The King's Deception_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  He tossed her a curious look. “I locked the doors myself.”

  “And were the doors reopened?”

  “Are you referring to the special event?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m referring to. Did everything perform brilliantly?”

  He nodded. “The doors were reopened at six, locked back at ten. No personnel were on site, as requested.”

  Improvise. Think. Don’t waste this opportunity.

  “We are having some … internal issues. There were problems. Not on your end. On ours. We’re trying to backtrack and trace the source.”

  “Oh, my. I was told that everything must be precise.”

  “By your supervisor?”

  “By the treasurer himself.”

  The Inns were run by benchers, senior members of the bar, usually judges. The senior bencher was the treasurer.

  “Of the Middle or Inner Temple?” she asked.

  The church sat on the dividing line between the two Inns’ respective land, each contributing to its upkeep. Southern pews were for the Inner Temple, northern pews accommodated the Middle.

  “Inner Temple. The treasurer was quite emphatic, as was the other man.”

  “That’s what I came to find out. Who was the other man?”

  “Quite distinguished. Older gentleman, with a cane. Sir Thomas Mathews.”

  MALONE LAID THE BOOK ON THE COUNTER. MORE CUSTOMERS wandered in through the front door and browsed the shelves.

  “They do come after the final curtain in the theaters, don’t they?” he said.

  “The only reason I stay open this late on weekends. I’ve found it to be quite worthwhile. Luckily, I am a bit of a night person.”

  He wasn’t sure what he was. Night. Morning. All day. It seemed he simply forced his mind to work whenever it had to. Right now, his body was still operating on Georgia time, five hours earlier, so he was okay.

  Miss Mary pointed to the book he held. “That was published in 1910. Bram Stoker worked for Sir Henry Irving, one of the great Victorian actors. Stoker managed the Lyceum Theatre, near the Strand, for Irving. He was also Irving’s personal assistant. Stoker penned most of his great works while in Irving’s employ, Dracula included. Stoker idolized Henry Irving. Many say the inspiration for the title character in Dracula came from Irving.”

  “I hadn’t heard that one.”

  She nodded. “It’s true. But in 1903, while searching for some land Irving might be interested in purchasing, Stoker came across an interesting legend. In the Cotswolds. Near Gloucestershire and the village of Bisley.”

  She opened the red volume to the table of contents.

  “Stoker became fascinated with hoaxes and pretenders. He said that ‘imposters, in one shape or another, are likely to flourish as long as human nature remains what it is and society shows itself ready to be gulled.’ So he wrote this account and detailed some of the more famous, and not so famous.”

  He studied the table of contents, which listed thirty-plus subjects scattered over nearly 300 pages. The Wandering Jew. Witches. Women as Men. The False Dauphin. Doctor Dee.

  “Stoker wrote four nonfiction books to go with his novels and short stories,” Miss Mary said. “He never quit his day job and worked for Irving right up to the great actor’s death in 1905. Stoker died in 1912. This book was published two years before that. When I read what was on that flash drive, I instantly thought of it.”

  She pointed to the last section noted in the table of contents, starting on page 283.

  The Bisley Boy.

  He carefully turned to the page and started reading. After only a few lines he glanced up and said, “This can’t be real.”

  “And why not, Mr. Malone?”

  KATHLEEN BID THE MASTER GOOD NIGHT AND LEFT THE INNS of Court. Both she and possibly Antrim had been led here. Then she’d been directed to Oxford.

  I am of the Inner Temple. A member fifty years.

  That was what Mathews had told her earlier.

  Then, at Oxford, about the Daedalus Society.

  The man who accosted you inside the chapel, we have dealt with his group before. They also confronted Blake Antrim earlier in the Temple Church.

  Yet it had been Mathews, through the treasurer of the Inner Temple, who’d arranged for the church’s use.

  Not some Daedalus Society.

  What was happening here?

  Her suspicions had turned to outright distrust.

  Her phone vibrated.

  She found the unit and noted the number.

  Mathews.

  “Are you back in London?” he asked.

  “As you ordered.”

  “Then proceed to a shop, on Regent Street and Piccadilly Square. Any Old Books. The American agent, Cotton Malone, is there, as may be the young man we are seeking, Ian Dunne. The flash drive could also be there.”

  “What about Antrim?”

  “Things have changed. Seems Mr. Antrim dispatched Malone to find Ian Dunne and the flash drive. Since Antrim clearly does not have the drive, I want you to make contact with Malone and acquire it. Do whatever you have to do in accomplishing that task. Make haste, though.”

  She wondered why.

  “Mr. Malone is about to find a spot of bother.”

  GARY WALKED WITH ANTRIM TO ANOTHER TABLE, WHERE A book rested beneath a glass lid, similar to one his mother used for cakes and pies.

  Antrim lifted off the cover. “We keep this one protected. It’s the whole ball of wax.”

  “Mr. Antrim, why—”

  “Call me Blake.”

  “My parents always tell me to address adults properly.”

  “Good advice, until the adult says otherwise.”

  He smiled. “I guess that’s okay.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  He wasn’t real comfortable with the switch to first names, but kept that to himself as he stared down at the old book.

