The King's Deception (39 page)

“What say you?”

I dropped to one knee and bowed my head. “I shall serve, as my father served, faithful and forever loyal.”

“Then it shall be, Lord Secretary. Together, we will keep England strong.”

“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.”

A
NTRIM EXITED THE
J
EWEL
H
OUSE 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.

G
ARY FLED THE
J
EWEL
H
OUSE
.

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.

M
ALONE KEPT HIS GAZE LOCKED ON
T
HOMAS
M
ATHEWS
.

“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.

K
ATHLEEN 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.

I
AN FOLLOWED
M
ISS
M
ARY 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.

I
BEGAN MY SERVICE TO THE QUEEN
A
UGUST
4, 1598. T
HOUGH
I
KNEW NOT
at the time, barely five years remained in her reign. The queen and I discussed the deception on a mere six occasions. Four of those were in the final months of her life. The first time was the most memorable
.

“Ask us what you want,” the queen said to me
.

I stood inside the bedchamber at Nonsuch. Henry VIII had built the palace as a place of fantasy. Unlike Henry’s first daughter, Mary, this queen had enjoyed it
.

“Your father was of great service to us,” the queen said. “Our success and longevity is thanks to him. It is our hope that you will also bring us good fortune.”

“That would be my only desire.”

“Then ask what you will and let us be done with this subject.”

We spoke for nearly two hours. The tale was one of amazing doing and dare. He was the grandson of Henry VIII, his father the bastard child of Elizabeth Blount, his mother a Howard, the daughter of a great lord. He had lived in obscurity, raised by the Howards, his existence unknown to any Tudor. He was but thirteen, innocent, highly educated, and taught from birth that he was special. But no chance existed of him ever being anything more than the son of a bastard. All titles and privileges which his father had enjoyed ended with his father’s death. Barely a year after that Jane Seymour gave the king a legitimate son and, thereafter, no Tudor cared a moment for Henry FitzRoy or any child he may have sired. But with the unexpected death of princess Elizabeth, and the appearance of Thomas Parry with a plan to substitute the grandson for the daughter, Mary Howard saw an opportunity
.