The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella (14 page)

He could actually live a comfortable life there.

He stepped to the desk, unlocked the lower left drawer, and found the passbooks for the two foreign accounts. Upstairs in the bedroom safe was 50,000 pounds. Money he always kept on hand. He located the telephone directory and reached for the phone. A moment later a reservationist for British Airways came on the line and told him there was a flight to Caracas, Venezuela, leaving in five hours. From there he could grab a connection to Buenos Aires.

Perfect.

He booked a first-class ticket, then headed for the hallway and upstairs.

Before reaching the study doors, the panels swung inward.

Had his son returned?

He hadn’t the time to dawdle over more of his nonsense. But the figure in the doorway was that of a silver-haired man, clean-shaven, dressed in a three-piece suit, his right hand gripping a peculiar walking stick, the left holding a revolver.

Sir Thomas Mathews.

“I heard your conversation with the reservationist. Argentina is lovely this time of year.”

The spymaster blocked the doorway.

“Why haven’t you answered my calls?” Yourstone asked. “I’ve tried reaching you since yesterday.”

Mathews motioned with the gun. A sound suppressor extended the snout a few extra inches. “I thought we’d speak in person. Have a seat.”

He decided not to argue and retreated back across the room, sitting behind his desk.

Mathews casually examined the bookcases. “Your choice of reading is admirable. The classics, mythology, St. Augustine. Quite a variety.”

“My ancestors were well versed.”

The older man chuckled. “You aristocrats aggravate me so. I would rather deal with terrorists and fanatical avengers, like Peter Lyon, than the blue blood of old money.”

“You didn’t seem to mind using me for your purposes.”

“Quite right. I never minded a moment.”

It had been Mathews who’d provided nearly all of the surveillance information on Richard. The Secret Intelligence Service possessed resources no one could match. Monitoring mobile phone calls had been easy for them. Keeping tabs on Richard simple. Secrecy a matter of course.

“What are you holding there?” Mathews asked.

He displayed the bankbooks.

“I’m familiar with your offshore accounts. Money supposedly safely hidden behind aliases.”

He shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”

Mathews studied more of the leather volumes on the black wood shelves, and Yourstone used the moment to ease open one of the desk drawers.

Oiled ball bearings made not a sound.

The gun’s grip came into view.

Malone bypassed the town house’s front entrance. William had explained the building’s geography, so he knew Yourstone’s study was located on the ground floor, facing west.

He rounded the corner and headed for the rear.

A swish of leaves from the treetops, thanks to a stiff breeze, produced the only sound disturbing the chilly night. Not much car traffic here. He climbed a wrought-iron fence and threaded a path through a back garden, weaving among ranks of roses and clipped yews.

Movement caught his eye from an alcove.

A glass pane in a door window had been shattered, and lace curtains danced through the opening. He removed the gun from his belt and trotted to the porch. Approaching slowly, he could see through the curtains that the door led into a kitchen. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white tile. Bright lights highlighted an array of stainless-steel appliances. Splotches on the floor caught his gaze.

Blood.

He tried the knob.

Open.

He swung the door inward and stepped inside. Nobody was in sight. Not a sound, save for a soft whir from two refrigerators. Blood droplets formed a trail to a paneled door. He followed their lead and found a young man, in his late twenties, lying in a pantry that reeked of clove and garlic, his shirt stained red from a fatal chest wound.

William had also provided photographs of Yourstone’s son.

Andrew.

Here he was.

Dead.

Yourstone turned his attention away from the gun and kept his face a study in restraint, not wanting to telegraph any of what he was thinking. Mathews remained across the room, near a rack of antique hunting rifles. An 18th-century grandfather clock in the opposite corner ticked with a steady beat that began to unnerve him. Thank heaven for the whiskey, which was lessening his fear of this maniac.

“This effort failed because of your ego,” Mathews said.

“It seems it failed because of Cotton Malone. He was a step ahead of you throughout. Was he the one who tossed the homing device into the Thames? If you had bothered to get back to me with information about him earlier, we might have avoided all of this.”

“And what would you have done?”

“We’ll never know, now, will we?”

A smile formed on Mathews’ lips. “No. We won’t. And, yes, it was Malone who thwarted the missile.” The older man gestured with the gun. “How long has your family owned this town house?”

He wondered about the sudden change in topics, and the thought of a cat toying with a mouse flashed through his mind. But he simply answered, “Two hundred years. Yourstones have served this nation with distinction.”

