The King's Deception_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “Two and a half million pounds will be deposited within the hour into the account you provided earlier. Once your operation is officially over and the remaining evidence destroyed, the balance will be paid. We need that to happen within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “What about my other matter?”

  “Where is Cotton Malone?”

  He knew the answer, thanks to the call from Malone last night asking him to take custody of Ian Dunne and the bookstore owner. He hadn’t wanted to do either, but to keep Malone in the field he’d dispatched an agent to retrieve them.

  “He’s headed for Hampton Court.”

  Thirty-seven

  9:10 AM

  MALONE LOVED HAMPTON COURT. THE GARGANTUAN REDBRICK palace, perched on the Thames’ north bank, had stood for five hundred years. Once Templar land, then a possession of the Knights Hospitallers, the locale was eventually acquired by Thomas Wolsey, in 1514, at the peak of his power, just before he became archbishop of York, a cardinal, then lord high chancellor. But six years later Wolsey was falling from favor, unable to secure the divorce Henry VIII wanted from Katherine of Aragon. To placate the king, Wolsey gave Hampton Court to Henry.

  Malone loved that story. Especially how the move failed and Wolsey fell victim to the same cruelty he’d meted out onto others, eventually having the good sense to die before he could be beheaded. Henry, though, loved his gift and promptly expanded the palace to suit royal needs. Centuries later, Oliver Cromwell intended to sell it off for scrap but came to regard it as a welcome escape from the smoke and mists of London, so he lived there. The great architect Christopher Wren intended to raze it and build a new palace, but a lack of funds and the death of Mary II stymied his plan. Instead, Wren added a massive baroque annex that still sat in stark contrast to the original Tudor surroundings.

  Here, at a crook beside the slow-moving Thames, in a thousand-room palace reminiscent of a small village, the presence of Henry VIII could still be felt. The stone pinnacles, the walls of red brick embellished with blue patterns, the parapets, myriad chimneys—all were Tudor trademarks. Here Henry built his Great Hall and added an astronomical clock, elaborate gateways, and a tennis court, one of the first in England. He refashioned the kitchens and apartments and entertained foreign dignitaries with unmatched extravagance. His wives were deeply connected here, too. At Hampton Court, Katherine of Aragon was cloistered away, Anne Boleyn fell from grace, Jane Seymour gave birth to the heir then died, Anne of Cleves was divorced, Katherine Howard was arrested, and Katherine Parr was married.

  If any place was of the Tudors it was Hampton Court.

  He and Kathleen Richards had traveled by train the twenty miles from central London. Richards had wisely suggested that her car, parked not far from Miss Mary’s bookstore, could be either under surveillance or electronically tagged. The train offered anonymity and brought them to a station only a short walk from the palace, hundreds of others joining them on the trip. He’d made the call to Miss Mary’s sister, who worked at Hampton Court, and she suggested a meeting, on site, just after opening time.

  He was both perplexed and intrigued.

  Elizabeth I, queen of England 45 years, regarded as one of its greatest monarchs … a man?

  The thought was at first preposterous, but he reminded himself that both the CIA and British intelligence were keenly interested in the revelation.

  Why?

  Kathleen Richards was also more questions than answers. That Thomas Mathews wanted her dead was troubling on a number of levels. He agreed with her assessment that something was wrong with the “dead” professor at Jesus College, and how the shooter at the bookstore had not injured anyone with stray bullets. Theater? Maybe. He’d seen quite a bit of that during his time with Justice.

  But to what end?

  They followed a talkative crowd down a wide stone walk, through the main gate, and into a courtyard that led to another gate. Royalty had not lived here in two hundred years, and he knew the tale associated with the second gate. After Henry married Anne Boleyn he had her falcon crest and their initials entwined in a lover’s knot carved into its ceiling panels. Soon after Anne’s head was chopped off the king gave orders to remove all of the falcon crests and replace each A with a J for Jane Seymour, his new bride. In their rush to accomplish that task an A was missed, and still could be seen in the ceiling of the archway now above him.

