed. Only a few have survived.”

“So it’s possible that she may have died early in life,” Malone asked, “as Bram Stoker wrote?”

“It would make sense. All of her siblings, save one, did. Elizabeth dying at age twelve or thirteen would be entirely consistent.”

Kathleen wanted to ask about what it was that Bram Stoker wrote — Malone had failed to mention that nugget before — but knew better. The name was familiar. The author of Dracula. So she made a mental note to pass that information on to Mathews.

Tanya motioned for them to leave the Haunted Gallery, which they did through a doorway that led into the baroque sections of the palace — commissioned, she noted, by William and Mary. The tenor and feel of everything changed. Tudor richness was replaced with 17th-century Georgian plainness. They entered a room identified as the Cumberland Suite, decorated with chairs of richly patterned velvet, gilt-wood mirrors, candlesticks, and ornate tables.

“With George II, this was where his second son, William, the Duke of Cumberland, stayed. I’ve always loved these rooms. Colorful, with a playful feel.”

Two windows opened from the outer wall and a pedimented alcove held a small bed covered in red silk. Baroque paintings in heavy frames hung from the walls.

“Mary said that you read Bram Stoker’s chapter on the Bisley Boy,” Tanya said. “Stoker was the first, you know, to actually write about the legend. Interestingly, his observations were largely ignored.”

Kathleen made a further note. That book was obviously important, too.

“I brought something for you to see,” Tanya said. “From my own library.”

The older woman produced a smartphone and handed it to Malone.

“That’s an image from a page I made this morning. It’s an account from the day Elizabeth I died.”

“I see you’ve gone high-tech,” Malone said, adding a slight smile.

“Oh, these devices are marvelous. Mary and I both use them.”

Malone increased the image size and they were able to read.

To Lord Charles Howard Elizabeth confided that she was in desperate extremities.

“My Lord,” she whispered hoarsely. “I am tied with a chain of iron about my neck. I am tied. I am tied, and the case is altered with me.”

The Queen lay prone, speechless, cadaverous. All the life that was left in her was centered in one long, still beautiful hand which hung down at the side of her bed and which still made signs to express her wishes. The Archbishop of Canterbury had been summoned to pray for the dying woman, which he did with unction and enthusiasm. It was presumably the last sound that entered the queen’s consciousness. A few hours later the breath left her body. At three o’clock in the morning of March 24, 1603 her body was pronounced lifeless. It was prepared for burial by her ladies and was not dissected and embalmed as was the rigorous custom in those days for sovereigns. The leaden mask and the waxen effigy were prepared, but no man’s hand touched the body of Elizabeth after it was dead.

She went to her grave with her secret inviolate.

She and Malone glanced up from the screen, both amazed.

“Quite right,” Tanya said. “That last sentence is meaningless, except if you know, or suspect.”

“When was this written?” Malone asked.

“1929. In a biography of Elizabeth that I have always admired.”

What had the writer meant?

Her secret inviolate.

“Mary asked me specifically to show you that. She and I have spoken on this subject before. She always told me I was foolish to consider such a thing. But now I hear that the two of you may have new information on this great mystery.”

Malone found the sheets he’d printed out at the Churchill, from the flash drive, and handed them to Tanya.

“Take a look at these.”

Malone faced Kathleen. “Keep an eye out here. I have to make a quick call to Antrim.”

She nodded her assent and Malone left the Cumberland Suite, heading back out to the busy gallery beyond. When he was gone Kathleen asked Tanya, “Are you saying that there is a real possibility that Elizabeth I was an imposter?”

“I have no idea. But I do know that the Bisley Boy legend is one of long standing. I think others, like the author of the passage you just read, suspected and wondered, but were too timid to say it. Bram Stoker, to his credit, did say it. Of course, he was ridiculed for his assertion. The press was not kind. Tommyrot, I believe, is how The New York Times described the theory in its review of his book.”

“But is this real?”

“From these notes Mr. Malone has just given me it seems others now believe it to be.”

She’d learned all she could.

Time to act.

She relieved Tanya of the pages. “I need these. I want you to wait here until Malone comes back.”

“And where are you going?”

She’d already noticed that there was but one way in and out of these rooms — the same way Malone had gone. But there were fair numbers of people milling about. Enough for cover.

“This is official SOCA business.”

“Mary said you were the impetuous type, as well.”

“I can also be the arresting type. So stay here and be quiet.”

Thirty-nine

Antrim made the call from the booth in the pub. He’d eaten his burger and chips and decided on the direct approach. His watch read 10:40 AM, which made it 5:40 AM in Virginia. Of course the CIA operations center never slept and his call was routed to the director of counter-operations, his immediate supervisor and the only person besides the director of Central Intelligence who could give him an order.

“It’s done, Blake,” his boss said. “We tried to stop the Scots from going public, but they were hell-bent. The deal is made. They’re just fine-tuning details while they warm up public opinion.”

“That killer should die in jail.”

“We all agree. Unfortunately, he’s not our prisoner.”

“I’ll shut down things here.”

“Do that. And fast.”

“What about our fatality?”

