The King's Deception

Forty-three

Antrim was becoming more agitated the longer the conversation progressed. The same gravelly voice from Daedalus had answered his call and seemed to be enjoying the situation.

“Did you hear me?” he said into the phone. “The friggin’ head of MI6 is involved in this. He killed Farrow Curry, not you.”

“I heard you, Mr. Antrim. I simply choose not to believe what a street brat has told you. I know what occurred. We ordered it done.”

“Kathleen Richards is SOCA. I know her. What the hell is she doing involved? Did you know about that, too?”

“That is new information. But I hardly see a problem. Everything is about to end. You will have your money and be gone before dawn.”

You got that right. Sooner the better.

“If Thomas Mathews is involved here,” the voice said, “he could have been deceiving his listener with misinformation.”

True. But there was still the matter of Cotton Malone.

“What happened at Hampton Court?”

“I am awaiting word on that right now. The last I was told, Mr. Malone was being herded to a favorable spot where he would be eliminated. All was progressing without a problem.”

“I need to know when that happens.”

“What’s your interest in Malone?”

“I don’t have one. You do. He read the drive. He knows things. He’s your problem, not mine.”

“I truly doubt that. You are not an honest man.”

“Like I care about your opinion of me. You murder people. You can believe it or not, but MI6 is in this. That means containment is going to be a big problem. Your problem.”

“Yours, too. Once known, I imagine your superiors will be wondering what you are truly up to.”

“Which means this whole thing will blow up and you can kiss your little secret goodbye.”

Silence on the other end signaled that he was right.

“Do you have Ian Dunne in your custody?” the voice asked.

“Safe and sound.”

“Keep him there. In the meantime we need to speak, in person.”

Like he was going to do that. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d already realized that the safest course for Daedalus now would be to simply kill him, too.

“Not going to happen.”

The voice on the end chuckled. “I thought that request would concern you.”

He remained silent.

“All right, Mr. Antrim, to soothe your fears we’ll meet in a public place. One with security, so you might feel more at ease.”

“Why do we need to meet?”

“Because there is something you must see. And, look at it this way, you have Ian Dunne. He’s your security. I’m sure you’re about to hide him away in a spot only you know. He will be your insurance.”

“Why do you want the boy? It’s the flash drive you want.”

“He’s a witness to a death, and we detest loose ends.”

Made sense.

Unfortunately, he was out of men at the moment, so he’d take Gary with him and leave Dunne and the woman in the warehouse.

A location Daedalus knew.

So what? Who cared?

Both of them dead and gone would be preferable.

A harsh reality hit home.

Daedalus was the only friend he had left.

“Name the place.”

Gary stood with Miss Mary.

“You look troubled,” she said to him.

“I need to speak with my mom or dad.”

He knew this woman carried a cell phone. She’d taken a call last night.

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I was told not to use my phone again. We have to respect their wishes.” She paused. “How difficult is this?”

“More than I thought it would be.”

She pointed at the artifacts. “Mr. Antrim’s stealing of all this makes me wonder about him.”

“He’s a spy. Sometimes you just have to do things. I had to do things a month ago.”

“Bad things?”

He nodded. “I saved a friend’s life.”

“That was quite brave.”

He shrugged. “I just reacted. He was in danger.”

“You know little to nothing of this man who says he is your birth father. And you seem so like the man who raised you as a father.”

“How do you know my dad?”

“I don’t. I only know what I saw last night. He is a brave soul.”

Yes, he was.

“Take this slow,” she said. “Don’t be rushed. A lot of truth is coming toward you. Our brains can only absorb so much, so fast. Be careful.”

She seemed sincere, which reminded him even more of his grandmother, whom he also wished was near.

“My mother could set it all straight,” he said.

Miss Mary nodded. “And it’s her job to do that.”

“She made this mess.”

“You have no idea what happened all those years ago.”

“Have you ever been married?”

She shook her head.

“Then how would you know?”

“Because I have been in love. And I have broken a heart and had my own broken. Never, ever, is it only one person’s fault.”

He considered what she said and realized he may have hurt her feelings. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “For what?”

“You’re just trying to help.”

“And not doing a good job at it.”

He heard the metal door open at the other end of the warehouse and saw Antrim reentering.

“I still need to talk to my mom,” he said again, his voice low.

“What will you say to her?”

He thought about that question, along with all of the conflict from the past couple of weeks, especially his mother’s unbending position that she would never reveal a thing.

“I don’t know.”

Ian had watched as Antrim finished his call and replaced the phone in his jacket pocket. Right side. Loose fitting. Perfect opportunity. He retreated to the toilet and waited until he heard the outer metal door open. He then exited, turned, and trotted back toward where Miss Mary and Gary stood.

Following Antrim.

He closed fast.

Five meters.

Two.

Antrim stopped and turned.

He bumped into the American, his right hand slipping into the jacket pocket and finding the phone.

He withdrew his hand.

All in a split second.

“Sorry about that,” he said, adding his usual sheepish look. “I didn’t see you.”

Antrim smiled. “It’s okay.”

He dropped the hand with the phone to his side and used his leg to shield it until Antrim turned back around. He then slipped the phone into his back pocket and hoped it didn’t ring. He’d have a tough time explaining why he stole it.

He kept pace with the American back across the warehouse.

“I have to go out,” Antrim said. “Gary, would you like to come with me?”

“Sure.”

Ian caught the look on Miss Mary’s face. One that said she did not agree with Gary’s decision, and that she knew what Ian had just done.

Yet she said nothing.

Which told him plenty.

“You two stay inside and you’ll be fine,” Antrim said. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

He watched as Gary and Antrim headed for the exit door.

He stepped close to Miss Mary.

“I daresay,” she whispered, “he could not care less what happens to us.”

He agreed.

“What did you steal?”

He withdrew the phone.

She smiled. “Brilliant.”

Forty-four

Malone stared as Kathleen Richards disappeared off the brick wall. Tanya was speeding the boat away, turning at a crook in the river, a long stretch of trees and grass now between them and Hampton Court Palace. If those men in the tunnel had come to kill him, had they also come to kill Richards? He’d set her up to see where she stood and she’d made her choice. But he wondered. Was that really her choice?

“I need to go back,” he told Tanya, who sat at the stern, gripping the outboard’s throttle.

“You think she might be in danger?”

“I don’t know. But I have to find out.”

He spied a golf course on the palace-side bank. The only course in England set within a royal park. He’d played it once long ago. He motioned and Tanya motored to shore and idled the outboard.

He faced her. “They’ll identify you quickly. You can’t go home.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I thought I would visit Mary.”

“She’s hidden away. What’s your favorite London hotel?”

“Oh, my. There are so many I am partial toward. But my favorite is The Goring, in Belgravia, near Buckingham Palace. Such elegance.”

“Go there and book a room. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes came alive. “What a wonderful notion. What am I to do with this room?”

“Stay in it, until I come for you. If the hotel is booked out, stay in the lounge until I get there.”

“They might not appreciate that.”

He smiled. “Order food. They won’t care then. If I have a problem, I’ll call the front desk and leave a message.” He reached into his pocket and found the flash drive. “Take this with you.”

“Is this what Mary read?”

He nodded. “I’m counting on you to keep it safe.”

“And I shall, Mr. Malone.”

“Get off this river quick.”

“Just ahead. I’ll leave my boat and find a taxi.”

“You have money?”

“I am quite well off, thank you,” she said. “Fully capable.”

He had no doubt this woman could handle herself. She’d proven that. He hopped onto shore. The gun was still wedged in the crook of his back, beneath his jacket, its presence reassuring.

“Use cash,” he said. “And stay put. Don’t leave until I get there.”

“I can follow directions. Just you don’t go and get yourself hurt.”

He wasn’t planning on it. But he also wasn’t betting against it.

Tanya engaged the throttle and glided the boat back out into the Thames. He watched as the motor’s growl faded downstream.

A wide graveled path fronted the river. On its far side he spotted a tuft-grass fairway and headed toward it. Copses of oak framed the edges. He recalled the links feel to the course, with its undulating terrain and contoured greens framed by deep bunkers. He spotted a few players and some deer roaming, but kept moving toward the palace, about six hundred yards away.

He left the fairways and found a grassy avenue, lined on both sides with lime trees. A long canal stretched to his right. He recalled that there was a tree around here somewhere, Methuselah’s Oak, that was said to be 750 years old. He headed toward an open iron gate at the avenue’s far end, where the grass ended and another graveled path began. Tall, toadstool-shaped yews lined the path. Past the trees a fountain spewed water.

He slowed and told himself to be careful. He was back in the vicinity of cameras. Visitors crowded the paths around him, admiring the lovely trees and flowers. The palace’s baroque east façade rose ahead, many of the older Tudor buildings to his right, nestled tightly together. Beneath more ornamental yews trimmed bare eight feet up he caught sight of Kathleen Richards, flanked by two men, a woman leading the way. He stopped his advance and used the trees for cover, retreating behind one of the thick trunks.

Richards was led past the baroque section to the end of the Tudor buildings and a far corner, where the rear palace right angled back toward its main entrance. He crossed the graveled avenue to another tree for a better view and saw the entourage enter the last building. A pitched roof topped the long rectangle, a line of tall windows, side by side, stretching the length of the second floor.

Which he knew was not a floor at all.

He’d been inside that part of Hampton Court before.

Kathleen was powerless to do anything. Make a break? Nowhere to run. The gardens were like an open field, purposefully designed to offer clear lines of sight in every direction, which only worked to her detriment. She’d been led back from the riverbank, through the Privy Garden to the palace, then around to where a placard announced THE ROYAL TENNIS COURT.

They stepped through an opening in a brick wall and entered another portal, a louvered metal door closing behind them. She was led down a narrow corridor with plate-glass windows on one side that offered views into what was once Henry VIII’s tennis court, one of the first ever in England. No one was around. No visitors or staff anywhere.

They turned at the end and proceeded down the court’s short side to another door that led to what appeared to be storage and workrooms. She was motioned inside one that had a table and chairs along with a coffee machine, cups, and condiments. Some sort of break room.

Eva Pazan came inside with her.

The three men waited outside.

Pazan closed the door and said, “Sit down. We have things to discuss.”

Malone left the Fountain Garden and headed for the entrance to the royal tennis court. There, beyond a brick wall that encircled the Tudor portions of the palace, he saw that the entrance to the court was shut, a sign announcing that the exhibit was closed.

He tried the latch.

Locked.

The door was metal with a set of thin and pliable louvers at the top and bottom, no glass or screen inside. He bent one of the slats in the top set up and the one beneath it down enough for him to reach inside and find a lock.

A twist and the door was open.

He readied the gun and slipped inside, closing and relocking the door.

A narrow passage stretched to his right, which paralleled the indoor court, windows above, lining both long sides, bathing the court with sunlight. Through glass, past what appeared to be seats within compact viewing booths, he saw a man in a three-piece suit standing at the net.

Thomas Mathews.

“Please, Mr. Malone,” the older man called out. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Forty-five

Ian stared at Antrim’s cell phone. He and Miss Mary had examined the most recent calls from the log, three to a number noted as UNKNOWN.

“The call he just made was also to an unrecorded number,” he said.

“I wonder if it can be called back.”

“You think we should?”

“I don’t like or trust Mr. Antrim. He seems … preoccupied.”

He agreed. “That last call got his knickers all in a twist. He didn’t like what he was hearing.”

“He will soon know that the phone is missing.”

He shrugged. “I’ll say it fell out of his pocket and I found it outside.”

Miss Mary smiled. “That he will never believe, especially considering your background.”

“Gary should not have gone with him.”

“That’s true. But neither you nor I could have stopped him. He wants to know his birth father. You can understand that.”

They’d rarely discussed his past. That was what he liked best about Miss Mary. She didn’t dwell on things that could not be changed. She was always positive, looking forward, seeing the best.

“I told him I never knew my dad. Or my mum. And it really doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.”

She always could see through him.

“I’ll never know them, so why get upset over it?”

“There are ways to find people,” she said. “You know that whenever you are ready we’ll try and find your parents.”

“I don’t want to know them.”

“Maybe not now, but you will.”

The phone vibrated in his hand.

Miss Mary took it from his grasp. “Perhaps we should answer.” She studied the screen. “It’s only an email alert, not a call.”

“You’re good with that thing.”

She smiled. “I do a respectable business in book sales from the Internet.”

He watched as she punched the screen a few times.

“It’s from a gentleman who says he was successful in opening the files on the drive. Attached is the password-protected file, as requested.”

Ian knew exactly what that meant. “There were three files on the drive I lifted. One could not be opened without a password. Malone said experts could get around that.”

“That they can,” Miss Mary said. “I think I will forward this email to my own account.”

He smiled. “That way we can read it?”

“I certainly hope so.”

She punched the screen and waited a few moments. “There. It’s gone. Now to delete the fact that I sent something from this phone. That should give us a little cover from Mr. Antrim noticing.”

She handed the phone back to him.

“Place it in the office. On the desk. He can wonder how it found its way there.”

“He’ll never believe that.”

“Maybe not. But we won’t be anywhere around.”

Antrim followed a cortege into the Royal Jewel House, located within the walls of the Tower of London. The voice on the phone from Daedalus had proposed a safe location, and no better one could have been chosen. Security was everywhere, from armed guards, metal detectors, and cameras, to motion sensors. The hall was packed with tourists, all eager to view the British royal regalia of crowns, scepters, orbs, and swords proudly displayed behind wafers of bulletproof glass. No way to bring a weapon in here and little chance existed of anything bad happening since the entrance and exit were both heavily protected.

He felt a little better, but not much.

He wondered why this meeting was necessary.

He listened to one of the tour guides explaining how the Crown Jewels were, during World War II, moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks for secure keeping. There, a magnificent star-shaped case had been constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last set of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view them had proven too much for the cramped chamber and this larger location, back at ground level, was built.

Bright sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semidarkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers moving. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. The effect was magical. Another impressive British display.

Gary was outside, wandering the tower grounds. He’d told him not to leave the walled enclosure and that he would not be long inside.

“This is quite a spectacle,” a female voice said from behind.

He turned.

And was shocked by who he saw.

Denise Gérard.

Gary roamed the grounds outside the Jewel House. He stopped at a sign that identified the magnificent White Tower, which dominated the enclosure. He’d already examined the Tower Green, near the spot where, one of the uniformed Beefeaters had explained, executions once took place. Two of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads there, as had Lady Jane Grey, a seventeen-year-old who ruled for nine days as queen until Mary, Henry VIII’s first daughter, chopped her head off, too.

