by Steve Berry
“You’re my son, Gary. In every way. You always will be. Nothing has changed that, or ever will.”
“And you’re my dad. Nothing will ever change that, either.”
A chill swept through him.
“You got an earful yesterday,” he said.
“I needed to hear it. That was reality. Mom kept it from me for a long time. But the truth finally found me.”
“We now know why your mother kept Antrim to herself.”
Gary nodded. “I owe her an apology.”
“She’d appreciate that. She and I made a ton of mistakes a long time ago. It’s good to know that they’re all resolved now. Or at least I hope they are.”
“You’ll never hear me speak of this again. It’s done.”
“As it should be. But how about this one thing. Let’s keep what happened here to ourselves.”
His son smiled. “So Mom won’t kill you?”
“Something like that.”
Silence grew between them as they admired the gardens. Birds flitted across the grass in quest of tidbits. Thick trunks of mottled yellow and green bark cast a peaceful look. He recalled a story about the crumbling oak he could see in the distance. Where in November 1558 a twenty-five-year-old imposter dressed as the Princess Elizabeth, a role by that day he’d played for twelve years, was told of Queen Mary’s death. He’d been reading a book and glanced up from the page at hearing the news that he was now ruler of England.
His words were prophetic.
This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes.
The last two days flowed with a calm finality through his mind. Much had happened. Much was over. But as with the imposter that day in the garden, so much lay ahead.
He wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder.
“Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
MALONE FINISHED HIS STORY.
An hour had passed.
Pam had sat at the table, in the quiet kitchen, and listened to every word, her eyes moistened with tears.
“I wondered why I never heard from Antrim again. I lived in fear, every day, that he would show up.”
He’d wanted to tell her all of this for some time. She should know the truth. But he and Gary had agreed to keep it to themselves.
“I learned why you suddenly decided to tell me the truth about Gary,” he said to her. “Antrim confronted you in that mall. He saw Gary and knew. He surely threatened to tell me himself. You had no choice.”
She said nothing for a time.
“It was bad that day in my office. He made it clear he wasn’t going away. I knew then you both had to know the truth. So I told you first.”
A call he would never forget.
“Gary was so different when he returned from you that Thanksgiving,” she said. “He apologized for the way he’d been. Said he was okay with everything. Told me that you and he had worked it all out. I was so relieved I didn’t question anything. I was just grateful that he was okay.”
“It was just that the ‘working out’ almost cost us.”
The concerned look on her face confirmed that she understood what he meant. Both of their lives had been in jeopardy.
“Blake was a terrible man,” she said. “When we were together, back in Germany, I just wanted to hurt you. To lash out. To make you feel the pain I felt from your betrayal. It could have been anybody. But stupid me chose him.”
“I might actually understand that, except you never told me that you had the affair. So how was I hurt? Instead, you only hurt yourself, then lived with the consequences inside you.”
And they both knew why that happened. She’d never been able to let go of the fact that he’d strayed. Outwardly, she forgave him. Inwardly, the shock of his cheating festered like a cancer. Occasionally it would rear its ugly head during an argument. Eventually, her lack of trust destroyed them both. Her confessing at the time that she had done the same thing might have changed all that. Maybe their marriage would have ended right then.
Or maybe not at all.
“My anger was so strong,” she said. “But I was nothing more than a liar and a hypocrite. Looking back, we really never had a chance to stay together.”
No, they hadn’t.
“Seeing Antrim that day in the mall brought it all back. The past had finally come to reclaim what it had lost.” She paused. “Gary.”
They sat in silence.
Here was a woman whom he’d once loved—whom in some ways he still loved. Only now they were less than lovers, but more than friends, each knowing the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Was that intimacy? Probably. At least partly. On the one hand it bred a measure of comfort. On the other, a level of fear.
“Blake attacked me the day I broke it off,” she said. “He’d always been aggressive. Had a temper. But that day he was violent, and what really scared me was the look in his eyes. Like he couldn’t help himself.”