“I don’t see any way to investigate that without alerting the wrong people. It could have been the Brits. Probably was. But it could have been somebody else. Doesn’t matter anymore. The death will have to stand as unaccountable.”

That meant the family would be told only that the agent died in the line of duty, serving his country — not where, or when, or how, just that it happened — and a star would be added to the wall at Langley. Last he could recall there were over a hundred stars. Doubtful any name would be noted in the Book of Honor that sat just beneath. Only those agents who’d been compromised in death were recorded there. Not that he really cared. In fact, letting all of this fade away suited his needs perfectly.

“I’ll have it ended by tonight,” he said.

“This was crazy from the start,” his boss said. “But hey, sometimes long shots play out.”

“I did my best.”

“No one is blaming you. Though I’m sure there will be some here who’ll try. It was imaginative and, if it’d worked, a stroke of genius.”

“It may be time for me to go,” he said, laying the groundwork for what he had in mind.

“Don’t be so hasty. Think about that. Don’t beat yourself up so bad.”

Not the reaction he’d expected.

“I hated losing this one,” he said.

“We all do. We’re going to look like idiots when that transfer happens. But it’s one we’re going to have to live with.”

He ended the call.

Operation King’s Deception was over. He’d first dismiss the two other agents, then shut down the warehouse himself, handing over everything to Daedalus. Then he’d receive the remainder of his money. By then, with any luck, Cotton Malone would have tragically died. Not a thing would point his way, so Gary would naturally gravitate to him.

They’d bond.

Become close.

Father and son.

Finally.

He thought of Pam Malone.

Screw you.

Malone waited for his phone to boot up. He’d intentionally left it off to avoid being tracked and realized that for the next few minutes he’d be vulnerable. But he had to talk to Stephanie Nelle. When he’d left the breakfast table earlier at the Churchill he’d not only visited the hotel’s business center but also called Atlanta, waking her from sleep. Though he was no longer one of her twelve Magellan Billet agents he was doing the U.S. government a favor, and she’d told him last night, during their call about Antrim, that she was there if needed.

The phone activated and he saw that Stephanie had already called back, twenty minutes ago. So he answered her message with a return call.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Waiting to see if I’m a fool or a genius.”

“I hate to ask what that means.”

“What did you find out on Kathleen Richards?”

“She is SOCA. Ten years. Good investigator, but a loose cannon. Does things her way. Lots of damage and destruction in her wake. Actually, the two of you seem perfect for each other.”

“I’m more concerned with what she’s doing here with me.”

“Actually, that is a good question considering she’s currently on suspension for an incident a month ago. I was told she was in the process of being fired.”

“Learn anything relative to MI6’s involvement?”

He’d retreated to a corner in the gallery among the people and the noise. He turned and faced the wall, speaking low, keeping a watch out behind him.

“Not a thing. But I had to be careful with those questions.”

More people spilled in, heading from the Tudor to the Georgian portion of the palace.

“And you never said. Are you a fool or a genius?” she asked.

“That hasn’t been determined yet.”

“There’s a complication here.”

He hated that word. Complication. Stephanie’s code for a total, outright, get-your-ass-kicked mess.

“The CIA called back a little while ago.”

He listened as she described something called Operation King’s Deception, presently ongoing in London, headed by Blake Antrim. She then told him about Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, and that the Scottish government had decided to send him back to Libya to die of terminal cancer.

“That decision was made public a few hours ago,” Stephanie said. “Seems this transfer has been in the works for nearly a year. King’s Deception was authorized to stop it.”

“Which apparently failed.”

“And they just pulled the plug on the operation. But they asked if you could take one last stab.”

“At what?”

“That flash drive you have contains information that died with the man in the Underground station. He was a CIA analyst assigned to King’s Deception. Langley knows you have the drive. Antrim reported that. They want you to see if it leads anywhere.”

He could not believe what he was hearing. “I don’t even know what they were looking for. How in the hell would I know if I found anything?”

“I asked the same question. Their answer was that the drive should tell you. If it doesn’t, then there’s nothing there.”

“Is there a problem with Antrim? He has Gary and Ian Dunne.”

“Not that I’ve been told. It’s just that he wasn’t successful with his operation and they’d like you to give it one last try. That prisoner transfer is going to be a PR disaster for us.”

Which he knew, and the thought of it even happening made him angry. The son of a bitch should die in jail.

A tour group drifted in and moved toward his corner of the room. He used them as cover and kept watch on the doorway that led into the Cumberland Suite.

Kathleen Richards appeared.

She hesitated a moment, glanced around, seemed satisfied that all was clear, then darted right.

“I’m a genius,” he quietly said into the phone.

“Which means?”

“That I was right about our SOCA agent.”

“What are you going to do? The CIA wants to know.”

He hadn’t seen Stephanie in five months, not since France, back in June, when he’d helped her out. So much so that she told him, before leaving, that she owed him a favor. But he also recalled her warning.

Use it wisely.

“If I look into this, does this mean you owe me two favors?”

She chuckled. “This one’s not mine. I’m just the messenger. But if you can do anything to stop that murderer from being released, you’d be doing us all a favor.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“One last thing, Cotton. Antrim knows nothing of this request, and they want to keep it that way.”

He ended the call and shut down the phone.