His gaze focused on the White Tower and he read the sign. Its hundred-foot walls of stone formed an uneven quadrilateral, defended on the corners by three square towers and one round one. Once the exterior had been whitewashed, giving the building its name, but now its stone glistened a golden brown. High above, the Union Jack fluttered in a light breeze. He knew that this ancient citadel was one of the symbols of England, like the Statue of Liberty was to America.

He wondered what they were doing here. They hadn’t spoken much on the taxi ride over. Antrim had simply said that there were a few loose ends he had to deal with, which shouldn’t take long, then they’d return to the warehouse and wait for his dad to call. He’d asked about speaking to his mother and Antrim had assured him that they would do that, too.

She needs to hear from you, Antrim had said. Then I need to speak with her again, too. But we should talk to your dad first.

He agreed.

That should be first.

The day was bright and sunny, the sky a deep blue. Lots of people were visiting the site. Antrim had bought them both tickets to the grounds, which he noticed also included access to the Jewel House, where Antrim had gone.

What was happening inside?

Why were they here?

He decided to find out.

Antrim was in shock. “What are you doing here?”

Denise looked gorgeous, wearing a pale blue bouclé skirt with a stylish jacket.

“I’m what they wanted you to see.”

He was confused and cautious.

“Don’t be so lame,” she said. “I was there, in Brussels, watching you all along.”

Could that be? “You’re with Daedalus?”

A slight nod of her head. “I was sent to monitor your whereabouts. That I did, for nearly a year.”

Shock filled him. He’d been the leak?

For a moment his gaze drifted through the polished glass a few feet away where he saw the four-hundred-year-old St. Edward’s Crown, the same crown the Archbishop of Canterbury reverently placed upon a monarch’s head, as echoes of God save the king or queen bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey. What was happening here?

He gathered his thoughts.

“The whole thing with the man I saw you with in Brussels. Not real?”

“It was time that we parted ways. So we manufactured a reason that you would not question. We know how you become violent with women. There’s quite a trail behind you, Blake. We needed you to move on, in your own way, where you would be comfortable.”

“What would have happened? Another woman would have taken your place?”

She shrugged. “If need be. We decided to motivate you through other means.”

“By killing my agent in St. Paul’s?”

“The Lords wanted you to know then, and now, what they are capable of accomplishing. It’s important you fully grasp the extent of their resolve.”

She motioned for them to step off the conveyor belt, where they could linger for a few moments. He did, exhaling a short breath.

“These are symbols of what once was,” she said. “Reminders of a time when kings and queens held true positions of power.”

“Everything between us was an act?”

She chuckled. “What else would it have been?”

Her dig hurt.

She motioned at the jewels. “I’ve always believed that the English monarchy did itself a great disservice when it gave up real power in return for survival. They allowed Parliament to rule in exchange for being allowed to stay kings and queens. That downfall started in 1603, with James I.”

He recalled Farrow Curry’s lessons. James, the first from the house of Stuart to sit on the throne, was a weak ineffectual man who cared more about pomp, circumstance, and pleasure than ruling. His first nine years were bearable, thanks to Robert Cecil’s strong hand. But with Cecil’s death in 1612 the remaining thirteen years of his reign were characterized by a calculated indifference, one that weakened the monarchy and ultimately led to his son Charles I’s beheading twenty-three years later.

“Elizabeth I was the last monarch who enjoyed true power on the throne,” she said. “A queen, in every way.”

“Except one.”

Denise pointed a slender finger at him, the nail manicured and polished, like always. “Now that’s the wisdom and wit that you can, at times, express. Such a shame that, otherwise, you are a worthless excuse for a man.”

She was taunting him. In total control.

And he was powerless to respond.

“What does Daedalus want?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, that seems to be changing by the moment. Your Cotton Malone escaped Hampton Court. He’s still alive. Your two agents, though, were not as fortunate.”

Now he realized.

He was alone.

“I work for the CIA. There are plenty more agents.”

She seemed not in the mood for bravado. “But, sadly for you, none is here. We want Ian Dunne.”

“You can have him. He’s at the warehouse, which you obviously know about since your head Lord told me what’s in it.”

“That we do. But I wonder, Blake. I know that deceitful part of you. I’ve seen it. I told the Lords that you are not a truthful man. So, one chance, one opportunity. What else is there we don’t know about?”

And he suddenly realized that he may have a trump card, after all.

The copies of the hard drives.

No one had mentioned those.

“You know all I know.”

She stepped back toward the conveyor belt. Before leaving she stopped and brushed her lips across his cheek. A gentle gesture. More for the benefit of the people around them.

“Dear Blake,” she whispered. “We already have the copies of those hard drives you left with the man you hired. I told the Lords you would lie.”

She stepped onto the conveyor.

“Take care, darling,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

Forty-six

Malone approached Thomas Mathews. They stood at center court, the spacious rectangle that enclosed them lit from a bright sun pouring through the upper windows.

“Haven’t seen you since London,” he said. “What? Seven years ago?”

“I recall.”

“So do I,” Malone said, and he meant it. Mathews had nearly cost him his life.

“Tell me, Cotton. Did you come back solely for Kathleen Richards?”

“So you’ve been watching?”

“Of course.”

“You make it sound like that was a mistake.”

The older man shrugged. “All depends on your point of view.”

He could tell Mathews was treading lightly, unsure of what, where, and when, at least insofar as things related to a retired American agent right in the middle of an active CIA operation.

“You attacked my men outside the bookstore,” Mathews said.

“Your men? I don’t recall anyone saying that. But it seemed like Richards needed help.” He paused. “And she did.”

“The question is why you felt the need to render assistance.”

But he had no intention of volunteering an answer to that inquiry.

“Henry VIII himself played tennis here,” Mathews said. “It is said he learned of the execution of Anne Boleyn while engaged in a match. A different game from what we call tennis, but nonetheless exciting.”

Everything around him, though encased within an ancient shell, was more modern, the refurbished court still in use today. Real Tennis the game was called, which utilized not only the floor but also the walls and ceiling to maneuver the ball over the net.

“It’s impressive how things so old can still be relevant today,” Mathews said, tossing out more bait — which, this time, Malone decided to snag.

“Like that Elizabeth I may have been male?”

The older man appraised him with cool eyes. This was one of the world’s premier spymasters. Even Stephanie Nelle spoke of him with awe and respect. He vividly recalled their encounter from seven years ago. Mathews had proven formidable. Now Malone was, once again, within the Englishman’s sights.

“I was saddened by your retirement,” Mathews said. “You were an excellent operative. Stephanie must miss your talents.”

“She has plenty of other agents.”

“And modest. Always modest. That I recall about you, too.”

“Get to the point,” he said.

“You may not think the fact that Elizabeth I was an imposter would matter four hundred years later but, I assure you, Cotton, it does a great deal.”

“Enough to kill Farrow Curry?”

“Is that what the boy said?”

He nodded. “That’s why you want him. Not the flash drive. You want the boy. He’s a witness. You want to shut him up.”

“Unfortunately, these circumstances demand extraordinary actions. Ones, normally, I would never sanction. Especially here, on British soil.”

“You won’t harm a hair on that kid’s head. That much I guarantee.”

“From anyone else I would take that as unsubstantiated bravado. But I believe you. What about your own son? Is his life equally valuable?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“It may not be, considering who has him, right now, as we speak.”

He stepped close to Mathews. “Enough bullshit. What the hell is going on here?”

Kathleen sat at the table inside the small room, Eva Pazan positioned near the door.

“That show at Jesus College was for your benefit,” Pazan said. “A way to invest you in the situation.”

“Seems like a waste of time. You could have just told me. Who pressed my face to the floor with their shoe?”

Pazan chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t like that. That was my colleague outside the door. We thought a demonstration of violence, coupled with an attack on me, might keep you focused. Unfortunately, we were wrong.”

“Are you part of the Daedalus Society?”

“It doesn’t exist.”

That did not surprise her. “Thomas Mathews created it. Right?”

Pazan nodded. “If you realized that, why run inside the palace?”

“It’s hard to be sure of anything around here. And, the last I checked, Mathews wanted me dead.”

Her captor smiled. “The intelligence business is not like yours. You hunt down facts and work for convictions. We have no courts. No prisons. This is life or death, and success is the only thing that matters.”

“Mathews created Daedalus for Antrim, didn’t he? He wanted to manipulate him, but could not reveal SIS was involved.”

“Smart girl. We’ve been watching Antrim and his operation since the beginning. We needed a way to get close, without any fingerprints. A fictional, ancient society seemed the best way and, lucky for us, Antrim bought it. But you didn’t.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Hardly. You’ve proven quite a chore. We thought you might be helpful with Antrim, but things have changed.”

And she knew why.

“Because of Cotton Malone.”

Malone waited for an answer to his question, but decided to add, “I know about the release of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi.”

“Then you also know that your government doesn’t want that to happen. They want us to stop Edinburgh.”

“Which you can.”

He’d been thinking about why that wasn’t possible. And only one explanation made sense.

Oil.

“What is it you want from the Libyans? What’s the deal they offered for al-Megrahi’s release?”

“Let’s just say that we could not ignore their humanitarian request.”

“So you sold out for oil price concessions?”

Mathews shrugged. “This nation has to survive. We are stretched, as is everyone, to the limit. We have something they want. They have something we want. It’s a simple trade.”

“He murdered British, Scottish, and American citizens.”

“That he did. And he will soon meet his maker and atone for those sins. He has terminal cancer. It isn’t like we are releasing him to live a long life. If letting him go gains us more over the long run, then why not do it?”

He now understood why the British government had stayed silent. If any hint of a trade leaked out, the repercussions would be enormous. The headlines devastating. GREAT BRITAIN DEALS WITH TERRORISTS. The American position was, and always had been, no negotiations with terrorists, period. That didn’t mean no talking with them, just use the talk to buy enough time to act.

“Cotton, look at this another way. After World War II, both the United States and Britain utilized former Nazis. Your space program was born from them. Your aviation and electronics industries excelled. Intelligence services expanded. All thanks to ex-enemies. Postwar Germany was governed with their open assistance. We both used them to keep the Soviets off base. Was that any different than here?”

“If it’s such a great idea, why not tell the world what you’re doing?”

“I wish things were so black and white.”

“That’s another reason I got out. I can actually do what’s right now.”

Mathews smiled. “I always liked you, Cotton. A man with courage and honor. Unlike Blake Antrim.”

He said nothing.

“Antrim has been running a CIA-sanctioned operation called King’s Deception, here, on British soil, for over a year now. He’s been systematically stealing our national treasures. Delving into our secrets. Over the past forty-eight hours he sanctioned the violation of Henry VIII’s tomb in St. George’s Chapel. He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab, then rummaged through the royal remains. He also accepted five million pounds to end Operation King’s Deception. Half has been paid, another half will soon be owed.”

That grabbed his attention. “How do you know that?”

“Because I engineered the payment. I created a mythical opponent. The Daedalus Society. And convinced Antrim of its sincerity.”

“By killing Farrow Curry?”

“You know that course is necessary, at times. Curry became far too knowledgeable. He learned our secret. I thought his death would solve the problem. Unfortunately, we had to kill another.”

That he knew nothing about.

“One of Antrim’s operatives who provided us information in return for compensation. But he became greedy and wanted more than he was worth. So we used his death as a way to ingratiate ourselves directly to Antrim. Which, I must say, worked. All was fine, and would have been, but for your appearance.”

“So you sent men to kill me in the tunnel?”

Mathews glared at him.

“That I did.”

Kathleen was becoming angrier by the second.

“Malone was an unknown,” Eva said. “His presence has accelerated everything. But this is going to end here, now, today.”

“What is going to end?”

“The Americans want us to do something. We don’t want to do it. So they decided to find some leverage. A way to force us to do what they want. Thankfully, we’ve prevented that. All that remains is to tidy up the mess.”

“Meaning me?”

“And Antrim.”

She thought fast and knew what to do.

“I don’t want to die.”

She stared straight at Pazan.

“I’ll do whatever you want. But I don’t want to die.”

She stood from the chair.

Her eyes watered as she kept her gaze locked on the other woman.

“Please. I’m begging you. I don’t want to die.”

Pazan stared at her.

“I’m tired of running. I get it. You people have the upper hand. I’m in your custody. Can’t you contact Mathews and tell him I did what he wanted?” She found the sheets in her pocket. “I stole these from Malone. It’s what was on the flash drive. I was bringing them to Sir Thomas when you cornered me. I didn’t know you were working with him. How could I?”

She crept closer, the pages leading the way in her trembling left hand.

Pazan reached out to take them.

She handed them over. “I just don’t want any more problems.”

Her right hand balled to a fist and swung up to meet Pazan’s left jaw in a perfect uppercut that propelled the woman backward off her feet. She grabbed one of the chairs and pounded Pazan’s midsection. The SIS agent crumpled forward. A rage consumed Kathleen. She swung the chair upward, then down on Pazan’s head, sending her captor to the floor, not moving.

The door burst open.

The other man who’d been with Pazan inside the palace rushed ahead, the one who’d planted his foot on her face, a gun leading the way.

She whirled the chair into the hand with the gun, jarring the weapon away.

Another swing into his chest stopped him cold.

Raising the chair and slamming it down, she surely cracked the man’s skull, dropping him beside Pazan. She tossed her weapon aside, then found the gun and the pages.

“That makes us even,” she whispered to the man on the floor.

Forty-seven

Ian stood beside Miss Mary as they both read the file emailed to Miss Mary’s phone.

A translation of Robert Cecil’s journal.

“He knew the truth,” Miss Mary said.

They were inside an Underground station, blocks from the warehouse. Miss Mary had wanted to see what the file contained, so they’d lingered and allowed two trains to pass through while they read.

“This confirms everything I’ve ever heard of the Bisley Boy,” Miss Mary said. “Most of the legend’s tale seems true.”

Ian watched as she sat silent for a moment.

Few people were inside the station.

“This could change everything,” she muttered.

“How?”

“Mr. Malone needs to know.”

Her phone vibrated. Both their gazes locked on the screen.

“I don’t recognize that number.”

“Answer it,” he told her.

She did.

“Goodness, Tanya. I was just thinking of you,” Miss Mary said into the phone. “I need to speak with Mr. Malone. Is he still with you?”

Silence came as Miss Mary listened, then said, “We will be right there.”

The call ended.

Her face was solemn. Concerned. He waited for her to explain.

