by Steve Berry
Henry took a personal interest in FitzRoy’s upbringing. He was made lord high admiral of England, lord president of the Council to the North, warden of the marches towards Scotland, and lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Many believe that if Henry had died without a legitimate son there would have been a Henry IX in the form of FitzRoy, his illegitimacy be damned. An act made its way through Parliament that specifically disinherited Henry’s first legitimate born, Mary, and permitted the king to designate his successor, whether legitimate or not.
But fate altered that course.
FitzRoy died in 1536, eleven years before his father. The same tuberculosis that would eventually claim Henry’s second son, Edward, at fifteen stole the life from FitzRoy at seventeen. But not before FitzRoy married Mary Howard. She was the daughter of the second most senior noble in England, her grandfather the most senior. They were joined in 1533 when Mary was fourteen and FitzRoy fifteen.
Henry VIII’s older brother, Arthur, had died at age sixteen, never ascending to the throne. Henry always believed that too much sexual activity hastened his brother’s death, so he forbade FitzRoy and Mary from consummating their marriage until they were older. That command was ignored and Mary became pregnant, giving birth to a son in 1534. The child was raised in secret by the Howard family, far from London, his existence concealed from the king, who never knew he’d become a grandfather.
Gary listened as Miss Mary told them about the wayward grandchild.
“He resembled his father, FitzRoy, in many ways. Thin. Frail. Fair-skinned. Red-haired. But he acquired his constitution from the Howard side of the family. Unlike Tudor offspring, he was healthy. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the fate of Henry’s second daughter, Elizabeth. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, was also a Howard, through her mother. But Elizabeth inherited her father’s curse of early death and died when she was barely thirteen.”
“I thought Elizabeth was queen?” Gary asked.
Miss Mary shook her head. “Her illegitimate nephew, Henry FitzRoy’s son, assumed that honor in her place, after she died young.”
The door to the warehouse squeaked open and Antrim stepped inside, walking across to the tables and introducing himself to Ian and Miss Mary. They hadn’t met last night, Antrim’s men handling everything.
“You, young man,” Antrim said to Ian, “caused us a lot of problems.”
“In what way?” Miss Mary asked.
“He stole a flash drive that held some important information.”
“What could possibly be so important as to endanger a child’s life?”
“I didn’t realize his life was in danger.”
“He has been fleeing for the past month.”
“Which was his own fault, for stealing. But that isn’t a concern any longer. In fact, none of it is. This operation is over. We’re out of here.”
“It’s over?” Gary asked.
Antrim nodded. “The order I received is to close this down.”
“What happens to these treasures?” Miss Mary said. “That you stole.”
Antrim threw her a hard gaze before saying, “That’s not your concern, either.”
“And what about Mr. Malone and the other lady?” Miss Mary asked.
“What other lady?”
“The SOCA agent,” Ian said. “The one who shot up the bookstore when those men came to get the drive.”
“Malone didn’t mention the agent was a woman,” Antrim said. “And I’ve spoken to him twice.”
“Maybe he thought that information none of your concern,” Miss Mary said.
“Where is my dad?” Gary asked.
“Hampton Court.”
“Then she’s with him,” Ian said.
“Did she have a name?”
Miss Mary nodded. “She showed me her badge. Kathleen Richards.”
KATHLEEN GAVE THE MAN BLOCKING HER WAY NO TIME TO react, tackling him to the floor, then planting her knee in his groin.
He cried out in pain.
She sprang to her feet.
The gun was still nestled against her spine, beneath her coat. People around her looked on in surprise, some retreating, giving her space. She withdrew her SOCA badge and displayed it.
“Official matter. Leave him be.”
The man was still on the floor, writhing in pain.
A camera caught her eye.
Which was a problem.
She hustled through more baroque rooms, then turned and realized she was in a rear corner of the palace. A closed door to her right was marked EXIT, to be used only in an emergency.
This certainly qualified, so she yanked it open.
A stairway led down.
ANTRIM WAS STUNNED. HE HADN’T HEARD THAT NAME IN TEN years. Kathleen Richards was in the middle of this?
That could not be a coincidence.
“Describe this woman.”
From the sound of it, she hadn’t changed much.
“Malone and I saved the SOCA lady from the same men who tried to kill me,” Ian said. “They were going to kill her, too.”
“Tell me what you know.”
He listened as Ian Dunne recounted what had happened in Oxford Circus and since. At one point he interrupted and asked, “Do you know who those men were in the Bentley the night my man died?”
“The old guy was named Thomas Mathews. That’s what Malone called him when we saw him outside the bookstore last night.”
Another stunner.
Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
What in the world?
He listened to the rest of the story, and now he was panicked. What had seemed like a smooth ride out had just turned treacherous. Bad enough last night when Malone reported about a SOCA agent, but if his superiors learned that MI6 was directly involved there’s no telling what they would do. He’d definitely be abandoned. Left on his own. Subject to arrest.
Or worse.
He had to speak with Daedalus.
