The Intelligencer

by Leslie Silbert

  Before either man saw fit to draw his weapon, Kate had fired tranquilizer darts into each of them. Almost immediately, they crumpled to the ground.

  Behind her, a twig snapped.There was a third. Okay, she thought, trying to calculate how far back he was. Seven feet, maybe?

  Taking two quick steps back, she then spun, bringing her foot around in a sharp, slicing crescent kick. She felt her heel connect with the man’s skull before her eyes registered that he’d fallen to the ground.

  Sighing, she turned to leave once more. But before she could take a single step, she felt a strong arm grab her and a piece of wet, pungent fabric press across her nose. Immediately her mind went fuzzy and her muscles limp and useless.A fourth one…shit. Kate felt herself being hoisted up and slung over his shoulder. Watching his legs move back and forth as he carried her—somewhere—she blacked out.

  NEWYORKCITY—8:38P.M.

  Max knew that something was wrong. Kate should have been out of the park and checking in with him more than ten minutes ago.

  Worried, he decided to at least find outwhere she was, if nothow she was doing. Like all of Slade’s field people, Kate had a tracking chip implanted in her shoulder. Max brought its signal onto his computer screen and saw that she was heading due west, fast.

  Judging by the straight, crowlike movement where there was no direct road, he knew she was in a chopper.

  32

  Base Fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel

  There is a point, to which when men aspire,

  They tumble headlong down; that point I touch’d,

  And seeing there was no place to mount up higher,

  Why should I grieve at my declining fall?

  Farewell, fair Queen, weep not for Mortimer,

  That scorns the world, and as a traveler

  Goes to discover countries yet unknown.

  —MORTIMER,in Marlowe’sEdward II

  DEPTFORD—MIDDAY,MAY1593

  Six pallbearers, draped in black, were carrying the coffin toward the church of St. Nicholas. Dozens of mourners followed behind. There was a fight, people were saying. He had tried to kill a man. A lovers’ quarrel, some thought. No, a dispute over a bill, another corrected.

  Robert Poley followed the procession from a distance. The inquest had gone smoothly, he thought. Ingram Frizer was able to locate the royal coroner easily enough, and Nick Skeres had returned promptly as well. The coroner had interviewed the three of them out in the garden, then had taken his measurements of the wounds and the layout of the room. Sixteen jurors heard the evidence. Local men—landowners, bakers, and the like. The verdict was what Poley had expected. The story was declared accurate. Frizer had indeed killed Marlowe in the defense and saving of his own life.

  It had all been fairly simple.

  With pleasure, Poley recalled how he’d tricked Nick Skeres. He’d examined the contents of Marlowe’s leather satchel in advance. Realizing that the numeric code for the message he’d found was based on the fragment ofHero and Leander, he’d taken out every page of the poem and slipped them into his doublet. It was the lone copy, Marlowe had said, and as a result, no one—Phelippes included—would be able to read Marlowe’s letter to the queen.

  Poley had only had time to decode the beginning. Frizer and Skeres had arrived sooner than he’d expected. But he’d read enough. “Most beloved and mighty Queen,” the letter began. “I must tell Your Majesty of a treachery. Your crooked back man stole arms, which he then…” Although Marlowe had indeed learned of Cecil’s illicit trading relationship, now no one else ever would.

  Poley had had no problem letting Marlowe down in that regard. He’d never intended for his pledge to help the playmaker to endanger his own livelihood. And when that prospect had become clear, Poley knew he had to alter his course. It was a shame what he’d had to do to Marlowe, but it was the only way. His own interests came first.

  In a few years, he would offer Marlowe’s poem to a publisher. By then, he imagined, Phelippes would have forgotten the matter and would not think to test the poem against the coded message.

  After what Poley had done to Marlowe, it was the least he could do.

  Essex found his queen strolling along a secluded stretch of the riverbank. The cool breeze was rich with the scent of honeysuckle, strawberries, and salty gusts blowing in from the sea. Gulls soared overhead, and waterbirds flapped and warbled in the rushes by the shore. Sunlight danced upon the jeweled flowers and golden embroidery adorning her gown.

