The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know…he’s dead.”

  Medina’s face fell. “God. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. But you’re right. He still owns my heart, like it’s a piece of real estate he bought and built a stone fortress on.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “It was the spring of my senior year of college. I’d been teaching a kickboxing class for a while but hadn’t done any real martial arts in years, which is what he was teaching. After I finished my thesis, I started going to his informal sparring sessions, and…”

  “It was love?”

  “Within a few days,” Kate said, finishing the drink she no longer tasted. She was remembering the salty taste of kissing Rhys’s neck on their way out of the gym together back then.

  “I can’t imagine how tough that must have been. I’ve never lost anyone close to me. How did you…”

  “Oh, for a while I fantasized about disappearing. Not committing suicide, just somehow vaporizing away. But I couldn’t desert my father, so I just plodded along…eventually remembered how to find happiness in less obvious places.”

  “You really believe you’ll never fall for anyone again?”

  Kate nodded. “It’s not just that Rhys was…irreplaceable. I think it’s a physiological thing, that the brain chemicals that govern emotions like love get diluted after a heartbreak—maybe with age, too. Like coke cut with aspirin.”

  “So you’re telling me that at my advanced age, if it hasn’t happened yet, I’m doomed to a loveless existence?”

  “No, but I’d say it’s more likely that you’d really lose it, Romeo style, if you were still a teenager,” Kate said, briefly placing her hand over his and shaking her head with phony consolation. “But wait a minute. I seem to remember hearing that you were pretty besotted with some fashion model these days.”

  “Besottedisn’t the right word. Anyway, she’s been dismissed,” Medina said, waving a hand to the side. Then, reaching toward Kate, he brushed an errant tendril from her face.

  “Cidro, I’m meeting a friend to go running pretty early tomorrow,” Kate said, checking her watch, “and I’d like to get through as much as I can of the manuscript before tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got a short trip to take, so—”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s just for half a day. You’ll manage.” Seeing his contemplative expression, she asked, “Trying to remember the last time a girl left your company voluntarily?”

  Laughing, he nodded. “How’d you guess?”

  “Reading minds is part of my job.”

  “By the way, Kate, withThe Anatomy, I’ve got a suggestion—my usual technique for dealing with mysterious literature.”

  “I thought you didn’t read.”

  “Well, I pick up mystery novels now and then. You know, if I’m stuck somewhere without…”

  “…girls, drugs, or fast cars?”

  “Exactly.”

  Guessing where he was headed, Kate smiled. “You start in but find yourself too impatient to wait for the answers, and you flip to the end.”

  “Every time.”

  Back in her room, Kate was following Medina’s advice to skip to the end ofThe Anatomy of Secrets. As she’d told her book dealer friend, Hannah Rosenberg, a couple days before, Kate saw two possibilities for why Phelippes had rushed his binder. Immediately after stealing the deceased Walsingham’s files, Phelippes might have decided to bind and hide his manuscript right away, before any government officials could find it in his possession. Alternatively, Phelippes could have held on to the files—using them to blackmail people, perhaps—then raced to the binder when someone threatened to track down his damning evidence. Neither of which suggested that the final report would be the proverbial smoking gun, but since she hadn’t yet had any luck proceeding in chronological order, she thought it was worth a try.

  Okay, backward it is. I wonder what the last few might be? Walsingham died in 1590, and if Phelippes included reports from that year…let’s see. Not that either of them would’ve cared much about Shakespeare’s plays, but what if they had some kind of solid evidence that could prove, once and for all, that he was the real author? He’d already written his lost version ofHamletand the first part of Henry VIat that point…

  Turning on her laptop, Kate opened up her electronic version of the manuscript’s final page and saw only numbers, no letters. And the numbers were grouped together, as if they represented letters forming words. “Could it really be so easy?” she wondered aloud, looking for the right decryption commands.

  Her thoughts drifting back to Christopher Marlowe, Kate said, “Damn. It’s too bad this thing doesn’t go through 1593.”

