The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  He laughed. “Absolutely. But as to the actual, um…”

  “Breaking in? We’ll discuss it tomorrow. How about meeting me in St. Katharine’s Marina? There’s a pub called the Dickens Inn.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And do you by any chance have a picnic basket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you bring it?” Kate asked.

  “Sure. But what exactly—”

  “Tomorrow, noon. I’ll tell you,” Kate interrupted.

  “You’re really going to keep me guessingall night?”

  “You said you needed more excitement in your life,” she teased. “I’m just trying to help.”

  After hanging up, she started to undress. Unaware that a listening device had been placed in her phone the previous evening, she assumed her call to Medina had been secure. She was wrong.

  Twenty minutes later, Kate was staring at the ceiling wondering whether or not she’d be able to sleep that night, when Max called her.

  “You still in Rome?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “My regular hotel. Near the Campo de’ Fiori.”

  “Two guys from the Rome office will be there in less than twenty minutes. They’ll take you to the airport, wait with you, and escort you to the first flight out. Slade wants you back in New York ASAP.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave now,” she said, flipping on the light. “But I’ve got to go back to London.”

  “Slade was dead serious, Kate. He didn’t explain why, exactly, but you’re in danger. Something to do with de Tolomei having a vendetta against your father. He wants you back here now.”

  “Itis a vendetta…what did Slade say about it?”

  “That he’s handling it. Nothing else.”

  “Okay. I’ll come home, but I need one more day in London. I made a breakthrough on Medina’s case, and I…I have to do this. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “Maybe it’s payback for his daughter, I don’t know, but Slade thinks de Tolomei will come after you. That the song and dance in the Sistine Chapel was merely an opening act.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “Yeah. Slade didn’t tell me, but after I read your email, I started looking for someone your dad prosecuted around the time de Tolomei took his new identity, someone who’d skipped town while out on bail. There was one possible candidate: a former FBI agent named Nick Fontana. He was in counterterrorism before he got married, then the Art Theft Squad. Kinda explains how he had the connections to start his new life. Anyway, like de Tolomei, Fontana’s daughter was raped and murdered. Name was Sabina, incidentally. Then somehow—a Fourth Amendment thing, apparently—the perp got off, and…”

  “Fontana killed him.”

  “Yeah. But not just that. We’re talking brutal torture. For about three days—the same length of time the girl was held.”

  “And my dad prosecuted him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, but while some might find his actions understandable, de Tolomei—Fontana—had to’ve known he couldn’t have gotten away with it. Not as a government agent, inflicting three days’ worth of torture on someone. In what I’m sure was a case with intensive national coverage. Letting him off the hook would have been tantamount to telling the public that vigilante justice is okay. Whoever was prosecuting homicides at the time would have done exactly what my dad did.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing. Fontana covered his tracks well. Left no evidence. Then somehow your father got Fontana’s wife to testify against him. None of the articles say how.”

  “Max, I think that’s it! In the Sistine Chapel, I got the sense de Tolomei was planning to tell me something that would make me think less of my father. Show me some kind of dark side. Maybe that’s what his payback is going to be. My dad turned de Tolomei’s wife against him, the only family he had left, and he must think he can turn me against my father.”

  “Either that or he plans to kill you, to teach your dad what losing a daughter feels like.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

  “You still want to traipse around London with this guy after you?”

  “I just need twenty-four hours. Is Slade around, or—”

  “He’s on his way to the airport. The Tunis op didn’t go as planned.”

  “Will you cover for me for a day?”

  “You’re asking me to let you get yourself killed? No way.”

  “What if I use an alias and disguise? De Tolomei won’t be able to track me. I can wrap up the Medina case and be home before Slade finds out. What do you think?”

  “This case, it’s really that important to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess I can’t stop you,” Max said reluctantly. “But check in, like, every other hour, okay?”

  “Sure. Oh, one thing. Mind doing a little genealogical research for me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got four guys—I’ll email their names right now—and I’d love to track down any living descendants.”