  “This is a journal created by Robert Cecil, the most important man in England from 1598 to 1612. He served Queen Elizabeth I and James I as their chief minister. Go ahead. You can open it.”

  The gold-and-green pages, their edges dried and frayed, each one as brittle as a potato chip, contained line after line of handwritten symbols and letters.

  “There are 75,000 characters on 105 pages,” Antrim told him. “All in code. Indecipherable since 1612. But we were able to break it.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Things that may change history.”

  Antrim seemed proud of the accomplishment.

  “Was it tough to break?”

  “Modern computers helped, along with that stone on the floor over there you just saw. The symbols on it match the ones here and act as a translator. Thankfully, Cecil left it behind as a way to decipher the code.”

  “Seems like a waste of time then even writing it in code.”

  Antrim smiled. “That’s what we thought, too. Until we studied the personality of Robert Cecil. Your father mentioned some of that earlier. What he read on the flash drive. Knowing Cecil, though, it all makes sense.” Antrim pointed to the computers. “Lucky for us those are capable of breaking down ciphers far tougher than Cecil’s.”

  He studied the pages. “This book is four hundred years old?”

  “Every bit.”

  He wanted to know something else and mustered the courage to ask, “I remember that day in the mall back in the summertime. How do you know my mom?”

  “We were friends a long time ago. I knew her when she lived in Germany. When your dad was stationed there in the navy.”

  He knew little about his father’s navy days. Just the big picture—a fighter pilot, stationed around the world, who became a JAG lawyer. There was a plastic bin in the basement at home with uniforms, caps, and photographs. He’d rummaged through it once. Maybe he should do that again?

  “When we saw you at the mall, that was the first time you’d seen her since then?”

  Antrim nodded. “In sixteen years. I
moved on to other duty stations and they moved on, too. Never saw her again, until that day with you.”

  He glanced down at the journal and its coded pages.

  “Your mother ever talk about her time in Germany?” Antrim asked.

  He’d already done the math. Sixteen years was before he was born. He wanted to ask more questions. Maybe Blake Antrim knew the man his mother had been involved with?

  “All she said was that she and my dad had a rough time then. Both of them were seeing other people. You don’t know who my mom might have been seeing?”

  Antrim studied him with an intense gaze.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Twenty-seven

  QUEEN ELIZABETH, THE LAST OF THE HOUSE OF TUDOR, DIED unmarried. Since her death in 1603, there have been revolutions in England due to varying causes, but all more or less disruptive of family memories. The son of James I had his head cut off, and after the Commonwealth which followed, Charles II’s son James II, had to quit on the coming of William III, by invitation. After William’s death without issue, Anne, daughter of James II, reigned for a dozen years, and was succeeded by George I, descended through the female line from James I. His descendants still sit on the throne of England.

  There are quite sufficient indications throughout the early life of Queen Elizabeth that there was some secret which she kept religiously guarded. Various historians of the time have referred to it, and now and again in a way which is enlightening. In a letter to the Protector Somerset in 1549, when the Princess Elizabeth was 15, Sir Robert Tyrwhitt says:

  I do verily believe that there hath been some secret promise between my Lady, Mistress Ashley, and the Cofferer [Sir Thomas Parry] never to confess to death, and if it be so, it will never be gotten of her, unless by the King’s Majesty or else by your Grace.

  The place known to the great public as Bisley is quite other than that under present consideration. Bisley, the ground for rifle competitions, is in Surrey, thoughtfully placed in juxtaposition to an eminent cemetery. It bears every indication of newness, so far as any locality of old earth can be new. The most interesting spot in the whole district is the house Overcourt, which was once the manor-house of Bisley. It stands close to Bisley church from the grave-yard of which it is only separated by a wicket-gate. The title-deeds of this house, which is now in possession of the Gordon family show that it was a part of the dower of Queen Elizabeth. But the world went by it, and little by little the estate of which it was a portion changed hands; so that now the house remains almost as an entity. Naturally enough, the young Princess Elizabeth lived there for a time; and one can still see the room she occupied.

  One other thing must be distinctly borne in mind regarding Bisley in the first half of the sixteenth century; it was comparatively easy of access from London for those who wished to go there. A line drawn on the map will show that on the way as points d’appui, were Oxford and Cirencester, both of which were surrounded with good roads as became their importance as centres. The tradition is that the little Princess Elizabeth, during her childhood, was sent away with her governess for change of air to Bisley where the strong sweet air of the Cotswold Hills would brace her up. The healthy qualities of the place were known to her father and many others of those around her. Whilst she was at Overcourt, word was sent to her governess, Kate Ashley, that the king was coming to see his little daughter; but shortly before the time fixed, and whilst his arrival was expected at any hour, a frightful catastrophe happened. The child, who had been ailing in a new way, developed acute fever, and before steps could be taken even to arrange for her proper attendance and nursing, she died. Lady Ashley, the governess, feared to tell her father. Henry VIII had the sort of temper which did not make for the happiness of those around him. In her despair she, having hidden the body, rushed off to the village to try to find some other child whose person could be substituted for that of the dead princess so that the evil moment of disclosure of the sad fact might be delayed till after his Majesty’s departure. But the population was small and no girl child of any kind was available. The distracted woman then tried to find a living girl child who could be passed off for the princess, whose body could be hidden away for the time.