  18

  Why, was there ever seen such villainy,

  So neatly plotted, and so well perform’d?

  —ITHAMORE,in Marlowe’sThe Jew of Malta

  LONDON—MORNING, MAY1593

  Two hundred meters north of London Bridge, on the fifth floor of a half-timbered house adjacent to Leadenhall Market, Thomas Phelippes was kneeling on the floor of his study opening a cedar chest. It was full of clothing and loose papers, but he wasn’t interested in any of them at the moment. He was after something else.

  Phelippes’s cedar chest didn’t have a false bottom; anyone ransacking your lodgings would check for one of those. What the chest did have was a type of false top, a hollow space within its heavy lid about two inches thick. Using a knife, he pried up the thin velvet-covered panel on the underside of the lid, revealing a space about nine by twelve inches that had been carved into the otherwise solid wood. Nestled inside, surrounded by tufts of wool, lay a pewter box.

  Phelippes carried it across the room to his desk. Fingers closing around the black silk cord that never left his neck, he drew a metal key from beneath his shirt. Leaning forward, he unlocked the box, lifted the lid, and gazed lovingly upon his most treasured possession: the stack of papers he’d culled from Francis Walsingham’s files. His arsenal of secrets.

  Just after Walsingham’s death, Phelippes had sneaked the files home with him, hidden the reports he thought would prove useful, then burned the rest. After decades of faithful service, he’d certainly deserved them, but the Privy Council had officially declared the files to be stolen property, and Phelippes had no intention of being arrested for the theft.

  He was planning to have the papers bound soon. Before autumn, in all likelihood. He’d been adding new reports now and then, and the stack would soon outgrow the special airtight box he’d designed for it. He had waited this long because he was holding out for the perfect final page—a report containing information that would elevate Essex to the position of secretary of state, either by impressing the queen with something of enormous consequence, or by ruining the competition: Robert Cecil. Phelippes had several irons in the fire to achieve those ends. He wondered which would come through for him first.

  After returning the box to its hiding place, he stood to leave. Locking his door, he entered the building’s stairwell and headed down to the street. He’d chosen to live in this particular building because it was located on the site of the old Roman court of justice, from the time when London was called Londinium. He found the parallel delicious; he might not be part of modern London’s judicial system but possessing Walsingham’s files gave him the power to mete out his own version of justice. At the moment, he had four blackmail schemes under way, which were funding several intelligence operations he was managing without his employer’s awareness.

  When Phelippes reached London Bridge, he retrieved Kit Marlowe’s most recent message from their hiding place in St. Thomas’s Chapel, then hailed a ferry.

  “I’m to Essex House,” he said. The enormous Gothic mansion on the north shore of the Thames was the earl’s home as well as the nexus of his intelligence network.

  Upon entering the great hall, Phelippes headed strai
ght for the candles burning on the large dining table. He heated Marlowe’s seemingly blank message with concentrated precision, and, within seconds, brown letters edged with yellow began to appear. It was a very simple cipher they’d each committed to memory. “God’s blood!” Phelippes cried, learning that no one in the Muscovy Company had discovered a Northeast Passage. He then deciphered a sentence about the illicit alliance with a Barbary pirate captain and smiled. “Marlowe thinks he’s to have this culprit unmasked before week’s end?”

  On his way up to his employer’s personal chambers on the mansion’s uppermost floor, Phelippes heard a faint mumbling and the rustling of papers coming from one of the first-floor studies. It was probably Anthony Bacon, who directed their network’s gathering and analysis of foreign intelligence. A pale, gout-ridden man, Bacon sifted through papers while propped up in bed. Caressing the key dangling beneath his shirt, Phelippes snickered to himself. Bacon hadn’t a clue about the report Phelippes had in his possession—the one detailing Bacon’s sinful escapades in France.

  Phelippes quietly worked his picks in the door to Essex’s bedchamber. He liked to surprise people now and then, because you didn’t really know someone if you saw him only the way he wanted to be seen. Slipping through the door, he crept down the hall, treading as lightly as possible on the scented rushes covering the floor. Clutching the fabric of a soft tapestry, he peered around the corner.

