The King's Deception (9 page)

“That you did. But let us be honest with each other. Your past does not include much heroism. Your service record is one of caution and deliberation. We have learned much about you, Mr. Antrim, and, I must say, none of it is impressive.”

“Your insults don’t bother me.”

“We will pay you,” one of the shadows said. “Five million pounds, deposited wherever you choose. Simply tell your superiors there was nothing to find.”

He did the math. Seven million dollars. His. For just walking away?

“We knew that offer would interest you,” the first voice said. “You own little and have saved nothing. At some point your usefulness to your employer will wane, if not already, and then what will you do?”

He stood in a pool of weak light, among the floor effigies, feeling defeated. Had that been the whole idea?

Rain continued to fall outside.

These men had chosen their play carefully and, he had to admit, the offer was tempting. He was fifty-two years old and had thought a lot lately about the rest of his life. Fifty-five was the usual age for operatives to leave, and living off a meager government pension had never seemed all that appealing.

Seven million dollars.

That
was appealing.

But it bothered him that these men knew his weakness.

“Think on it, Mr. Antrim,” the first voice said. “Think on it hard.”

“You can’t kill every agent of the U.S. government,” he felt compelled to say.

“That’s true. But, by paying you off, we will ensure that Operation King’s Deception fails, which means no more agents will be dispatched. You will report that failure and assume all blame. We believe this simpler and more effective than force. Lucky for us that someone negotiable, like yourself, is in charge.”

Another insult he allowed to pass.

“We want this over. And with your help, it will be.”

The shadow’s right hand rose, then flicked.

The man with the weapon surged forward.

A paralysis seized Antrim’s body and made him unable to react.

He heard a pop.

Something pierced his chest.

Sharp. Stinging.

His legs went limp.

And he dropped to the floor among the dead knights.

K
ATHLEEN PARKED HER CAR ON
T
UDOR
S
TREET
,
JUST OUTSIDE
the gate. On the card her supervisor had provided was written
MIDDLE TEMPLE HALL
, which stood within the old Temple grounds, part of the Inns of Court, where for 400 years London’s lawyers had thrived. Two of the great legal societies, the Middle Temple and Inner Temple were headquartered here, their presence dating back to the time of Henry VIII. Dickens himself had been a Middle Templar, and she’d always liked what he’d written about life inside the Inn walls.

Who enters here leaves noise behind
.

The sight of Henry’s bones still bothered her. Never had she thought that she’d be privy to such a thing. Who would have burglarized that tomb? Bold, whoever they were, since security within Windsor Castle was extensive. And why? What did they think was there? All of these questions had weighed on her mind as she drove back into London, eager to know what awaited her at Middle Temple Hall.

The rain came in spurts, her short brown hair dry from earlier but once again being doused by a steady mist. No one manned the vehicle gate, the car park beyond empty. Nearly 7:30
PM
and the Friday workday was over at the Inns of Court.

Hers, though, appeared to be only just beginning.

She crossed the famous King’s Bench Walk and passed among a cluster of redbrick buildings, every window dark, entering the courtyard before the famous Temple Church. She hustled toward the cloister at the far end, crossing another brick lane and finding Middle Hall. A sign out front proclaimed
CLOSED TO VISITORS
, but she ignored its warning and opened the doors.

The lit space within stretched thirty meters long and half that wide, topped by a double hammerbeam roof, its oak joists, she knew, 900 years old. The towering windows lining both sides were adorned with suits of armor and heraldic memorials to former Middle Templars. Along with Dickens, Sir Walter Raleigh, William Blackstone, Edmund Burke, and John Marston were all once members. Four long rows of oak tables, lined with chairs packed close together, ran parallel from one end to the other. At the far end beneath five massive oil paintings stretched the ancients table, where the eight most senior barristers had eaten since the 16th century. The portraits above had not changed in two hundred years. Charles I, James II, William III, Charles II, Queen Anne, and, to the left, hidden from view until farther inside, Elizabeth I.

At the far end a man appeared.

He was short, early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was so immaculately coiffed it almost demanded to be ruffled. As he came close she saw that thick, steel-rimmed glasses not only hid his eyes but erased the natural symmetry of his blank features. He wore a stylish, dark suit with a waistcoat, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. He walked dragging a stiff right leg, aided by a cane. Though she’d never met him, she knew who he was.

Sir Thomas Mathews.

Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Only 16 men had ever led that agency, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the beginning of the 20th century. Americans liked to call it MI6, a tag attached during World War II.

She stood on the oak plank floor, not quite knowing what to say or do.

“I understand you are a member of the Middle Temple,” he said to her, his voice low and throaty.

She nodded, catching the cockney accent in his vowels. “After I studied law at Oxford, I was granted membership. I ate many a meal in this hall.”

“Then you decided enforcing the law would be more intriguing than interpreting it?”

“Something like that. I enjoy my job.”

He pointed a thin finger at her. “I am familiar with what you did a couple of years ago with the fish.”

She recalled the batches of tropical fish, imported from Colombia and Costa Rica to be sold in British pet stores. Smugglers had dissolved cocaine in small plastic bags, which hung invisibly as they floated with the fish.

But she’d found the ruse.

“Quite clever on your part, discovering that scheme,” he said. “How unfortunate that your career is now in jeopardy.”

She said nothing.

“Frankly, I can sympathize with your superiors. Agents who refuse to show good judgment eventually get themselves, or someone else, killed.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve been insulted enough for one evening.”

“Are you always so forward?”

“As you mentioned, my job is probably gone. What would be gained by being coy?”

