“What, she was quiet? Couldn’t keep up with your jokes?”
“Sweetheart, I wasn’t referring to the attic.”
Kate burst out laughing.
“You’re still meeting de Tolomei tomorrow night, right?” Max asked.
“Yeah, the Vatican thing is at eight. I’ve got an afternoon flight. Got anything new on him?”
“Mmm, I might be on to something. I’ll let you know.”
“Talk to you soon.”
Four blocks away on Park Lane, a stretched black Mercedes just in from a private airstrip in West London was speeding south on its way to the Ritz. From the backseat, Luca de Tolomei gazed out the window, smiling as he pondered the evening ahead.
NEWYORKCITY—9:28A.M.
Sitting alone in the Slade Group conference room, Max continued examining his latest research on Luca de Tolomei’s financial transactions. Since the evening before, he’d had the vague feeling that there was some kind of pattern to the mess of people, dates, and numbers on the printouts before him, but whatever it was, it kept hovering just outside his consciousness.
Oh, maybe Slade can help, Max thought, hearing his boss’s familiar footsteps. “Morning, Slade. Can I run something by you? I’m thinking that—”
“Can it wait a few minutes? I’ve got an urgent call to make.”
From the privacy of his office three floors above, Jeremy Slade dialed Donovan Morgan.
“Don. Can you talk?”
“Of course. What have you found?”
“He’s alive,” Slade said. “A tip came in. We’ll find him soon.”
Hanging up, Slade put his elbows on his desk and lowered his head to his hands. He was so disgusted with himself for thinking inside the boxthree years ago—for not considering the possibility their spy had been imprisoned somewhere outside of Iraq—he didn’t know how he would live with it. Barring nuclear detonation, letting someone down like this, failing to protect one of his own, was his worst nightmare.
With accounts of the torture inflicted in Iranian prisons flooding his mind, Slade pressed his palms over his eyes, hard, until a kaleidoscope of dark colors blocked the horrifying images, if only for a moment.
14
Birds of the air will tell of murders past?
I am asham’d to hear such fooleries.
Many will talk of title to a crown:
What right had Caesar to the empire?
Might first made kings, and laws were then most sure
When like the Draco’s they were writ in blood.
—MACHIAVEL,in Marlowe’sThe Jew of Malta
LONDON—AFTERNOON, MAY1593
Does he deny Christ’s divinity?”
No response.
“Does he mean to incite rebellion?”
No response.
“You lived with him, did you not?”
As before, only the distant clanking of fetters broke the silence.
Richard Topcliffe turned to the men standing at either end of the rack. “Taut, then just beyond.”
Very slowly, they pushed their oak levers toward the ground, a hair’s width at a time. The ropes tied round the prisoner’s wrists and ankles stretched him tighter, and the stones placed beneath his back dug deeper into his flesh. Wood squeaked steadily. Then there was another sound few would recognize—the faint ripping of skin.
“Shall we chat?”
Blood staining his bonds, the prisoner nodded.
“Well?”
Coughing, the prisoner struggled to clear his throat. “Fancy the theater, do you?”
Topcliffe moistened his lips. Softly he gave the order: “To the floor.”
A popping sound. Then another. And finally, screams.
Bearing paper and ink, a scrivener entered the room.
Defeated, the broken man spat out anything that might interest them. Again and again. He slandered Kit Marlowe until his tear ducts were dry and his voice was hoarse. And then the playwright Thomas Kyd, a gifted and popular wordsmith, did not have any words left.
“Am I to learn your real name?” Marlowe asked, leading the young sailor north along Gracechurch Street.
“Why the devil—”
“I could guarantee you’ll never be troubled at customs again.”
Stopping midstride, she sank into an elaborate curtsy. “Helen, sir. So very pleased to meet you.”
“I should have guessed,” Marlowe said wryly, thinking of Helen of Troy. In spite of her false mustache, the beauty of this Helen’s face was unmistakable. “Why did you leave England?”
“I was accused of witchcraft. Two children in my village fell ill.”