“There was trouble at Hampton Court. People tried to kill my sister and Mr. Malone. We have to go.”

Forty-eight

Antrim exited the Jewel House into the midday sun. He’d felt safe inside, with its crowds, cameras, guards, and metal detectors. Back out in the open he was less secure. The enormous White Tower dominated the center of the walled enclosure, surrounded by more walks, grass, and trees.

Terror engulfed him.

Denise an agent for Daedalus? Playing him the whole time? Apparently Operation King’s Deception had been known from the start. But what sparked all of the recent attention from British intelligence? Thomas Mathews supposedly killed Farrow Curry. Not Daedalus. Or had he?

His gaze searched for Gary. He’d told the boy to wait outside. Thousands of people filled the walks, here to see one of England’s signature sites. A hundred feet away, through the crowd, stood Denise Gérard and another man.

Both headed his way.

Now he realized.

This was where they wanted him.

He decided to head back inside the Jewel House, but the line of people waiting to enter was too great, and forcing his way through would only draw the attention of guards. He could seek their help, but that might not be wise in the long run. The better play was to get the hell out of there.

But what about Gary?

No time.

The boy was on his own.

There was nothing he could do. He’d told Gary to stay close. Searching for him was not possible. So he kept walking around the White Tower, working his way back toward the exit gate in the outer brick wall. He reached for his phone, deciding to see if Denise’s claim about his two agents at Hampton Court was true. Was he actually alone now? But the unit was not in his pocket. He felt around, but it was gone. He shook his head and kept walking, zigzagging a path through the congestion. A quick glance back confirmed that Denise and her companion were still there.

He’d never faced one of his lovers, after the fact, like this. The partings were always on his terms, clean and permanent, which was the way he liked it. He didn’t enjoy smacking women, and usually harbored deep regrets afterward. But sometimes it was just necessary. It was all his father’s fault — but he doubted Denise would care about that.

This operation, which was once business, had turned personal.

More so than he’d ever experienced.

Gary fled the Jewel House.

He’d had trouble leaving, hanging back in the crowd, trying not to be seen by Antrim or the woman. They’d stood off the moving conveyor, near one of the display cases, talking. He’d merged with the mass of people, keeping watch, staying hidden, Antrim clearly agitated with her.

What was going on?

And where was Antrim now?

He stepped left, passing the length of the Jewel House, then turned right, following the pavement between the White Tower and what signs identified as the hospital and Armory. A tower and part of the outer wall loomed fifty yards ahead, signaling the outer perimeter. The path he was following angled back to the right, passing before the White Tower’s impressive forward façade. A stretch of emerald grass formed a front lawn, upon which roamed a few black birds, which the visitors were photographing. Beyond, on the pavement that paralleled the far side of the White Tower, he spotted Antrim.

Heading for the exit gate.

Why?

Then he saw the woman from inside the Jewel House, a man at her side, following. His gaze drifted left, to the exit gate, where he spotted two more men. Standing. Waiting. Their heads pointed straight at Antrim, who seemed more concerned with the two following him than what lay ahead.

Now he knew.

Antrim was clearly in trouble.

He had to help.

Malone kept his gaze locked on Thomas Mathews.

“I had no choice,” Mathews said. “Ordering those men to shoot you was not done with any joy.”

He kept his cool. “Yet you still did it.”

“Your presence has altered everything,” Mathews said. “And not in a positive way.”

“You killed two Americans.”

“One was greedy. The other smart. But as you know, in this business such moves are quite common. I have a task to perform, and there is little room to maneuver.”

“You want to kill Ian Dunne, too. No. That’s not right. You actually have to kill him.”

“Another unfortunate circumstance.”

He needed to leave. Every second he lingered only increased the risk that he was already taking.

“Do you have any idea why Antrim involved you?” Mathews asked.

The older man stood tall and straight, his signature cane held by the right hand. Malone recalled something about a bad hip, that had progressively worsened with age, necessitating the walking stick.

“He asked me to find Ian Dunne. That’s all.”

A curious look came to Mathews’ face. “That’s not what I mean. Why are you here, in London?”

“I was doing a favor.”

A curious look came to Mathews face. “You truly don’t know.”

He waited.

“Antrim maneuvered for you to escort Ian Dunne back from the United States. The boy was caught in Florida, then transported to Atlanta to meet up with you. Why was that necessary? Are there not agents in Florida who could have escorted him home? Instead, he specifically asked for you to do it, having his supervisor call Stephanie Nelle.”

“How in the hell do you know that?”

“Cotton, I’ve been in this job a long time. I have many friends. Many sources. You do realize that Gary was taken by men hired by Antrim?”

No, he did not.

“The entire thing was a show for your benefit.”

He had a horrible feeling, like he was three steps behind everyone else.

And that usually meant trouble.

He found his phone, switched it on, and called Antrim’s number. No answer. No voice mail. Just ringing. Over and over.

Which signaled more trouble.

He clicked the phone off and said, “I have to leave.”

“I can’t allow that.”

He still held his gun. “I’m not Antrim.”

He heard a noise and saw two men enter the court from one of the doors leading to the viewing booths that lined the walls.

Both were armed.

Kathleen closed the door to the break room, the two agents sprawled motionless on the floor. She approached the door leading back to the tennis court, armed and angry. Beyond, in the narrow hall that wrapped the court on two sides, she saw no one. But through glass panels that separated the corridor from viewing boxes she spotted four men. Two from the garden, with guns. Thomas Mathews. And Cotton Malone — armed, but clearly in trouble. What was Malone doing here? He should have been gone.

“Please lay down your weapon,” Mathews said to Malone.

Her vantage point was at the court’s far end, short side, where none of the others could see her.

A door stood open a few meters away.

She crouched below the glass and crept toward it, slipping inside one of the viewing booths. Three rows of seats ran parallel. She stayed low and approached another door that opened into the court.

Time to repay a debt.

Forty-nine

Ian followed Miss Mary onto the train.

He knew the London Underground, having many times explored parts that were off limits to the public. Several of the tunnels offered a respite from either winter’s cold or summer’s heat, places where he could linger in safety, so long as the police or a worker didn’t find him. He hadn’t utilized them in a while, ever since Miss Mary allowed him to guard her shop. He was grateful to her, more than he could ever express, glad she was here with him now.

They sat in two empty seats.

“I don’t know about you,” she whispered. “But I am anxious to read more of what Robert Cecil wrote.”

He agreed.

She found her phone and again accessed the email she’d sent herself, locating in the attachment where they’d left off.

“It seems Robert Cecil lived up to his nickname,” Miss Mary said. “The Fox.”

Ian was curious. “What does that mean, somewhat precisely?”

“That he chose what he wanted to respect and ignored the rest. Which explains why his journal even exists. He seems to have wanted people to know the truth.”

The train stopped at a station.

He and Miss Mary exited, then wound their way around to a connector line that would take them to The Goring Hotel.

Once inside the new train he asked, “Can we read some more?”

Miss Mary smiled in her warm way. “Of course. I’m as curious as you seem to be.”

Fifty

Gary used the crowd, making his way toward the exit gate, still a hundred feet away from Antrim. Though clearly aware of the woman and man behind him, Antrim had not, as yet, noticed the two men at the gate. If he did, why keep heading straight toward them?

While Antrim had been inside the Jewel House, Gary had roamed the walks, admiring the White Tower rising to his right. He’d listened to the colorfully dressed Beefeaters as they entertained groups gathered around one spot after another. Everything here seemed attached not to the present, but the past. History was not a subject he enjoyed in school, but here it was all around him. What a difference from words on a page, or images on a video screen. Surrounding him was one of the oldest fortresses in England, where men had died defending the walls, and something was happening.

Right now.

Right here.

He focused again on Antrim, who continued to hustle toward the exit. The two men still stood at the gate, and Gary watched as one of them reached beneath his jacket. He caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster, similar to one his dad owned, and knew what was there. No weapon was displayed, but the hand stayed beneath the jacket, tucked away, out of view.

Ready.

Antrim kept coming.

Gary was now fifty feet away, still among the crowds.

No one had noticed him.

Antrim stopped, his gaze now focused ahead at the two men.

Surprise and concern filled his face.

The woman and the other man were closing from behind.

Time to act.

Antrim saw there was nowhere to go. The only exit from the Tower grounds was blocked by two men. Any retreat would take him straight to Denise. He’d made a deal with the devil and now the Daedalus Society had decided he, too, was a liability. True, he had several million of their dollars in the bank, but none of that would do him any good dead. He was mad at himself for all of the mistakes he’d apparently made. This operation, which he’d hoped might be his salvation, had turned into a nightmare.

Even worse, it apparently had been one from the start.

The idea had been to find something that could be used to coax the British government into stopping the Scots from releasing a convicted terrorist. An internal CIA assessment on the potential for Operation King’s Deception had shown that, if successful, the information might be sufficient. The British prided themselves on an adherence to law. Common law was born here, then exported around the world. Their loyalty to legality had been used more than once to squelch a king, expand Parliament, or subdue a colony. King’s Deception had been designed to turn that loyalty against them. Had all gone to plan, Downing Street would have had no choice but to intervene with the Scots. All Washington wanted was a murderer kept in jail. In return, no one would ever know what happened 400 years ago.

But the Daedalus Society had interfered with all of that.

He wished he knew more about them, but there’d been no time to investigate, and any effort to do so would have drawn Langley’s attention.

His only thought now was how to get the hell out of here in one piece. Would they shoot him here? With all of these people around? Who knew. These people were fanatics, and fanatics were unpredictable.

The idea had been to kill Cotton Malone.

But things had changed.

Now he was the one in the crosshairs.

Gary crept ahead, using a group of Japanese tourists as cover. Twenty feet separated Antrim from the two men at the gate, the woman and the other man having stopped about thirty feet behind where Antrim stood, people moving back and forth between them.

His birth father needed him and he wasn’t going to turn away.

The two men at the gate still had no idea he was there, their attention totally on Antrim.

He was approaching from their right and unless they had eyes in the sides of their heads—

He burst from the crowd and leaped forward, propelling his body into the air, rolling sideways so his full length crashed into both men.

Down they all went to the pavement, their bodies cushioning his fall.

He heard a grunt, then a thump as heads slapped hard stone.

Both men were stunned and groggy.

Gary sprang to his feet.

Antrim realized what had happened.

As one of the men crumpled down, a hand slipped from beneath his jacket, holding a gun. The grip was released when the man’s head pounded the cobbles.

He rushed forward and snatched up the weapon, his eyes meeting Gary’s. “We have to leave.”

“I know. I saw that woman back there.”

He wondered how Gary would have any idea as to Denise’s identity, but now was not the time to inquire.

His finger curled onto the trigger.

He turned and aimed the weapon straight at Denise. Someone yelled, “Gun.” It took an instant for the scene to register with the people pouring in and out of the gate. Two Beefeaters flanked either side and both fled their posts, racing toward him.

Denise dove toward a patch of grass to her left, beyond the walk.

He followed her leap with the gun and ticked off one round.

The retort sent the people engulfing him into a frenzy, which blocked the Beefeaters from reaching him. He turned, saw Gary, and motioned for them to leave, slipping the gun into his pant pocket. Everything happened in a matter of seconds, the next few critical, so he told himself to calm down, blend in, use the chaos to his advantage.

He gently grabbed Gary’s arm. “Nice and slow. Draw no attention.”

Gary nodded and they turned right at the Thames and followed the concrete walk away from the Tower. Loud voices and congestion loomed behind them. A sea of excited people acted like a moat, guarding their flank.

His heart raced.

They kept moving back toward the busy street, where Antrim flagged a taxi.

They climbed in and sped away.

He caught the driver’s attention. “Take us to any tube station a few blocks from here.”

The Underground was the fastest and safest way back to the warehouse. A station was located less than half a mile away from it. Though Daedalus knew its location, there were things he needed.

Like Cecil’s journal.

If he was quick, he could stay ahead of them.

“That was brave, what you did,” he said.

“You needed help. That woman was behind you.”

“How did you know about her?”

“I went into the Jewel House and saw you talking to her.”

How much else had he seen or heard? Could not have been much. No one had been nearby when he spoke to Denise. And he hadn’t seen Gary inside.

Let it go.

He gently grabbed Gary by the shoulders. “You saved my hide.”

The boy smiled. “You would have done the same for me.”

Fifty-one

Kathleen stayed low and made her way to a door that opened from the viewing booth into the tennis court. Her gaze alternated between the scene before her and what might be behind her. She doubted the two from the break room would be awake anytime soon. Both were going to need a doctor. A familiar surge of adrenaline charged her nerves. One she liked. Or at least that’s what the therapist had told her and she’d not disagreed. Right now the rush helped her think, making decisions that her life may depend on.

But she liked it that way.

Relying on herself.

Cotton Malone was in a tight spot. Thomas Mathews had him corralled. And though Malone held a weapon, it would do him little good.

“What now?” Malone asked, his eyes locked on the two armed men standing ten meters away.

Mathews stood to Malone’s left, between him and where Kathleen was hiding.

“It would seem,” Mathews said, “that two of you will be shot and a third will walk away.”

The old man was right. The best Malone could hope for was to take down one.

“What’s the point of this?” Malone asked, still staring at his problem.

“This is not personal, Cotton. Strictly business. That, you surely understand.”

“All I care about is making sure my boy is okay. The rest of this is your mess, not mine.”

“Are you aware that Blake Antrim performed a DNA test on himself and your son?”

Malone was shocked by what he’d heard. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I actually know the results of that test.”

Was he hearing right?

“I told you that Antrim maneuvered your initial stateside involvement with Ian Dunne. He wanted you and your son in London. Once here, he managed to divert you off in search of Dunne while he kept watch over your son.”

“He found Gary, after he’d been taken.”

“It was all staged.”

“For what?”

“The DNA test showed that Antrim is Gary’s birth father.”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

“I assure you, Cotton, I speak the truth.”

And something told him that was the case.

“I was unaware of your personal situation,” Mathews said, “until recently. Your son is not biologically yours. A fact you did not know until a few months ago.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Antrim has been watching your ex-wife for several months. We monitored calls made to a person in Georgia he employed for surveillance.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It seems your ex-wife despises him. She refused him any contact with the boy. So, apparently, he decided to create his own opportunity for them to meet.”

Reality slammed him hard.

Gary’s birth father was here?

“Does Gary know this?” he asked.

Mathews nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“I have to leave.”

“I can’t allow that,” Mathews said.

Kathleen listened to the conversation. apparently, there was a direct connection between Blake Antrim and Malone’s son.