  “Beloved, what is it?” he asked, sensing her melancholy air.

  “Christopher Marlowe. He’s dead.”

  Essex placed his hands upon her shoulders.

  “He was to give us his newest poem,” she continued softly, allowing Essex to draw her into his arms.

  The funeral procession reached the churchyard at the edge of the green. The pallbearers set about lowering the coffin into the fresh grave.

  Robert Poley found himself standing near a trio of poets.

  “He was the muse’s darling,” one of them was lamenting.

  “A truly nimble throat,” another said sadly. “That so amorously could sing.”

  “One of the wittiest knaves that ever God made…pen sharp-pointed like the knife that slew him.”

  When the minister began to speak, Poley turned to leave. Finally, he thought, he could go home and rest. His work was done.

  33

  NEWYORKCITY—11:01P.M., THE PRESENT DAY

  No movement, Senator,” Max said into his phone to Donovan Morgan.

  He’d tracked Kate from RAF Northolt to Naples International and from there, on to Capri. She had not moved since.

  “Which means he’s got her drugged…or physically restrained,” Morgan responded.

  “Right.” Max prayed that Morgan was correct, that de Tolomei had not killed her. “Slade will be there any minute, Senator. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hanging up, Max wondered what it was that Slade and Morgan were keeping from him. For some reason, neither man doubted that de Tolomei wanted Kate alive. Max wished he felt as sure.

  He also wished he had not allowed all of this to happen.

  BAY OFNAPLES—5:03A.M.

  Two inflatable Zodiac speedboats zoomed southwest from the Sorrentine peninsula, disco music and lights fading behind. Four men were aboard each. Before long, the north face of Capri appeared before them.

  To their left was the well-lit Marina Grande. Their destination was farther west. Within minutes, they were closing in on the island’s infamous Blue Grotto. A grizzled Caprese stood waiting. He helped tie up their boats, and the eight men began climbing the rickety, zigzagging steps to the top of the cliff.

  Dividing into groups of two, Jeremy Slade and his seven employees took off on different routes to Luca de Tolomei’s home.

  WASHINGTON,D.C.—11:07P.M.

  He hadn’t known until it was too late.

  Kate had been mentioning a boyfriend, an archaeologist, for more than six months. He had a Welsh name, she’d said. Rhys, because his mother was of Welsh descent, too, like Donovan Morgan.

  He’d never seen his daughter so happy.

  Morgan was supposed to meet Rhys that first Thanksgiving, but Rhys had had to go into the field, to do some last-minute research to supplement a presentation he was giving. Something to do with ancient writing.

  That same Thanksgiving, an American spy code-named Acheron had been sent into Jordan to neutralize a terrorist cell plotting to release nerve gas into the New York subway system.

  Morgan had not made the connection. There were thousands of young men at Harvard. The possibility had never crossed his mind. Slade’s spy had grown up in Egypt. Kate’s archaeologist was Welsh.

  Then came the New Year’s invitation: Kate was going to stay with the Khouri family in Cairo. Morgan hadn’t understood.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” she’d asked. “Rhys’s father is Egyptian. He grew up there. Cam
e here for grad school.”

  What were the chances?

  Morgan had tried to discourage the relationship, telling Kate she was too young to be so serious with someone, but she wouldn’t listen. And when he met Rhys and saw them together for the first time, he understood. Engagement came quickly. Rhys was going to tell Kate about his double life, but after Iraq, he told Morgan. After Operation Hydra. He didn’t want Kate to spend those months worrying.

  Telling her that he and his brother were going to the Himalayas had been Rhys’s idea. He’d needed an explanation for why he wouldn’t be able to contact her for a couple of months. And then he’d disappeared, and Morgan had kept quiet, not wanting to add to Kate’s unhappiness.

  BELVEDERE OFPUNTACANNONE,CAPRI—5:09A.M.

  De Tolomei was watching.

  He’d had cameras placed throughout Donovan Morgan’s home a number of years before. All for this moment. To see the familiar expression, the one he’d been wearing himself for so long. That blend of grief and intense, unmitigated self-loathing.

