“Of course. I—well, we haven’t seen each other in a while, angel. That’s all.”
“I’ll call you soon?”
“Great. And Kate?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Be careful, okay? I—” Her father’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “Well, it’s just that I miss you.”
“Me, too, Dad.”
As Kate hung up, she bit her lip, curious why her father sounded so uncharacteristically emotional and, more so, why he seemed relieved to hear that she was leaving town. She looked at her watch, then up at Jack. “I have to run. But thanks for coming out here like this.”
“Anytime,” he said with a smile. “So, when these cases are done, how about taking a trip with me? Somewhere new…go hiking to Incan ruins or something.”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Kissing his cheek, Kate thanked him once more, then headed back to the tram station.
Jack remained on the shore of Roosevelt Island watching the cable car cruise back to Manhattan. Its interior was well lit, and he could see Kate standing near the window. He was worried about her. Sipping the coffee she’d given him, he wondered who had sent her the malicious note, what kind of vendetta the person could have, and whether he or she was finished or had something else in store for her.
While Kate disappeared onto the opposite shore, Jack also wondered how she would react if he ever told her that he’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember.
Just off Sixtieth Street, at the helipad overlooking the East River and Roosevelt Island, Kate walked toward the Slade Group helicopter. She saw Max in the pilot seat, as she’d expected, but was surprised to see two other men in back.
Climbing inside, she could tell instantly that they were a couple of Slade’s former Special Forces or CIA paramilitary operatives. They were dressed like ordinary civilians, but the way they sat, the way their eyes moved, what Kate could sense of the bodies beneath their clothing, the absolute confidence they exuded—it was unmistakable.
“Hi,” she said, wondering where they were headed, what kind of operation Slade was orchestrating overseas.
Both nodded at her.
“Have a seat,” Max said, handing her a headset. “We’re late.”
She turned to the men in the backseat. “I thought I’d have to make conversation with this fool the whole time,” she joked, nodding her head toward Max. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Sure is,” one of them said, grinning as Max tugged on a fistful of her hair. “I’m Jason, and this is…”
“Connor,” the taller one said. “And you’re…”
“Kate,” she responded, shaking their hands.
Flicking switches, Max started the chopper. The engine hummed, the lights came on, and the rotor blades whipped around, getting faster and louder by the second.
Glancing into the night sky as they rose from the ground, Kate was grateful she’d remembered to scan the pages ofThe Anatomy of Secrets into her laptop. She knew she’d need an absorbing distraction as soon as she was alone. Peaceful sleep was not in the cards for her that night.
12
As for myself, I walk abroad a-nights,
And kill sick people groaning under walls.
Sometimes I go about and poison wells…
But tell me now, how hast thou spent thy time?
—BARABAS,in Marlowe’sThe Jew of Malta
…I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
—AARON,in Shakespeare’sTitus Andronicus
CHISLEHURST, KENT—EARLY MORNING, MAY1593
Kit.”
No response.
Thomas Walsingham, the thirty-year-old cousin of the deceased spymaster Sir Francis, approached the four-poster oak bed in his guest room and pulled back the red curtain.
“Kit.”
The large shape under the linen sheet failed to stir.
Tom leaned in to nudge what looked like a shoulder. The shoulder gave way, then slowly returned to its former position. “The queen is really a man in disguise.”
Gripped tightly by two sets of fingers, the sheet flew down.
Marlowe stared up at his old friend in shock, momentarily gullible as he sailed the last few yards out of dreamland. Seeing Tom’s smug grin, Marlowe’s wide eyes narrowed into a scowl. “Damn, that would’ve been good.”
“Join me for breakfast?”
“Yes, sir,” Marlowe said resolutely, scampering from his bed like an eager schoolboy. The two friends had met at Cambridge and remained close during Tom’s brief run in the service, and now Tom was one of Marlowe’s literary patrons. Marlowe frequently addressed him with mock subservience. In his mind, the joke had yet to wear thin.