“Common story,” Marlowe replied with a nod. “Even royalty like someone to blame for their misfortunes. There was a tempest when James of Scotland was at sea, bringing his new bride home from Denmark. He accused dozens of his countrymen of raising it. Had them burned at the stake.”
They turned onto Lombard Street. “You fled to the Continent?”
She shook her head. “I snuck into a brothel, nicked a sailor’s clothes, and found work on a privateering vessel bound for the Mediterranean. A few days into the voyage, we were attacked by Barbary pirates. The aged captain took me aside and yanked off my mustache. I thought I was done for. Turned out he was amused and impressed with my charade. I’ve been with his crew ever since.”
“But your golden hair…”
“Many Christians sail under Barbary flags. We sail for ourselves, unlike our English counterparts.”
“Why have you returned?”
“I was to give money to my family, but that cursed fat man took it all.”
“So the Muscovy Company bit…a ruse to pass through customs?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, technically one could say you’ve wasted my time.”
“On the contrary…”
Marlowe raised his eyebrows.
Helen shook her head. “Papers first.”
“Fair enough.”
He paused before the arched doorway of an enormous brick building. Its single tower stretched up behind him, a metal grasshopper decorating its peak. “Welcome to the Royal Exchange. Home to just about everything money can buy.”
“You’re taking me shopping? You do realize I could be arrested at any moment, perhaps tied to the Dock,” she said. Pirates and smugglers were strung to Executioner’s Dock at low tide and left to drown.
“Imagination, Miss Helen. Black market goods are sold in more places than dark alleys.”
The building’s lively courtyard, decorated with statues of former kings of England, was teeming with merchants and shoppers. Passing glass sellers, candlemakers, and goldsmiths, they moved slowly toward the far end of the courtyard, elbowing their way through the dense crowd. Near a cluster of booksellers, Marlowe stopped before a freckled redhead leaning against a thick marble pillar. The man was a forger named Kit Miller.
“Ah. Myother favorite Kit,” the redhead said, grinning. “I sold every last copy of your elegies before ten minutes had passed. Even after I trebled the price. Whatever you need, I’m your man.”
“Identity papers for the lady.”
“Lady?”
Helen discreetly peeled back part of her mustache.
“I see,” Miller said, leading them beneath the flap of his tent. “You’ve come to the right place.” Reaching for a box beneath his table, he withdrew a set of parchment pages and other equipment. “Is there a particular name you would like?”
“Lee Anderson,” Helen said. “I’ve grown used to it.”
Using three different inks, Miller filled in the appropriate blank spaces and applied the necessary seals. “All right,” he announced with pride, “we’re ready for the magic touch.” With that he placed the pages on the ground, jumped upon them several times, and handed them over.
As they left the building, Helen reached for her new papers, but Marlowe held them over his head.
“Feed me well,” she said, “and I shall tell you e
verything I know.”
WESTMINSTER—DUSK
Wearing sharp spurs, two red-crowned roosters circled each other, glaring intently. Seconds later they were in the air, wings flapping, taloned claws scratching, dirt and feathers flying.
Leaning against a nearby tree, Robert Poley watched hundreds of coins changing hands. His eyes flicked across the faces illuminated by torchlight, gathered round the ring’s wooden fence. Shaking their fists and yelling, the spectators cheered their favored bird.
Turning, he saw his employer approach. The wooded grounds just south of St. James’s Palace, site of daily cockfights, were one of Cecil’s preferred meeting spots. Anonymous and convenient to his office in Whitehall.
“Did you speak with him? Tell him to quit England?”
“Not yet. When I got to Scadbury House earlier today, he had already left. Walsingham wasn’t about either.”
“The commission dispatched four constables. You must get to him first.”
“Torture?”
Cecil nodded. “Topcliffe is back. Last night he started on Thomas Kyd.”
“Kyd?” Poley repeated, surprised. “That quiet lily-livered playmaker? He’s not the type to promote violence.”