Gary showed Ian and Miss Mary the artifacts in the warehouse. The older woman seemed fascinated with the books, some of which she noted were valuable 17th-century originals. He watched as she examined the special one beneath the glass lid with the green-and-gold pages.

“Your Mr. Antrim is a thief,” she said. “This volume belongs to Hatfield House. I am familiar with it.”

“Blake is CIA,” he made clear again. “He’s here on official business.”

“Blake?”

“He told me to call him that.”

He did not like the appraising look she gave him.

“I wonder what gives Blake the right to pilfer our national treasures? I have visited the library at Hatfield House. The attendants there would have gladly allowed him to photograph or copy whatever he may have needed. But to steal it? That is unforgivable.”

Since his dad retired from the Justice Department, they’d spoken some about fieldwork. Its pressures. Demands. The unpredictability. A month ago he’d even experienced some of that firsthand, so he was not about to judge Blake Antrim. And what did this woman know, anyway? She owned a bookstore and could not possibly understand what intelligence agents did.

She lifted the glass lid. “Did Mr. Antrim explain what this is?”

“It’s a codebook,” he told her. “From a guy named Robert Cecil.”

“Did he explain its significance?”

“Not really.”

“Would you like to know?”

Kathleen had not spotted Cotton Malone, so she used the moment and embraced the crowd. Hopefully, the information on the sheets she’d obtained would satisfy Mathews. She felt bad about deceiving Malone, but she intended to do her job. Without questions.

She headed away from where they’d entered, deeper into the baroque portions of the palace, and came to what was identified as the Communications Gallery. One wall was lined with windows that overlooked a fountain court, the other was wood-paneled and dotted with doors and oil portraits. Decorative iron posts supported a red velvet rope that prevented visitors from approaching too close to the paintings. Surely there was an exit from the palace if she just kept moving forward.

A quick glance back and she saw a face she recognized.

Eva Pazan.

Back from the dead.

Ten meters away.

A man at her side.

A chill swept through her. Even though she was sure Pazan had not been killed at Jesus College, seeing the woman alive unnerved her.

Was she really part of Daedalus?

Or something else?

Pazan hung back, fifty people in between them admiring the gallery. No effort was made to approach.

Apparently, they were flushing her ahead.

With no choice she kept moving.

At the end of the gallery she decided to buy some time. So she grabbed the last two iron rails, swinging them both around and blocking the path crosswise. The people behind her stopped at the velvet rope, which caused traffic to congeal, her two pursuers trapped at the rear. She caught the quizzical looks, visitors thinking she was someone official and that they could not proceed any farther.

But she didn’t hang around to explain, darting into a doorway and turning left, hustling down what was labeled the Cartoon Gallery. Fifty more people filled the gallery admiring the ambience. She caught sight of a video camera high in the corner at the far end, right of the exit doorway, and realized she was going to have to avoid those.

She heard a shout from behind and saw Pazan and her pal appear twenty meters away. She turned another corner and passed through one elegant room after another, identified as the Queen’s bedchamber, dining room, dressing room, and drawing room.

In the last one she hooked right.

A man blocked her way.

Malone slipped past the crowd and reentered the Cumberland Suite, finding Tanya Carlton and asking, “What happened?”

“She snatched the papers you gave me and left. Threatened to arrest me.”

He’d wondered what Richards would do, so he’d provided her an opportunity. True, she had the information from the unprotected files but, to his way of thinking, there wasn’t much there.

Nothing at all, in fact.

“You don’t seemed surprised,” Tanya said.

“I’m not.”

“I must say, Mr. Malone, I think you are a bit of a conjurer.”

“Comes from getting burned by dishonest people.”

“What will she do now?”

He shrugged. “Go back where she came from. Or at least we can only hope.”

He had a new problem.

Helping the CIA.

“Mary told me that you and young Ian might have saved that woman’s life,” Tanya said. “Strange way for her to repay the debt.”

“But not unusual in my former line of work.”

“I managed to read the papers before she took them. Nothing there shocking. Not to me, anyway. But I have long been familiar with this legend.”

“Let’s get out of here. I’d like to talk with you some more, but with fewer people around.”

“Then we must see the gardens. They are magnificent. We can have a lovely walk in the sunshine.”

He liked this woman, just as he’d liked her sister.

They exited the Cumberland Suite and returned to the outer gallery, which remained noisy and crowded.

Two men appeared to their right.

Both faces he recognized.

The officers from the bookstore, out of uniform, dressed casually, both of whom appeared not to have forgotten what happened earlier. One had a nasty knot to his left forehead.

“We have a bit of a problem,” he whispered. “Seems there are some people here who would like to detain us.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Can you get us out of the building?”

“I worked here for many years as a guide, before being assigned to the gift shop. I know Hampton Court intimately.”

He pointed out the two problems. A small camera hung from the ceiling in one corner of the gallery. He’d seen others throughout. That meant people were watching, and dodging those electronic eyes would be tough.

“Angry-looking chaps,” she said. “Who are these men?”

Excellent question. Probably MI6. “Some type of police.”

“I’ve never been arrested before,” Tanya said.

“It’s not fun, and usually leads to a lot of other bad things.”

