Her captain would not be pleased, Helen thought. But Kit would. She could not wait to tell him. They’d been apart for only a day, she realized. But she missed him all the same.
35
CAPRI—5:36A.M., THE PRESENT DAY
De Tolomei pulled the door to his surveillance room shut behind him. He found Kate in the hallway, wracked with quiet sobbing.
Noticing him, she used her sleeve to wipe her tears, then grabbed the front of his shirt. “You’ve kept him here, knowing what he’s been through? He needs proper medical attention. He needs a doctor!”
Calmly looking down at the bunched fabric in her hand, de Tolomei said, “And he’s had one. Three times a day since he arrived in Tunis.”
Kate took a step back. “What did the doctor say?”
De Tolomei nodded down the hall, then turned and strode out into his garden. Though well-tended, it had a haunted, melancholy atmosphere. Pines and cypress trees cast long shadows. The lush greenery was dense and overgrown, and the flowers, mostly shades of blue and purple. Jasmine and aloe dangled from crevices in the mossy walls.
“Rhys is recovering well,” de Tolomei said, as they moved away from the house.
“Is he—” Voice cracking, she tried again. “Is he in pain?”
“Not anymore.”
“Will he…get his memory back?”
“He was drugged extensively for years. They don’t know yet.”
“How did this…all of this…happen?”
“Three years ago, someone at Langley leaked the details of Rhys’s mission in Iraq to Iranian intelligence. Specifically, to a man I’ve gotten to know quite well. My friend had been planning to defect and thought if he had an American spy on his hands, he could negotiate a deal with Langley for protection. He wanted to issue himself an insurance policy. A few weeks ago, he asked my advice.”
“But how did you make the connection? To my father? To me?”
“I’ve had surveillance conducted on both of you for years. When I saw the face of the spy my Iranian friend had imprisoned, I recognized him and…offered a sizable sum.”
“How much?” Kate asked. She was nearly certain she knew the answer already but wanted to confirm it.
“Eleven million dollars.”
“I know you didn’t do it for Rhys or for me,” she then said softly. “But thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” de Tolomei replied, surprised that his words felt genuine. Even more startling, he felt a lightness in his heart and knew that it was not due to the anguish of Donovan Morgan. The look on Kate’s face—of intense, even if conflicted gratitude—was the reason he had joined the FBI so many years before.
Kate opened de Tolomei’s garden gate and walked toward the scenic overlook at the end of the Via Castello. Leaning against the railing, she gazed through the pines down to the bright turquoise waters below.
Before a minute had passed, she heard footsteps. She turned around and saw Jeremy Slade.
“Is he okay?”
“Recovering,” Kate said.
“I thought he was dead. That it would be easier on everyone who loved him to have certainty. And there was protocol to consider. An incident had been reported in the Himalayas, near Everest, so…”
“That arm?”
Slade was aghast. “You opened the casket?” He shut his eyes for a moment. “We needed something for the funeral home people. It…belonged to one of the German tourists killed in the attack. Rhys’s brother was near their camp, and—”
“He’s the one who sent me the postcards.”
Slade nodded. “You have to know, I questioned hundreds of Iraqi defectors over the years. And when Saddam emptied his prisons before the war—of everyone but spies—I sent teams in to make inquiries. For months. Just to be sure. It never occurred to me that—”
“I can understand what you were thinking,” Kate cut in. “But if you hadn’t lied, someone might have thought to look where you didn’t.”
Slade remained quiet.
His eyes, Kate saw, were haunted by guilt. “The leak, Rhys’s disappearance—was this part of why you left the Agency?”
He nodded.
“How long have you known he was alive?”
“Your father received a videoclip five days ago, but—”
“My father has known forfive days?”
“We wanted to find him and bring him home safely before telling you,” Slade said softly. “De Tolomei sent you to negotiate?”
“No.”
“What does he want?”
“Nothing. He already got it.”
“He doesn’t want a pardon?”
“He has no intention of returning to his Nick Fontana identity, or to the U.S. He said you can go in and see Rhys. And have a medevac land in his garden.”
“You speak as if…”
“His guards were dismissed last night. And now he’s gone, too,” Kate said. Before she’d left his garden, de Tolomei had told her about the elevator shaft that had been drilled into the cliff beneath his basement.
“He doesn’t have your level of training…. You could have stopped him.”
“After what he did for Rhys?” Kate shook her head. “Besides, he has no intention of telling anyone what he knows.”
“You believe him?”
“Yes. He’s not a threat to any of us as long as you don’t try to have him extradited or killed.”
“Did he say who else knows the truth about Rhys?”
“Only Hamid Azadi, but Azadi defected. Has left the intelligence world behind him. He won’t reveal anything.”
Slade did not reply. He took his phone from his pocket. “We’re ready,” Kate heard him say. “In his garden. No, it won’t be a problem.”
Thirty feet beneath the surface of the sea, de Tolomei was in a small, twoman submersible hydrofoil known as a Bionic Dolphin, speeding toward the mainland.
NAPLES—8:04A.M.
The sky was gray. A light morning mist filled the air.