They wouldn’t want this to escalate.
Not at all.
MALONE AND TANYA REENTERED THE HAUNTED GALLERY, following the same threadbare runner, except they were now moving against the flow of traffic back toward the Great Hall.
They fled the gallery and passed back through the Watching Chamber, entering a connecting space that led left, into the Great Hall, and right down to ground level by way of a staircase. Antlers adorned the plain white walls. Tanya avoided the Great Hall and headed straight for the staircase.
“This way, Mr. Malone. It leads to the kitchens.”
He sidestepped more visitors.
A metal chain blocked the stairs with a sign that warned NO ENTRY, but they hopped over and started down.
One of the uniformed attendants stepped to the railing above and called out, “You cannot go there.”
“It’s quite all right,” Tanya said. “It’s just me.”
The attendant seemed to recognize her and waved them on.
“They are quite diligent,” Tanya said, as they continued to descend. “So many visitors every day. People like to take a wander. But it helps to have worked here for twenty years.”
He was grateful for both her presence and that he still carried the gun from earlier beneath his jacket.
They came to the ground floor and he heard footfalls behind them, on the risers, descending.
Surely the two fake cops.
“We must not dawdle,” Tanya said.
They exited through a door with no latch. Too bad. A simple dead bolt would have been wonderful. But this was surely a modern fire escape from the first floor, once the path where prepared food in the kitchens was transported up to the Great Hall.
A long, narrow corridor stretched in both directions.
Visitors milled about.
Tanya turned left, then right, and entered the Great Kitchen. He recalled what he could about this part of the palace. Over fifty rooms, three thousand square feet, once staffed by two hundred people. Two meals a day were provided from here to the 800 members o
f Henry VIII’s court. They were inside a spacious room with two hearths, a fire raging in each, the high ceilings and walls more whitewash. People were everywhere, snapping pictures, chattering, probably imagining themselves 500 years in the past.
“Come, Mr. Malone. This way.”
She led them through the kitchen, stopping at a doorway that opened into a covered courtyard.
“Have a quick look and see if our minders are there.”
He peered around the doorway’s edge, allowing more tourists to pass, and caught sight of one of the men in the same corridor they’d originally entered after the stairway. Tanya had led them on a U-shaped path back around to it.
“One of them is behind us,” she told him.
He turned and spotted the problem in the kitchen, who had not, as yet, seen them.
“Come on,” he said.
They crossed the courtyard and he saw the man farther down the long corridor, moving away, but the one behind them would soon be here.
“We need to enter that doorway,” Tanya said, pointing to the right side of the corridor, twenty feet away. If they hurried they could be inside before either man noticed.
“Why didn’t we just go there first?” he asked her.
“And be seen? They were right behind us. This provided a little confusion.”
He could not argue with that.
She scampered off with determined steps, disappearing inside the doorway.
He followed and quickly stepped down a short set of stone stairs to a brick floor into what once served as the palace’s wine cellar, the vaulted ceiling supported by three columns. Windows allowed sunlight to pour through. Huge wine casks, lying on their sides, lined the outer walls and filled the center space between the columns.
Tanya headed for the chamber’s rear and he spotted another set of steps that led down to a closed door. She descended and he saw an electronic lock, but she knew the code, punching it in, then beckoning him to follow.
The two men appeared behind them, at the entrance.
One reached beneath his jacket.
He knew what that meant.
So he reached faster and found his gun, firing one round to the right of the entranceway. The closed space and the stone walls amplified the shot to an explosion. People admiring the wine barrels winced, then realized he held a gun and panicked. He used the moment to hop down the steps and into the open doorway. Once inside, Tanya slammed the door.
“The electronic lock engaged,” she said. “Unless they know the combination, they won’t be following.”
His best guess was the men were MI6, working for Thomas Mathews, maybe with the help of the Metropolitan Police. But who knew. So involving local security was not an impossibility.
He studied where they were, a pitch-black space, the air dank and moldy.
He heard Tanya moving and suddenly a flashlight switched on.
“The staff keep them here,” she said.
“Where are we?”
“Why, in the sewers. Where else?”
KATHLEEN REACHED THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRWAY, BACK ON ground level. She exited into a long corridor, then immediately entered a narrow room identified as the Upper Orangery. The outer walls were one closely spaced window after another. Sunlight filled the chamber. People were here, too. Not as many as on the first floor, though.
If Thomas Mathews was on site, why wasn’t he helping?
Instead, Eva Pazan was after her undaunted. It would not take long for her pursuer to realize that her target had fled downward. She was unsure which side Pazan was on, but after her experience at the bookstore she decided to trust no one.
Just leave.
But not by one of the exits, as those were certainly being watched.
Past the windows she spotted the magnificent Privy Garden, which stretched from the palace to the river.
That seemed the way to go.
She stepped to one of the windows and noticed no alarms. And why would there be? There were hundreds of windows in the palace, the cost and logistics of wiring every one incalculable. Instead, motion sensors were the way, and she spotted them inside the orangery, positioned high to catch anyone who might enter through one of the windows.