“Then it is no bother, Mr. Malone. No bother at all. I can make our escape.”

Forty

Gary listened as Miss Mary told them about the wayward grandchild.

“He resembled his father, FitzRoy, in many ways. Thin. Frail. Fair-skinned. Red-haired. But he acquired his constitution from the Howard side of the family. Unlike Tudor offspring, he was healthy. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the fate of Henry’s second daughter, Elizabeth. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, was also a Howard, through her mother. But Elizabeth inherited her father’s curse of early death and died when she was barely thirteen.”

“I thought Elizabeth was queen?” Gary asked.

Miss Mary shook her head. “Her illegitimate nephew, Henry FitzRoy’s son, assumed that honor in her place, after she died young.”

The door to the warehouse squeaked open and Antrim stepped inside, walking across to the tables and introducing himself to Ian and Miss Mary. They hadn’t met last night, Antrim’s men handling everything.

“You, young man,” Antrim said to Ian, “caused us a lot of problems.”

“In what way?” Miss Mary asked.

“He stole a flash drive that held some important information.”

“What could possibly be so important as to endanger a child’s life?”

“I didn’t realize his life was in danger.”

“He has been fleeing for the past month.”

“Which was his own fault, for stealing. But that isn’t a concern any longer. In fact, none of it is. This operation is over. We’re out of here.”

“It’s over?” Gary asked.

Antrim nodded. “The order I received is to close this down.”

“What happens to these treasures?” Miss Mary said. “That you stole.”

Antrim threw her a hard gaze before saying, “That’s not your concern, either.”

“And what about Mr. Malone and the other lady?” Miss Mary asked.

“What other lady?”

“The SOCA agent,” Ian said. “The one who shot up the bookstore when those men came to get the drive.”

“Malone didn’t mention the agent was a woman,” Antrim said. “And I’ve spoken to him twice.”

“Maybe he thought that information none of your concern,” Miss Mary said.

“Where is my dad?” Gary asked.

“Hampton Court.”

“Then she’s with him,” Ian said.

“Did she have a name?”

Miss Mary nodded. “She showed me her badge. Kathleen Richards.”

Kathleen gave the man blocking her way no time to react, tackling him to the floor, then planting her knee in his groin.

He cried out in pain.

She sprang to her feet.

The gun was still nestled against her spine, beneath her coat. People around her looked on in surprise, some retreating, giving her space. She withdrew her SOCA badge and displayed it.

“Official matter. Leave him be.”

The man was still on the floor, writhing in pain.

A camera caught her eye.

Which was a problem.

She hustled through more baroque rooms, then turned and realized she was in a rear corner of the palace. A closed door to her right was marked EXIT, to be used only in an emergency.

This certainly qualified, so she yanked it open.

A stairway led down.

Antrim was stunned. He hadn’t heard that name in ten years. Kathleen Richards was in the middle of this?

That could not be a coincidence.

“Describe this woman.”

From the sound of it, she hadn’t changed much.

“Malone and I saved the SOCA lady from the same men who tried to kill me,” Ian said. “They were going to kill her, too.”

“Tell me what you know.”

He listened as Ian Dunne recounted what had happened in Oxford Circus and since. At one point he interrupted and asked, “Do you know who those men were in the Bentley the night my man died?”

“The old guy was named Thomas Mathews. That’s what Malone called him when we saw him outside the bookstore last night.”

Another stunner.

Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

What in the world?

He listened to the rest of the story, and now he was panicked. What had seemed like a smooth ride out had just turned treacherous. Bad enough last night when Malone reported about a SOCA agent, but if his superiors learned that MI6 was directly involved there’s no telling what they would do. He’d definitely be abandoned. Left on his own. Subject to arrest.

Or worse.

He had to speak with Daedalus.

They wouldn’t want this to escalate.

Not at all.

Malone and Tanya reentered the haunted gallery, following the same threadbare runner, except they were now moving against the flow of traffic back toward the Great Hall.

They fled the gallery and passed back through the Watching Chamber, entering a connecting space that led left, into the Great Hall, and right down to ground level by way of a staircase. Antlers adorned the plain white walls. Tanya avoided the Great Hall and headed straight for the staircase.

“This way, Mr. Malone. It leads to the kitchens.”

He sidestepped more visitors.

A metal chain blocked the stairs with a sign that warned NO ENTRY, but they hopped over and started down.

One of the uniformed attendants stepped to the railing above and called out, “You cannot go there.”

“It’s quite all right,” Tanya said. “It’s just me.”

The attendant seemed to recognize her and waved them on.

“They are quite diligent,” Tanya said, as they continued to descend. “So many visitors every day. People like to take a wander. But it helps to have worked here for twenty years.”

He was grateful for both her presence and that he still carried the gun from earlier beneath his jacket.

They came to the ground floor and he heard footfalls behind them, on the risers, descending.

Surely the two fake cops.

“We must not dawdle,” Tanya said.

They exited through a door with no latch. Too bad. A simple dead bolt would have been wonderful. But this was surely a modern fire escape from the first floor, once the path where prepared food in the kitchens was transported up to the Great Hall.