Shivering, Kate watched as the gurney was rolled toward the sleek white Gulfstream, Director Cruz’s private jet. Two men were wheeling it across the tarmac, and, on reaching the stairs, they lifted it, carrying Rhys aboard.
The young nurse, Surina Khan, followed them onto the plane. She had asked to go, and seeing how well Rhys was responding to her, Kate and Slade had agreed that it was a good idea.
Picking up speed, the jet took off down the runway and proceeded on its way to Washington.
Kate turned and started walking toward the airport’s main terminal.
“You have to tell meeverything,” Adriana burst out as soon as Kate answered her phone. “Everyone’s talking about Medina’s arrest. Huge headlines in every paper, apparently. I haven’t read any of the articles yet, but I thought I’d go right to the source. Or are you not able to talk about it?”
“Hey,” Kate said warmly, relieved by the distraction. “As far as I’m concerned, when he pulled a gun on me, his confidentiality privileges went out the window.”
“Oh my God! Are you okay? I didn’t know you’d been in Greenwich Park! Everyone thinks it was just the police.”
“I’ll tell you about it. I’m…I’m fine.”
“You sound sick.”
“Yeah, bit of a cold.”
“Can we meet for coffee?”
“That’d be great,” Kate said. “My flight’s about to board. I’ll be back in London around eleven.”
“What do you mean? Where are you?”
“Another…work thing came up. I’m in Naples.”
“What’s your flight number? I’ll come get you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I need to go to my office anyway—take a shower, pick up some things…”
“How about we meet in Shepherd Market. The main square. Get something to eat.”
“I’d like that. How’s twelve-fifteen?”
“Perfect.”
36
I go as whirlwinds rage before a storm.
/>
—GUISE,in Marlowe’sThe Massacre at Paris
LONDON—AFTERNOON,MAY1593
He could tarry no longer. His compendium had to be bound and hidden immediately.
Phelippes looked out his window. Dark clouds were gathering. Rain would soon fall. Good.
Using a small blade, he carved Marlowe’s numerical message into the sole of his left boot. He then slipped the vexing original into its proper place at the very bottom of the stack of reports in his pewter box. Phelippes was loath to have it bound before assuring himself that his final page did, indeed, provide evidence attesting to Cecil’s treasonous liaison with a Barbary pirate, but he had no choice. As soon as Cecil discovered that he possessed such damaging evidence, men would be sent to his lodgings. Men who would not give up until every last crevice had been searched, and every seemingly solid surface had been tapped for a hollow. Not only would Phelippes lose his ability to vanquish Cecil, but his painstakingly accumulated arsenal of secrets would be ripped from his grasp. That must not be allowed to happen.
Time for the title.
Phelippes withdrew a sheet of paper from his desk and unscrewed his jar of lemon juice. Citrus was terribly expensive but for this, well worth it.
He gazed upon his list of possible titles one last time, then held it to a candle flame. Not one of them pleased him.
Too long, perhaps?
Because of that vile wretch Marlowe, he was being forced to rush a task he’d intended to linger over. Had Marlowe’s death been quick? he wondered. Did a knife plunging through the eye extinguish life instantaneously? Or did Marlowe have a few moments to gloat, fancying he could take his secret to his grave?
Suddenly the title came to him. It was shorter than his others. More powerful, too. Like a dagger thrust.The Anatomy of Secrets.
Phelippes wrote out the words with lemon. He then uncovered his pot of ink, took up a second quill, and wrote out several lines of nullities above, below, and between the lines of lemon lettering. When the page was dry, only the lines of nullities were visible. Satisfied, he laid it on top of his collection, slipped his box into a large canvas sack, and stood to leave.
His binder was waiting.
Back in his study, Phelippes went straight for Marlowe’s leather bag. He’d found something else of interest in it, something with which he could vent his frustration. It was a poem Walter Ralegh had written about his love affair with the queen.
Thousands of lines long, the poem had to have involved a great deal of effort. It was very likely the original, Phelippes thought, as a great many words had been crossed out and replaced.
“Well, then, he shall miss it.” After lighting a fire in his hearth, he began tossing page after crumpled page into the flames.
In spite of the enormous popularity of Ralegh and Marlowe’s written works, Phelippes felt sure that his manuscript was the only worthy creation. Their words, their pages, would quickly be forgotten. As would Marlowe, he thought, remembering that the poet-spy was being buried that day.
Phelippes had no way of knowing that centuries later, Renaissance scholars the world over would miss the lost Ralegh poem and lament Marlowe’s premature death, while hardly a soul would even know his name.
His task finished, Phelippes lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. It should not be long now. Before nightfall, in all likelihood.
There was a great thumping noise. And another.
The door. Phelippes had barred it, but…with a sharp crack, it gave way. Cecil’s men had arrived.
Phelippes was alone. If he’d changed his pattern and hired men to guard him on this day, Cecil would know for sure that he had something to hide.
“Where is it?” a big brute demanded.
“I’ve no idea what you’re speaking of,” Phelippes responded, attempting to appear bewildered.
