The King's Deception (6 page)

But there’d been nothing but bones.

Another failure.

And costly.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “The Brits will now be on alert. We abused their royal chapel.”

“It was a clean in and out. No witnesses. They’d never suspect us.”

“Do we know any more about how Curry died?”

A month had passed since Farrow Curry either fell or was pushed into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Ian Dunne had been there, picking Curry’s pocket, and had been seen holding a flash drive before assaulting a man, then fleeing the station. They needed to hear what the boy had to say, and they wanted that flash drive.

The rain continued to fall outside.

“You realize that this could all be legend,” Wells said. “Not a shred of truth to any of it.”

“So what was it Curry found? Why was he so excited?”

True, Curry had called a few hours before he died and reported a breakthrough. He was a CIA contract analyst with a degree in encryption, specifically assigned to King’s Deception. But with his sorry lack of progress over the past few months, Antrim had been leaning toward replacing him. The call changed that, and he’d sent a man to meet Curry at Oxford Circus, the two of them off to investigate whatever it was Curry had found. But they never connected. Murder? Suicide? Accident? Nobody knew. Could the flash drive Ian Dunne was seen holding provide answers?

He certainly hoped so.

“I’ll be here, in town, from this point on,” he told Wells.

Tonight he’d visit one of his favorite restaurants. His culinary skills were limited to microwave directions on a box, so he ate most meals out, choosing quality over economy. Maybe a particular waitress he knew would be on duty. If not, he’d give her a call. They’d enjoyed themselves several times in the past.

“I need to ask,” Wells said. “Why involve Cotton Malone in all of this? Seems unnecessary.”

“We can use all the help we can get.”

“He’s retired. I don’t see where he’d be an asset.”

“He can be.”

And that was all he intended to offer.

An exit opened a few feet away, the one he’d used to climb to the gallery. Another waited on the far side. “Stay here until I’m gone. No use being seen together down below.”

He traversed the circular walk, hugging the cathedral’s upper walls and came to the far side. Wells stood a hundred feet away, staring across at him. A placard beside the exit informed him that if he spoke softly into the wall, the words could be heard on the other side.

Hence, the Whispering Gallery.

He decided to give it a try. He faced the gray stone wall and murmured, “Make sure we don’t screw things up with Malone and Dunne.”

A wave confirmed that he’d been understood.

Wells disappeared into the archway. Antrim was about to do the same when a pop echoed across the still air.

Then a cry from the other side.

Another pop.

The cry became a moan.

He raced back across and glanced inside the exit, saw nothing, then advanced forward. A few steps down the circular way he found Wells on the stone steps, facedown, blood pouring from two wounds. He rolled him over and spotted a flicker of disbelief in the eyes.

Wells opened his mouth to speak.

“Hang in there,” Antrim said. “I’ll get help.”

Wells’ hand clutched his coat sleeve.

“Not … supposed to … happen.”

Then the body went limp.

He checked for a pulse. None.

Reality jarred him.

What the hell?

He heard footfalls below, receding away. He was unarmed. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Why would he? He started down the
259 steps, keeping watch, concerned that the shooter could be waiting around the next turn. He came to the bottom and carefully peered out into the nave, seeing only a handful of visitors. Across, in the far transept, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward the exit doors.

A man.

Who stopped, turned, and aimed his gun.

Antrim dove to the floor.

But no bullet came his way.

He sprang to his feet and saw the shooter flee out the exit doors.

He rushed ahead and pushed the bronze portal open.

Darkness had rolled in.

Rain continued to wash down.

He caught sight of the man, beyond the steps that led from the church, trotting away toward Fleet Street.

G
ARY
M
ALONE HAD BEEN WRESTLED FROM THE BRIDGE AND
forced back into the Mercedes. His hands had been tied behind his back, his head covered with a wool mask.

He was afraid. Who wouldn’t be? But he was even more concerned about his dad and what may have happened in that garage. He never should have run, but he’d followed his father’s order. He should have ignored Ian and stayed close by. Instead, Ian leaped off that bridge. Sure, he’d been told to jump, too. But what sane person would have done that? Norse tried and failed, the man, in his wet clothes, cursing all the way during the drive in the car.

Ian Dunne had guts, that he’d give him.

But so did he.

Yesterday he was home packing, his mind in turmoil. Two weeks ago his mother told him that the man he’d called dad all of his life was not his natural father. She’d explained what happened before he was born—an affair, a pregnancy—confessing to her mistake and apologizing. At first he’d accepted it and decided, what did it matter? His father was his father. But he quickly began to question that decision.

It
did
matter.

Who
was
he? Where did he come from? Where did he belong? With his mother, as a Malone? Or with someone else?

He had no idea.

But he wanted to know.

He didn’t have to return to school for another ten days, and was looking forward to a Thanksgiving holiday in Copenhagen, thousands of miles from Georgia. He had to get away.

At least for a while.

A swarm of bitter feelings had settled inside him that he was finding increasingly hard to control. He’d always been respectful, obeying his mother, not making any trouble, but her lies were weighing on him. She told him all the time to tell the truth.

So why hadn’t she?

“You ready?” his mother asked him before they’d left for the airport. “You’re off to England, I hear.”