Following him from the timber and stone house, Marlowe breathed deeply, relishing the pleasant fragrance—clean, country air scented with primroses. A refreshing contrast to the rancid odors of London. Crossing the drawbridge that spanned the swan-filled moat, they headed toward a table beneath an old willow at the edge of a pear orchard.
Gesturing to the pewter pitcher and mugs on the table, Tom said, “Perry from last year’s crop…truly exquisite. Perhaps it might get you in the mood.”
“God’s nightgown, I’ve been trying,” Marlowe muttered, drinking some of the pear-based liquor.
“How about resurrecting Barabas? He deserves another run.”
“I know. A shame someone else has done it for me.”
“Someone else? Oh, you mean…what’s his name? That rustic up-start writing sugared sonnets to the Earl of Southampton?”
“Mmm-hmm. Will Shakespeare. If you ask me, hisRichard III should be calledBarabas II.”
“Is it any good?” Tom asked. “Perhaps I should meet him.”
Marlowe scowled.
“A joke, Kit. So do you know him?”
“Will was writing for Lord Strange’s Men last year, too. I gave him a few pointers with hisHenry VI plays.” With a wry smile, Marlowe added, “I’d no idea he would go on accepting my help long after I had finished giving it.”
“You mind?”
Marlowe shrugged. “Not much. No one forgets an original. But imitations?”
“Forgotten faster than a drunken roll in the hay,” Tom agreed.
“I hear he’s got yet another new play along the same lines.Titus Andronicus. Claims it has a villain to top Barabas, that audiences will be breathless, cup-shotten with delight.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Imagine that. Boasting he can best the cleverest quill in town.”
“You’ve got to be impressed, though. I can’t help but admire a man who will take on a challenge of suchtremendous magnitude.”
Tom grinned.
“As it happens, it’s a poem I should like to write this time.”
“Any ideas?” Tom asked.
Marlowe slumped in his chair. “Still nothing.” Then, tilting his face to the sky, he lamented, “Where are you when I need you?”
“Perhaps she needed a nap.”
“My muse?”
Tom nodded.
Marlowe picked up their empty metal cups and clanged them together three times. Then he set them back on the table and covered his eyes with his hands.
After a moment Tom asked, “Any luck?”
“No. Seems she’s a heavy sleeper.”
DEPTFORD—MIDMORNING
For several hours, Marlowe had been poking his nose around the inns and taverns lining Deptford Strand. He was looking for Lee Anderson, the Muscovy sailor Fitz Fat had mentioned the day before. Anderson was in trouble. Without papers he could be arrested and jailed for vagrancy at any time. But Marlowe was just the person to help…for a price.
After the sixteenth establishment, he lost his patience and headed back to the Cardinal’s Hat. Ambrosia came over and took his order.
Hearing footsteps approac
h moments later, Marlowe looked up, expecting to see Ambrosia with his drink. Instead he saw the familiar face of Nicholas Skeres, a fellow spy from Francis Walsingham’s old network, also currently working for the Earl of Essex. Thin and blond, Skeres was Marlowe’s age but had the receding hairline of a man twice their years.
“What brings you downriver, Nick?” Marlowe asked. A Londoner, Skeres had an expensive home in Blackfriars near London Bridge.
“Business. A big deal.”
Marlowe rolled his eyes. He knew that Skeres meant some kind of dirty trick. The man was a known cony-catcher. He duped the naïve out of dozens of pounds whenever he had the chance. “What is it this time?”
“Commodity brokering.”
“I should have guessed.” By law, moneylenders could charge no more than ten percent in interest, so commodity brokering was a favored way for swindlers to double their money. Such a broker would find someone in need of a loan, promise money, and extract a signed bond for the amount in question. Then the broker would claim not to have any money and offer a commodity instead, a commodity worth far less than the amount written on the bond he had just received.
“I’m meeting my partner soon,” Skeres said, sitting down. “But perhaps you have time for a game?”
