The King's Deception cm-8

by Steve Berry

  “So long as we do certain things in private,” the queen explained, “no one could ever know.”

  Which explained many of the habits. He dressed in private and bathed only with either Lady Ashley or Parry in attendance. He owned an array of eighty wigs and insisted on clothing that concealed his chest and lacked contour from the waist down. He wore heavy white makeup on his face, a sign of purity many observers noted, but it also allowed a masking of features. Always more feminine than masculine, he had sparse hair on his body, including the head, as he’d inherited the Tudor tendency toward baldness. Doctors were allowed to treat him, but never to examine anything more than his eyes, mouth, and throat. At no time could anyone touch his person, and few ever did.

  I left the encounter that day feeling both scared and satisfied. This man, who had by then ably ruled England for thirty-nine years, perhaps better than any monarch before, was an imposter. He possessed no right to the throne, yet he occupied it, as completely and thoroughly as if Elizabeth herself had survived. The people loved him, the queen’s popularity never in question. My father had made me pledge to serve him and that I did, until the day he died in 1603. Ever vigilant, he left specific instructions that no autopsy would be performed and none was. I was told by the queen exactly what to do with the body, which I followed only somewhat precisely.

  “It seems Robert Cecil lived up to his nickname,” Miss Mary said. “The Fox.”

  Ian was curious. “What does that mean, somewhat precisely?”

  “That he chose what he wanted to respect and ignored the rest. Which explains why his journal even exists. He seems to have wanted people to know the truth.”

  The train stopped at a station.

  He and Miss Mary exited, then wound their way around to a connector line that would take them to The Goring Hotel.

  Once inside the new train he asked, “Can we read some more?”

  Miss Mary smiled in her warm way. “Of course. I’m as curious as you seem to be.”

  When my father served the queen I, along with a great many, wondered why she never married. King Henry was obsessive in his desire to secure a male heir. Queen Mary likewise tried and failed to birth a child. There were many offers of marriage toward Elizabeth, both domestic and foreign. Lord Robert Dudley seemed the favorite, but my father openly despised him and the queen publicly bowed to his will and did not marry Dudley. The queen also rejected Philip II of Spain, Archduke Charles of Austria, and two French princes. When Parliament urged a marriage or the nomination of an heir, the queen refused to do either. Since my father knew the truth, he understood why that could not be. But every offer, every insistence, every Parliamentary urging was maximized for political advantage. She told the House of Commons that, “in the end, this shall be sufficient, that a marble stone shall declare that a queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.”

  For the poets she became the virgin queen, married to her kingdom, under the divine protection of heaven. “All my husbands, my good people,” were the words used on more than one occasion. But the queen was not unmindful of the duty to ensure that the kingdom survive. The fear of civil war was great. So it came to be that he urged me to correspond with James, king of Scotland, son of Mary, Queen of Scots, whom he’d executed for treason. In conciliation of that unavoidable act I was to offer that James assume the throne of England upon the queen’s death. In return, James would cease all opposition and threats toward the English crown. The Scotsman harbored deep resentment for what happened to his mother, but the prospect of the throne eased his anger. He was a shallow man, with few principles, easily swayed. So, when the queen died, the succession occurred without one drop of spilled blood.

  I came to admire and respect the imposter. He governed with care and wisdom. My father likewise held him in high esteem. I often wonder if the true Elizabeth would have faired better or worse. What England received was a monarch who ruled forty-five years, providing much needed stability. The imposter was blessed with a countenance unlike his Tudor ancestors, one that provided him long life and reasonable health. In the only other time we spoke of his substitution he told me of his mother and father.

  “Our dear mother died before we became queen. We regret she never lived to know. We never saw each other again, once Thomas Parry returned us to Overcourt and we became the princess.”

  “But twelve years passed before you rose to the throne.”

  “That it did. My mother lived for eleven of those. Lady Ashley and Parry kept me informed as to her life and health. I was told that she was pleased with all that happened. She loved my father dearly, but hated my grandfather, King Henry. On the day Parry took me to Overcourt she told me that it was right and just that this be happening. I would finally become a Tudor, in every way. Her wish was that I would one day become queen. That thought frightened me. But I have since become accustomed to my duty and comfortable with my charge.”

  I noticed that when he spoke, for the first time, the label for himself became not “us” or “we” but “me” and “I.” Here was a man, a son, who’d never asked for what befell him but who likewise had not failed in his duty.

  “You are the ruler of this nation. Your word is our command,” I told him.

  “Except for one fact, dear Robert. One fact that might one day become overriding.”

  I knew of what he spoke since I too had considered that since he was not the princess Elizabeth, he was not the rightful and lawful ruler of England. Every act done in his name would be void ab initio, from the beginning, as more of the fraud.

  As if he never existed.

  Fifty

  Gary used the crowd, making his way toward the exit gate, still a hundred feet away from Antrim. Though clearly aware of the woman and man behind him, Antrim had not, as yet, noticed the two men at the gate. If he did, why keep heading straight toward them?