A long, narrow corridor stretched in both directions.

Visitors milled about.

Tanya turned left, then right, and entered the Great Kitchen. He recalled what he could about this part of the palace. Over fifty rooms, three thousand square feet, once staffed by two hundred people. Two meals a day were provided from here to the 800 members of Henry VIII’s court. They were inside a spacious room with two hearths, a fire raging in each, the high ceilings and walls more whitewash. People were everywhere, snapping pictures, chattering, probably imagining themselves 500 years in the past.

“Come, Mr. Malone. This way.”

She led them through the kitchen, stopping at a doorway that opened into a covered courtyard.

“Have a quick look and see if our minders are there.”

He peered around the doorway’s edge, allowing more tourists to pass, and caught sight of one of the men in the same corridor they’d originally entered after the stairway. Tanya had led them on a U-shaped path back around to it.

“One of them is behind us,” she told him.

He turned and spotted the problem in the kitchen, who had not, as yet, seen them.

“Come on,” he said.

They crossed the courtyard and he saw the man farther down the long corridor, moving away, but the one behind them would soon be here.

“We need to enter that doorway,” Tanya said, pointing to the right side of the corridor, twenty feet away. If they hurried they could be inside before either man noticed.

“Why didn’t we just go there first?” he asked her.

“And be seen? They were right behind us. This provided a little confusion.”

He could not argue with that.

She scampered off with determined steps, disappearing inside the doorway.

He followed and quickly stepped down a short set of stone stairs to a brick floor into what once served as the palace’s wine cellar, the vaulted ceiling supported by three columns. Windows allowed sunlight to pour through. Huge wine casks, lying on their sides, lined the outer walls and filled the center space between the columns.

Tanya headed for the chamber’s rear and he spotted another set of steps that led down to a closed door. She descended and he saw an electronic lock, but she knew the code, punching it in, then beckoning him to follow.

The two men appeared behind them, at the entrance.

One reached beneath his jacket.

He knew what that meant.

So he reached faster and found his gun, firing one round to the right of the entranceway. The closed space and the stone walls amplified the shot to an explosion. People admiring the wine barrels winced, then realized he held a gun and panicked. He used the moment to hop down the steps and into the open doorway. Once inside, Tanya slammed the door.

“The electronic lock engaged,” she said. “Unless they know the combination, they won’t be following.”

His best guess was the men were MI6, working for Thomas Mathews, maybe with the help of the Metropolitan Police. But who knew. So involving local security was not an impossibility.

He studied where they were, a pitch-black space, the air dank and moldy.

He heard Tanya moving and suddenly a flashlight switched on.

“The staff keep them here,” she said.

“Where are we?”

“Why, in the sewers. Where else?”

Kathleen reached the bottom of the stairway, back on ground level. She exited into a long corridor, then immediately entered a narrow room identified as the Upper Orangery. The outer walls were one closely spaced window after another. Sunlight filled the chamber. People were here, too. Not as many as on the first floor, though.

If Thomas Mathews was on site, why wasn’t he helping?

Instead, Eva Pazan was after her undaunted. It would not take long for her pursuer to realize that her target had fled downward. She was unsure which side Pazan was on, but after her experience at the bookstore she decided to trust no one.

Just leave.

But not by one of the exits, as those were certainly being watched.

Past the windows she spotted the magnificent Privy Garden, which stretched from the palace to the river.

That seemed the way to go.

She stepped to one of the windows and noticed no alarms. And why would there be? There were hundreds of windows in the palace, the cost and logistics of wiring every one incalculable. Instead, motion sensors were the way, and she spotted them inside the orangery, positioned high to catch anyone who might enter through one of the windows.

But those would be deactivated during the day.

She surveyed the room and saw none of the uniformed staff. So she unlatched the pane and hoisted the bottom panel upward.

The drop down was maybe two meters.

A few of the people nearby gave her a stare.

She ignored them and climbed out.

Forty-one

Ian wanted to know more about Henry Fitzroy. He’d been fascinated by what Miss Mary had said.

“This bloke, FitzRoy, married at fifteen to a fourteen-year-old girl?”

“That was quite common at the time. Marriages among the privileged were not for love. They were for alliances and the acquisition of wealth. Henry VIII saw the marriage to a Howard as a way to cement his relationship with that rich, powerful family. At the time his son’s illegitimacy was not considered a problem, since Henry was so open in his affections.”

“What did Henry’s wife think about that?” Gary asked.

“She was not pleased. It created tension, and probably accounted for some of the miscarriages. Katherine of Aragon was, in many ways, a fragile woman.”

The American named Antrim had retreated into the office with the two other men. Though he’d just met the man, Ian sensed something not right about him. And he’d learned to trust his instincts. He’d immediately liked Miss Mary and Cotton Malone. Gary was okay, too, though the younger Malone had little idea how tough life could be. Ian had not known either his mother or his father, and probably never would. His aunt had tried to tell him about his family, but he’d been too young to understand and, after he left, too angry to care.

Gary had two fathers.

What was the problem?

He’d caught the caution in Miss Mary’s eyes as she challenged Antrim. She had a bad feeling, too. That was clear. Gary, though, was too absorbed in his own problem to think straight.