“Perhaps my support in saving your career.”

That was unexpected. So she asked, “Then, could you tell me what you want?”

Mathews motioned with his walking stick. “When was the last time you were here, in Middle Hall.”

She thought back. It had been almost a year. A garden party for a friend who’d attainted the rank of bencher, one of the select few who governed the Middle Temple.

“Not in a long time,” she said.

“I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, all
stood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”

“Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”

Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”

She maintained a stiff face.

“May I tell you a story?”

P
RINCE
H
ENRY ENTERED THE
P
RIVY
C
HAMBER AT
R
ICHMOND
P
ALACE
. He’d been summoned from Westminster by his father, King Henry VII, and told to come at once. Not an unusual request, considering the odd relationship they’d forged over the past seven years, ever since his brother, Arthur, died and he became heir to the throne. There’d been many summonses, most to either instill or extract a lesson. His father was desperate to know that his kingdom would be safe in the hands of his second son
.

The king lay upon a cloth of scarlet and gold, amid pillows, cushions, and bolsters. Tonsured clerics, physicians, and courtesans surrounded the canopy on three sides. The sight shocked him. He’d known of previous illnesses. First a throat infection, then rheumatic fever, chronic fatigue, loss of appetite, and bouts of depression. But he’d not been informed of this latest affliction, one that appeared quite serious
.

A confessor stood near the foot of the bed, administering last rites, anointing the bare feet with holy oil. A crucifix was brought close to his father’s lips, which was kissed, then he heard the raspy voice that had so many times chastised him
.

“With all his might and power, I call on the Lord for a merciful death.”

He stared at the crafty and calculating man who’d ruled England for twenty-three years. Henry VII had not inherited his crown. Instead, he’d won it on the battlefield, defeating the despicable Richard III at Bosworth Field, ending the time of the Yorks and Lancasters, and creating a new dynasty
.

The Tudors
.

His father motioned for him to approach. “Death is an enemy who cannot be bought off or deceived. No money or treachery has any effect. For me, finally, death has presented itself.”

He did not know what to say. Experience had taught him that silence worked best. He was the second son, the Duke of York, never intended to be king. That duty was for his older brother, Arthur, his romantic name an effort to further legitimize
the Tudor claim to the English throne. Every privilege had been extended to Arthur, including a marriage to the stately Katherine of Aragon, part of a treaty with Spain that solidified England’s growing European position. But Arthur died five months into the marriage, barely sixteen years old, and much had changed in the ensuing seven years
.

The Borgia pope Alexander was dead. Pius III lasted only twenty-six days in Peter’s chair. Julius II, boasting that he owned the Sacred College of Cardinals, had been elected God’s vicar. Such a man would listen to reason and, the day after Christmas 1503, at the request of Henry VII, the pope issued a bull of dispensation against the incest of Katherine of Aragon marrying her dead husband’s brother
.

So he and Katherine had been betrothed
.

But no marriage occurred
.

Instead, the dying king in the bed before him had used its possibility as bait with Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, dangling it to obtain more
.

“We must speak,” his father said. The throat rattled with each word, lungs gasping for breath. “Your mother, whom I will soon see, held you in great esteem.”

And he’d adored Elizabeth of York. As he was the second son, his mother had actually raised him, teaching him to read and write and think. A beautiful, gentle woman, she died six years ago, not quite a year after her eldest, Arthur. He’d often wondered if any woman would ever measure up to her perfection
.

“I loved your mother more than anyone on this earth,” his father said. “Many may not believe that. But it is true.”

Henry’s ears always stayed with his feet—on the ground. He listened to the everyday talk and knew that his father—firm, frigid, hard, tight-hearted and tight-handed—was not popular. His father considered England his, as he alone had won it on the battlefield. The nation owed him. And he’d amassed massive revenues from his many estates, most confiscated from those who’d initially opposed him. He understood the value of extortion and the benefit of benevolences from those who could afford to pay for the privileges they enjoyed—thanks to him
.

“We are Christians, my son, and we must have consciences even more tender than the Holy Father himself. Remember that.”

More lessons? He was eighteen years old—tall, stocky, powerful of limb and chest, a man in every way—and tired of being taught. He was a scholar, a poet, a musician. He knew how to choose and use men of ability, and he surrounded himself with those of great intellect. He never shied from pleasure and never neglected his work or duties. He was unafraid of failure
.

He once desired to be a priest
.

Now he would be king
.

He’d sensed the recent air of tension and repentance throughout the palace—death was always a time of royal contrition. There’d be a releasing of prisoners, alms distributed, masses paid for souls. The chancery office at Westminster would fill with people willing to pay for a final pardon. Forgiving times—in more ways than one
.

“Blast you hard-hearted brat,” his father suddenly said. “Do you hear me?”

He trembled at his rage, a familiar reflex, and returned his attention to the bed. “I hear you.”

“All of you be gone,” his father commanded
.

And those around the bed fled the chamber
.

Only father and son remained
.

“There is a secret you must know,” his father said. “Something about which I have never spoken to you.”

A faraway look crossed his father’s face
.

“You shall inherit from me a kingdom rich in wealth and bounty. But I learned long ago never to place my trust entirely with others. You must do likewise. Let others believe you trust them, but trust only yourself. I have amassed a separate wealth, rightfully belonging only to Tudor blood.”

Indeed?

“This I have secreted away, in a place long ago known to the Templars.”

He’d not heard that order’s name in some time. Once they’d been a presence in England, but they were gone now two hundred years. Their churches and compounds remained, scattered in all parts, and he’d visited several. Which one held the secret?