  Oh, dear God!

  Upon the room’s enormous feather bed, Essex and a voluptuous naked woman were lying face to face with their legs intertwined, writhing about. A second woman, somehow even more buxom than the first, was kneeling at the foot of the bed sucking the earl’s toes and touching herself in places people were simply not supposed to touch. Wiping a few tendrils of hair from his glistening face, Essex strained his neck to watch her.

  “My lord,” the toe sucker said, “I…I must have you soon.”

  Just then, the woman wrapped in Essex’s embrace started to make un-seemly noises, and Phelippes watched—disgusted but fascinated—as her legs quivered. When she quieted, Essex nudged her aside and sat up with his knees in the air, naked but for the ruby and emerald pendant suspended from his neck. The second woman crawled over, sat before him, and slid her feet over his legs. As Essex placed his large hands on her cherubic posterior and pulled her toward him, she murmured, “Oh, my lord!” with sickening excitement.

  At that moment, the other woman began kissing the back of his neck.

  When will these wanton wretches have enough?

  As Phelippes began to edge away, Essex’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “By the way, Thomas, I do know you’re there.”

  Curse the saints!“My apologies for the interruption, but I’ve a matter of great urgency to discuss.”

  “Hmm, let us ponder that. Teresa, wouldn’t you callthis a matter of great urgency?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord,” the woman in his arms sighed, tossing her dark hair about.

  “But I’m here on a matter of state!”

  “Oh, but so am I,” Essex replied. “Now, would you care to see what we do when we bathe, or would you prefer to wait downstairs? I could make things even more interesting by inviting the stable boy…it’s up to you.”

  “Tell me, Thomas. Why do you think I hold the power that I do?”

  Turning around, Phelippes couldn’t help but admire the sight. Freshly scrubbed, Essex’s cheeks were rosy, and his dark reddish locks, neatly pulled back. His doublet, stitched of chestnut silk slashed with gold, hugged his tall, well-muscled physique to perfection. His lace ruffs were elaborate and new.

  “The intelligence we uncover has long impressed the queen, and—”

  “True. Much good it all may do. But the bedchamber, Thomas. I also impress her in the bedchamber.”

  Essex gestured to the table. Teresa was laying out an array of dishes upon it.

  “My lord, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you go from that to, well, to…”

  “Elizabeth?”

  Phelippes nodded.

  “When I first sought her favor at court, it was…out of necessity,” Essex began.

  That Phelippes well knew. Essex had been born the poorest earl in England. He could not survive financially without the queen’s love.

  “But now, even though she’s long past her prime, when I look at her I simply see a woman I am desperate to possess, to dominate—and it’s captivating. Even more so than…” He nodded to the doorway.

  Phelippes watched Essex spear a piece of wrinkled green plant matter with what resembled a miniature devil’s trident.What, in God’s name…?

  “Lettuce. Good for digestion. Very fashionable. And the dessert comes from a secret recipe closely guarded by Catherine de Medici. I had to bribe the French royal chef for it. ‘Italian ice,’ he called it.”

  In an effort to avoid scowling, Phelippes pressed his lips together. “Remember what I told you about Kit Marlowe?”

  “That you’ve got him seeking out smugglers in the Muscovy Company? Men who may have found a Northeast Passage?”

  “No passage, unfortunately, but the investigation may still prove useful. Perhaps. I am not counting on it, however, as unmasking dishonest merchants is no monumental affair. And obtaining proof of such dishonesty is no easy task. It is myother plan that will most assuredly advance you over Cecil.”

  “What is it?” Essex asked, reaching for the pumpkin custard.

  “As a member of the commission hunting for the author of the threatening placards, I can steer the investigation however I choose. And I’m steering it toward Marlowe. Very soon, he’ll be on the rack, revealing the illicit dealings Cecil is rumored to engage in. Ralegh, as well. We’ll be in a position to ruin them both.”