One that Malone had clearly been unaware existed.

Knowing Antrim, she was not surprised. He’d fathered a child? And the mother hated him? Probably because he’d pounded her at some point, too.

The two men with guns continued to aim their weapons at Malone.

She decided to even the odds and burst from the darkened viewing box, firing, taking down one of the armed men with a bullet to the thigh.

The other man instantly reacted to her attack and readjusted his aim.

Toward her.

Malone heard the shot and saw its result, his gaze darting left where Kathleen Richards appeared. She’d shot one of the men, the other now swinging his weapon around. He followed her lead, shooting the second man in the thigh, collapsing him. Richards ran forward and gathered both weapons, the two men writhed in pain, blood gushing from the wounds, staining the court surface.

“We’re leaving,” he told Mathews.

“A mistake.”

He stepped close to the spymaster. “I’m going to see about my boy.” What he’d just learned, coupled with the fact that he could not contact Antrim, spelled big trouble. “Stay out of my way.”

“You might not like what you find.”

“I can handle it.”

But he wondered.

“You’ve got four agents who are going to need medical care,” Kathleen said, her gun trained on Mathews.

Mathews shook his head. “You are quite the personality.”

“I did your man over there a favor with only a leg injury. Next time I won’t be as generous.”

“Neither will I,” Malone added.

“Are you willing to risk your life for this?” Mathews asked him.

“The question is, are you?”

He motioned to Richards and they fled the building, back out into the afternoon sun. No more agents were in sight and they ran left, past the famous garden maze, to a street that they followed back to the palace front. Taxis were lined near the main walk. They hailed one, climbed inside, and left.

“I appreciate that,” he said to her.

“Least I could do.”

His mind reeled.

He found his phone and tried Antrim’s number again. No answer.

“You can’t find him?” Richards asked.

He shook his head.

“Where to?” the driver asked from the other side of the Plexiglas shield.

“The Goring Hotel.”

“I heard what Mathews said about your boy.”

He faced Richards.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about Blake Antrim.”

Fifty-two

Ian glanced up from the computer screen.

He and Miss Mary had found The Goring Hotel in Belgravia, a posh, expensive neighborhood just beyond Buckingham Palace in the heart of the city. He was surprised at Miss Mary’s sister, Tanya. Identical twins in not only looks, but also manner and voice, though Tanya seemed more excitable and a bit less patient. Tanya had let a room on the hotel’s third floor, a spacious suite that came with deep sofas and soft chairs and a wall of windows that faced a quiet street. The hotel had provided her a laptop computer, which they’d used to access Miss Mary’s email account, so they could read more of what Robert Cecil wrote four hundred years ago.

“This is quite amazing,” Tanya said. “What a life that imposter led.”

“How could no one know?” he asked.

“Because Elizabethan England wasn’t like today. There was no television or newspapers to invade one’s privacy. If you breached royal etiquette you could lose your life, and many did. The journal makes clear that those closest to the queen — Lady Ashley, Thomas Parry, and the two Cecils — were aware. Which certainly helped.”

He wanted to know, “Why would they do that?”

Tanya smiled. “For the most basic of reasons. They would all, forever, be closest to power, and to be close to the Crown was the goal of all courtiers. The imposter clearly knew he required assistance and he chose wisely in his accomplices. Quite remarkable. The Bisley Boy legend is true.”

“I still can’t see how it was possible to fool people all those years,” Ian said.

Tanya smiled. “We truly have little idea what Elizabeth actually looked like. All of the surviving portraits are suspect. And she was definitely a person of strange habits. As Robert Cecil noted, she wore wigs, heavy makeup, and unflattering clothing. By all accounts she was not a pretty woman, her language coarse, her manner brusque. She controlled her life, and her world, totally. No one could, or would, question her decisions. So it is entirely possible that the ruse could have worked.”

He noticed that Miss Mary had stayed quiet.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I worry about Gary. Perhaps we should not have left the warehouse.”

Fifty-three

Antrim, with Gary, approached the warehouse. Outside seemed quiet, the district crammed with storage facilities, which was one reason he’d chosen the locale. Even so, he approached the main door with caution and eased it open. Inside was still lit, the tables with artifacts unaffected, but the bookstore owner and Ian Dunne were nowhere to be seen.

“Where are they?” Gary asked.

He heard the concern. “I told them to stay here. Check the bathroom.”

Gary ran around the walls that formed the interior office, and Antrim heard the metal door open.

The boy reappeared and shook his head. “Not there.”

The other exit door, on the far side, remained closed, secured by a digital lock. Where had they gone? Had someone taken them? No matter. Their being gone saved him the trouble of ditching them. He entered the office and spotted his cell phone on the metal desk.

How did it get there?

Then he realized.

When Ian Dunne bumped into him. The little delinquent picked his pocket.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

He snatched up the unit and saw only one email. From the man who was hacking into Farrow Curry’s hard drive. He read the short message, which offered success and the password-protected file, deciphered, attached.

He quickly opened it and scanned the text.

“What is it?” Gary asked.

He kept reading, then said, “Something I was waiting for.”

He made another decision. What had, at first, seemed a good idea was now becoming a problem. There were things he needed to do himself. Screw the Daedalus Society. He already possessed half of what they owed him and that would be enough. From the little he’d just read from Robert Cecil’s journal, there may be more to this than he’d ever believed. Those Irish lawyers from forty years ago were onto something that could be worth a hundred times more than five million pounds. He recalled how excited Farrow Curry was that day, and the source of that anticipation might lie within Cecil’s journal, which he needed to carefully read.

None of which could be done with Gary Malone underfoot.

He’d been childless all of his adult life. Maybe he should keep it that way. He was going to have to disappear, escape both Daedalus and the CIA. That could prove next to impossible with a young boy around. Especially one whose mother hated him and whose father was an ex-agent with an attitude.

Malone had escaped Daedalus.

It was unlikely that there would be other opportunities to take him out.

Time to get the hell out of here.

But what was he to do with Gary?

First, secure the email. It had been sent to the account he’d provided the analyst. His more secure locations he kept to himself. So he forwarded the message and attachment to an address where it would be safe behind multiple firewalls, then deleted it from the phone.

“We need to find Miss Mary and Ian,” Gary said.

He ignored the boy and kept thinking.

“Can I use that phone to call my dad?” Gary asked.

He was about to say no, but a rumbling from outside caught his attention. Car engines. Switching off. Then doors opening and closing. He whirled toward the lone window in the outer wall and spotted two vehicles.

Two men exited the lead car.

The same faces from the Tower.

Denise emerged from the other.

All carried pistols.

He darted to the desk and yanked open the drawer. No weapon. Then he remembered. He’d taken it last night and left it in his hotel room. Why would he have needed it today? This morning he’d thought this a day of cleanup, nothing more. Then off to enjoy his money and kindle a relationship with his son, rubbing it all in the face of Pam Malone.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Except the money part.

To enjoy that, though, he had to escape the warehouse in one piece.

Then it hit him.

“Come on,” he said to Gary.

They ran from the office and across the interior, toward the tables and artifacts. He assumed that before Denise and her entourage plunged ahead, they’d scope out the landscape.

Which should buy him a few moments.

He spotted the plastic container resting on the concrete and lifted it onto a table. He snapped off the lid to expose eight clumps of pale gray clay, the remainder of the percussion explosives, the same substance used to violate Henry VII’s grave inside Windsor.

Nasty stuff.

Tricky, too.

Eight detonators lay inside. He pressed one each into four of the clumps and activated them. He snatched up a small remote, his thumb resting atop its single button. He stuffed the remaining four packets and detonators into a knapsack from one of the tables. Before popping the lid back on, he tossed the cell phone inside. No need for it any longer.

He pointed behind them. “That door across there is bolted from the inside with a digital lock. Go open it. 35. 7. 46.”

Gary nodded and ran off.

He retrieved Cecil’s journal from beneath its glass dome and slipped it into the knapsack.

The main door to the warehouse burst open.

Denise led the way in with the two men, guns drawn. Antrim shouldered the knapsack and ran toward where Gary stood, at the other door, nearly a hundred feet away.

“Stop,” he heard Denise yell.

He kept moving.

A bang.

One round zinged off the concrete near his right foot.

He froze.

Denise and the two men stood across the warehouse, each with their pistols aimed. He was careful, palming the detonator in his right hand, hidden by his cuffed fingers, thumb still on the button.

Get the door open, he mouthed to Gary, before turning around.

“Hands up,” one of the men said. “Keep them where we can see them.”

He slowly raised his arms, but kept his right hand facing away, four fingers open, thumb holding the controller in place.

“Your computer analyst told us he sent you what Farrow Curry deciphered,” Denise called out.

“He did. But I didn’t get a chance to read it before you showed up.”

She approached the tables and admired the stolen books and papers.

“A five-hundred-year-old secret,” she said. “And these are the keys to its unraveling.”

He hated the smug look on her face. She thought herself so clever. So in charge. Her rebukes of him, both in Brussels and at the Tower, still stung. He hated everything about cocky women, especially that arrogance bred from good looks, wealth, confidence, and power. Denise possessed at least three of those, and knew it.

She approached the empty glass lid. “Where is Robert Cecil’s journal?”

“It’s gone.”

She’d yet to pay any attention to the plastic container.

“Not good, Blake.”

“Do you know what it says?” he asked her.

“Oh, yes. Your man talked freely. He was almost too easy to persuade. We have the copies of the hard drives and the entire translation.”

The two other men stood behind her, now closer to the tables, their guns still aimed. He kept his arms raised, hands still. Percussion explosives were state of the art. Lots of heat, a manageable concussion, and minimum noise. Their effect came from high temperatures directed at a targeted focal point, which could do far more damage to certain surfaces.

Like stone.

Where intense heat weakened its structure.

Here was a no-brainer.

Lots of paper, plastic, glass, and flesh.

“We need that journal, Blake.”

He was a good fifty feet away.

Which should be enough.

“Rot in hell, Denise.”

His thumb pressed the button.

He dove back, toward Gary, pounding the concrete and covering his head.

Gary had easily spotted Antrim holding the controller with his right hand, concealed from the three people across the warehouse. He’d wondered what the clumps of clay could do.

Now he saw.

Antrim dove to the floor just as a bright flash erupted from the tables and a swoosh of intense heat surged his way. He’d managed to release the lock before the three had corralled Antrim, the door slightly ajar. Now he fell outside, the door banging against the warehouse’s exterior wall, his body slapping the pavement. Heat rushed past him and sought the sky. He stared back through the open doorway. The flash was gone. But the tables were charred and everything on them annihilated. The woman and two men lay on the warehouse floor, their smoking bodies black.

He’d never seen anything like it before.

Antrim rose.

He’d been just far enough away to escape the carnage, the heat intense but lasting only a few seconds.

Denise and her cohorts lay dead.

Good riddance.

Everything was reduced to ash. Only the stone tablet remained, lying on the floor, charred and of no use.

Screw the Daedalus Society.

Three dead operatives just about made them even.

He shouldered the bag and hustled out the door to find Gary lying on the concrete.

“You okay?” he asked.

The boy nodded.

“Sorry you had to see that. But it had to be done.”

Gary stood.

There could be more trouble nearby, so he said, “We have to get out of here.”

Fifty-four

Malone listened to what Kathleen Richards had to say about Blake Antrim and didn’t like any of it. She and Antrim had been involved a decade ago, their split violent. She painted a picture of a narcissistic individual who could not accept failure, especially when it came to personal relationships. He doted on women, but his ways eventually wore thin and he despised rejection. Malone recalled what Mathews had said in the tennis court. Pam hated Antrim. Refused him all contact with Gary. Richards told him about her final encounter and surmised that a similar incident most likely occurred with Pam. Which explained why she’d refused to tell Gary the man’s identity.

But Gary now knew.

Or at least that’s what Mathews had said.

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

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

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

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

Which made sense.

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

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

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

“And I know who killed him.”

So he told her.

Thomas Mathews.

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

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

He told her what Gary was facing.

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

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

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

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

He knew that would open their ears.

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

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

“You got it.”

He ended the call.

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

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

And if … and if … and if.

He told his brain to stop.

He’d been in tight spots before.

But never like this.

Antrim had to know what was contained in the email the analyst had forwarded. Denise had died trying to secure that information, but he’d taught her a lesson. Contrary to what the Daedalus Society thought, he wasn’t incompetent. He could handle himself just fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His words came sharp, his voice tight.

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

He stopped.

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

Gary nodded. “It’s okay. I get it.”

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

No time for such niceties today, though.

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

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

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

“You were all supposed to be together.”

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

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

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

“What place?” Malone asked.

Miss Mary told them about a warehouse near the river.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malone nodded.

“So have I.”

Fifty-five

Antrim finished Robert Cecil’s narrative.

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

“Where is Blackfriars Abbey?” the boy asked.

A good question.

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

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

A sense of defeat filled him.

What to do now?

“Look,” Gary said. “On the screen.”

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

“Wait over there,” he said to Gary.

The boy’s gaze signaled defiance.

“This is CIA business. Wait over there.”

Gary retreated across to the other side of the room.

He opened the email and read the message.

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

He glanced up from the screen.

MI6 knew all of his business, too.

What choice did he have?

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

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

Mathews had not mentioned a thing about him.

Maybe Gary could be used.

To his advantage.

Gary was confused.

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

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

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

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

Antrim now seemed agitated. Upset. Concerned.

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

Things had changed.

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

“We have to go.”

“Where to?”

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

“What about my dad?”

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

That sounded logical.

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

Fifty-six

Malone was ready to do something. Anything. Yet he was stymied as to the proper course. He had no way of contacting Blake Antrim and no way of finding Gary. He was furious at himself for making a multitude of poor decisions, his son’s welfare now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. Miss Mary and Tanya had shown him the translation of Robert Cecil’s journal, which he and Kathleen Richards had now read in its entirety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There seemed only one path.

He faced Richards. “Can you contact Mathews?”

She nodded. “I have a number.”

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

Kathleen forgave Malone for his attitude. Who could blame him? He was in a quandary, the only way out possibly coming from a man who’d just tried to kill them both. This spy business was so different from her everyday experience. Things seemed to change by the minute, with no warning and little time to react. That part she actually liked. Still, it was frustrating not knowing who was on what side, and where she fit in.

But at least she was still standing.

In the game.

And that meant something.

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

Two rings.

Then it was answered.

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

She handed over the phone.