That was okay.

He could think for him.

After all, Malone had told him to look after Gary.

“Eventually,” Miss Mary said, “Henry VIII married a Howard, too. Her name was Katherine, and she became his fifth wife. Unfortunately, this Howard was promiscuous and the king had her head chopped off. The Howards never forgave Henry for that, nor did the king forgive them. The Howards began to fall from grace, no longer in favor. Mary Howard’s brother, Henry, the Earl of Surrey, was executed for treason, the last person Henry sent to the block before he died in January 1547.”

“How do you know all this?” Gary asked.

“She reads books,” Ian said.

Miss Mary smiled. “That I do. But this particular subject has always interested me. My sister, especially, is knowledgeable about the Tudors. It seems Mr. Antrim shares our interest.”

“He’s doing his job,” Gary said.

“Really? And what is his great interest in British history? The last I was aware, Great Britain and the United States were close allies. Why is it necessary to be spying here? Holed up in this warehouse? Why not just ask for what you want?”

“Spying is not always that easy. I know. My dad was one for a long time.”

“Your father seems like a decent man,” Miss Mary said. “And, I assure you, he is as perplexed by all of this as I am.”

Antrim was in a panic.

MI6 had been involved with Farrow Curry’s murder? Which meant they were aware of Operation King’s Deception. Daedalus said they killed Curry. Which meant either they or Ian Dunne lied.

But which one?

And now Cotton Malone was at Hampton Court with Kathleen Richards?

What in the hell was she doing there?

He had to know, so he dispatched both of his agents to immediately find out what was happening.

He stared out into the warehouse to where the woman and the two boys sat among the items that would shortly be destroyed. He was waiting for the call that confirmed Cotton Malone was dead. He’d tell the sad news to Gary himself. Pam would certainly then become involved, but he should be okay. Gary would not allow her to block him out a second time, and there’d be no other father to interfere. The thought of victory made him smile. He’d already alerted his investigator in Atlanta to step up surveillance. Taps on Pam’s phone lines could prove useful in the months ahead. Information was the intelligence operative’s greatest ally. The more the better. And with seven million dollars in the bank, there’d be no worries about financing.

But first things first.

Operation King’s Deception had to end.

As agreed.

Gary was bothered by Miss Mary’s criticism of Antrim. She had no right to say anything negative about him. And though her words seemed carefully chosen, he’d caught her meaning loud and clear.

Are you sure about this man?

As sure as he could be. At least Blake Antrim had not lied to him. Unlike his mother. And Antrim had not hurt his mother. Unlike his father. He still needed to speak with his mother. She wouldn’t like what was happening, but she’d have to accept it. If not, he would follow through on his threat and move to Denmark. Maybe his dad would be more understanding.

“Henry FitzRoy,” Miss Mary said, “and Mary Howard had a child. A boy. He was thirteen when his grandfather, Henry VIII, died in 1547. This boy was thin and pale, with red hair, like the Tudors. But strong and determined, like the Howards.”

“Is this what my dad is looking into?” Gary asked.

“I don’t know. I truly don’t.”

Gary had seen that Antrim was bothered by something. He’d quickly excused himself and hustled back to the office. A few minutes ago the two other agents left the building. Antrim was still inside the office. He needed to talk to him. Movement across the interior caught his attention.

Antrim called out, “I’ll be outside. I have to make a call.”

“Where’s the toilet in this place?” Ian asked.

“Over here. The door right of the window into the office.”

Ian decided to act.

He did not need the toilet. What he needed was to know what Antrim was doing. The American had seemed surprised to learn about the old codger, Mathews, being involved. And even more interested in the SOCA lady. Malone was at Hampton Court? He wondered why. He’d visited there several times, the free-admission courtyards and gardens attracting a horde of tourists with pockets to pick. He also liked the maze. One of its gate handlers had taken a liking to him and allowed him to roam among the tall bushes for free.

He walked toward where Antrim had pointed out the toilet. Then, after a quick glance back to make sure Gary and Miss Mary were talking, their attention not on him, he detoured to the warehouse exit door. Carefully, he turned the knob and eased open the metal slab, just enough to peek out. Antrim was twenty meters away, near another building, a phone to his ear. Too far away to hear anything and too out-in-the-open to approach closer. But it was clear Antrim was agitated. His body stiff, head shaking while he talked.

He closed the door.

And thought about how he might get his hands on that phone.

Forty-two

Malone grabbed one of the flashlights hanging from an aluminum rack, a modern addition to something that was clearly from long ago. He followed Tanya down a brick incline that ended at another tunnel, this one stretching left and right.

“Mr. Malone, you must count your blessings. Few get to see this. Two miles of culverts crisscross beneath the palace. State-of-the-art for its day. They brought water from sources miles away and removed the stinking waste from the toilets and kitchen rubbish.” She pointed her light to the right, then swung it left. “To the River Thames. That way.”

The stooped, narrow passage was tight and U-shaped, fashioned of bricks coated with white paint stained with mold.

“There’s a tale that Henry’s mistresses came in and out through here.”

“You seem to enjoy those tales.”

She chuckled. “That I do. But now we must hurry.”