His dad had explained they were going to make a stop in London and drop a boy named Ian Dunne off with the police, then catch a connecting plane for Copenhagen. He noticed her red, watery eyes. “You been crying?”

She nodded. “I don’t like it when you go. I miss you.”

“It’s just for the week.”

“I hope that’s all.”

He knew what she meant, a reference to their conversation from last week when, for the first time, he’d said he might want to live somewhere else
.

She bit her lip. “We can work this through, Gary.”

“Tell me who my birth father is.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“No. You won’t. There’s a difference.”

“I promised myself I would never have him part of our life. I made a mistake being with him, but not a mistake in having you.”

He’d heard that explanation before, but was finding it difficult to separate the two. Both were based on lies
.

“You knowing who that man is will change nothing,” she said, her voice cracking
.

“But I want to know. You lied to me all of my life. You knew the truth but told no one, not even Dad. I know he did bad things, too. There were other women. You told me. But he didn’t lie to me.”

His mother started crying. She was a lawyer who represented people in court. He’d watched her try a case once and saw firsthand how tough and smart she could be. He thought he might like to be a lawyer one day, too
.

“I’m fifteen,” he said to her. “I’m not a kid. I’m entitled to know it all. If you can’t tell me where I came from, then you and I have a problem.”

“So you’re going to leave and live in Denmark?” she asked
.

He decided to cut her no slack. “I might just do that.”

She stared at him through her tears. “I realize I messed up, Gary. It’s my fault. I take the blame.”

He wasn’t interested in blame. Only in ending the uncertainty that seemed to grow inside him by the day. He didn’t want to resent her—he loved her, she was his mother—but she wasn’t making this easy
.

“Spend some time with your dad,” she said, swiping away the tears. “Enjoy yourself.”

That he would.

He was tired of fighting.

His parents divorced over a year ago, right before his dad quit the Justice Department and moved overseas. Since then his mother had dated some, but not much. He’d always wondered why not more. But that was not a subject he was comfortable talking about with her.

Seemed her business, not his.

They lived in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He attended an excellent school. His grades were not extraordinary but above average. He played baseball and basketball. He hadn’t tried a cigarette or any drugs, though opportunities for both had come his way. He’d tasted beer, wine, and some hard liquor but wasn’t sure he liked any of them.

He was a good kid.

At least he thought so.

So why was he so mad?

He was now lying on a sofa, hands tied behind his back, head sheathed in the wool cap, only his mouth exposed. The drive in the Mercedes had taken about thirty minutes. He’d been warned that if he made a sound they would gag him.

So he stayed still.

Which helped his nerves.

He heard movement, but no voices, only the faint sound of chimes in the distance. Then someone came close and sat nearby.
He heard a crackle, like plastic being torn, then the sound of chewing.

He was a little hungry himself.

A smell caught his nostrils. Licorice. One of his favorites.

“You got any more of that?” he asked.

“Shut up, kid. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”

M
ALONE AWOKE WITH A POUNDING HEADACHE
. W
HAT WAS
supposed to have been a simple favor had evolved into a major problem.

He blinked his eyes and focused.

His fingers found dried blood and a nasty knot to his forehead. His neck was sore from Devene’s attack. His and Gary’s travel bags were opened, their clothes strewn across the mews, the plastic bag containing Ian’s personal items still there, its contents scattered about.

He pushed himself up, his legs stiff and tired.

Where was Gary?

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure they found Ian Dunne. Even more troubling was the reach of the information network possessed by whoever
they
were. Somebody in an official position had given Customs clearance to allow Ian into the country. Granted, Norse and his pal were imposters, but the person or persons who’d managed to bypass Britain’s passport laws were the genuine article.

Norse had demanded a flash drive from Ian.

He had to find Gary. He’d told the boys to run. Hopefully, they were nearby, waiting until all was clear to return.

But where were they?

He checked his watch. Best he could tell he’d been down about twenty minutes. He spotted his cell phone among his clothes. Should he call the police? Or maybe Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet? No. This was his problem. One call he would not be making was to Pam. The last thing he needed was for his ex-wife to know about this. Bad enough that he once risked his own ass on a daily basis.

But to involve Gary?

That would be unforgivable.

He surveyed the mews, noting yard equipment, a couple of gas cans, and a tool bench. Rain fell beyond the open doorway. He stared out to the wet drive that led to the tree-lined side street, expecting to see both boys appear.

He should gather his clothes.

The Metropolitan Police would have to be involved.

That was the smart play.

A noise caught his attention, at the hedges separating the mews from the property next door.

Somebody was pushing through.

The boys?

To be cautious, he decided to lie back down.

He pressed his cheek to the cool cobbles and closed his eyes, cracking his lids open just enough to see.

I
AN HAD HUGGED THE SIDE STREETS AND USED THE STORM
, trees, and the fences that fronted the stylish neighborhoods for cover. It took only a few minutes for him to find the courtyard where the Mercedes had first been parked. The mews door remained open, but the car was gone.

He glanced around.

No one seemed to be in any of the surrounding houses.

He stepped into the open garage and saw the contents of both Malones’ travel bags scattered across the pavement. In the dim interior
Malone lay sprawled near one wall. Ian crept over, knelt beside him, and heard labored breaths. He wanted to shake Malone awake and see if he was all right, but he hadn’t asked this man to get involved, and there was no need to involve him any further.