“That’s the same thing Kathleen Richards described.”
Richards had called him a couple of months after everything happened and visited Copenhagen for a few memorable days. They emailed a little after that, then lost touch. He’d sometimes wondered what happened to her.
“I never wanted Gary to know that man. Ever. He meant nothing to me, and I wanted him to remain that way.”
“Gary saw firsthand what was important to Blake Antrim. He heard what Antrim really thought of him. I know it hurt, but it’s good he heard it. We both now understand why you kept him to yourself.”
“He’s your son all right,” she said. “Never once has he ever let on he knew anything about his birth father.”
He smiled. “He’d make a great agent one day. Let’s just hope that line of work doesn’t interest him.”
“Part of me hates that Gary saw Blake as he truly was. I don’t want him wondering all of his life if that’s what he’ll become.”
“He and I discussed that afterward, back in Copenhagen. I don’t think he has that worry. Like you said, he’s a Malone. In every way that matters.”
“Is Blake still there, in that underground chamber?”
He nodded. “His grave.”
Stephanie had told him that no gold star would be added to the wall at Langley. That honor was only for heroes.
“And the truth of Elizabeth I stays secret?”
“As it should. The world is not ready for that piece of history.”
He watched as she considered the enormity of all that had happened. He’d learned more of the story from talking to Gary, then to Stephanie a few weeks later. A confidential, cooperative investigation between the Justice Department and the British Home Department had revealed all of the details of Antrim’s and Mathews’ activities.
Quite an adventure from a simple favor.
“My flight to Denmark leaves in three hours.”
He’d come to the States on book-buying business and stopped off in Atlanta for a few days to visit with Gary. He’d never anticipated having the discussion they’d just had, but was glad everything was out in the open.
No more secrets lay between them.
“You can stop beating yourself up,” he said to her. “All of this is done, and has been for a long time.”
She started to cry.
Which was unusual.
Pam was tough. That was her problem—too tough. Combine that with his own inability to deal with emotions and they’d made for a challenging pair. Their marriage, which included much happiness, in the end failed. Finally now, after so many years, they both seemed to realize that placing blame mattered little. All that mattered was Gary.
They both stood from the table.
She stepped to the counter and tore off a couple of paper towels to deal with her tears. “I’m so sorry, Cotton. So sorry for all of this. I should have been honest with you a long time ago.”
True. But that was past, too.
“I almost got you killed. Hell, I almost got Gary killed.”
He shouldered
his travel bag and stepped to the door. “How about we call it even.”
She threw him a perplexed look. “How is that even possible?”
Asked that question three years ago he would have had no answer. But a lot had happened since he left Georgia and moved to Denmark. His life was so different, his priorities changed. Hating an ex-wife was not only meaningless but counterproductive. And, besides, he’d come to realize that he was half to blame for all the hurt anyway.
Better to let it go and move on.
So he threw her a smile and answered with the truth.
“Actually, we’re more than even. You gave me Gary.”
Writer’s Note
FOR THIS NOVEL TWO TRIPS WERE MADE TO ENGLAND, ONE OF them quite memorable as we were there when the Icelandic volcano grounded all air travel. Good use was made of those three extra days, though, as my wife, Elizabeth, and I scouted more locales that eventually made their way into the novel. For an interesting addition to the novel, check out my short story, “The Tudor Plot,” which takes place seven years before The King’s Deception.
Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.
The death scene of Henry VIII (prologue) happened, and most of the comments made by Henry are taken from historical accounts. The king died without his children present, but whether Katherine Parr visited him during his final days is unknown. Of course, Henry’s passing on of a great Tudor secret to his last queen was my invention. The death of Henry VII at Richmond Palace (chapter 10) is likewise faithfully recounted, except I added a visit from the heir. Sir Thomas Wriothesly’s description of what happened that day was most helpful.