Malone gripped the headset and said, “Listen to me. My son is God knows where. He didn’t ask to be put into this—”

“No. He was maneuvered into this.”

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

“I just communicated with Blake Antrim.”

That’s what he wanted to hear.

“Does he have Gary?”

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

“How?”

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

“And Gary?”

“He was there. But he’s fine.”

Not good. Time to play his trump card. “I have the flash drive, which contains a complete translation of Robert Cecil’s journal. I read it. Which means I’m not forgetting it.”

“I have that translation now myself.”

“I also know what this is all about.”

He paused.

“Ireland.”

Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed his suspicion.

“What do you want?” Mathews finally asked.

“My son, and to be gone from here.”

“And what of all that you know?”

“That’s my insurance to make sure you behave. I can email that drive to Stephanie Nelle with one click. In fact, I have it loaded up right now. Would you like me to send it along to her? The CIA would probably love to know that what they were after is real. They’d also love to know that you killed two of their men. Maybe they’ll pay you back by releasing it all to the world, just to spite Downing Street.”

Mathews chuckled. “We both know that once you do any of that I have nothing left to gain. You, on the other hand, still have something to lose. Your son.”

“That’s right, you son of a bitch. So cut the crap and let’s make a deal.”

“I know where Antrim is headed. He, too, has Cecil’s translation.”

“Blackfriars Abbey is gone.”

“I see you do know. And you’re right, it is gone. But the Tudor sanctuary is not. If I give you Antrim, will you give me the drive?”

“I can still tell Washington.”

“You could, but you won’t. This is personal, not business. Your son is at stake. For me, it’s the other way around.”

He knew better, but said what was expected. “Deal.”

“Then here is where you must go.”

Ian could hear the entire conversation through the phone, the hotel room dead quiet. The other three women were likewise listening. Malone was playing the old man, controlling his anger, keeping himself calm, using his brain. He could relate to that. He’d survived on the streets doing the exact same thing. But he was bothered by the fact that most of this seemed his fault. He stole the flash drive. Then pepper-sprayed the old man. He fled to America. And ran from that mews.

But he came back.

And stole Antrim’s phone. Which gave them the translation.

Without that, Malone would have nothing to bargain with.

So he’d also helped.

But he still felt responsible for Malone’s anguish.

And he wanted to help.

Malone hung up the phone.

He turned to see Kathleen Richards staring at him, realizing they’d all heard what Mathews had said.

“He cannot be trusted,” Richards said.

“Like I don’t know that.”

His mind raced.

One more phone call.

He lifted the receiver and dialed overseas for Stephanie Nelle.

“I’m about to engage Thomas Mathews,” he said.

Then he told her what had happened.

“I need a straight answer,” he said to her. “No bullshit. Did the CIA explain to you Operation King’s Deception?”

“Your asking that question means you already know the answer.”

That he did. “It’s Ireland. Right?”

And she explained.

Ian listened as the four adults talked. Malone had finished his call and told them that his former boss, a woman named Stephanie Nelle, had confirmed that Antrim was focused on Northern Ireland — he’d listened to the history — and on some Arab terrorist who was about to be released from a Scottish jail. The Americans wanted the British to stop the release, and to get them to do that they intended on finding evidence that Elizabeth I was not what she appeared, calling into question her entire reign, throwing into doubt the legitimacy of Northern Ireland itself.

“What a reckless scheme,” Malone said.

“And a dangerous one,” Richards said. “I can see why Mathews is concerned. It would not take much to reignite massive amounts of violence within Northern Ireland. Periodically, there are attacks here and there from both sides. The fight is definitely not over. It’s just simmering, each waiting for a good reason to start killing the other.”

“The peace was made,” Tanya said, “because at the time it was the only course. The British are there, in Northern Ireland. They aren’t leaving. And killing people wasn’t accomplishing anything.”

“Think what would happen if the truth were known,” Miss Mary quietly said. “If Elizabeth I was indeed a fraud. That means everything done during that reign was fraudulent. Void. Illegal.”

“Including every acre of land seized and every land grant made in Northern Ireland,” Malone said. “Not one would have any legal effect. The six counties that form the country were all seized by Elizabeth.”

“Would it matter?” Tanya asked. “After five hundred years?”

“Definitely,” Malone said. “It’s like if I sold you my house and you live there for decades. Then one day someone shows up with proof that the deed I gave you is a fraud. I didn’t have the power to actually convey title to you in the first place. It’s elementary real property law that the deed would be void. Of no legal effect. Any court here, or in America, would have to respect the true title to that land, not the fraudulent act of my transfer.”

“A battle that would be fought in court,” Richards said.

“But one the Irish would win,” Malone added.

“Worse, though,” Richards said. “The truth alone would be more than enough for Unionists and Nationalists to restart the Troubles. Only this time they’d actually have a legal reason to fight. You can almost hear the Irish Nationalists. They’ve been trying to get the British to leave for 500 years. Now they’d scream, Your fake queen invaded our country and stole our land. The least you can do is give it back and leave. But that wouldn’t happen. London would resist. It would have to. They’ve never abandoned the Unionists in Northern Ireland, and they won’t start now. There are billions of pounds invested there. London would have to stand and fight. Whether that’s in court or in the streets. It would be an all-out war. Neither side would bend.”

“Of course,” Malone said to her, “if your government would simply stop Edinburgh from handing a murderer back to Libya, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I don’t like that any more than you do. But that doesn’t excuse this foolhardy tactic. Do you know how many thousands of people could die from this?”

“Which is why I’m going to give the flash drive to Mathews,” Malone said.

“And what about Ian?” Richards asked.

“Good question. What about me?”

Malone faced him. “You know that Mathews wants you dead.”

He nodded.

“The question is,” Malone said, “how far is he willing to go to clean up this mess? Especially now that a lot more people know about it. He has more than one loose end. So I’ll take care of that, too.”

Malone looked at Richards.

“We have to go.”

“Sir Thomas never mentioned me coming.”

“I need your help.”

“I’m going, too,” Ian said.

“Like hell. Mathews never mentioned you on the phone. That means one of two things. He doesn’t know where you are, or he’s waiting for us to leave to make a move. I’d say the former. Too much happened too fast for him to know anything. If he did, he’d have acted already. Also, I need you out of the way so I can bargain for your safety. If he has you I have no bargaining power.”

Malone faced the twin sisters.

“Stay put here, with Ian, until you hear from me.”

“And what happens if we never hear from you?” Miss Mary asked.

“You will.”

Fifty-seven

Antrim approached the construction site, Gary walking with him. The old Blackfriars tube station had been demolished, replaced by a shiny, glass-fronted building that seemed about half complete. A plywood wall separated the work site from the sidewalk, the Thames within sight less than a hundred yards away. A newly reconstructed Victorian rail bridge now spanned the river, upon which was being built a modern railway station. He’d read somewhere that this was London’s first transportation center ever built over water.

Through a break in the plywood barrier he spotted no workers. Though it was Saturday, some should be here. Mathews had told him to head for this particular corner of the site. To his right, traffic raced by on a busy avenue that headed south across the Thames. He still carried the knapsack with explosives inside, the only weapon he possessed, and he had no intention of entering this trap unarmed.

A maze of heavy equipment littered the scarred earth. Deep gouges in the ground, yards wide and extra deep, stretched toward the riverbank. Train tracks lay at the bottom, straight lines disappearing inside the new bridge station, heading toward the far south bank. He recalled this place from his youth. A busy station. Lots of people in and out every day. But not today. The site was deserted.

Which was exactly what Thomas Mathews would want.

So far he’d followed directions.

Time for some improvising.

Malone rode in the underground, taking a train from Belgravia east to a station near the Inns of Court, close to Blackfriars. Kathleen Richards sat beside him. He could still hear what Stephanie Nelle had told him on the phone half an hour ago.

“It’s the CIA attempting to save the day,” she said. “Forty years ago a group of Irish lawyers actually tried to prove that Elizabeth I was a fraud. It’s called the Bisley Boy legend—”

“Just like Bram Stoker said in his book.”

“To their credit, they were trying to find a legal, nonviolent way to force the British to leave Northern Ireland. At that time the Troubles were in full swing. People were dying every day. No end seemed in sight. If they could prove in court that all British claims to their lands were false, legal precedent could be used to reunite Ireland.”

“Clever. And it might have been a good idea then, but not now.”

“I agree. The slightest provocation could restart the violence. But the CIA was desperate. They worked hard to find al-Megrahi, then bring him to trial. To see him just walk away galled them to no end. The White House wanted something. Anything to stop it. So Langley thought a little blackmail might work. Unfortunately, they forgot that this president isn’t the type to do that, especially to an ally.”

On that he agreed.

“The CIA director and myself just had a spirited discussion,” she said. “Currently, the White House is unaware of what they’ve been doing, and they’d like to keep it that way. Especially since the whole operation failed. But with SIS now involved, this could become a source of extreme embarrassment for everyone.”

“And they want me to clean up the mess.”

“Something like that. Unfortunately, that prisoner transfer is going to happen. The goal now is not to allow an international PR disaster to amplify the situation. It seems the British know everything about King’s Deception. The only thing going for us is they don’t want the world to know.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“I realize that Gary is your only concern. But, as you say, he’s with Antrim. And Langley has no idea where that might be.”

Which was why he’d called Mathews.

And was walking into a trap.

“What do you want me to do?” Richards asked him.

He faced her. “Why are you on suspension?”

He saw that she was surprised he knew that.

“I caused a lot of bother trying to arrest some people. But that’s nothing new for me.”

“Good. ’Cause I need some bother. Lots of it, in fact.”

Ian had not liked Malone’s refusal to allow him to go along. He was not accustomed to people telling him what to do. He made his own decisions. Not even Miss Mary gave him orders.

“This is all so unbelievable,” Tanya said. “So incredible. Imagine the historical implications.”

But he didn’t care about that.

He wanted to be where things were happening.

And that was Blackfriars station.

He sat on one of the chairs inside the hotel room.

“Are you hungry?” Miss Mary asked him.

He nodded.

“I can order you something.”

She stepped across the room to the phone. Her sister sat at the desk with the laptop. He bolted for the door and fled into the hall. The stairs seemed the best route down, so he headed for the lighted sign.

He heard the room door open and turned back.

Miss Mary stared at him with a look of concern.

He stopped and faced her.

She didn’t have to say a word. The watery gloss in her eyes told him what she was thinking.

That he should not go.

But her eyes also made clear that she was powerless to stop him.

“Be careful,” she said. “Be ever so careful.”

Gary followed Antrim onto the construction site. They wove a path through heavy equipment across the damp soil, dodging puddles from yesterday’s rain. A massive concrete shell lay inside one of the open trenches, twenty feet down, its damp walls being dried by the afternoon sun. Eventually, the entire structure would be covered with dirt. For now, though, its sides, roof, pipes, and cables were exposed, the rectangle stretching fifty yards toward the river, where it disappeared into the ground, beneath a section of closed-off street.

They climbed down into the wet trench, using one of the wooden ladders, and made their way toward a yawn in the earth that opened into a darkened chasm. He blinked the sun from his eyes and adjusted to the dim light. Concrete wall rose to his left, bare earth to his right, the path well traveled, the dirt here dry and compact beneath his sneakers.

Antrim stopped and signaled for quiet.

He heard nothing save for the rumble of the nearby traffic.

An opening in the wall could be seen ahead.

Antrim approached, glanced inside, then motioned for him to follow. They entered and saw that the exposed structure housed a rail line, the tracks in disrepair, rebar everywhere awaiting wet cement. Incandescent floodlights burned bright, illuminating the windowless space. He wondered how Antrim knew where to go, but assumed the email earlier in the café had provided the necessary information.

Antrim hopped up to another level from the dirt around the tracks and they crept deeper inside. The cool air smelled of wet mud and dry cement. More tripods with flood lamps lit the way. He estimated they were at least twenty feet underground, beneath the glass-fronted building overhead. They came to a wide-open space that funneled to shafts angling farther down into the ground.

“This foyer is where passengers will come down from above, then make their way to the tracks,” Antrim whispered.

Gary glanced into one of the down shafts. The next level was fifty feet beneath him. No steps or escalator were present. More lights burned below. Another wooden ladder, one of several propped in the shaft, allowed a way down.

“That’s where we have to go,” Antrim said.

Kathleen followed Malone as they exited the underground station and found the Embankment. The dome of St. Paul’s rose not far in the distance, the Thames less than fifty meters to their right, Blackfriars station straight ahead. Both of them still carried their weapons. Malone had stayed silent after he explained what he wanted her to do. She hadn’t argued. This was a trap, no other way to view it. To walk in unprepared would be foolhardy.

And even though Thomas Mathews held the superior position — since he seemed to know exactly where Blake Antrim would be — Malone had wisely demanded proof of Gary’s presence.

So they’d been waiting.

Malone’s phone vibrated, signaling an incoming email. He opened the message, which came with a video attachment.

They watched on the screen as Blake Antrim and Gary walked through what appeared to be a construction site. They were inside a windowless space, Antrim easing himself onto a ladder, disappearing downward.

Then Gary climbed onto the rungs and vanished.

The message contained in the email was concise.

She saw the concern in Malone’s face. But she also saw the frustration, as there was no way to know where the video had originated.

Best guess?

Blackfriar’s station. About a kilometer away.

They stood just outside the Inns of Court.

Back where it all started yesterday.

“Do what I asked,” Malone said.

And he walked off.

Fifty-eight

Antrim hopped from the ladder and saw he was standing on what would eventually be a train platform, the tracks there, five feet below the concrete, exiting one tunnel then entering another. He noticed how lights indicated that the rails were active, signs warning to be wary of high voltage. The Circle and District lines ran straight through Blackfriars, two of London’s main east — west Underground routes. Millions traveled those lines every week. They could not be blocked. So the trains kept coming, back and forth, though none stopped here.

Gary finished his descent and stood beside him.

More lights on tripods illuminated the work area.

Tile was being applied to the walls, a cheery color in a mosaic pattern. The entire platform was being refurbished, construction materials everywhere.

“Mr. Antrim.”

The gravelly voice startled him.

He turned to see Sir Thomas Mathews standing fifty feet away, without his signature cane.

The older man motioned.

“This way.”

Malone entered the Inns of Court and replayed Thomas Mathews’ instructions in his mind. Beneath the ground on which he walked flowed the Fleet River. Its origin lay four miles to the north, once a major London water source. But by the Middle Ages a burgeoning populace had totally polluted the flow, its odor so horrendous that Victorian engineers finally enclosed it, making the Fleet the largest of the city’s subterranean rivers. He’d read about the maze of chambers and tunnels that crisscrossed Holborn, channeling the water to the Thames.