“Constables searched his lodgings. Seems they found a document containing heretical statements. Kyd denied ever seeing it, said it must have belonged to Marlowe—they lived together not too long ago. He also made reference to Marlowe’s monstrous opinions, said that Marlowe has a tendency to jest at Scripture and slander holy men. Claiming, for instance, that Christ and St. John…”
“Yes?”
“Shared an unusual sort of love.”
Poley grinned at Cecil’s discomfiture.
“Another informant reported that Marlowe promotes atheism. Said he is able to show more sound reasons for it than any minister in England can give to prove divinity. The informant said that he himself was persuaded to atheism on account of Marlowe’s words.” Cecil paused for a moment. “Any truth to it?”
Poley frowned. “Perhaps. Marlowe has always had a penchant for irreverence.”
“In any case, I believe that particular document was planted, that someone is plotting against him—setting him up for a fall,” Cecil said grimly. “Alert him. Make sure he’s gone for several months, at least.”
“It’s too bad about Kyd,” Poley said, gazing off into space. “An innocent pawn…good writer, too. I loved hisSpanish Tragedy. ” He paused for a moment, then turned back to Cecil. “If I were a different sort of man, I think I’d feel sorry for him.”
LONDON—DUSK
Helen swallowed her last bite of venison stew. “My captain has an alliance with an Englishman of the Muscovy Company.”
Marlowe nearly choked on his wine.
“These six months, he’s been providing the Englishman with riches from the East, goods my captain confiscated from Portuguese traders. In return, the Englishman has offered us weaponry.”
No Northeast Passage, Marlowe realized. Someone was simply using Muscovy ships for his own smuggling operation, ensuring the deaths of many of his own countrymen in the process. Aboard pirate ships, those weapons would be aimed at English sailors before long. In fact, they probably had been already. “The smuggler was definitely with the Muscovy Company?”
Helen nodded. “Claimed to be. As a favor to my captain, he ordered one of the company’s ship captains to take me here as one of his own.”
“His name?”
Helen shook her head.
“You’ve seen him?”
“When boarding our ship, he insisted the crew remain below deck.”
“Damn.”
“But I heard his voice. I know it well.”
“That might do. There’s a disguising at Greenwich Palace the day after tomorrow. Care to join me?”
“For a few shillings,” Helen said, then frowned. “But why should you care who it is? I fail to see how your friend the shareholder would be affected by this.”
“Well, you see…”
“God’s teeth, youare a spy!”
Unruffled, Marlowe quietly finished his wine.
Then, watching her slip her knife from her boot and draw it overhead with dizzying speed, he said, “Whoever I might be, I told you I’d never turn you in, and I won’t. Besides, you do stand to profit—”
“A spy who keeps his promises?” Helen interrupted. “I’d never have thought it possible.”
Marlowe shrugged. “I’m used to amazing people.”
Helen lowered her knife. “I don’t know why, but I think I believe you. Perhaps I won’t kill you just yet.”
“Of course you won’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“You like me too much.”
Helen dipped two fingers in her wine and flicked them at Marlowe’s face.
“You wish to start something?” he asked, cocking a spoonful of stew.
“When I do, you’ll know. Now, Kit. Another thing. The Englishman? He was especially pleased with one particular item my captain gave him. Declared it to be his new favorite possession.”
“What was it?”
“A small statue with rubies for eyes.”
“A human figure?”
“No. It was a dragon, carved from jade.”
15
BELGRAVIA, LONDON—5:16P.M., THE PRESENT DAY
Any luck?” Kate asked Max. She was just stepping out of the Victoria tube station on her way to Medina’s. Having discovered the dead thief’s identity a half hour before, she had asked Max to trace any recent additions to his bank accounts, on the chance he’d been paid in advance.
“No money’s come in during the past month, not to any of his offshore accounts,” Max said. “I checked his email, too. No messages from that Jade Dragon address.”
“He might use some kind of agent. Can you send me the names of everyone who’s emailed or called him since the discovery of the manuscript?”