She turned left. The floor angled downward slightly, surely to allow gravity to assist with the flow toward the river. A trough filled the center, pooled with standing water, alive in places with movement.

“Eels,” she said. “They are harmless. Just keep your steps to either side of the water.”

Which he was already doing. He thought himself capable of enduring a lot. He’d flown fighter jets for the navy. He’d jumped from planes and dove deep beneath the ocean. With the Magellan Billet he’d faced guns and men who’d wanted to kill him. But one thing he truly detested was being underground. He’d found himself there more than he liked, and always forced his brain through it, but that did not mean he was comfortable being surrounded by solid earth. And with eels, for godsakes. Tanya Carlton, though, seemed utterly at home.

“You’ve been here before?” he asked, trying to take his mind off the situation.

“Many times. We were once allowed to explore these. They’re quite remarkable.”

He noticed protrusions from the walls, beyond dark holes, about two-thirds of the way up. He examined a few with his light.

“Drainpipes from above. They bring the rainwater down and out to the river.”

He noticed that nothing around him was screwed, nailed, bolted, or mortared. The bricks fit to one another without the benefit of any binding. If not for the fact that they’d existed here for five centuries he’d be a little worried.

“We’ll pass the palace soon,” Tanya said. “It’s quite wide above us. Then we traverse the garden for a little while until there is an exit.”

The kitchens were located on the palace’s north side, the river to its south, maybe three football fields in between. A lot of being underground, as far as he was concerned.

“For a sewer, this doesn’t smell that bad.”

“Oh, my, this hasn’t been used for waste in centuries. Can’t go dumping in the river anymore. It’s mainly for rainwater. There are staff that keep it cleaned out. The entrance we used was the way servants would come here in Henry’s time to keep the flow from clogging.”

She seemed at ease with all this intrigue, as if it happened every day. But he had to say, “I’m sorry for involving you in this.”

“Goodness, no. Most excitement I’ve had in a long while. Mary said there might be an adventure, and she was so right. I once worked for SIS. Did Mary tell you that?”

“She left that detail out.”

“I was an analyst in my younger days. Quite good, too, if I do say so.” She kept plowing ahead. “Not as exciting as things you once did, but I learned to keep a cool head on things.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew what I did.”

“Mary said you were an American agent.”

He was forced to stoop as they walked. Tanya had no such problem. Their lights revealed only about twenty feet ahead of them.

More eels splashed beside his feet.

He heard a sound from behind.

Voices.

“Oh, dear,” Tanya said, stopping. “I’m afraid the palace staff must be involved. They are the only ones who could open that door.”

Kathleen dropped to a graveled path. The Privy Garden stretched out before her, the space full of pyramid yews, round-headed holly trees, fall bulbs, statues, and annuals edged with box hedges. Graveled paths and wide avenues routed traffic through the natural décor.

She decided to head away from the river, to the rear side of the palace. From there she could double back to the train station and catch a ride somewhere. Anywhere but here. She needed to think. Make some decisions. Smart ones this time. The problem was she had only one place to turn. She was through at SOCA. Her employer would do nothing to protect her. The police were likewise useless. Only Thomas Mathews could help.

Or could he?

And if so, would he?

She followed the path to the palace rear and turned left.

Fifty meters away stood Eva Pazan and the same man from inside.

Both spotted her.

She turned and raced away, shielded by the corner of the building.

Ahead was nothing but more buildings with more cameras.

So she decided to go left, toward the river, into the riot of color and order that was the Privy Garden.

Malone realized they had a head start but wondered where Tanya was taking them. The concern for what lay behind them was helping with his unease at being underground. He thought about just stopping and confronting their pursuers. If it was MI6, why would there be a problem? If the police, same thing? What was the worst that could happen? Arrest? Stephanie Nelle could get him out of that.

“It’s just ahead,” Tanya said.

He assumed the men behind them carried flashlights, but he could not spot their beams. In absolute darkness weak pencils of light carried only so far. But that meant their flashlights were not visible, either. Ahead he saw a ladder that led into an opening in the ceiling.

“Mr. Malone,” a voice said from the blackness behind them, with an echo, which signaled distance.

“One chance. Stop and wait for us.”

Tanya grabbed the ladder.

He motioned for her to climb and fast.

“This is not your fight,” the voice called out. “No need to die for it.”

Die?

He grabbed hold of the metal ladder. Aluminum. Sturdy.

“Who are you?” he called out.

“That’s not your concern.”

He stared back into the darkness to his left. A pale glow, far off, to his right, revealed the emerging end at the Thames. Light appeared above him as Tanya opened a hatch in the short tunnel that led through the brick ceiling.

He climbed up, free of the tunnel below.

A bang.

Which startled him.

Then another.

More.

Gunfire raged through the passage beneath him.

Bullets ricocheted off the brick. He was above it, near the exit, but was concerned about a stray. He quickly emerged at ground level, slamming down a metal hatch.

“Thank goodness this portal is never locked,” Tanya said. “It was added years ago as a safety measure.”

He grabbed his bearings.