“Go to the Inns,” Mathews said. “North of the Temple Church, adjacent to the master’s house, is the Goldsmith building. In its basement is access. It will be open and waiting for you.”

“Then where?”

“Follow the electrical cables.”

He turned right and negotiated King’s Bench Walk. He entered the church court, filled with weekend visitors, and passed the Temple Round. He spotted the brick house labeled GOLDSMITH and entered through the main door, locking the latch behind him. A staircase was visible at the end of a short hall. He descended to a basement with walls of hewn stone. Two bare bulbs hung from the low ceiling. In the floor, across from the base of the stairs, an iron door was hinged open.

He stepped over and glanced inside.

A metal ladder led down ten feet to a dirt floor.

The way to Gary.

Or, at any rate, the only one he had.

Gary hopped off the concrete platform and followed the smartly dressed older man into a train tunnel. Lights attached to its concrete walls burned every fifty feet. He heard a rumble and felt a rush of air. The older man stopped and turned, motioning behind them.

“These tracks are still active. Stay to the wall, but be careful. The electricity in the rails can kill.”

He spotted a light out the tunnel’s exit, past the new station platform, into another tunnel entrance on the far side. Its brightness grew, as did the vibrations. A train suddenly appeared on the tracks, speeding toward them, passing in a roar, the cars full of people. They hugged the wall. In a few seconds it was gone, the rumble receding, the air still again. The older man resumed walking. Ahead, Gary spotted another man, waiting beside a metal door.

They approached and stopped.

“The boy goes no farther,” the older man said.

“He’s with me,” Antrim said.

“Then you go no farther.”

Antrim said nothing.

“Your father is waiting for you at St. Paul’s Cathedral,” the older man said to Gary. “This gentleman will take you there.”

“How do you know my dad?”

“I’ve known him for many years. I told him I would deliver you to him.”

“Go,” Antrim said.

“But—”

“Just do it,” Antrim said.

He saw nothing in Antrim’s eyes that offered any comfort.

“I’ll catch up with you in Copenhagen,” Antrim said. “We’ll have that talk with your dad then.”

But something told him that was said only for the moment, and Antrim had no intention of ever coming.

The other man approached and slid the backpack from Antrim’s shoulders, unzipping and displaying its contents to the older man, who said, “Percussion explosives. I would have expected no less from you. Were these used to breach the tomb of Henry VIII?”

“And to kill three Daedalus operatives.”

The older man cut a long stare at Antrim. “Then, by all means, bring them along. You may have need of them.”

Antrim faced Gary. “Give me the remote.”

The idea had been for Antrim to tote the explosives, with their detonators active and in place, while Gary kept the remote, the hope being that no one would search a boy for a weapon.

But that had apparently changed.

“I want to stay,” he said.

“Not possible,” the older man said, motioning to the second man, who led Gary away.

He yanked free of the man’s grasp.

“I don’t need your help walking.”

Antrim and the older man entered the metal door.

“Where does that go?” Gary asked.

But no answer was offered.

Ian was proud of himself. He’d managed to quickly steal a travel card and used the Underground to head across London to a station just east of Blackfriars. He’d avoided Temple station since that was where Malone and Richards would have exited, directly adjacent to the Inns of Court. Instead, he would approach Blackfriars from the opposite direction. On the trip over he’d thought about what to do once there, unsure, but at least he was not waiting around in some hotel room.

He hated that he’d hurt Miss Mary. He’d seen the look on her face, knew that she did not want him to go. Maybe it was time he listened to her and trusted her judgment.

He spotted the construction site, traffic hectic in both directions on a boulevard that fronted it on two sides. The dome of St. Paul’s rose off to his right. A plywood wall formed a makeshift barrier around the work site, but he managed to slip through an opening, past crabbed branches of bushes choked with trash. He saw no one, but kept among the equipment and debris, careful not to stay too long in the open.

He stepped into the main building and crept deeper inside, grit crunching beneath his shoes.

He heard voices.

Scaffolding rose to his right, a stack of crates and boxes nearby.

He dashed over and sought cover behind them.

Kathleen entered the Blackfriars construction site from the west, making her way toward the new station building. She carried her gun, out and ready. Malone had not wanted her with him. Mathews had made clear that he was to come alone. Instead, he’d told her to check out the site and be prepared. Mathews had said that Antrim was headed below Blackfriars station, and the video they’d watched confirmed that Antrim and Gary Malone were at a construction locale. It stood to reason that this was the place, so Malone wanted it reconnoitered. After that, he’d told her, improvise.

She proceeded with caution and entered, finding her way through a series of platforms and corridors. Tripod lights were on, and she doubted they’d been left burning all weekend. From everything she’d read about this project it was a seven-day-a-week venture, time being of the essence. So where were the workers? SIS had surely taken care of them for the day.

Inside the new station building she spotted something familiar.

From the video.

She stared down an opening in the floor to another level, where Underground tracks ran. Ladders allowed access, just like the one she and Malone had seen.

Then a noise.

To her right.

On her level.

She headed toward it.

Ian spied Gary Malone being led by another man. Tall. Young. A copper, no doubt.

“I don’t want to leave,” Gary said.

“This is not up to you. Keep moving.”

“You’re lying to me. My dad’s not at St. Paul’s.”

“He is. Let’s go.”

Gary stopped and faced his minder. “I’m going back.”

The man reached beneath his jacket, produced a gun, and pointed the barrel straight at Gary. “Keep. Moving.”

“You’re going to shoot me?”

Gutsy. He’d give Gary that. But he wasn’t as sure of the answer to that question as Gary seemed to be.

His mind raced.

What to do?

Then it came to him. Just like a month ago in that car. With Mathews and the other man who’d wanted to kill him. He’d left the plastic bag with his treasures at Miss Mary’s bookstore, but he’d removed the knife and pepper spray.

Both were in his pockets.

He smiled.

Worked once.

Why not again.

Gary stood his ground and dared the guy to pull the trigger. The extent of his courage surprised him, but he was more concerned about his dad than himself.

And Antrim, who’d brushed him off.

Which hurt.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Ian walking toward them.

What in the world was he doing here?

The man with the gun saw him, too. “This is a restricted site.”

“I take a wander in here all the time,” Ian said, still approaching.

The man seemed to realize that he was holding an exposed gun and lowered it. Which only confirmed that there would not be any shooting.

“You a copper?” Ian asked.

“That’s right. And you can’t be here.”

Ian came close and stopped. His right hand whipped upward and Gary heard the hiss of spray. The man with the gun howled, both hands searching for his eyes. Ian swung his foot up and slammed the sole of his shoe into the man’s stomach, dropping him to the concrete.

Both boys ran.

“I heard what he told you,” Ian said. “Your dad is not at St. Paul’s. He’s here.”

Fifty-nine

Antrim crouched low as they negotiated the narrow passage. Power cables were bolted near the barrel ceiling, lights inside wire cages every seventy-five feet or so, their glow nearly blinding.

“We discovered these tunnels,” Mathews said, “when Blackfriars station was first rebuilt in the 1970s. A convenient entrance to them was incorporated into the new station and kept under our control. We ran power into here, and you are about to learn why.”

Mathews was shorter and did not need to watch his head. The older man just clipped along, the dirt floor dry as a desert.

“I thought you might like to see what it is you were after,” Mathews said. “After all, you did go to much trouble to find it.”

“It’s real?”

“Oh, my goodness, Mr. Antrim. It is most real.”

“Who built these tunnels?”

“We think the Normans first dug them as escape routes. Then the Templars refined them, adding the brick walls. We are not far from the Inns of Court, their former headquarters, so I assume these paths served a great many of the knights’ purposes.”

He heard a rumble, growing in intensity, and wondered if it was another train passing through its own tunnel nearby.

“The River Fleet,” Mathews said. “Just ahead.”

They came to an open doorway at the end, where the tunnel crossed perpendicularly another man-made expanse, this one tall, wide, and channeling water. They stood on an iron bridge that spanned ten feet above the flow.

“This bridge was added after the discovery of the tunnel we just traversed,” Mathews said. “When the Fleet was enclosed centuries ago, the route was unknowingly blocked. It is low tide at the moment, but that will soon be changing. At high tide, the water will rise to nearly where we stand.”

“I guess you wouldn’t want to be down there when that happens.”

“No, Mr. Antrim, you most certainly would not.”

Malone kept following the tunnel, the water now up to his calves and rising at a steady pace. The entry point from the Goldsmith house had led to this wide passage, maybe twenty feet across and fifteen feet high, the brick walls mortared tightly, their surface smooth as glass. He was surely standing in the Fleet River. Its pollution was long gone, the water cold, but the turgid air carried a rank odor. He’d once read a book about London’s many underground rivers — names like Westbourne, Walbrook, Effra, Falcon, Peck, Neckinger — the Fleet and the Tyburn the most prominent. About a hundred miles of subterranean flow, he recalled, the city balanced atop them like a body on a water bed. In the ceiling high above ventilation shafts periodically pierced the brick arch, leading to metal grates that allowed in light and air. He’d seen some of those grates on the streets. Now here he was underground, inside an impressive Victorian creation, the Fleet River washing past him at an impressive pace. His normal discomfort at being enclosed was eased by the wide space and tall ceilings. Also, Gary was here. Somewhere.

And that meant he had to keep going.

Mathews had told him to follow the power cables. The one that had snaked a path from his entry point at the Inns of Court was affixed above him, past any high-water mark, disappearing ahead into the semidarkness. The gun was still nestled to his spine, beneath his jacket. He was being led. No doubt. But not for the first time. His job with the Magellan Billet had been to take these kinds of risks. He knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know was what had happened between Antrim and Gary. Had he laid a hand on the boy? Hurt him in any way? At a minimum a stranger had entered their family and come between him and his son. Worse, this stranger was not to be trusted, paid millions of dollars to sell out his country. Were the deaths of the two American agents on Antrim’s shoulders? Damn right. And now this traitor had Gary within his clutches.

What a mess.

And all because of mistakes made long ago.

Kathleen found the source of the commotion and watched as Ian Dunne sprayed a man in the face. Pepper spray, most likely, judging from the reaction. Ian had clearly disobeyed Malone’s instructions to stay put at the hotel. She was hidden behind a concrete mixing machine, its exterior caked in gray grout. She watched as the boys ran and realized the other was Malone’s son, Gary. She heard Ian as he explained that Malone was nearby and Gary saying that he knew where. She decided to stay anonymous, at least for the moment, ducking and allowing them to pass.

She followed, giving them distance.

Plenty of cover was present from the debris and equipment. She saw them find the ladder from the video and climb down. She approached, spotted no one below, and hustled down, too. At the bottom a quick glance to her right revealed Gary Malone disappearing into a tunnel.

Air billowed from another tunnel to her left.

A few seconds later an Underground train roared past, entering the tunnel where the boys had gone. She rushed over and waited for the cars to pass, then peered into the darkness.

The two boys had pressed themselves to the concrete walls and were now hustling ahead, finding a door and entering.

Antrim descended a flight of marble steps into a lit chamber. The vaulted room was oval-shaped, its ceiling supported by eight evenly spaced pillars. Most of the walls were shelved, the bays divided by chiseled pilasters. Cups, candlesticks, kettles, lamps, bowls, porcelain, chalices, jugs, and tankards were displayed.

“Royal plate,” Mathews said. “Part of the Tudor wealth. These objects were of great value five hundred years ago.”

He stepped to the oval’s center, glancing up at vine and scroll decorations that ornamented the columns. Murals of angels were painted above each support, more colorful paintings in the upper arches.

“This is how it was found,” Mathews said. “Luckily, SIS was the first to enter and it has remained sealed since the 1970s.”

A stone sarcophagus stood thirty feet away.

Antrim walked close and saw that its lid was gone.

He glanced at Mathews.

“By all means,” the older man said. “Have a look.”

Malone continued to follow the electrical cables, which eventually left the river chamber and wound a path through another narrow tunnel back into the earth. Not a long way. Maybe twenty feet. Eventually, he noted, as the river rose, its flow would creep inside. But — thanks to a gradual incline — not all the way to its end.

Which came at an archway with no door.

Beyond he spotted a darkened chamber about thirty feet across and another doorway, bright with light.

He heard familiar voices.

Mathews and Antrim.

He found his gun and entered the first room, careful with his steps, creeping across the pavement to the second doorway.

Three pillars supported the ceiling of the empty rectangle, offering some cover. He leaned against the wall and drew short breaths through his nostrils.

Then peered inside.

Ian led the way down the tunnel, Gary close at his heels. They were following the electrical cables and lights, as that was what Mathews had told Malone to do during the telephone conversation at The Goring. Gary had led him to the metal door, describing the older man who’d been waiting earlier.

Whom he knew.

Thomas Mathews.

He heard a rush of water, growing louder, and found its source just past the place where a metal door hung open. He knew about the Fleet River that ran beneath London, and had even explored the tunnels a couple of times. He recalled a posted warning. High tide came fast and flooded the chambers, so the risk of drowning was great. Now he stood on an iron bridge that spanned the flow, water rushing past its supports, rising rapidly inside a channeled path. The surge vibrated everything beneath his feet.

“We need to stay out of that,” Gary said.

He agreed.

They kept moving, entering another open arch, its metal door swung open, following the lights to a small chamber. The electrical cables snaked a path down the wall, then across the floor into another room.

Voices disturbed the silence.

Gary eased to one side of the far doorway.

Ian fell in behind him.

Both listened.

Antrim stared into the sarcophagus. Nothing elaborate or ornate adorned its exterior. No inscriptions, no artwork. Just plain stone.

And inside only dust and bones.

“The body is that of a man who lived to be in his seventies,” Mathews said. “Forensic analysis confirmed that. Thanks to your violation of Henry VIII’s tomb, we obtained a sample from the great king himself.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

Mathews seemed not to like the sarcasm. “DNA analysis between the remains there and here showed that this man shared a paternal genetic link with Henry VIII.”

“So this is what’s left of Henry FitzRoy’s son. The imposter. The man who was Elizabeth I.”

“There is no doubt now. The legend is real. What was once a fanciful tale to the people in and around Bisley is now fact. Of course, the legend had done no real harm—”

“Until I came along.”

Mathews nodded. “Something like that.”

What Robert Cecil had written was true. The imposter had indeed been buried beneath Blackfriars, and the dead Elizabeth, a mere child of twelve, moved to Westminster and laid to rest with her sister.