“But alas, there will be no Yourstone on the throne.”

“It seems we are both to be denied.”

“It’s ironic,” Mathews said. “Three Richards have sat on the throne. All were failures. The first betrayed his father, then spent his life crusading and left the country to ruin. The second was overthrown and murdered. The last was a despot who killed his brother’s children and stole the throne, only to lose it on the battlefield. I shudder to think what havoc Richard IV will reek upon us.”

“So this was all about love of country?”

“Unlike you, my lord, I have no personal agenda. No profit or fame or fortune. No glory. My only interest is what is best for the United Kingdom.”

“And you were willing to kill Albert Saxe-Coburg?”

Mathews chuckled. “For someone who thinks himself so smart you are quite stupid. I had no intention of Albert dying. On the contrary, he should clearly be king. And you offered the perfect way to make that happen now. As did Cotton Malone. He stopped the missile and exposed Eleanor, which in turn exposes you. All of the conspiratorial rats taken down in one sweep. Richard will be his own downfall. He will never be king.”

“Nothing exists to stop that now.”

“Don’t be so sure. There are matters of which you have no knowledge. Be assured, he will not be crowned.”

Silence passed between them, and he was comforted by the sight of the gun, in the drawer, only inches away. Mathews moved away from the desk and momentarily turned his back on him.

He eased the drawer fully open.

Mathews turned and said, “Your son. I heard him earlier. Apparently there is no relationship there?”

“He is an inept fool.”

Mathews shrugged, as if agreeing. “My thoughts, too.”

Malone left the kitchen.

As best he could determine he was in the south wing of the irregular-shaped mansion. Yourstone’s study was west, at the other end, so he began to navigate the wide corridors. The rooms he passed were filled with fine furniture, paintings, tapestries, and ceramics. He passed through a dining room, lit only from lights in the hall, and stopped at the beginning of another long corridor.

Voices could be heard.

He crept down a carpet runner, gun drawn, and turned a corner. A small foyer opened before him and contained a settee and two tables. A magnificent crystal lamp burned brightly. A set of double doors were cocked open.

He heard the voices again.

One was Yourstone’s.

The other Thomas Mathews’.

Yourstone sat still in the chair.

“What of your son and Eleanor?” Mathews asked. “I take it they will make their own arrangements with the queen?”

“Royals always look after royals.”

“That they do. A shame you’re not a royal. Nor married to one.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Then go ahead,” Mathews said.

He started to rise from the chair and leave.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He settled back down.

“Go for the gun.”

He said nothing.

“It’s lying there. In the drawer. Reach for it. I want you to have a sporting chance.”

A cold clammy feeling surged through his body. His face must have betrayed the question that formed in his mind.
How did he know?

“I’ve been a spy a long time.”

Mathews’ pistol hung at his side, barrel pointed to the floor. Yourstone’s right arm shook. He needed to grip the gun and roll to the floor, using the desk for protection. It was his only chance. His gaze again darted to the drawer, but his hand remained glued to the armrest.

Sweat beaded on his brow.

Mathews stood five meters away.

He realized what he’d become.

Not longer an ally. Now a problem.

Yourstone lunged for the weapon and slid from the chair. But his hand never made it to the drawer, nor his body to the floor.

A bullet slammed into his chest.

The sensation was at once surprising, then horribly painful. Blood poured from the wound. He tried to ease the hemorrhage with a hand but blood oozed through his clenched fingers.

He stared at Thomas Mathews.

“So sorry. But this matter must end here.”

Mathews stepped to the desk and retrieved the passbooks. “Your money will be put to good use, though. Rest easy on that matter.”

And the last thing Yourstone saw was Mathews raise his weapon and fire once more.

Malone heard the distinctive pop of a sound-suppressed gun discharging twice. Thomas Mathews had surely just saved the British government the trouble of prosecuting Nigel Yourstone.

The double doors swung open.

Mathews stepped into the hall, holding a Glock 9mm with sound suppressor in one hand, two booklets in the other.

Malone stepped from the shadows and raised his weapon.

The spymaster halted, then slowly turned around. “I didn’t think you were dead.”

He and Professor Goulding had been flown directly to Reykjavik, the NATO pilot ordered to say they’d been lost in the wilderness. Goulding had been ensconced in a hotel and told to contact no one. Malone had been flown by U.S. military transport to a base in England, then made his way into London by car.