  “Tomorrow all right? I’m on my way home.”

  “Of course. And thanks.”

  The man calling himself Jade Dragon was enjoying a homemade tiramisu when he heard the news that Kate Morgan had decoded the critical page.

  Tomorrow, he realized, he’d be able to right the wrong done his ancestor so many years ago. What a lucky thing Kate Morgan was so clever. He was impressed. In mere days she’d cracked a code Thomas “the Decipherer” Phelippes had wrestled with for years. How unfortunate for her that she would never have the chance to appreciate the results of her efforts.

  24

  I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains

  And with my hand turn Fortune’s wheel about…

  —TAMBURLAINE,in Marlowe’sTamburlaine, Part 1

  GREENWICH—EVENING,MAY1593

  In a riverboat fast approaching the palace, Robert Poley caught a glimpse of his employer’s crooked silhouette in an upper-floor window. Pacing, Cecil appeared vexed. Poley was not surprised. Earlier in the day he’d sent Cecil a message regarding Marlowe’s attempt to ferret out smugglers from the Muscovy Company. At the time, of course, Poley hadn’t known that Cecil was the primary suspect. Poley had also written that Phelippes, their arch foe, was behind the scheme to cast Marlowe in a torture chamber for the sole purpose of uncovering yet more damaging information on Cecil.

  Up on the third floor, just down the hall from Cecil’s rooms, Poley heard the soft hum of a hushed conversation. Taking care to remain silent, he made his way to the door.

  “…likely I shall find Marlowe tonight,” a voice was saying.

  “If not?” Cecil inquired.

  “Tomorrow, sir. It will be done.”

  Retreating, Poley turned a corner and slipped behind a wall hanging. Standing quietly, he took in the full measure of Marlowe’s predicament—Phelippes determined to have him racked, and Cecil now plotting his murder. One wished him to speak, the other to be silenced. Two of England’s most powerful men had set certain wheels in motion, could Poley turn them back?

  Heavy footfalls crushed the hallway’s new floor rushes. Peering out, Poley saw Cecil’s assassin. It was Ingram Frizer, a businessman widely considered to be a loathsome swindler. According to rumor, Frizer and a partner had just duped a young gentleman out of thirty-four pounds through a commodity brokering deal involving a dozen wheel-lock pistols. Where he’d obtained the guns, Poley hadn’t a clue.

  Once a few minutes had passed, he stepped back into the hall and headed to Cecil’s chamber. “You received my message?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I did as you required, sir. Marlowe is at liberty, and I made all the arrangements to secure his secret departure from England.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “No,” Poley lied, glad he’d omitted mention of Nelly Bull’s home in his recent message. “Unfortunately Marlowe didn’t think it neces
sary to leave just yet. Assumes Phelippes will give up his devious strategem now that—”

  “Well, he’s wrong,” Cecil interrupted. “Phelippes is never so easily thwarted. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve chosen a different means of handling the situation.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve sent someone to kill him?”

  Cecil nodded. “Yes. Marlowe is now too much of a danger. The coining—an inquiry into that, I could have withstood. Butthis? ”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

  “Marlowe may soon have knowledge of an alliance I’ve forged with one of the Crown’s enemies. A financial arrangement, nothing more. But as the trade involves English armaments, without the queen’s knowledge…”

  “I agree,” Poley said. “That cannot be allowed to come out.”

  “I have a man familiar with Marlowe’s various haunts who has sworn to find him within a day’s time. And should Marlowe change his mind and try to quit England, he’ll be detained. I’ve every port under watch. He won’t pose a threat for long.”

  “You no longer fear implication in a murder?” Poley asked, resigned.

  “No. This man will make it appear as self-defense. And his word won’t be doubted. He’s a gentleman. A property owner. With no known association to me.”

  “Even so, I think it might be best to shut down your…financial arrangement, sir. You may stop Marlowe, but surely another could expose it?”