  Entering the paved courtyard beyond, he glanced up at the astronomical clock. An ingenious device, with the earth at its center and the sun revolving around it. In addition to the time of day, its outer dials reflected the phases of the moon and the number of days since the New Year. Even more clever was its ability to tell the high water at London Bridge, vital information in Henry VIII’s time when the tides governed royal travel to and from the palace.

  “You described yourself perfectly, Mr. Malone.”

  He turned to see a woman strolling toward them. Miss Mary? The same slim figure, silver hair, and congenial smile. An identical face, too, with little makeup, only a touch of lipstick.

  “I see my sister did not mention we were twins.”

  “She left that detail out.”

  The resemblance between the sisters was uncanny, even down to the same mannerisms. She introduced herself as Tanya Carlton and told them both to call her by her first name.

  “I live just across the Thames. But I operate the gift shop inside the Clock Court.”

  Even their voices were identical.

  “I bet you two had some fun when you were young,” he said.

  She seemed to understand what he meant. “We still do, Mr. Malone. People have a difficult time telling us apart.”

  “You know why we’re here?” Richards asked.

  “Mary explained. She knows my interest with all things Tudor, especially Elizabeth.”

  “Is this real?” he asked.

  The older woman nodded. “It just might be.”

  KATHLEEN WAS CAREFUL NOT TO ALLOW HER INTEREST TO show. She assumed Mathews was somewhere nearby, watching. She’d acknowledged her consent back at the hotel, then sat quietly until Malone returned with three sheets that he’d printed in the Churchill’s business center.

  From the flash drive, he told her.

  But he’d not mentioned where the drive was located. She had to assume he was carrying it, but to ask would be foolish.

  Just be patient.

  And wait for an opportunity.

  ANTRIM WAS NOT HAPPY WITH HAVING IAN DUNNE AND THE bookstore owner around. They interfered with his time with Gary. He had only a few precious hours to make an impact and the fewer interruptions the better. But he could not have refused Malone’s request. He needed the ex-agent dead, and for that to happen he needed him in the field. If the price for that was two more joining the party, then so be it. He’d keep them all together a little while longer. Once he returned to the warehouse, he’d have the woman and Dunne taken back to the safe house.

  He’d left Westminster and stopped at a pub to grab a bite to eat. He’d also verified by phone that the one-half payment had in fact been deposited in a Luxembourg account. He was three and a half million dollars richer.

  And it felt great.

  Though it wasn’t yet 10:00 AM, he decided some lunch would be good. He placed an order for a burger and chips and sat in one of the empty booths. A television played behind the bar, set to the BBC. Its volume was down, but something on the screen caught his eye.

  A man.

  And a tag scrolled across the bottom.

  ABDELBASET AL-MEGRAHI SET TO BE RELEASED BY SCOTTISH AUTHORITIES.

  He spotted a TV remote on the bar, quickly stepped over and increased the volume. The attendant gave him a glance but he told him he wanted to hear what the reporter had to say.

  “… Scottish officials have confirmed that Libyan terrorist Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, will be sent back to Libya. Al-Megrahi has been diagnosed with terminal can
cer and, for humanitarian reasons, will be returned to Libya to live out his final days. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died that day, December 21, 1988, including eleven on the ground in Scotland. On hearing the news, relatives were shocked. No word, as yet, on Downing Street’s reaction. Sources close to the negotiations, ongoing with Libya, say that the release may come within the next few days. Reports of the release first came from Libya, confirmed by Edinburgh within hours. No one has, as yet, spoken publicly about the possibility, but no one has denied the reports, either. We will be following this closely and will provide additional reports, as they are obtained.”

  He muted the volume and returned to his booth.

  He knew the drill. A leak designed to gauge public reaction. The news would be allowed to simmer a few days, then more would be leaked. Done correctly, in just the right amounts, the story’s shock value would fade. Unless some groundswell of opposition rose, supported by a relentless media barrage, the story would eventually be forgotten as the world moved on to something else.

