The King's Deception (3 page)

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

Malone’s eyes surrendered to jet lag.

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

He then examined Norse.

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

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

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

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

“Just enjoy the ride, Malone.”

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

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

“This enough identification?” Norse asked.

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

No reply.

“Who are you?”

The gun waved at Ian. “His keeper.”

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

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

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

Ian said nothing.

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

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

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

Except his son was in the car, too.

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

The car continued through morning congestion.

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

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

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

Norse exited. Devene also climbed out.

Both rear doors were released from the outside.

“Get out,” Norse said.

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

Ian tried to bolt.

Norse slammed the boy hard into the car.

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

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

“What drive?” Malone asked.

“Shut him up,” Norse called out.

Devene jammed a fist into Malone’s gut.

“Dad,” Gary called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shoved himself through the open door.

Ian was running from the courtyard, toward the street.

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

He was tackled from behind.

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

A mistake.

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

The buildings around him winked in and out.

Blood trickled down his forehead and into his eye.

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

B
LAKE
A
NTRIM WAS NOT A FAN OF COCKY WOMEN
. H
E ENDURED
them, as the Central Intelligence Agency was loaded with wiseass females. But that did not mean he had to tolerate them once off the clock. If a team leader, responsible for nine agents scattered across England and Europe, could ever truly be on his own time.

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

She was excitable, discreet, and devoid of inhibition.

Ideal.

But not anymore.

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

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

Which irritated him even more.

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

And her smell.

Sweet lemons mixed with rosemary.

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

Which seemed his lot of late.

One failure after another.

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

Hence, the purpose of his unit.

Special counter
-operations.

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

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

She was playing with him.

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

And cheaters.

Like Denise.

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

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

And saw Denise.

With another man.

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

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

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

One last chance.

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

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

He stood to leave.

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

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

But not today.

He allowed her to drift close.

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

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

“You’re a lying whore.”

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

“Who was he?”

He relaxed his grip enough so she could speak.

“No one of your concern.”

“I. Don’t. Share.”

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

The truth of her words enraged him more.

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

“I heard no complaints from you.”

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

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

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

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

“But not enough to command me solely.”

He admired her courage.

Foolish. But still admirable.

He released his grip, then kissed her hard.

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

He ended the embrace.

Then kneed her in the gut.

Her breath spewed out in an explosive burst.

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

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

Her composure had vanished.

Excitement surged through him.

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

But her opinion no longer mattered.

So he left.

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

Besides, he’d left no marks.

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

Like Blake knew
.

Her doubts pleased him.

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

Pale blue carnations. Her favorite.

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

KING’S DECEPTION IS NOW TIMELINED
.
IF NO RESULTS IN NEXT 48 HOURS CEASE OPERATIONS AND EXIT
.

Not entirely unexpected.

Things had not been going right in England.