Incredible.

“This room, when found,” Mathews said, “also contained trunks of gold and silver coin. Billions of pounds’ worth. We melted it down and returned it to the state treasury, where it belonged.”

“Didn’t keep any for yourself?”

“Hardly.”

He caught the indignation.

“If you would, please, I’d like Robert Cecil’s journal.”

Antrim slid off the backpack and handed over the book.

“I saw it earlier,” Mathews said.

“I didn’t want Daedalus to have it. And what about them? Are they going to be a problem?”

Mathews shook his head. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

He was curious. “What are you going to do with this place?”

“Once this notebook is destroyed, this becomes just another innocuous archaeological site. Its meaning will never be known.”

“King’s Deception would have worked.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Antrim, you are correct. We could have never allowed the truth about Elizabeth to be known.”

He was pleased to know that he’d been right.

“I do have a question,” Mathews said. “You maneuvered Cotton Malone to London, with his son, for a specific purpose. I managed to learn that purpose. The boy is your natural son. What do you plan to do with that situation?”

“How could you possibly know any of that?”

“Fifty years in the intelligence business.”

He decided to be honest. “I’ve decided having a son is a pain in the ass.”

“Children can be difficult. Still, he is your boy.”

“But the several million dollars Daedalus paid me is more than enough compensation for the loss of that.”

Mathews gestured with the journal. “You realize that what you planned to do with all of this was utter foolishness.”

“Really? It seemed to get your attention.”

“You clearly have no understanding of Northern Ireland. I knew men and women who died there during the Troubles. I lost agents there. Thousands of civilians died, too. There are hundreds of obsessed fringe groups simply waiting for a good reason to start killing one another again. Some want the English gone. Others want us to stay. Both are willing to slaughter thousands to prove their point. To reveal this secret would have cost many people their lives.”

“All you had to do was tell the Scots to not release the Libyan.”

“Such an interesting way to treat one of your allies.”

“We say the same about you.”

“This is none of America’s concern. The bombing of that plane occurred in Scottish territory. Scottish judges tried and convicted al-Megrahi. The decision as to what to do with their prisoner was the Scots’ alone.”

“I don’t know what you, or they, were promised by Libya, but it had to be substantial.”

“Is that moralizing?” Mathews asked. “From a man who sold out his country, his career, and his son for a few million dollars?”

He said nothing. No need to explain himself.

Not anymore.

“You manipulated Cotton Malone,” Mathews said. “His son, his ex-wife, the CIA, Daedalus. You tried to manipulate my government, but then decided you were more important than any of that. How does it feel, Mr. Antrim, to be a traitor?”

He’d heard enough.

He slid the backpack from his shoulders and dropped it at the base of one of the center pillars.

The detonators were in place, armed, ready to go.

“What now?” he asked.

Mathews smiled. “A little justice, Mr. Antrim.”

Sixty

Malone listened to the conversation between Antrim and Mathews, growing angrier by the second. Antrim cared for nothing save himself. Gary was meaningless. But where was Gary? He was supposed to be with Antrim. He gripped the gun, finger on the trigger, then stepped from the shadows into the harsh wash of light.

Mathews stood facing away. Antrim had a clear view and shock filled the American’s face.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Mathews slowly turned. “I invited him. I assume you have been listening?”

“To every word.”

“I thought you two needed a private place to resolve your differences. So I led both of you here.” Mathews moved toward the steps and the other doorway out. “I’ll leave you two to work through your dispute.”

“Where’s Gary?” he asked.

Mathews stopped and faced him. “I have him. He’s safe. Now deal with Mr. Antrim.”

Gary heard what Mathews had said.

A lie.

He started forward to reveal himself.

His father needed to know he was there.

Ian grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “You can’t. That man’s a bloody schemer. He wants to kill me, and probably you, too.”

He stared into Ian’s eyes and saw truth.

“Sit tight,” Ian breathed. “Wait a bit. Let your dad handle it.”

Malone stared at both Mathews and Antrim, keeping his gun aimed and ready.

Mathews smiled. “Come now, Cotton. You and I both know that you cannot — or, better yet, you will not — shoot me. This entire fiasco was started by Washington. I have done nothing more than defend the security of my country. You understand the gravity of what was at stake. Can you blame me, now? I did exactly what you would have done, if the roles were reversed. The prime minister himself is aware of what is happening here. You can kill me, but that prisoner transfer is going to occur and my death would only make a bad situation for Washington horrendous.”

He knew the old man was right.

“Actually, this problem is his creation.” Mathews pointed at Antrim. “And, frankly, I hope you make him suffer. He killed three of my agents.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Antrim said. “I didn’t kill anybody who works for you.”

Mathews shook his head in disgust. “You ass. I created Daedalus. The people you encountered with them were my agents. The money paid to you came from me. It was all a show. You are not the only one who can manipulate.”

Antrim stood silent, seemingly absorbing reality, then said, “You killed two of my people. And your three agents came to kill me. I only defended myself.”

“Which, frankly, shocked me. You are an incompetent fool. How you were able to solve this puzzle is a mystery. It has remained concealed for a long time. But, incredibly, you somehow stumbled into the solution. So I had no choice. You gave me no choice.”

“I did my job.”

“Really, now? And at the first opportunity offered you sold out your country. For a few million dollars you were willing to forget it all, including those two dead American agents.”

Antrim said nothing.

“Your name. I always thought it ironic. There are six counties in Northern Ireland. Armagh, Down, Fermanagh, Londonderry, Tyrone—” Mathews paused. “—and Antrim. It’s an ancient place. Perhaps somewhere in your lineage there is Irish blood.”

“What does it matter?” Antrim asked.

“That’s the point. Nothing really does matter, except you. Now I will leave you two to settle your differences.”

And Mathews started up the stone risers.

Gary had taken Ian’s advice and stayed put. Ever since his mother had told him about his birth father, he’d imagined what that man would be like. Now he knew. A liar, traitor, and murderer. Someone vastly different than he’d hoped.

He heard the soles of shoes scrape across gritty stone.

Approaching.

“Someone is coming,” Ian whispered.

The area where they stood was small. No exit besides the way they’d come and the doorway into the next chamber. A bright bulb inside a wire cage dissolved the darkness, but not entirely. To their right, near the far wall, shadows remained thick. He and Ian fled there and huddled in a corner, waiting to see who appeared in the doorway.

The older man.

He stepped out and headed for the second exit.

Then stopped.

And turned.

His gaze locked their way.

“It’s impressive you both made it here,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “Perhaps that’s best. You both should see what is about to happen.”

Neither he nor Ian moved.

Gary’s heart pounded.

“Nothing to say?”

Neither boy spoke.

Finally, Ian said, “You wanted me dead.”

“That I did. You know things that you should not.”

In one hand the older man held a book, which Gary recognized. “That’s Cecil’s journal.”

“Indeed. Apparently you, too, know things you should not.”

Then he left.

Entering the tunnel that led to the bridge and the construction site.

They both hesitated, waiting to be sure he was gone.

Then they stepped back, closer to the doorway.

Antrim did not like anything about the situation. Mathews had led him here to confront Malone, who was staring at him holding a gun. The backpack with the explosives lay against one of the columns. Malone had paid it little attention. The remote detonator was tucked in his pocket. He didn’t actually have to remove it. Just a slap to his thigh would do the trick.

But not yet.

He was far too close.

And Mathews had said nothing about the explosives. No warning to Malone. As if he wanted them used. What had the old Brit said. Bring them along. You may have need of them.

Malone stood between him and the stairs that led up to the doorway through which Mathews had left. But the second exit, the one from which Malone had entered, beckoned.

That was the way.

Opposite the path Mathews had taken.

He needed to end this, go to ground, and enjoy his money.

“You’re a tough man,” he said to Malone, “with that gun. I’m unarmed.”

Malone tossed the weapon aside.

It clattered across the floor.

Challenge accepted.

Kathleen had followed Ian and Gary through the metal door and into a lit tunnel, walking slowly, her gun leading the way. She’d stayed back, waiting to see where the path would lead, concerned about the two boys, ready to confront them. A rush of water had grown louder and she came to a metal bridge that spanned a dark, swift current.

The Fleet River.

She’d been into its tunnels twice before, once in pursuit of a fugitive, another time to search for a body. Its subterranean path was one tall tunnel after another, at least ten meters high, the water now up to nearly half that height, just below the bridge.

Movement from the other side caught her eye.

She retreated back into the shadows.

Thomas Mathews emerged onto the bridge, then turned and closed the far door behind him. She watched as he inserted a key into the lock and secured the portal. Before leaving the door Mathews reached beneath his jacket and found a small radio.

She stepped onto the bridge.

Not a hint of surprise spread across the older man’s face.

“I was wondering when you would appear,” he said.

He approached, stopping two meters away.

She kept her gun aimed at him. “Where are those two boys?”

“Behind that locked door.”

Now she knew. “You lured them all here.”

“Only Antrim and Malone. But Ian Dunne was an unexpected bonus. He and Malone’s son are now there, too.”

What was happening beyond that door?

Then she noticed what else Mathews was holding. An old book, bound in brittle leather, clutched tight.

“What is that?” she asked.

“What I have sought. What, ultimately, you may have discovered for me.”

Then she realized. “Robert Cecil’s journal.”

“You are, indeed, an excellent agent. Quite intuitive. Unfortunate that no discipline accompanies that admirable trait.”

“I get what’s at stake here,” she told him over the water’s roar. “I know what Northern Ireland is capable of starting up again. I don’t agree with the Americans meddling in our business, but I also understand why they did. That bloody terrorist should stay in jail. All of you have handled this wrong.”

“Sharp criticism from a disgraced agent.”

She absorbed his insult. “A disgraced agent, who gives a damn about two kids in trouble.”

“Ian Dunne is a witness to an SIS murder. One, here, on British soil. Which, as you noted at Queen’s College, violates the law.”

“Quite a scandal for you and the prime minister. Tell me, does he know all that you’ve done.”

His silence was her answer.

“Let us say that I am dealing with it, Miss Richards. This must end here. It must end now. For the good of the nation.”

“And for the good of you.”

She’d heard enough.

“Give me the key to that door.”

Sixty-one

Malone’s nerves jangled with rage, His eyes watching Antrim’s every move. “Was all this worth it?”

“Damn right. I have plenty of money. And in a few minutes you’ll be dead.”

“So sure of yourself.”

“I’ve been around a long time, Malone.”

“I’m not one of your exes. You might find beating up on me a bit more difficult.”

Antrim shifted to the right, closer to the open sarcophagus. The gun lay ten feet away from them both, but Antrim seemed uninterested, moving in the opposite direction.

“That what this is about?” Antrim asked. “Defending the honor of your ex-wife? You didn’t seem to care much about her sixteen years ago.”

He refused the bait. “You enjoy beating up women?”

Antrim shrugged. “Yours didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

The words stung, but he kept his cool.

“If it’s any comfort, Malone. The boy means nothing. I just wanted to see if it could be done. Pam pissed me off a few months ago. She thought she could tell me what to do. One rule I always live by. Never let a woman be in control.”

Gary heard more of what Antrim said.

A wave of revulsion and anger welled inside him.

He moved to rush into the chamber, but Ian again grabbed him and shook his head.

“Let your dad handle it,” Ian breathed. “It’s his fight right now.”

Ian was right. This was not the time. Him suddenly appearing would only complicate things. Let his dad handle it.

“You okay?” Ian breathed.

He nodded.

But he wasn’t.

Antrim was taunting Malone, pushing every button, goading him into a reaction. But he wasn’t lying, either. Not about Pam or Gary. Neither mattered anymore. He would have to take Malone down, then flee out the other entrance, detonating the explosives as he left. Fifty feet would be more than enough protection, considering the dirt walls that surrounded him. The resulting heat and concussion would surely crack the stone and collapse the chamber, providing a proper grave for ex — Magellan Billet agent Cotton Malone. All he had to do was get through the doorway ten feet away.

That meant incapacitating Malone for a mere few seconds.

Enough for him to bolt and press the detonator in his pocket.

Careful, though.

He could not engage in too much jostling, as he did not want the button jammed accidentally.

But he could handle this.

Malone leaped, his arms catching Antrim around the waist.

He and Antrim pounded to the stone floor.

But he held tight.

Ian heard bodies thud and a grunt from one of the two men. He risked a look and saw that they were fighting, Antrim flipping Malone off him and springing to his feet. Malone, too, was up and swung his fist, the blow blocked, a counterpunch delivered to the stomach.

Gary watched, too.

Ian’s gaze raked the chamber and located the gun, to the right of the entrance, at the base of steps that led down into the room.

“We need to get that gun,” he said.

But Gary’s attention was on the fight.

“Antrim has explosives.”

Gary saw that Ian was surprised by what he’d revealed. “In that pack on the floor. The detonator is in his pocket.”

“And you’re just now mentioning this?”

He’d seen what those packs of clay could do to bodies.

Special stuff, Antrim had said.

He recalled that Antrim had been around fifty feet away from the carnage in the warehouse and had been unharmed. If he could toss the backpack out the doorway on the other side of the room, that might do it. He doubted Antrim planned to blow anything as long as he was still around.

But the detonator.

In Antrim’s pocket.

It could accidentally be pressed in the fight.

His dad was in trouble.

“You get the gun,” he said to Ian. “I’ll toss that backpack.”

Malone dodged a right jab and swung hard, catching Antrim in the face. His opponent staggered back against the chamber wall, then charged.

More blows rained down.

One caught him in the lip. A salty taste filled his mouth. Blood. He landed more blows to the head and chest but, before he could punch again, Antrim reached for one of the metal pitchers on the shelves and propelled it toward him.

He ducked the projectile.

Then Antrim was on him, slamming something heavy into the nape of his neck, which hurt. He grabbed hold of himself and joined his hands together, sweeping his arms upward, the double fist clipping Antrim below the chin.

A bronze flask clanged to the floor.

His head spun, the throbbing in his temple became a blinding ache. A kick to his legs twisted him sideways.

He turned, pretended to have lost his breath, and readied himself to attack.

Ian rushed into the room, leaping down the stone stairs, heading straight for the gun.

Then Gary appeared.

What the hell?

Their appearance momentarily stunned him.

Ian reached for the gun, but Antrim was on him, yanking the weapon free, backhanding the boy across the face.

Gary grabbed the backpack from the floor and tossed it into the darkness of the other room.

Antrim’s finger found the trigger and he aimed the weapon. “Enough.”

