The King's Deception (49 page)

Then peered inside.

I
AN LED THE WAY DOWN THE TUNNEL
, G
ARY 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.

A
NTRIM STARED INTO THE SARCOPHAGUS
. N
OTHING 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.”

M
ALONE LISTENED TO THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN
A
NTRIM
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.”

G
ARY HEARD WHAT
M
ATHEWS 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.”

M
ALONE STARED AT BOTH
M
ATHEWS AND
A
NTRIM
,
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.