  Jason Avera and Connor Black were the first to arrive.

  Dressed once again as tourists, they were climbing the narrow, winding steps of Capri’s Via Castello, passing white stucco houses and tiered gardens rich with palm and citrus trees.

  De Tolomei’s home was perched at the end of the road near the cliff’s edge. It was surrounded on its three inland sides by a curving, ivy-covered stone wall with black steel railing grazing the top.

  “Boss,” Jason reported softly, looking at a glint in the wall. “We’re being watched.”

  Slade, who was probably within shouting distance by now, did not reply. Cameras had been expected.

  Moving slowly along the wall, Jason continued, “And there’s enough Semtex around here to vaporize us all. I see one trip wire, and I’d guess there are others. Probably one or more detonators inside as well.”

  SOMEWHERE OVER THEMEDITERRANEAN—5:16A.M.

  “A trap?” CIA Director Alexis Cruz asked Slade. Her private jet was beginning its descent into Naples International.

  “Purely defensive, I’d say. I think he wants to savor this for a bit…not take us all out together.”

  “Unless they’re already dead, and this is merely an exercise in tormenting Donovan for as long as possible.”

  “I don’t think de Tolomei has a death wish, Lexy.”

  “Does he want a pardon? Money?”

  “Perhaps both.”

  “You have a blank check, you know.”

  “Good. Have the medevac ready. We won’t be long.”

  Blinking, Kate awoke. She was in a chair by a window in an otherwise empty room. Outside she saw nothing but midnight-blue sky.

  “Coffee?” de Tolomei inquired, entering the room with a steaming mug.

  Head still cloudy, Kate nodded warily. To her dismay, he had fixed it exactly as she liked it. How long had he been watching her? Listening?

  Her eyes were burning. Remembering the colored contact lenses, she reached up and took them out. Her wig was on the table beside her, she noticed, and she dropped the lenses onto it.

  “Not a bad disguise,” de Tolomei said. “We might not have found you if—”

  “You hadn’t put a bug and tracking chip in my cell phone?” Kate finished.

  He smiled. “My men never imagined that subduing you would prove so difficult.”

  Kate shrugged.

  “Have you relayed my message?”

  “I haven’t spoken with my father in a few days, but I think you know that already.”

  “I couldn’t be sure.”

  “So is this when you try to kill me? Or tell me what he did to secure your wife’s testimony?”

  “Neither. I’m not a murderer. I’ve killed one man, and you know why. As to the latter, if you must know, I was twenty minutes late picking our daughter up from school the day she was murdered. I told my wife that I’d been working late. Your father, however, revealed that I’d been involved in a brief affair with my partner—suggested that I’d been in bed with her at the time of the kidnapping.”

  “Was it true?” Kate asked.

  “Yes, I’m ashamed to say. But a colleague and friend—a man with a child of his own, no less—exposing what I’d shared with him in confidence in order to get a conviction forthat crime?” De Tolomei shook his head with disgust.

  “You expected the U.S. Attorney’s office to condone torture and murder? By a fed? To basically tell the public that vigilante justice is okay?”

  “Given the circumstances, yes,” de Tolomei said. “My own mistakes may have cost me my daughter, but your father’s revelations cost me my wife. Ever since I’ve wanted him to experience the same heartbreak and regret over something he’d done—to be tortured by the threat of its exposure, fearing he’d lose what was left of his family.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, but I no longer need it.”

  “You can’t possibly expect me to believe he’s done something equivalent to adultery, child neglect, and murder. You know what kind of man he is.”

  “Some things speak louder than words, Kate. Come with me.”

  Max was riveted to his computer screen. Finally Kate was moving. It was possible that someone was carrying her, he knew, but he was hoping the movement meant she was walking.

  De Tolomei led Kate up a flight of steps and down a curved hall, then gestured toward an arched doorway.