  While Antrim had been inside the Jewel House, Gary had roamed the walks, admiring the White Tower rising to his right. He’d listened to the colorfully dressed Beefeaters as they entertained groups gathered around one spot after another. Everything here seemed attached not to the present, but the past. History was not a subject he enjoyed in school, but here it was all around him. What a difference from words on a page, or images on a video screen. Surrounding him was one of the oldest fortresses in England, where men had died defending the walls, and something was happening.

  Right now.

  Right here.

  He focused again on Antrim, who continued to hustle toward the exit. The two men still stood at the gate, and Gary watched as one of them reached beneath his jacket. He caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster, similar to one his dad owned, and knew what was there. No weapon was displayed, but the hand stayed beneath the jacket, tucked away, out of view.

  Ready.

  Antrim kept coming.

  Gary was now fifty feet away, still among the crowds.

  No one had noticed him.

  Antrim stopped, his gaze now focused ahead at the two men.

  Surprise and concern filled his face.

  The woman and the other man were closing from behind.

  Time to act.

  * * *

  Antrim saw there was nowhere to go. The only exit from the Tower grounds was blocked by two men. Any retreat would take him straight to Denise. He’d made a deal with the devil and now the Daedalus Society had decided he, too, was a liability. True, he had several million of their dollars in the bank, but none of that would do him any good dead. He was mad at himself for all of the mistakes he’d apparently made. This operation, which he’d hoped might be his salvation, had turned into a nightmare.

  Even worse, it apparently had been one from the start.

  The idea had been to find something that could be used to coax the British government into stopping the Scots from releasing a convicted terrorist. An internal CIA assessment on the potential for Operation King’s Deception had shown that, if successful, the information might be sufficient
. The British prided themselves on an adherence to law. Common law was born here, then exported around the world. Their loyalty to legality had been used more than once to squelch a king, expand Parliament, or subdue a colony. King’s Deception had been designed to turn that loyalty against them. Had all gone to plan, Downing Street would have had no choice but to intervene with the Scots. All Washington wanted was a murderer kept in jail. In return, no one would ever know what happened 400 years ago.

  But the Daedalus Society had interfered with all of that.

  He wished he knew more about them, but there’d been no time to investigate, and any effort to do so would have drawn Langley’s attention.

  His only thought now was how to get the hell out of here in one piece. Would they shoot him here? With all of these people around? Who knew. These people were fanatics, and fanatics were unpredictable.

  The idea had been to kill Cotton Malone.

  But things had changed.

  Now he was the one in the crosshairs.

  * * *

  Gary crept ahead, using a group of Japanese tourists as cover. Twenty feet separated Antrim from the two men at the gate, the woman and the other man having stopped about thirty feet behind where Antrim stood, people moving back and forth between them.

  His birth father needed him and he wasn’t going to turn away.

  The two men at the gate still had no idea he was there, their attention totally on Antrim.

  He was approaching from their right and unless they had eyes in the sides of their heads—

  He burst from the crowd and leaped forward, propelling his body into the air, rolling sideways so his full length crashed into both men.

  Down they all went to the pavement, their bodies cushioning his fall.

  He heard a grunt, then a thump as heads slapped hard stone.

  Both men were stunned and groggy.

  Gary sprang to his feet.

  * * *

  Antrim realized what had happened.

  As one of the men crumpled down, a hand slipped from beneath his jacket, holding a gun. The grip was released when the man’s head pounded the cobbles.

  He rushed forward and snatched up the weapon, his eyes meeting Gary’s. “We have to leave.”

  “I know. I saw that woman back there.”

  He wondered how Gary would have any idea as to Denise’s identity, but now was not the time to inquire.

  His finger curled onto the trigger.

  He turned and aimed the weapon straight at Denise. Someone yelled, “Gun.” It took an instant for the scene to register with the people pouring in and out of the gate. Two Beefeaters flanked either side and both fled their posts, racing toward him.

  Denise dove toward a patch of grass to her left, beyond the walk.

  He followed her leap with the gun and ticked off one round.

  The retort sent the people engulfing him into a frenzy, which blocked the Beefeaters from reaching him. He turned, saw Gary, and motioned for them to leave, slipping the gun into his pant pocket. Everything happened in a matter of seconds, the next few critical, so he told himself to calm down, blend in, use the chaos to his advantage.

  He gently grabbed Gary’s arm. “Nice and slow. Draw no attention.”

  Gary nodded and they turned right at the Thames and followed the concrete walk away from the Tower. Loud voices and congestion loomed behind them. A sea of excited people acted like a moat, guarding their flank.

  His heart raced.

  They kept moving back toward the busy street, where Antrim flagged a taxi.

  They climbed in and sped away.

  He caught the driver’s attention. “Take us to any tube station a few blocks from here.”