  Throughout the little village and its surroundings was to be found no girl child of an age reasonably suitable for the purpose required. More than ever distracted, for time was flying by, Lady Ashley determined to take the greater risk of a boy substitute, if a boy could be found. Happily for the poor woman’s safety, for her very life now hung in the balance, this venture was easy enough to begin. There was a boy available, and just such a boy as would suit the special purpose for which he was required, a boy well known to the governess. Moreover, he was a pretty boy as might have been expected from the circumstance. He was close at hand and available. So he was clothed in the dress of the dead child, they being of about equal stature; and when the King’s fore-rider appeared the poor overwrought governess was able to breathe freely.

  The visit passed off successfully. Henry suspected nothing; as the whole thing had happened so swiftly, there had been no antecedent anxiety. Elizabeth had been brought up in such dread of her father that he had not, at the rare intervals of his seeing her, been accustomed to any affectionate effusiveness on her part; and in his hurried visit he had no time for baseless conjecture.

  Then came the natural nemesis of such a deception. As the dead could not be brought back to life, and as the imperious monarch, who bore no thwarting of his wishes, was under the impression that he could count on his younger daughter as a pawn in the great game of political chess which he had entered on so deeply, those who by now must have been in the secret did not and could not dare to make disclosure. Fortunately those who must have been in such a secret, if there was one, were but few. If such a thing occurred in reality, three persons were necessarily involved in addition to the imposter himself: (1) Kate Ashley, (2) Thomas Parry, (3) the parent of the living child who replaced the dead one. For several valid reasons I have come to the conclusion that the crucial period by which the Bisley story must be tested is the year ending with July 1546. No other time either earlier or later would, so far as we know, have fulfilled the necessary conditions.

  Malone looked up at Miss Mary. “I’ve never heard this story before.”

  “It’s a tale that stayed close to the village of Bisley, until Bram Stoker discovered it. Maybe it is just a tale. But for centuries after Elizabeth I died, the annual May Day celebration in Bisley always included a young boy dressed in Elizabethan costume. Odd, wouldn’t you say, unless there was some truth there?”

  He really did not know what to say.

  “Don’t seem so shocked,” she said to him. “Imagine if it were true.”

  He was doing just that, trying to see how that fact would be meaningful enough—four hundred years later—that the CIA had mounted an operation directed specifically toward it.

  “When you think about it,” she said, “in the context of what is known about the first Elizabeth, it begins to make sense.”

  He was already recalling everything he knew about the last Tudor monarch.

  “She lived to be an old woman,” Miss Mary said, “yet never gave herself to a man. She knew her duty. To produce a male heir. She knew what her father went through to have a son. In her case, even a daughter would have sufficed. Yet she consciously chose not to have a child, and expressed that intent many times in public.”

  One particularly noteworthy statement came to mind, where the queen said she would not marry, even were they to give her the King of Spain’s son or find any other great prince.

  “We should talk about this more.”

  She reached into one of her pockets and handed him a folded scrap of paper. “My sister is the expert on all things Elizabethan. She could be far more help to you. I spoke with her earlier and she was fascinated by what I told her. She said she would welcome your call in the morning.”

  He accepted the offering.


  “She lives in East Molesey.”

  He’d pass the information on to Antrim. “Right now, I need Ian and that flash drive.”

  “He’s upstairs. He told me you would most likely be along before the day was through.” She motioned. “Around the shelves, to the right.”

  Some patrons left through the front door and a few more entered.

  He grabbed Stoker’s book. “May I?” He noted the price on a slip of paper inserted within the pages. “Two hundred pounds. Pricey.”

  “A bargain, actually. I’ve seen it for more.”

  “You take American Express?”

  She shook her head. “My gift from one bookseller to another. I’ll hold it for you behind the counter.”

  He thanked her and headed upstairs.

  His building in Copenhagen was also multistory. The ground floor housed the shop, the first and second were for storage of his overflow books, the top floor an apartment that, for the past year he’d called home. This place was similar except there were only three floors. He climbed to the top and found Ian inside a roomy flat.

  “Why’d you run?” he asked.

  The boy stood at a window, glancing out. “You have to see this.”

  He stepped over and glanced down.

  Two men stood across the street.

  “They came a minute ago, dropped off by car.”

  People hustled back and forth on the sidewalk, yet the duo never moved.

  “They don’t look right,” Ian said.

  He agreed.

  The two men crossed the street, heading straight below.

  Twenty-eight

  ANTRIM HAD BEEN WAITING FOR AN OPENING. SURE, THIS should be handled slowly and carefully, but he had to maximize the short amount of time he’d managed to snare. His only hope was that Gary Malone would demand more time. Thanks to the Georgia surveillance and wiretaps he had some idea what had happened between mother and son. But apparently, more significant face-to-face conversations had occurred for Gary to specifically ask about his mother’s sordid past.