  Allowing the leak also announced one more thing.

  No turning back. Everyone was committed. The idea now was to get it done before anything could stop it. But what were the Brits receiving for their silence? Why allow it to happen? He still wanted to know the answer to that question, along with one other thing.

  What was happening at Hampton Court?

  Thirty-eight

  KATHLEEN WALKED WITH COTTON MALONE AND TANYA Carlton. They’d paid their admission and entered Hampton Court, along with a swarm of other visitors. Two days ago she was home in her flat wondering what to do with the rest of her life. Now she was a clandestine operative working against a retired American intelligence agent, trying to retrieve a flash drive.

  And all for a man who might have tried to kill her.

  It didn’t feel right, but she had little choice. Mathews’ invocation of country had worked. Though her mother was an American she’d always felt deeply English, and her entire career had been devoted to upholding the law. If her country needed her, then her path was clear.

  They were inside the Great Hall, another Tudor hammerbeam ceiling overhead. Magnificent tapestries draped the towering walls, a nearby guide explaining to a group that they were commissioned by Henry VIII and hung here then.

  “Henry built this room and entertained here,” Tanya said. “In his time the bare wood of the ceiling above would have been painted blue, red, and gold. What a sight that would have been.”

  They passed through what was identified as the Great Watching Chamber, where the Yeomen of the Guard were once stationed to control access to the king’s apartments. A narrow hall led to a gallery with cream- and olive-colored walls, broken by a chair rail, a threadbare carpet protecting the plank floor. One wall was lined with windows, the other with three paintings spaced between sets of closed doors. Tanya stopped before the center canvas, rectangular in shape, which depicted Henry and four other persons.

  “This is quite famous. It’s called The Family of Henry VIII. Henry is seated and, from his stout frame and face, it’s clear that this was painted late in his life. His third wife, Jane Seymour, stands to his left. His heir and son, Edward, to the right. To his far right is his legitimate firstborn, Mary. To his far left, his legitimate second-born, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s all imaginary,” Malone said. “Jane Seymour died at childbirth. She never lived to see Edward that old. He looks around seven or eight.”

  “Quite right. On both counts. This was painted, we think, around 1545. Maybe two years before Henry died. It’s a perfect example, though, of how the Tudors thought. This is a dynastic statement about Henry’s legacy. His son, standing next to him, embraced by one arm, is his legitimate heir. His third wife, long dead, still a part of his memory. His other two heirs far off to the side. Present, part of the legacy, but distant. Notice the clothing on Elizabeth and Mary. The jewelry they wear. Their hair, even their faces. Nearly identical. As if it were unimportant to distinguish them. What was important was his son, who takes center stage with the king.”

  “This is the Haunted Gallery,” Malone said, looking around.

  “You know this place?”

  “The chapel entrance is there, into the royal pew. Supposedly, when Katherine Howard was arrested for adultery she fled the guards and ran through here, into the chapel, where Henry was praying. She pleaded for mercy, but he ignored her and she was taken away and beheaded. Her ghost, dressed in white, is said to walk this hall.”

  Tanya smiled. “In far more practical terms, this was the place where courtiers would lie in wait to be seen by the king on his way to the chapel. But the tour guides love the ghost tale. I especially like the addition of the white gown. Of course, Queen Katherine was anything but pure.”

  “We need to know about what Miss Mary discussed with you,” Malone said.

  “I must say, I was fascinated by what she told me. Elizabeth was so different from Henry’s other children. None of them lived long, you know. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, miscarried several times before giving birth to Mary. Anne Boleyn the same, before producing Elizabeth. Edward, the son by Jane Seymour, died at fifteen. Henry also birthed several illegitimate children, none of whom ever reached age twenty.”

  “Mary, his firstborn, lived to be what—forty?” Malone asked.