“Always,” Marlowe responded. He slipped a pair of dice from his bag, shook the wooden cubes, and tossed them on the table. A three and a five. He threw again. Two sixes. “Well, Nick?”
Most people played dice for money, but with Marlowe and Skeres, whoever threw a matched pair within three attempts won gossip instead of coins.
“I was at Essex House yesterday, and the earl was in one of his states. You know, sullen, morose, stalking about glaring at people. I don’t know what in hell bit him, but—”
“He had a nasty row with the queen.”
“How do you know?”
“She whispered it in my ear the other night as we were dancing.”
“What!” Skeres’ shock quickly gave way to skepticism. Apparently it had not taken long for it to occur to him that a commoner like Marlowe would never be so intimate with their sovereign.
Marlowe dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Please. You know you must wait your turn. Carry on.”
Grudgingly Skeres continued. “A servant went up to him, whispered something, and Essex’s quiet sulking turned into a rage, the likes of which I’ve never seen. He smashed his fist through one of his windows and ordered me from the room.”
Marlowe raised his eyebrows. Glass cost a fortune.
Skeres smiled slyly. “After I left the house, I stood beneath the broken window.”
“And?”
“It seems Lopez got drunk and let something slip.”
“This does sound promising,” Marlowe said. Roderigo Lopez was the royal physician.
“He told the entire court about Essex’s latest bout of clap.”
Marlowe leaned forward with enthusiasm. “Has the queen heard?”
“Not yet, but God help Essex if she does. And God help the man who tells her. I suspect he’ll be boxed about the ears.”
Skeres took a sip from Marlowe’s tankard, then added, “I’m to follow loudmouthed Lopez around in hopes of catching him at secret Jewish rites. If Essex can prove the conversion was a sham, he knows the queen will have the good doctor deported.”
Reaching for the dice, Skeres concluded, “I’d say that closes this round. Let us see what I can get from you.” He threw. A two and a five. He threw again. A two and a four. Then he threw his final roll. A three and a six. “Damn!”
Marlowe grinned. He’d won again, with dice that weren’t rigged.Imagine that.
“Hmm.” Skeres stared at the wall for a moment, scratching his head. “Ah, I do have another one,” he said. “Walter Ralegh’s in town.”
Marlowe sipped his drink to conceal his smile. Ralegh was a close friend he’d not seen in months.
“He’s come into a fortune recently,” Skeres said. “Fifty thousand pounds. Where from? No one knows.”
“But…” Fifty thousand pounds was a veritable king’s ransom, and Ralegh had been deeply in debt for years. He had lost tens of thousands attempting to colonize Virginia, his Irish lands weren’t profitable, and his privateering vessels hadn’t taken a valuable cargo since theMadre de Dios. And even then, Marlowe remembered, the queen had claimed the lion’s share of the profits. Was Ralegh the one? Marlowe wondered. Had he grown so weary of turning his maritime coups over to the Royal Treasury that he’d turned to smuggling?
Skeres was still speaking. “Apparently Ralegh’s using the money for another of his clay-brained schemes. The damned fool failed miserably with his colonies in the New World, but it seems he is plotting another voyage all the same. Thinks he’s to discover gold.”
Irritated, Marlowe defended his friend. “At leasthe goes after it like a man. Braving high seas and venturing into unknown lands.”
“Least Iget the goldI go after,” Skeres retorted.
Glancing up, Marlowe saw Ambrosia grinning at them. “Care for another?”
Skeres shook his head. “I was just leaving.”
“I’ll take one,” Marlowe said. Then, watching Skeres stride off, Marlowe noticed a face across the room. It was extraordinary. He would go so far as to say magnificent, but there was something else that caught his attention. Did he know the boy?
Then it hit him. The lad’s short hair was the color of marigolds, he had gold loops in his ears, a thin mustache, tobacco hose, and a leather doublet. Lee Anderson.At last.