Malone seemed woozy, the boys staring at him.

Ian rubbed his face from the blow.

Fear surged through him. His sweat cast a sweet, musky scent.

One thought filled his brain.

Leave. Now.

“All of you, over there, by the stairs.”

His left eye was swollen from Malone’s fist, his chin, temple, and brow aching. He retreated toward the second doorway, his pounding heart rising against his ribs.

Malone moved slow so he aimed the gun straight at Gary and yelled, “Would you rather I shoot him? Get over there.”

Malone straightened up and stepped back, Ian and Gary joining him.

“You okay?” Malone asked Ian.

“I’ll be fine.”

Gary stepped forward. “Would you shoot me? Your own son?”

No time for sentiment. “Look, we haven’t known each other in fifteen years. No need to start now. So, yes, I would. Now shut the hell up.”

“So this was all about hurting my mom?”

“You were listening outside? Good. So I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Malone laid his hand on Gary’s shoulder and drew him back close, but the boy’s gaze never left Antrim.

Antrim found the exit, a quick glance confirming that the chamber beyond was safe. The darkness was thick, but enough light spilled in for him to see the outline of another exit thirty feet away.

He reached into his pocket and found the detonator.

“Stay right there,” he told Malone.

He backed from the room, keeping the gun trained.

Sixty-two

Kathleen aimed the gun straight at Thomas Mathews. Never had she imagined that she would be in a face-off with Britain’s chief spy. But that’s exactly what the past two days had been.

“Give me the key to the door,” she said again.

“And what will you do?”

“Help them.”

He chuckled. “What if they don’t need your help?”

“All of your problems are in there, right? Nice and neat. Tucked away.”

“Good planning and preparation made that result possible.”

But how could Mathews know that all of his problems would be solved? So she asked, “What makes this a sure thing?”

“Ordinarily, I would not answer that. But I’m hoping this will be a learning experience for you. Your Blake Antrim brought percussion explosives with him. The same type used in St. George’s Chapel.”

The dots connected. “Which you want him to detonate.”

He shrugged. “It matters not how it ends. Intentional. Accidental. So long as it ends.”

“And if Antrim makes it out, after blowing everyone else up?”

“He will be killed.”

Now she realized Mathews was stalling, allowing whatever was happening behind the locked door to play out.

That meant time was short.

And those two kids were in there.

“Give me the key.”

He displayed it in his right hand, the one that held the radio.

Then he thrust his arm over the side of the bridge.

“Don’t do it,” she said.

He dropped the key.

Which disappeared into the torrent.

“We do what we have to do,” he said to her, his face as animated as a death mask. “My country comes first, as I suspect it does with you.”

“Country first means killing children?”

“In this case it does.”

She hated herself for not stopping Ian and Gary sooner. It was her fault they were now behind that locked door. “You’re no different from Antrim.”

“Oh, but I am. Quite different, in fact. I am no traitor.”

“I will shoot you.”

He smiled. “I think not. It’s over, Miss Richards. Let it be.”

She saw his fingers flick a switch on the radio. Surely there were more men nearby, which meant that shortly they would not be alone. She’d heard about moments when a person’s entire existence flashed before them. Those instances when life-changing decisions were either made or avoided. Turning points, some called them. She’d come close several times to such an instant, when her life had been on the line.

But never anything like this.

Sir Thomas Mathews was, in essence, saying that she was too weak to do anything.

He’d dropped the key and dared her.

Her professional life was over.

She’d failed.

But that didn’t mean that she should fail as a person.

Malone and two kids were in trouble.

And one old man stood in her way.

He brought the radio toward his mouth. “They have to die, Miss Richards. It is the only way for this to end.”

No, it wasn’t.

May God forgive her.

She shot him in the chest.

He staggered toward the low rail.

The journal dropped to his feet.

A look of shock filled his face.

She stepped close. “You’re not always right.”

And she shoved him over the side.

He hit the water, surfaced, and gasped for air, arms flailing. Then his strength oozed away and he sank, the current sweeping the corpse into the darkness toward the Thames.

No time existed for her to consider the implications of what she’d done. Instead, she rushed toward the door and studied the lock. Brass. New. The door itself all metal.

She kicked it a few times.

Solid and opening toward her, which meant a metal jam was providing extra strength.

Only one way.

She stepped back, aimed the gun, and emptied the magazine into the lock.

Gary never allowed his gaze to break.

Everything happened so fast he doubted Antrim realized that the backpack was gone. His attention had been on Ian and the gun. Antrim continued to back into the darkness of the other room, the gun still aimed their way. He was no longer visible but, thanks to the lights, they remained in full view to him.

His dad was watching, too.

“Let him go,” Gary said, his lips barely moving.

Malone heard Gary’s words.

“What’s he got?” he quietly asked, keeping his eyes on the dark doorway across the room.

“Bad explosives,” Gary mumbled. “Superhot. They burn people. He brought them in the backpack.”

What had Mathews told him at Hampton Court? About Antrim and Henry VIII’s grave? He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab above the remains. He knew their capabilities. And limitations.

His eyes raked the room, confirming what he’d seen a few moments ago.

The backpack was gone.

“Let him go,” Gary breathed again.

Antrim gripped the detonator in his right hand. He was safe within the second room, Malone and the two boys visible through the doorway in the next chamber. Plenty of protection stood between him and the PEs. He kept his gun aimed, which Malone seemed to respect, as none of the three had moved. A quick glance back and he saw the blackened outline of the other exit only a few feet away. He had no idea where it led, but obviously it was a way out, and far preferable to heading in the direction of Thomas Mathews. His eyes were still accustomed to the lights and he allowed his pupils a moment to dilate, preparing himself for darkness. He carried no flashlight, but neither had Malone, which meant that the way out was easy to follow. He’d just have to keep his eyes shielded during the explosion.

Thomas Mathews wanted him to kill Malone. The boys? Collateral damage. Two fewer witnesses to all that had transpired.

Gary?

It didn’t matter.

He was no father.

The past twenty-four hours had proven that.

He was better off alone.

And alone he would be.

He dropped to the floor and prepared to hunker down close.

He aimed the detonator.

And pushed the button.

A flash sparked ten feet away.

Here.

In this room.

The darkness was dissolved by orange, then yellow, and finally blue light.

He screamed.

Malone saw a flash, heard a terrified whimper, and imagined Antrim’s face, a study in horror as he realized what was coming. He dove left and swept Gary and Ian down with him. Together they hit the floor and he shielded both boys from the concussion that poured from the other chamber, intense heat and light surging upward and engulfing the ceiling. The sarcophagus stood between them and the other exit, which blocked much of its effect. Thank goodness those were PEs and not conventional explosives, as the pressure wave would have annihilated both chambers.

But the heat wreaked havoc.

Electrical conduits severed and the lightbulbs burst with a blast of blue sparks. The PEs exhausted themselves in a mere few seconds, like magician’s flash paper, the room plunged into total darkness. He glanced up and caught the bitter waft of spent carbon, the once cool air now midday-warm.

“You okay?” he asked the boys.

Both said they were.

They’d all heard the scream.

“You did what you had to,” he said to Gary.

“He would have killed us,” Ian added.

But Gary remained silent.

A crack broke the silence. Like wood splintering, only louder, more pronounced. Then another. Followed by more. He tensed as a gnawing anticipation grew within him. He knew what was happening. The centuries-old bricks that made up the walls and ceiling of the adjacent chamber had just been subjected to heat intense enough to crack their surface. Couple that with the pressures of holding back tons of earth and it would not take much for all of it to give way.

Something crashed in the other room.

Hard and heavy.

Followed by another thud powerful enough to shake the floor.

Ceiling stone was raining down. Their chamber was okay, for the moment. But they needed to leave.

One problem.

Total darkness surrounded them.

He could not even see his hand in front of his eyes.

No way to know which way to go.

And little time to find out.

Kathleen tossed the gun onto the bridge and lunged for the metal door. She’d planted four rounds into the lock, obliterating it. Risky, considering the ricochets off the metal, but she’d had no choice. The door was equipped with no knob or handle, only the lock that kept it shut, an inserted key the way to ease it open once the tumblers were released.

But she had no key.

Another kick and the panel jarred loose enough from its jamb for her to curl her fingers inside and yank it outward. Two solid tugs and the mutilated lock gave way, the door bursting open.

She immediately noticed the odor. Carbon. Burnt. Just like from Henry VIII’s grave at Windsor. Spent percussion explosives.

Something had happened.

A passage stretched before her, everything in solid darkness. The only light was what leaked in from the river tunnel, which was barely illuminated by overhead grates.

She heard a crash.

A heavy mass slamming downward.

No choice on what to do.

“Ian? Gary? Malone?”

Malone heard Kathleen Richards.

She’d made it to them.

Elation and panic mingled within him.

More stone cascading downward drowned out Richards’ pleas. Then something smashed to pieces only a few feet away. The carnage was spreading and a toxic cloud of dust was enveloping them.

Breathing was difficult.

They had to go.

“We’re in here,” he called out. “Keep talking.”

Ian heard Richards, too, her voice far off, probably in the tunnel that led from the bridge.

“She’s back from where we came,” he said to Malone through the blackness.

More stone cracked to rubble only a few feet away.

“Everyone up,” Malone said. “Hold hands.”

He felt Gary’s grip in his.

“We’re in a chamber,” Malone called out. “Beyond the tunnel where you are.”

“I’ll count out,” Richards said. “Follow the voice.”

Gary held his father’s and Ian’s hands.

The chamber was collapsing, and the one in which Antrim had died was probably already gone. The air was stifling and all three of them struggled against fits of coughing, but it was next to impossible not to inhale dust.

His dad led the way and they found the steps.

Stone pounded the floor nearby and his father yanked him up the risers. He held on tight and guided Ian up with him.

He could hear a woman counting from a hundred.

Backward.

Malone focused on Richards’ voice, climbing the steps. His right hand groped the air ahead, looking for the doorway he recalled seeing, listening to the numbers.

“87. 86. 85.”

He moved right.

The voice grew fainter.

Back to the left. More rock crumbled to dust behind them as centuries-old engineering succumbed to gravity.

“83. 82. 81. 80.”

His hand found the doorway and he led them out.

The air was better here, breathing easier.

And nothing was falling.

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

“I’m here,” Richards said.

Directly ahead.

Not far.

He kept moving, each step cautious.

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

Good to know.

“Keep talking,” he said to Richards.

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

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

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

His hand found air.

And Richards.

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

They stepped through an exit.

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

He checked on Gary and Ian.

Both boys were fine.

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

He noticed something lying on the bridge behind her.

Robert Cecil’s journal.

Then he saw the gun.

And knew.

He lifted the weapon and snapped out the magazine.

Empty.

“You found Mathews?”

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

He knew the drill. No witnesses.

The son of a bitch.

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

Better not to say a word.

Same rule.

No witnesses.

But he wanted her to know something.

So he stared back and sent her a message.

Good job.

Sixty-three

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

Washington and London had come to an uneasy peace.

And neither side was happy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Operation King’s Deception was finished.

Only one last thing to do.

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

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

He nodded to the others that it was okay.

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

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

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

“It’s a gift,” he said.

“Is this amusing to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I pay her to tell people that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Rainbow Portrait,” McGuire said.

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

“Lots of symbolism here,” she said.

And he listened as she explained.

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

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

He noticed its distinct lack of color.

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

Impressive, he had to admit.

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

He caught the definitive use of the pronoun she.

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

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

He pointed to the words.

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

“Yet the rainbow has no color.”

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

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

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

“What now?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“And three more from our side.”

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

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

He agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did.

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

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

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

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

“I believe you have the last version.”

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

She tossed it into the flames.

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

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

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

“I’d like that. I really would.”

They shook hands.

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

And Ian a mother.

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

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

“That’s an excellent idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You would have done the same.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t stop being you. Go for it. With all you’ve got, and to hell with the rules.”

“I’m afraid it’s the only way I can do the job.”

“That’s what I want to hear.”

“But I still killed Mathews. I could have shot him in the leg. Taken him down.”

“We both know that wouldn’t have worked. The SOB deserved to die and, if given the opportunity, I would have done the same thing.”

She appraised him carefully. “I do believe you would have.”

“He recalled the last time he’d enountered Thomas Mathews. I told him once, seven years ago, that one day he’d press someone too far. And he finally did.”

She thanked him for all he’d done. “Maybe I’ll come over to Copenhagen one day and see you, too.”

Her eyes held the promise of more.

“Anytime,” he said. “Just let me know.”

They walked back to the others.

“We made quite a team,” he said to them. “Thanks for all your help.”

He watched as they left, walking back to the train station for their return trip to London. He and Gary were headed straight to Heathrow, a car waiting for them at the house’s main entrance, courtesy of Stephanie Nelle.

“You okay?” he asked Gary.

They hadn’t really discussed all that happened yesterday. And though Gary had not actually killed Antrim, he’d certainly allowed him to die.

“He was a bad man,” Gary said.

“In every way.”

The world swarmed with hacks, con men, and cardboard cutouts. Parents fought every way they could to shield their kids from each and every one. But here the truth had to be faced. He needed to say something.

“You’re my son, Gary. In every way. You always will be. Nothing has changed that, or ever will.”

“And you’re my dad. Nothing will ever change that, either.”

A chill swept through him.

“You got an earful yesterday,” he said.

“I needed to hear it. That was reality. Mom kept it from me for a long time. But the truth finally found me.”

“We now know why your mother kept Antrim to herself.”

Gary nodded. “I owe her an apology.”

“She’d appreciate that. She and I made a ton of mistakes a long time ago. It’s good to know that they’re all resolved now. Or at least I hope they are.”

“You’ll never hear me speak of this again. It’s done.”

“As it should be. But how about this one thing. Let’s keep what happened here to ourselves.”

His son smiled. “So Mom won’t kill you?”

“Something like that.”

Silence grew between them as they admired the gardens. Birds flitted across the grass in quest of tidbits. Thick trunks of mottled yellow and green bark cast a peaceful look. He recalled a story about the crumbling oak he could see in the distance. Where in November 1558 a twenty-five-year-old imposter dressed as the Princess Elizabeth, a role by that day he’d played for twelve years, was told of Queen Mary’s death. He’d been reading a book and glanced up from the page at hearing the news that he was now ruler of England.

His words were prophetic.

This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes.

The last two days flowed with a calm finality through his mind. Much had happened. Much was over. But as with the imposter that day in the garden, so much lay ahead.

He wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder.

“Let’s go home.”