  “Forty-two. But sickly all of her life. Elizabeth, though, died at seventy. Strong until the end. She even contracted smallpox here, at Hampton Court, nine months into her reign and recovered.”

  More people entered the Haunted Gallery. Tanya motioned for them to hug the windows and allow the visitors to pass.

  “It’s exciting to have people so interested in these matters. They are not often discussed.”

  “I can see why,” Malone said. “The subject matter is … bizarre.”

  “Blooming nuts,” Kathleen said. “That describes it better.”

  Tanya smiled.

  “Tell us what you know,” Malone said. “Please.”

  “Mary said you might be an impatient one. I can see that now.”

  “You spoke to your sister again last night?” Malone asked.

  “Oh, yes. She called to tell me what happened and that you had seen to her safety. That I appreciate, by the way.”

  More people passed them by.

  “Mary is the timid one. She runs her bookshop and keeps to herself. Neither one of us has ever been married, though mind you, there were opportunities for us both.”

  “Are books your passion, too?” Malone asked.

  She smiled. “I am half owner of Mary’s store.”

  “And Elizabeth I is a subject you’ve studied?”

  Tanya nodded. “In minute detail. I feel as if she is a close friend. It’s a shame that every written account that has survived describes her as not a womanly queen, but masculine in many ways. Did you know that she often spoke of herself as a man, dressing more in the style of her father or the lords of the time than the women? Once, at the baptism of a French princess, she chose a man as her proxy, which would have been unheard of then. When she died, no autopsy was allowed on her body. In fact, no one but a select few were permitted to touch her. During her life she refused to allow doctors to physically examine her. She was a thin, unbeautiful, lonely person with a nearly constant energy. Totally opposite of her siblings.”

  Kathleen pointed back to the painting on the wall. “She looks like a lovely young woman there.”

  “A fiction,” Tanya said. “No one sat for that painting. Henry’s likeness comes from a famous Holbein portrait that, at the time, hung in Whitehall Palace. As Mr. Malone correctly noted, Jane Seymour was long dead. The three children were almost never in the same locale. The painter drew from memory, or from sketches, or from other portraits. Elizabeth was rarely painted prior to assuming the throne. We have little to no idea what she looked like before age twenty-five.”

  She recalled what Eva Pazan had told her yesterday about the Mask of Youth. “
And what she looked like later in life is in question, too.”

  “Goodness, yes. In 1590 she decreed that she would be forever young. All other images of her were destroyed. Only a few have survived.”

  “So it’s possible that she may have died early in life,” Malone asked, “as Bram Stoker wrote?”

  “It would make sense. All of her siblings, save one, did. Elizabeth dying at age twelve or thirteen would be entirely consistent.”

  Kathleen wanted to ask about what it was that Bram Stoker wrote—Malone had failed to mention that nugget before—but knew better. The name was familiar. The author of Dracula. So she made a mental note to pass that information on to Mathews.

  Tanya motioned for them to leave the Haunted Gallery, which they did through a doorway that led into the baroque sections of the palace—commissioned, she noted, by William and Mary. The tenor and feel of everything changed. Tudor richness was replaced with 17th-century Georgian plainness. They entered a room identified as the Cumberland Suite, decorated with chairs of richly patterned velvet, gilt-wood mirrors, candlesticks, and ornate tables.

  “With George II, this was where his second son, William, the Duke of Cumberland, stayed. I’ve always loved these rooms. Colorful, with a playful feel.”

  Two windows opened from the outer wall and a pedimented alcove held a small bed covered in red silk. Baroque paintings in heavy frames hung from the walls.

  “Mary said that you read Bram Stoker’s chapter on the Bisley Boy,” Tanya said. “Stoker was the first, you know, to actually write about the legend. Interestingly, his observations were largely ignored.”

  Kathleen made a further note. That book was obviously important, too.

  “I brought something for you to see,” Tanya said. “From my own library.”

  The older woman produced a smartphone and handed it to Malone.

  “That’s an image from a page I made this morning. It’s an account from the day Elizabeth I died.”