  “I don’t believe so. It’s too well designed. And none of the other spies at Phelippes’s disposal are a tenth so clever as Marlowe.”

  “True,” Poley replied.

  “There is also the fact that it is enormously profitable, and winning the queen’s favor is a costly business.”

  “Stealing from her to impress her…has a nice circularity to it, I admit,” Poley mused.

  Cecil, however, was not listening. He had been gazing absently down at the grounds, and a scowl had suddenly darkened his face.

  Moving to the windows, Poley followed his employer’s eyes. Elizabeth and Essex were strolling in the darkness hand in hand.

  Gesturing to them, Cecil said, “He has his ways, I have mine.”

  SOUTHWARK—MORNING

  The sword would have punctured Kit Marlowe’s chest but for the safety button affixed to its tip.

  Standing in the pit of the Rose theater, Ingram Frizer was watching Marlowe sweat over a mock duel with a young blond boy. Slashing and parrying, the two were zigzagging about the stage, wooden planks creaking, straw flying.

  My, my, that lad knows his way with a sword. A change of venue is most definitely in order.

  Seeing Frizer, Marlowe paused. “We’re closed, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “And rightly so,” Frizer responded. Glancing about the half-timbered polygonal structure, he muttered, “Ungodly den of disease and corruption, this place is.”

  “I suppose you’re not here for the entertainment, Ingram?”

  He and Marlowe were vaguely acquainted. Frizer had bumped into Marlowe at Tom Walsingham’s country estate on a number of occasions. Why Walsingham was patron to such an impudent ruffian, Frizer couldn’t figure.

  “Master Walsingham requires a word with you, Kit. It’s urgent. You’d best come with me.”

  At that moment, an irate voice boomed out from above. “Can you not see he’s working on a new play?”

  Turning to his left, Frizer looked up. A plump, ruddy-faced man stood in a doorway. It was Philip Henslowe, owner of the Rose, emerging from his office. No doubt he was intent on protecting his most valuable commodity: Marlowe.

  “Do you see that fringed cloth-of-gold gown?” Henslowe bellowed, pointing to a heap of clothing draped across a pair of chairs at the edge of the stage. “That gleaming white silk petticoat? The red breastplate I just finished painting myself? He writes of Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons! And not you, nor anyone, shall get in his way. Now, whoever you are, be off! Or I’ll have you thrown from the premises.”

  Glowering, Frizer pivoted to leave. Then, to his surprise, Marlowe stopped him.

  “Wait.”

  Frizer approached the stage.

  In a low tone Marlowe said, “You may tell Tom he can find me in Deptford tomorrow morning. First thing. At Eleanor Bull’s. I don’t know exactly when, but I will be arriving sometime during the night.”

  “Oh, that will do, Kit. That will do nicely.”

  Exiting the Rose, Frizer was confident he’d be able to accomplish his deadly task with ease, that the illicit trade he was helping Robert Cecil facilitate would be able to continue unimpeded. Having left Marlowe sorting through bits and pieces of costumery, Frizer felt certain that Marlowe would not be making any further discoveries that could damage the trading scheme. And as a pleasant bonus, he thought with relish, the playmaker would be dead before his final bit of filth hit the stage.

  Or so Frizer believed. He was a man of limited imagination, and it did not occur to him that Marlowe was doing exactly what he himself had done several days before—raid an armory. For the weapons Marlowe would be using to best his latest adversary were some of the props and items of clothing left behind by the Admiral’s Men when they quit the city. Nor did it occur to Frizer that for his next drama, Marlowe had a much larger stage in mind than Henslowe’s.

  GREENWICHPALACE—DUSK

  The shrill Arabic invective echoed throughout the great hall.

  Befuddled, the guard at the door was not sure how to respond. He pointed out to the grounds, to the sea of richly costumed guests milling about—fireworks cracking and gleaming over their heads. Marble fountains rippled with colored water, acrobats tumbled, a juggler tossed up flaming sticks, who would want to come inside?