“Sure thing.”
Pausing in Belgrave Square, Kate took another look at the year-old photo she had found of Medina’s thief. Having assumed that he was the Cat, and that the Cat was a jet-setting society type—since every expert believed he’d already seen the interiors of the wealthy homes he’d robbed—Kate had gone to a public library and leafed through stacks of old society magazines. Before long she had found a shot of Medina’s thief in Monaco, vacationing with friends.
A thirty-five-year-old named Simon Trevor-Jones, the thief was, in fact, a globe-trotting aristocrat. A baron. When it came to his appearance, however, Kate’s preconception turned out to be wrong. She had expected him to be dashingly handsome—James Bondish, even—which she hadn’t been able to prove or disprove from the bloody, shadowy crime scene photos or the bluish, distorted morgue shots. Trevor-Jones, she discovered, did not resemble James Bond, not in the least. He’d inherited the very worst that British noble blood had to offer—the pasty inbred look and the skinny but soft build. Even so, there was something deliciously sexy about him, Kate thought. His smile exuded a blasé devil-may-care attitude along with a palpable, almost predatory, sexual energy.
He was a legend, and Kate thought it sad that his mythic status would die along with him. She had considered keeping her theory from the police—in the hopes that they would never connect Trevor-Jones with the Cat—but she knew it would be futile. The body would be identified eventually, and as soon as any of Scotland Yard’s top brass heard the wordsbaron andthief in the same breath, they’d put the pieces together themselves.
Slipping the photograph back into her shoulder bag, Kate resumed walking across the square. Medina’s neighborhood was refreshingly clean and white with pretty gated gardens, but the wide streets and opulent columns struck her as sterile and too self-consciously grand.
Better, she thought, turning onto Wilton Crescent. The curving row of smaller, attached stone townhouses didn’t have columns or elaborate façades of any kind. After scanning the street for Medina’s car, she figured he was running lat
e.
Nearing his front door, she was pleased to spot two camera lenses. After her first meeting with Medina a couple of days before, she’d asked one of her colleagues at Slade’s London office to put a rush on his new security system. She’d also tried to convinced Medina to accept a temporary bodyguard, but he seemed to think he could take care of himself, had joked that her suggestion was overkill.
After Kate knocked and gave her name over the intercom, a cherubic-faced middle-aged woman answered the door. “I’m Charlotte,” she said with a big smile. “Come in. Mr. Medina will be here shortly.”
Kate followed Charlotte into the living room. It was minimalist, with a lot of white and chrome—formal but comfortable. Settling onto a soft white sofa, she pulled her laptop from her backpack and started in on the page of the manuscript where she’d left off when her plane landed that morning.
Detective Sergeant Colin Davies was fuming. There had been a double murder on his street corner the night before, but his chief refused to assign him to the case. Said he wasn’t senior enough. Instead, there he was in the most pompous neighborhood in London, dealing with a bloody robbery-gone-awry at some rich bloke’s home, who, to add insult to injury, was good-looking, too.Bollocks.
Davies was always suspicious of very attractive people. He felt they had it too easy, skating through life across other people’s backs. Their looks distracted you, he believed, and if you weren’t on your toes, you’d miss the true mischief they were invariably up to. Excessively pretty girls were bad enough—felt they were too good for just about anyone—but good-looking men, rich men, forget about it. The smug bastards should all be shot, in his humble opinion.
Davies had loathed Cidro Medina on sight, but he’d tried not to show it. His chief would not be happy if he ruffled the man’s feathers. But whatever his chief might say, there was one thing Davies was sure of—this was the last unnecessary house call he would make to Medina or to anyone else in this neighborhood. Special treatment for the rich was not, as they’d say, his cup of tea.
A girl answered the door. She wasn’t dressed like a maid, Davies noticed, but she definitely wasn’t the girlfriend. He pictured that Medina fellow with some haughty-looking glamorous type. Not someone like this, wearing glasses, a T-shirt, and—he looked down—blue and white Nike trainers.
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