“Fifty, maybe,” Ambrosia declared, setting down his drink.
Marlowe looked at her quizzically. His bill should have been under four pence.
“What?”
“Fifty ships, I think. But not a dinghy more.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That face. I’d say it could launch about fifty ships.”
Marlowe grinned as he caught on. She was alluding to a line from hisDoctor Faustus, when the magician, gazing at a specter of Helen of Troy, wonders if he was, indeed, beholding the face that launched a thousand ships. “Why so few?”
“Fifty’s more than it took to crush the Spanish Armada,” Ambrosia answered with a patronizing grimace. “Didn’t you know?”
For once Marlowe was speechless and delighted to be so. A tavern whore had confused him by playing with his most famous lines, then had flung a history lesson in his face.
“A theatergoer, are you?” he asked.
“It’s marvelous for business. If not for the plague, I’d be at the Rose right now.”
“You liked my, uh, you liked Marlowe’sFaustus? ”
Ambrosia sneezed loudly. “I’ve never paid much attention, actually. Usually have my hands full, if you know what I mean. But I’ve heard the playmaker is a handsome sight.”
“Really?” Marlowe turned his head to give her another angle.
“But apparently he’s past his prime.”
“What?”
“I hear some new fellow is about to steal his thunder.”
Marlowe’s face fell. “Will Shakespeare?”
“That’s him. He’s got these marvelous villains. Everyone raves about them.”
“His villains?”
“Oh, yes.”
“They rave abouthis villains?”
“For a few pennies, I’ll tell you somethingreally interesting.”
In shock, Marlowe handed over the coin. Ambrosia threw a glance in the direction of the Muscovy sailor. “You’re in luck, master. That pretty youth? He’s a she.”
In spite of his brief flash of disappointment, Marlowe remained intrigued. A girl in sailor’s clothing was extremely unusual. Dangerous, as well.
“Business was slow. I thought I’d get things moving with a well-placed grope, but my hand came up empty.”
Marlowe smiled.
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
And he was, though not for the reason she thought. With yet m
ore damaging information on the Muscovy sailor, he’d definitely get her to talk. He resisted his impulse to kiss Ambrosia’s forehead—not a gesture someone in her line of work would particularly appreciate. Searching for a good compliment, he touched her cheek, then exclaimed with exaggerated ardor, “Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”
Ambrosia rolled her eyes, but Marlowe was oblivious, momentarily captivated by his phrase. “Oh, that’s good!” he murmured, rummaging in the satchel at his belt for ink and a quill. He wrote the line onto a cloth napkin and handed it over. A keepsake she could treasure, perhaps sew onto a pillow.
“Many thanks!”
Marlowe inclined his head.
Unleashing a full-bodied sneeze, she used it to wipe her nose. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re heartless, madam.”
Crossing the room, he approached the young sailor. “Mind if I join you?”
Swallowing a mouthful of seafood stew, she shrugged.
“So you’re a sailor.”
“Something like that.”
“A privateer plundering Spanish ships laden with New World riches?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Rethinking my choices. Tell me—”
“If you’re trying to distract me in order to rob me, you can forget it. I’ll cut off your hand before you can blink.”
“Perhaps you work for one of our illustrious trading compan—”
“How about I buy you a drink and give you something else to do with your mouth?” she interrupted. “At another table.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
Bringing a large chunk of cod to her lips, she chewed it slowly, looking away.
“You work for the Muscovy Company,” Marlowe pressed. “You just came in from France aboard one of their ships.”
“And you just came into territory you shouldn’t have.”
Persisting, Marlowe improvised, “I have a friend who’s a shareholder, and he’s worried there’s something amiss. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“I think you can.”
“You’re wrong.”
Marlowe knew she was lying. Fitz Fat was never off when it came to such details. “No, I’m not wrong. You call yourself Lee Anderson, but you’re really a girl in disguise.”
The Intelligencer Page 13