Many refer to London’s Metropolitan Police as Scotland Yard, but I decided to utilize its proper label, “the Met.” That was likewise true with the Secret Intelligence Service, which is popularly known as MI6 (responsible for international threats). The Serious Organized Crime Agency (SOCA) (chapter 3) is a domestic law enforcement agency, Great Britain’s version of the FBI.
Windsor Castle and St. George’s Chapel are both magnificent. Henry VIII is buried there, beneath the marble slab as detailed in chapter 3. The epitaph quoted is accurate, as is the fact that Henry’s grave was opened in 1813.
Fleet Street and the City (chapter 9) are correctly described, as are the Inns of Court (chapter 10). Where the Middle and Inner Temples are now headquartered was once a major Templar stronghold. The land grant from Henry VIII and James I to the barristers happened (chapter 13). The Pump Court is also there, as is the Goldsmith house (chapter 58), though I slightly modified the house. The story recounted in chapter 10, of how the War of the Roses may have started in the gardens, is considered true. But nobody knows for sure. The Inns are governed by benchers, led by the treasurer (chapter 26), and act as both a training and governing body for their lawyer-members—similar to the role state bar associations play in the United States. The Middle Hall, featured in chapter 10, is perhaps the Inns’ most historic building, but the round Temple Church is its most recognizable (chapters 9 and 10). The Penitential Cell (chapter 12) inside the church can be visited. The Inns of Court are required, by royal decree, to maintain the Temple Church as a place of worship (chapter 13).
The Daedalus Society is not only Thomas Mathews’ creation but mine, too. However, the tale of Daedalus (chapter 12) is taken from mythology. Nonsuch palace once existed (chapter 25) and how it disappeared is likewise true. The symbols that were supposedly there (chapter 25) never existed but are based on the Copiale Cipher (an image of which appears in chapter 15). I merely adapted that 75,000-character German manuscript to this British story. Only recently has its array of abstract symbols, mixed with Greek and Roman letters, been fully deciphered.
There are many locales that make appearances. Brussels, with its Manneken Pis (chapter 2); Oxford and its many colleges (chapters 16 and 20); Portman Square and the Churchill Hotel (chapter 35); Piccadilly Circus and London’s theater district (chapter 25); Little Venice with its longboats and narrow canals (chapter 4); St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Whispering Gallery (chapter 5); Westminster Abbey and the chapel of Henry VII (chapter 36); Oxford Circus (chapter 8); and The Goring Hotel (chapter 54). The Tower of London is likewise an amazing site (chapter 17), which includes the Royal Jewel House (chapters 45 and 48). London does indeed sit atop a hundred miles of subterranean rivers, each enclosed within a maze of tunnels, the Fleet being the largest and most famous (chapters 58 and 59). The underground chamber described in chapter 59 is entirely my creation, though similar tunnels and chambers are found beneath London all the time.
The Tudor wealth described in chapter 15 existed. Henry VII amassed huge amounts of gold and silver that Henry VIII (through his closure of the abbeys) increased. The disappearance of all that wealth during the regency of the boy king, Edward VI, remains a mystery.
Jesus College, at Oxford, was founded during the time of Elizabeth I (chapter 16). Its great hall stands as depicted, including the queen’s portrait, which still hangs. The chapel and quad (chapter 18) are also faithfully described.
William and Robert Cecil (chapter 16) are historical characters. William’s close relationship with Elizabeth I, including his protection of her during the bloody reign of her sister, Mary, is well documented. William served Elizabeth as secretary of state until his death. His son Robert succeeded him. Both men played integral roles in Elizabeth’s long reign. Toward the end of his life, though, Robert’s popularity and effectiveness waned. The derogatory rhyme quoted in chapter 36, along with his nickname “the Fox,” are real. Robert Cecil’s journal, first mentioned in chapter 15, sprang from my imagination, but the vast majority of historical information contained within it is true (chapters 47 and 49). Robert Cecil personally supervised the interment of Elizabeth I and the subsequent construction of her tomb in Westminster (chapter 52). Burying Elizabeth with Mary was his idea, and he also composed the odd inscriptions that appear on the tomb’s exterior (chapter 36).