  “The CIA sent their top operations officer into Iraq three years ago as part of a mission designed to unseat Saddam Hussein. Your father, then chairman of the SSCI, knew all about it. That spy was captured by Iranian intelligence and has been held in Tehran’s most vicious prison ever since. Rescue was never attempted, was deemed too politically troublesome, I’d imagine. So his loved ones were told he was dead, and he was abandoned. The man who made those decisions was Jeremy Slade, if my sources aren’t mistaken.”

  “They must be.”

  “Have a look.”

  Standing in the doorway, Kate peered into what resembled a room in a luxurious medical clinic. With the dawn light hitting the opposite side of the house, the room was still dark. Slowly her eyes adjusted.

  On the far side of the room, she saw a very thin man lying on a bed, hooked up to an IV pole. But for the rising and falling of his chest, he was perfectly still. Not quite sure why, Kate felt compelled to move forward.

  The patient’s eyelids, she saw, were fluttering open. Seconds later, he turned to face her.

  Elhamdulillah, he’s awake!

  Surina Khan was in the doorway of the adjacent wall. She was carrying a tray of new medicines, ointments, and IV bags. From where she was standing, she could see her patient and the young woman with the brown hair and strange tattoo.

  They were staring at each other. In silence.

  Without question, the woman recognized him. Her lips were slightly parted, her face pale, body frozen. She did not appear to be breathing.

  At first, Surina’s patient appeared calm. His expression was open, kind perhaps, but there was a blankness to it. Then, ever so slightly, he tilted his head and pressed his lips together.

  Seconds later, a radiant smile began spreading across his face.

  Looking back to the woman, Surina saw tears slide down her right cheek, pause briefly at her jaw, then plummet into the air.

  And then the silence was broken. Her patient started to speak. At first only a soft whisper came out. Clearing his throat, he tried again. Looking into the woman’s eyes, his voice was hesitant but warm. Hopeful. “Surina?”

  For a moment, the word hung in the air. A leaf drifting in a gentle breeze.

  Then, a crashing sound.

  The young woman with the strange tattoo hadn’t moved a muscle, but the real Surina had dropped her tray.

  34

  O, that that damned villain were alive again,

  That we might torture him with some new-found death!

  —EPERNOUN,in Marlowe’sThe Mass
acre at Paris

  LONDON—EARLY AFTERNOON,MAY1593

  Thomas Phelippes was at his desk, staring angrily at the numerical message Skeres had delivered to him that morning. He had been attempting to decode it ever since, to no avail.

  “Marlowe,” he spat. “Stabbing was too good for you.”

  Robert Cecil felt the same way.

  He was peering into the empty hollow beneath the floorboards in his study. Fury had never burned so hotly within him. What a shame that Marlowe was now well beyond his grasp.

  Had Cecil known what was happening downriver at that moment, he would have been doubly enraged.

  DEPTFORD—EARLY AFTERNOON

  With three customs agents behind him, Oliver Fitzwilliam was striding down the private dock toward the Muscovy Company ships. Kit had asked him to conduct an inspection just before they set sail, suggesting that a smuggling operation was afoot.

  Fitzwilliam was crushed by his friend’s sudden death and furious at whoever had brought it about. He did not for a moment believe the story about a quarrel over a bill. Surely the killer—or his paymaster, at any rate—and the man who’d orchestrated the smuggling were one and the same. Unfortunately though, with Kit dead before his investigation was complete, whoever it was would undoubtedly remain at large. But hopefully, as his means of transporting smuggled goods would soon be gone, the villain would not find his operation easy to resume.

  “On the authority of the powers invested in me by the court,” Fitzwilliam began angrily, “I inspect these ships for contraband.”

  Helen tethered Kit’s horse at the Deptford stables, then headed for the riverfront. Apparently his friend Robert Poley had secured places for each of them aboard one of Sir Walter Ralegh’s privateering vessels, theBonaventure.

  There was a great commotion on the merchants’ dock, she saw. Four uniformed men were hauling crates off one of the Muscovy Company ships. She recognized the fat one. It was the customs agent who’d confiscated her papers and taken her money. He and his subordinates, she overheard in passing, were confiscating caches of stolen weaponry.