  “But I like Marlowe, Thomas. Did you see hisMassacre at Paris this winter?”

  “No,” Phelippes replied stiffly. “I prefer dramas that unfold in real life.”

  “Oh, but it was spectacular! The Rose was packed. The queen and I slipped in hidden behind masks. And his elegies! I read one to Anne and Teresa earlier this morning, something about…what was it? A large leg, and…and…” Essex clapped his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. “A lusty thigh!”

  Phelippes sighed. It was ever disappointing to be working for someone so terribly unlike Walsingham. Why could Essex not appreciate the beauty of felling so many birds with one stone? At least he’d quit sulking, though. While some men assumed a melancholic pose for fashion’s sake, Essex’s bouts of gloom were genuine and terrible for business.

  “You may cease your fretting about Ralegh,” Essex said. “He ruined himself already with that secret marriage.”

  “The very mistake you made three years back, and now look where you are. The queen did not banish you for long.”

  “I didn’t impregnate one of her ladies. What ever was Ralegh thinking?”

  Phelippes bit his tongue to refrain from laughing out loud at the hypocrisy. Essex was capable of far more reckless actions than anyone, Ralegh included.

  “Thomas, your treacherous scheme is not necessary. Ralegh is in exile, and Cecil, well, we shall best him soon enough. Perhaps with the fruits of Marlowe’s investigation. I suspect that he’ll surprise you.”

  “My lord, you’ve only been a Privy Councillor these three months! We need to prove your worth and entrench your power. And please keep in mind that an enemy is not harmless until he is fully destroyed. Cecil’s favor with Elizabeth grows steadily, and Ralegh, I’ve been told, is planning another voyage to the New World. Should he find gold, as he thinks he will…”

  Essex stood and moved to the door. “I prefer my way,” he said, adjusting his new velvet hat.

  Then I shall cease keeping you informed.“Where to?”

  “Greenwich. The queen wishes to play cards.”

  “Cards, my lord?”

  Laughing, Essex attached his jeweled sword to his belt and struck off for the Thames.

  The queen’s nickname for her temperamen
tal lover was Wild Horse, and Phelippes was left wondering which of the young earl’s attributes had earned him the name.

  “I believe I’ve what you need, sir.”

  Confused, Phelippes squinted at the spy.

  “Material for the report on Marlowe. I overheard him, Ralegh, and Tom Hariot seeking to discredit our Lord, the majesty of His creation. They were using an odd contraption. A long, kind of—”

  “That’s…interesting, Baines. But unnecessary. I’ve told you what I wish you to do. Echo the accusations I’ve shown you. Very simple.”

  “But I did not hear—”

  “Oh, include a bit about Hariot if you must,” Phelippes muttered. Then he remembered something, words from another of his informants. “Suggest that Marlowe considers Moses a mere con man and one…far less skilled than Hariot, at that.”

  Baines nodded.

  Phelippes scowled. “This won’t do. Let us write it now.” Looking toward the doorway, he called, “Teresa!”

  “Yes, sir?” she asked, appearing seconds later.

  “Fetch us paper, ink, and a quill.”

  Phelippes then went up to a storage chamber on the second floor to locate a copy of Kyd’s interrogation, along with the other informant reports he’d collected. Returning to the great hall, he said, “Make sure you include the vilest of these statements.”

  Baines pressed the fingertips of his right hand against his forehead. “Title, title…” Looking up, he said, “How about, ‘A note containing the opinion of one Christopher Marlowe, concerning his judgment of religion and God’s word’?”

  Phelippes shook his head. “Too bland, Baines. Make it, uh…‘damnablejudgment of religion.’ And…‘scornof God’s word.’ ”

  Dipping his quill, Baines did so. He then turned to examine Kyd’s accusations. “Says that Marlowe scoffs at Scripture, lodges arguments to confute what has been said by prophets and holy men.”

  “Write that he considers the New Testament filthily written, that he could do far better himself. Then…”