At the heart of this story is the all-too-real drama of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi (chapters 37 and 46), a former intelligence officer, convicted of 270 counts of murder for the 1988 bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. Afflicted with cancer, al-Megrahi was sent back to Libya in 2009 and eventually died in 2012. Both dates have been adjusted to accommodate Malone’s fictional world. Much controversy swirled around that so-called humanitarian act, the English playing a pivotal role by not interceding with the Scottish government. The United States strongly opposed the action, and to this day no one really knows the actual motivations behind its occurrence. Operation King’s Deception is totally fictitious, but the idea that the United States would seek sensitive information to coerce an ally is not beyond the realm of possibility.
Hampton Court is spectacular, and all of the scenes (chapters 37, 38, and 39) that take place there are faithful to the site. The Haunted Gallery exists, as do the Tudor portraits described in chapter 38. The Cumberland Suite, the gardens, docks, kitchens, golf course, and the tunnels beneath (chapter 42) all are there. Only the door in the wine cellar, leading to the former sewers, was my invention.
Blackfriars Abbey is long gone, but the Underground station described in chapters 56 and 57 remains. At the time this story takes place (two years ago) the station was being rebuilt, but the new facility is now complete. To my knowledge, percussion explosives, as described in chapters 3, 53, and 62, do not exist. I created them, combining the physical characteristics of several different types of reactants.
Elizabeth I was a wonderfully complex person. She never married and openly shirked her duty to provide a royal heir—both of which raise interesting questions. She was thin, unbeautiful, lonely, with nearly constant energy—totally opposite all of her siblings. The idiosyncrasies noted in chapter 49 (and at other points throughout the novel) are taken from historical accounts. Elizabeth refused to allow doctors to examine her, commanded that no autopsy would be performed, always wore heavy face makeup and wigs, donned unflattering clothing t
hat totally concealed her body, and allowed only a select few people close. Those included Kate Ashley, Thomas Parry, both Cecils, and Blanche Parry. If there was any conspiracy, these five individuals would have been at its heart.
The Mask of Youth (chapter 16) existed, so every drawing of Elizabeth must be called into question. Within the novel are five images. On the Part One page is a portrait created in 1546 when Elizabeth was 13 years old. This would have been about the time she supposedly died. This is a famous image, one of the few that exist showing the princess under the age of 25. No one knows, though, if it accurately depicts her. The Part Two page shows the Clopton Portrait from 1560. Elizabeth was 27 at the time, two years into her reign, and never looked less regal and confident. The features are noticeably nonfeminine. On the Part Three page is the Ermine Portrait, painted in 1585. This is an excellent example of the Mask of Youth. Elizabeth was 52 years old at its creation, but her face is that of a much younger woman. The same is true on the title page with the Rainbow Portrait, where Elizabeth was 70 years old but appears far younger. And, finally, on the Part Four page is the Darnley Portrait, painted from life in 1575. Interestingly, the crown and sceptre were placed on a side table, not held, suggesting that they were more props, than symbols of power. Once again, little about the face is feminine. The conclusions are inescapable. We simply have no idea what Elizabeth I looked like.
Elizabeth wanted her Scottish cousin James to succeed her. The Union of Crowns, which Robert Cecil spearheaded (chapter 16), is historical fact. Elizabeth’s quote—I will have no rascal to succeed me, and who should succeed me but a king—is often cited as authority for her wishes. Its oblique wording is odd. Why not just simply name a successor? But if the possibility that she may have been a fraud is considered, the odd phrasing begins to make more sense. Whether Elizabeth was actually aware of the plan of succession Robert Cecil hatched with James is unknown. But most historians agree that Cecil would have never made the overtures without her blessing. The deathbed scene described in chapter 16, where she supposedly made her succession wishes clear, happened—and in 1603 the English crown passed from the Tudors to the Stuarts with no objections.