  The dazzling young woman in the fringed golden gown stomped her feet. Yet more incomprehensible curses flew from her mouth. In a frenzy, she flung back her veil, tossing it over her jeweled crown.

  She was a wealthy foreigner, the guard figured, judging by the richness of her dress and the strangeness of her words. But who was she dressed as? What kind of queen wore a sword and armor?Red armor? And more important, whatever could she want? But for three Privy Councillors interrogating a Bankside scribbler, the palace was virtually empty.

  Then, during her next outburst, he made out two barely discernible English words:bedchamber andmaid.

  Ah, one of our royal guests, he realized. Nodding, he motioned her in.

  Imperiously she strode down the hall and ascended the stairwell.

  Minutes later she reappeared, with a stooped figure shrouded in a white wimple shuffling by her side.

  In spite of the itchy fabric he’d just wrapped about his head, it didn’t take Marlowe long to spot Robert Cecil. Faces might be concealed at a disguising, but misshapen shoulders were more difficult to hide. Marlowe also recognized the parrot perched upon Cecil’s forearm. Dressed in the simple white robe of a Moorish falconer, Cecil had apparently used ash to darken the feathers of his normally white pet bird—ash that, Marlowe saw, was darkening the fabric of Cecil’s sleeve.

  The diminutive spymaster was standing upon a gentle slope chatting with a mermaid, a woman who was wearing a flesh-colored bodice and billowing blue silk skirts with an elaborate jeweled green tail suspended from her waist. Maneuvering between curious beasts sculpted of ice and real ones tethered by chains, Marlowe guided Helen toward their target. He watched one of the royal lions devour a live chicken, then attempted to catch a glimpse of his sovereign. Women in white face paint and red wigs abounded, but…

  Where was the bowing and scraping? Where was Queen Elizabeth? Her great chair was empty, he noticed. And the lord-in-waiting was scanning the crowd, perplexed. She must watch from a window, Marlowe thought to himself. He’d heard many a tale of her penchant for taking steps to disarm guests and subjects. Most notably, the queen was said to have appeared before the French ambassador years before with her bodice gaping open, leaving him red-faced and stammering.

  A few yards
from Cecil, Helen paused, as if to admire a troupe of dancers. As she edged closer, straining to hear his conversation, Marlowe decided that a true maidservant would be doing something servile right about now. He moved off to fetch her a drink.

  Surveying the offerings, he chose a goblet of what smelled like spiced wine.

  “You serve your queen well,” a voice behind him declared softly.

  Marlowe turned to the tall, bony man who seemed to be dressed as Charon, the ancient Greek ferryman of the dead. Wearing a long black cloak with the hood pulled low, the man had on a black mask and gloves, which had a skull and hand bones painted on them, and carried a paddle.

  “I’ve been at it for quite a while,” Marlowe responded in his best falsetto.

  With a wink, the Charon figure replied, “We know.”

  Stunned, Marlowe gaped in silence.

  “Close your mouth at once!” Queen Elizabeth commanded. “And don’t you dare bow, Master Marlowe. You’ll give us away.”

  Breath stuck, he managed but one word. “How…?”

  “Sir Francis spoke so highly of your…efforts,we sought out your face at the Rose.”

  Collecting himself, Marlowe appreciated the irony of her choice in costume. The queen might not ferry them across the Styx herself, but a great number of souls were indeed sent to the underworld, on account of her.

  “We assume you are here on such a matter today?”

  Marlowe nodded.

  “Then we shall leave you to it. But tell me,” she said, looking pointedly at the ink stains on his fingers, “what is it you write of this time?”

  “Hero and Leander, Your Majesty.”

  “A reckless swimmer and the halfwit who dove after him?”

  “Your Majesty does not care for tragic lovers?”

  “On the contrary, it is tragic fools we do not care for. And swimming at night during the height of a storm? Flinging oneself upon a lifeless body, to be dashed to bits by the rocks below?” The queen shook her head with disdain.

  “Ah, but that is not how my poem shall end, Your Majesty,” Marlowe said.