But those would be deactivated during the day.
She surveyed the room and saw none of the uniformed staff. So she unlatched the pane and hoisted the bottom panel upward.
The drop down was maybe two meters.
A few of the people nearby gave her a stare.
She ignored them and climbed out.
Forty-one
IAN WANTED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT HENRY FITZROY. HE’D been fascinated by what Miss Mary had said.
“This bloke, FitzRoy, married at fifteen to a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“That was quite common at the time. Marriages among the privileged were not for love. They were for alliances and the acquisition of wealth. Henry VIII saw the marriage to a Howard as a way to cement his relationship with that rich, powerful family. At the time his son’s illegitimacy was not considered a problem, since Henry was so open in his affections.”
“What did Henry’s wife think about that?” Gary asked.
“She was not pleased. It created tension, and probably accounted for some of the miscarriages. Katherine of Aragon was, in many ways, a fragile woman.”
The American named Antrim had retreated into the office with the two other men. Though he’d just met the man, Ian sensed something not right about him. And he’d learned to trust his instincts. He’d immediately liked Miss Mary and Cotton Malone. Gary was okay, too, though the younger Malone had little idea how tough life could be. Ian had not known either his mother or his father, and probably never would. His aunt had tried to tell him about his family, but he’d been too young to understand and, after he left, too angry to care.
Gary had two fathers.
What was the problem?
He’d caught the caution in Miss Mary’s eyes as she challenged Antrim. She had a bad feeling, too. That was clear. Gary, though, was too absorbed in his own problem to think straight.
That was okay.
He could think for him.
After all, Malone had told him to look after Gary.
“Eventually,” Miss Mary said, “Henry VIII married a Howard, too. Her name was Katherine, and she became his fifth wife. Unfortunately, this Howard was promiscuous and the king had her head chopped off. The Howards never forgave Henry for that, nor did the king forgive them. The Howards began to fall from grace, no longer in favor. Mary Howard’s brother, Henry, the Earl of Surrey, was executed for treason, the last person Henry sent to the block before he died in January 1547.”
“How do you know all this?” Gary asked.
“She reads books,” Ian said.
Miss Mary smiled. “That I do. But this particular subject has always interested me. My sister, especially, is knowledgeable about the Tudors. It seems Mr. Antrim shares our interest.”
“He’s doing his job,” Gary said.
“Really? And what is his great interest in British history? The last I was aware, Great Britain and the United States were close allies. Why is it necessary to be spying here? Holed up in this warehouse? Why not just ask for what you want?”
“Spying is not always that easy. I know. My dad was one for a long time.”
“Your father seems like a decent man,” Miss Mary said. “And, I assure you, he is as perplexed by all of this as I am.”
ANTRIM WAS IN A PANIC.
MI6 had been involved with Farrow Curry’s murder? Which meant they were aware of Operation King’s Deception. Daedalus said they killed Curry. Which meant either they or Ian Dunne lied.
But which one?
And now Cotton Malone was at Hampton Court with Kathleen Richards?
What in the hell was she doing there?
He had to know, so he dispatched both of his agents to immediately find out what was happening.
He stared out into the warehouse to where the woman a
nd the two boys sat among the items that would shortly be destroyed. He was waiting for the call that confirmed Cotton Malone was dead. He’d tell the sad news to Gary himself. Pam would certainly then become involved, but he should be okay. Gary would not allow her to block him out a second time, and there’d be no other father to interfere. The thought of victory made him smile. He’d already alerted his investigator in Atlanta to step up surveillance. Taps on Pam’s phone lines could prove useful in the months ahead. Information was the intelligence operative’s greatest ally. The more the better. And with seven million dollars in the bank, there’d be no worries about financing.
But first things first.
Operation King’s Deception had to end.
As agreed.
GARY WAS BOTHERED BY MISS MARY’S CRITICISM OF ANTRIM. She had no right to say anything negative about him. And though her words seemed carefully chosen, he’d caught her meaning loud and clear.
Are you sure about this man?
As sure as he could be. At least Blake Antrim had not lied to him. Unlike his mother. And Antrim had not hurt his mother. Unlike his father. He still needed to speak with his mother. She wouldn’t like what was happening, but she’d have to accept it. If not, he would follow through on his threat and move to Denmark. Maybe his dad would be more understanding.
“Henry FitzRoy,” Miss Mary said, “and Mary Howard had a child. A boy. He was thirteen when his grandfather, Henry VIII, died in 1547. This boy was thin and pale, with red hair, like the Tudors. But strong and determined, like the Howards.”
“Is this what my dad is looking into?” Gary asked.
“I don’t know. I truly don’t.”
Gary had seen that Antrim was bothered by something. He’d quickly excused himself and hustled back to the office. A few minutes ago the two other agents left the building. Antrim was still inside the office. He needed to talk to him. Movement across the interior caught his attention.