There were three of them, and they strode in and began searching without preamble. They leafed through books, slashed his straw-filled pallet, checked beneath and behind everything.
Four hours later, they stopped. “Undress,” the big one commanded.
Phelippes did not resist. He unfastened his doublet and removed his shirt. One of the men checked the pockets and ripped out his doublet’s lining. The other two snickered at the childlike scrawniness of his body.
Phelippes then sat down to pull off his boots. Immediately hands reached inside them and checked to see if either of the soles was loose, if a folded piece of paper had been slipped beneath.
The boot-checker frowned. There was mud all over his hands. “A right pig you are,” he grumbled.
Phelippes shrugged. He hadn’t wiped his boots for a reason.
37
PARIS—11:34A.M., THE PRESENT DAY
Jeremy Slade was pointing a silenced Browning automatic handgun at a man whose face was swathed in bandages.
“You’re wasting your time,” the man said. “Hamid Azadi is already dead. All I want to do is live in peace, by the sea.”
“You really imagine I’d choose to trust you?”
“No. I’m going to trust you. My new name is Cyril Dardennes. I inherited money from a wealthy French grandmother, and I’m moving to Key West. I’ve dreamed of this for years.”
“You don’t deserve dreams, Azadi. You stole three years from someone I love like a brother. Not to mention the fact that if he’d been operational the past three years, who knows how many innocent lives might have been saved.”
“I’m sorry your friend lost time. But don’t forget that if I had not inter-ceded, he very likely would have been captured and executed by the Iraqis.”
“On the contrary, I believe he’d have prevented a war.” With an audible clicking sound, Slade pulled back the hammer of his pistol.
“Your resources in my former country are slim. One day you’ll need me. At the very least, you’ll want to know who passed me the tip in the first place.”
Slade narrowed his eyes. He’d assumed that the traitor would have kept his identity a secret. “You know who it is?”
Azadi nodded. “And I’ll tell you…sometime when you don’t have a gun pointed at my head.”
Seconds later, Slade turned and left. He had not fired.
MAYFAIR,LONDON—11:54A.M.
When Kate finished combing her wet hair, she unzipped her suitcase and pulled out her makeup bag. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened on Capri, and didn’t want Adriana to see the puffiness beneath her eyes or the blotches on her cheeks. Unwinding a stick of concealer, she used her fingertips to dab it where needed, swept a layer of powder across, then lined her eyes with dark brown and her lids with several shades of coppery gold.
After smoothing on a layer of lipstick, she examined her image. Only the redness in her eyes betrayed what was in her heart. She slipped on a pair of dark tortoiseshell sunglasses, reached for her shoulder bag, and headed down to the street.
Shepherd Market was not far from the local Slade’s office. Within minutes, she was crossing Curzon Street and entering the market via a cozy corridor paved with large stone slabs and lined with sandwich shops. The quaint pedestrian enclave buzzed with life. From the main square, Kate spotted Adriana sitting outside a bistro with a bright red awning and matching tables.
“Thanks for coming here,” she said, leaning in to kiss Adriana’s cheek.
“Of course. I’mdying to hear what happened last night.”
Kate slid into the wicker chair opposite her friend. “I’m starving,” she said. “Order first?”
“Yes.”
“What are you having?”
“Mmm, coffee and the feta tomato omelette.”
“Sounds good,” Kate said, not in the mood to peruse a menu. “I’ll get that, too.”
Adriana caught the waiter’s eye. Once he’d come and gone, she turned back to Kate. “So about Cidro. I’m confused. People at work were talking about a pirate chest, which is exciting and who wouldn’t want it, but for Cidro to risk jail when he’s a top fund manager with mon
ey coming out his ears?”
“Actually, it only appears that way,” Kate said. “His so-called Midas touch? That was a friend of his at a top accounting firm, who told him which companies were cooking their books so he could short them. When the accountant got fired, Cidro’s fund tanked. Eventually, he started to recover by using front organizations to spread false rumors about companies he was planning to short. The Serious Fraud Office has been investigating him for a while. He’s also near broke. Not too long ago, he shorted some companies whose stock shot up. He’s facing massive margin calls and can’t cover his positions.”
“God, I had no idea.”
“Neither did I. He kept the pretense up really well—of the blasé rich guy without a care in the world…I never doubted it.”
“How did you figure out it was him?”
“I knew that the, uh…well, bad guy, was aware of certain historical information scholars today don’t have a clue about. So I assumed it must have been some kind of family secret. In privately held papers, maybe, or just lore, passed down through generations. Max traced the descendants of the Elizabethans likely to have had access to the information back then, and—”
“Cidro was one of them.”
“Exactly,” Kate said. She’d known that Marlowe could have shared the location of Robert Cecil’s chest with anyone, like a friend or a family member, but she’d been pretty sure that the Elizabethan in question was either Cecil or one of the three witnesses to Marlowe’s murder. She believed Marlowe would have kept such information close to the vest until he found a trusty means of getting his letter to the queen.
The waiter returned with their coffees.
“When did you find out?” Adriana asked, pouring in milk for both of them. “That it was Cidro, I mean?”
The Intelligencer Page 33