They were south of the palace, west of the great Privy Garden, a brick wall and tall hedges in between. The compact Banqueting House, which fronted the river, nearby. No people here, but he could hear voices beyond the hedges in what he knew were the Pond Gardens. He’d strolled through them before, where the fish served in the palace were once kept alive before heading to the kitchens.

“Was that gunfire I heard below?” Tanya asked.

“Afraid so. We need to disappear. Fast.”

Things had just changed.

Those men came to kill him.

He studied the hatch and saw a lever that allowed it to be opened from the top side, which moved in conjunction with the one below. He looked around for something, anything, and found what he needed near a pond in the center of the garden. A walk leading to and from, bisecting the grass and the flowers, was paved with flat stones. He darted over and managed to dislodge one, about a foot square, from the moist earth. He carried it back and rested it beside the lever on the hatch.

A workable lock.

When anyone tried to turn it from below the stone would block its path.

“Where to?” he asked Tanya, since she’d obviously brought them here for a reason.

She pointed beyond the Banqueting House to the river.

“That way.”

Kathleen kept moving through the Privy Garden toward the Thames. The manicured hedges were all low, offering no place to hide and no cover. A wide graveled path lined with knee-high box hedges led to a center fountain. Not many people here, but enough. Behind her Eva and her companion found the garden and headed her way.

She still carried her gun and was deciding how best to use it. She’d shoot her way out, if need be, but the lack of effective cover cautioned, for the moment, against that route. Statues dotted the grass to her left and right, large enough to offer some protection, but getting to and from them required crossing open territory.

So she kept hustling ahead.

Malone and Tanya passed around the Banqueting House. Tanya seemed to know exactly where she was going. They crossed a small lawn beneath bare trees and found an eight-foot-high brick wall that separated the palace grounds from a concrete walk bordering the Thames.

“I live just there, on the other side of the river, up a tributary,” she said. “I motor to work every day in my boat.”

He nearly smiled. This was a smart woman. He’d wondered how they were going to make their way off the hundreds of acres that surrounded Hampton Court. The simplest route? On the water. Which Tanya Carlton had known all along.

An iron-barred gate opened in the wall, it too with an electronic lock. Tanya punched in the code and they passed through.

“I come through here every day, so the groundskeeper has provided me access. Years ago, I was given a key. I daresay things have progressed since then.”

They turned and hurried down the pavement, a white, wooden rail guarding the riverside, heading away from the gardens. He spotted the railway station where he’d arrived across the river. He kept a watch out toward the brick wall, ready to find his gun. A handful of others were also strolling the path.

His mind was in full alert.

Somebody had wanted him dead.

And that underground passage, with its privacy, had offered them a perfect opportunity.

He needed to speak with Antrim.

As soon as they were away from here.

Kathleen spotted a decorative iron fence, the work of some talented blacksmiths, which allowed glimpses of the Thames through its gilded foliage. The fence on either side was over two meters high and spiked on top. Eva and her pal were closing fast. She spied left, then right, and noticed where the fence ended and a high brick wall that further guarded the perimeter began. What caught her attention was a set of steps that led up to another level of the garden, higher, nearly even with the top of the brick wall. It would be easy from there to hop onto the wall and jump down to the other side, where pavement bordered the Thames. She could either run like hell or make a swim for it.

She darted right and ran down the graveled path, then up the steps.

Behind her, she spotted Pazan now running her way.

She came to the top of the stairs and onto more gravel. She’d been right. The iron fence with its spikes ended and the brick wall began, lower here thanks to the new height. A simple matter to hop up and jump down the two meters to the other side. But before she could pivot onto the wall, two men appeared from ahead, guns in hand. Eva was now at the base of the stairs behind her, armed too.

“You will not make it,” Pazan said. “Even if you do, look down. There’s nothing but open ground. We will shoot you dead before you get anywhere.”

She glanced left. Where were all of the people? The gardens should be crowded on a beautiful Saturday morning. The few who’d been there before were now gone. And where was Mathews? Two large boats were tied to a concrete dock below her, but no one was in sight there, either.

Pazan climbed the stairs and approached. “I need your gun. Slow and careful. Toss it down.”

She found the weapon and did as told. “Who are you?”

“Not who you think I am.”

Malone hopped into Tanya’s small boat. a ten-footer with a respectable outboard at the stern. Two life jackets and a paddle lay inside.

“Never had to use any of those,” she said. “Thank heaven.”

“You want me to start the engine?” he asked.

“Goodness, Mr. Malone, I’ve been yanking the cord of that old bully for years. I’m quite capable.”

He watched as she pulled the starter twice and the engine groaned to life. He untied the mooring line and she motored them away, turning back toward the palace grounds, heading downstream on the Thames.

“Stick to the far side,” he said. “Just in case.”

She maneuvered across the brown water, away from the palace. They were approaching another concrete dock, where two large boats were tied. He spotted a woman, standing atop the same brick wall that wound its way around to the Banqueting House. She stood where the iron fence that separated the gardens from the water ended and the high wall began.

Kathleen Richards.

Another woman, along with two men, stood to her right.

All held guns.

Richards was yanked down.

Tanya saw it, too.

“It seems Miss Richards has found some bother.”

No question.

And, considering what just happened in that tunnel, he may have been totally wrong about her.