  The Underground was the fastest and safest way back to the warehouse. A station was located less than half a mile away from it. Though Daedalus knew its location, there were things he needed.

  Like Cecil’s journal.

  If he was quick, he could stay ahead of them.

  “That was brave, what you did,” he said.

  “You needed help. That woman was behind you.”

  “How did you know about her?”

  “I went into the Jewel House and saw you talking to her.”

  How much else had he seen or heard? Could not have been much. No one had been nearby when he spoke to Denise. And he hadn’t seen Gary inside.

  Let it go.

  He gently grabbed Gary by the shoulders. “You saved my hide.”

  The boy smiled. “You would have done the same for me.”

  Fifty-one

  Kathleen stayed low and made her way to a door that opened from the viewing booth into the tennis court. Her gaze alternated between the scene before her and what might be behind her. She doubted the two from the break room would be awake anytime soon. Both were going to need a doctor. A familiar surge of adrenaline charged her nerves. One she liked. Or at least that’s what the therapist had told her and she’d not disagreed. Right now the rush helped her think, making decisions that her life may depend on.

  But she liked it that way.

  Relying on herself.

  Cotton Malone was in a tight spot. Thomas Mathews had him corralled. And though Malone held a weapon, it would do him little good.

  “What now?” Malone asked, his eyes locked on the two armed men standing ten meters away.

  Mathews stood to Malone’s left, between him and where Kathleen was hiding.

  “It would seem,” Mathews said, “that two of you will be shot and a third will walk away.”

  The old man was right. The best Malone could hope for was to take down one.

  “What’s the point of this?” Malone asked, still staring at his problem.

  “This is not personal, Cotton. Strictly business. That, you surely understand.”

  “All I care about is making sure my boy is okay. The rest of this is your mess, not mine.”

  “Are you aware that Blake Antrim performed a DNA test on himself and your son?”

  * * *

  Malone was shocked by what he’d heard. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I actually know the results of that test.”

  Was he hearing right?

  “I told you that Antrim maneuvered your initial stateside involvement with Ian Dunne. He wanted you and your son in London. Once here, he managed to divert you off in search of Dunne while he kept watch over your son.”

  “He found Gary, after he’d been taken.”

  “It was all staged.”

  “For what?”

  “The DNA test showed that Antrim is Gary’s birth father.”

  “I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

  “I assure you, Cotton, I speak the truth.”

  And something told him that was the case.

  “I was unaware of your personal situation,” Mathews said, “until recently. Your son is not biologically yours. A fact you did not know until a few months ago.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Antrim has been watching your ex-wife for several months. We monitored calls made to a person in Georgia he employed for surveillance.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “It seems your ex-wife despises him. She refused him any contact with the boy. So, apparently, he decided to create his own opportunity for them to meet.”

  Reality slammed him hard.

  Gary’s birth father was here?

  “Does Gary know this?” he asked.

  Mathews nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I have to leave.”

  “I can’t allow that,” Mathews said.

  * * *

  Kathleen listened to the conversation. apparently, there was a direct connection between Blake Antrim and Malone’s son.

  One that Malone had clearly been unaware existed.

  Knowing Antrim, she was not surprised. He’d fathered a child? And the mother hated him? Probably because he’d pounded her at some point, too.

 
The two men with guns continued to aim their weapons at Malone.

  She decided to even the odds and burst from the darkened viewing box, firing, taking down one of the armed men with a bullet to the thigh.

  The other man instantly reacted to her attack and readjusted his aim.

  Toward her.

  * * *

  Malone heard the shot and saw its result, his gaze darting left where Kathleen Richards appeared. She’d shot one of the men, the other now swinging his weapon around. He followed her lead, shooting the second man in the thigh, collapsing him. Richards ran forward and gathered both weapons, the two men writhed in pain, blood gushing from the wounds, staining the court surface.

  “We’re leaving,” he told Mathews.

  “A mistake.”

  He stepped close to the spymaster. “I’m going to see about my boy.” What he’d just learned, coupled with the fact that he could not contact Antrim, spelled big trouble. “Stay out of my way.”

  “You might not like what you find.”

  “I can handle it.”

  But he wondered.

  “You’ve got four agents who are going to need medical care,” Kathleen said, her gun trained on Mathews.

  Mathews shook his head. “You are quite the personality.”

  “I did your man over there a favor with only a leg injury. Next time I won’t be as generous.”

  “Neither will I,” Malone added.

  “Are you willing to risk your life for this?” Mathews asked him.

  “The question is, are you?”

  He motioned to Richards and they fled the building, back out into the afternoon sun. No more agents were in sight and they ran left, past the famous garden maze, to a street that they followed back to the palace front. Taxis were lined near the main walk. They hailed one, climbed inside, and left.

  “I appreciate that,” he said to her.

  “Least I could do.”

  His mind reeled.

  He found his phone and tried Antrim’s number again. No answer.

  “You can’t find him?” Richards asked.