by Steve Berry
He shook his head.
“Where to?” the driver asked from the other side of the Plexiglas shield.
“The Goring Hotel.”
“I heard what Mathews said about your boy.”
He faced Richards.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Blake Antrim.”
Fifty-two
The Queen died peacefully in her bedchamber, having fallen into a long sleep from which she never awoke. Sadness filled me. I never once thought of the imposter as anything other than my sovereign. He strengthened both the monarchy and the nation while dodging the royal duty of marriage and procreation. King Henry would always be remembered for follies. Elizabeth would be recalled by accomplishments.
The queen left precise instructions on what was to be done after death. On the day before he died, the imposter dismissed all and called me close.
“Listen,” he said, the hoarse voice only breath.
He spoke uninterrupted for several minutes, the act taxing what little strength remained. He told me of Queen Katherine Parr, at a time soon after the deception began, when King Henry was dead and he was sent to live in the queen dowager’s household.
“She discovered the ruse,” he said to me. “She knew I was not the princess.”
Which made sense, as the queen dowager, when King Henry was alive, had spent much time with both the princesses Mary and Elizabeth.
“But she did not reveal me. Instead, she saw a certain irony, a justice, that befit her departed husband. She was not Henry’s champion. She had not wanted to marry him, but was forced into that decision. She cared little for him, regarding his surly attitude as that of a tyrant. She discharged her duty as queen with no joy and longed only to be free, which the king’s death finally granted her.”
But the queen dowager chose poorly for her fourth husband. Thomas Seymour was a scheming manipulator. His desire had been to marry the princess Elizabeth and he tried to ingratiate himself at every opportunity. The queen dowager watched his amorous advances toward the young princess with great amusement, knowing nothing would ever come from them. When it became clear that her husband would not cease his folly, to avoid a scandal and the possibility of discovery, she removed the imposter from their home.
“Seymour’s advances toward me were unexpected. They remain the only time in my life when the secret was in jeopardy. But the queen dowager protected me and was sad to see me go. We spoke on the day I left, privately, and she told me to take care and always be careful. She wanted me know that the great deception was safe with her. She died a few months later, but not before writing me a letter, which arrived after her death, in which she told me that I would one day be queen.”
He handed me the letter.
“Bury this with me.”
I nodded my acceptance of the charge.
“During that final talk Queen Katherine also told me something my grandfather had told her. A secret. One only for royal Tudors. But there are no more of us. So listen to me, good Robert, and follow my instructions without fail.”
I nodded again.
“King Henry called the queen dowager to his deathbed, as I have called you. Before that, my grandfather had been summoned to his father’s side. Each time the secret was passed. King Henry wanted the queen dowager to tell his son, Edward. But she did not. Instead, she told me, and trusted that I would do what was best with the information.”
I listened with an intensity that surprised me.
“There is a place, known only to four souls. Three of those are now dead, as I soon will be. You will be the fifth to know. In this place I have stored much wealth, as my grandfather and great grandfather had done. There also I placed the body of the princess Elizabeth. Thomas Parry long ago dug her from her grave at Overlook and brought her there. You cannot bury me in a royal tomb. There is no assurance that the grave might not one day be opened. Unless that occurred at a time when my remains are but dust, my secret, that which I have guarded so zealously during my life, would then be revealed. Place the princess Elizabeth in my grave and me in hers. That completes the circle and all will be safe then. I want your pledge, upon God’s hand, that you shall do this.”
I offered the pledge, which seemed to please him.
He laid a trembling hand onto mine. “The wealth there should be for James. Tell him to use it wisely and rule this nation with wisdom and justice.”
Those were the last words we spoke.
The queen’s death spurred an occasion of universal mourning. It fell to me to provide for the final resting place. I personally supervised the body’s preparation. Then the imposter lay beside his great grandfather, Henry VII, in the Tudor vault, while a fitting tomb was constructed. This required three years. During that time the body of the young princess, Elizabeth, found in the locale detailed to me, was substituted for that of the imposter. That task I personally accomplished without any assistance. I chose to join Queen Mary and the princess Elizabeth, sisters in life, together in death, their bones in one tomb, intermingling. It seemed a proper way to further mask the truth. When the bodies were finally entombed inside the marble, I composed the epitaph that would define the imposter’s life.
Sacred to memory: Religion to its primitive purity restored, peace settled, money restored to its just value, domestic rebellion quelled, France relieved when involved with intestine divisions; the Netherlands supported; the Spanish Armada vanquished; Ireland almost lost by rebels, eased by routing the Spaniard; the revenues of both universities much enlarged by a Law of Provisions; and lastly, all England enriched. Elizabeth, a most prudent governor 45 years, a victorious and triumphant Queen, most strictly religious, most happy, by a calm and resigned death at her 70th year left her mortal remains, till by Christ’s Word they shall rise to immortality, to be deposited in the Church, by her established and lastly founded. She died the 24th of March, Anno 1603, of her reign the 45th year, of her age the 70th.
I varied on my pledge to the queen in two respects. First, I kept the letter that Katherine Parr had sent to him. It seemed the last remnant of physical proof that existed. But I burned it on completion of this journal. Second, the wealth that lay within the secret chamber I never revealed to anyone. King James was not an honorable man. I harbored little respect and no admiration for this first of the Stuart family. If he be a prelude of what is to come, I daresay the monarchy could be doomed.
The time of my own death now draws near. If this journal is being read that means someone with intellect and perseverance found the stone I commissioned for Nonsuch Palace. The odd assortment of letters seemed to fit the whimsical world of that royal residence. What be a secret if it cannot be revealed? Fitting that the means of its revelation rested in plain sight. This journal will stay among my papers, guarded by my heirs. If one day someone discovers the connection between it and the stone, then let the truth be told. For that intrepid soul, if you dare, seek out that place which the Tudors created for themselves. But be warned. More challenges shall await you there. If you further doubt this account, I left one other marker. A painting of the queen, commissioned by myself, and designated in my will to hang in Hatfield House for as long as my heirs own the property. Study it with care. To be remembered is a good thing. My father’s memory is one of honor and respect. Perhaps mine will be the same.
Ian glanced up from the computer screen.
He and Miss Mary had found The Goring Hotel in Belgravia, a posh, expensive neighborhood just beyond Buckingham Palace in the heart of the city. He was surprised at Miss Mary’s sister, Tanya. Identical twins in not only looks, but also manner and voice, though Tanya seemed more excitable and a bit less patient. Tanya had let a room on the hotel’s third floor, a spacious suite that came with deep sofas and soft chairs and a wall of windows that faced a quiet street. The hotel had provided her a laptop computer, which they’d used to access Miss Mary’s email account, so they could read more of what Robert Cecil wrote four hundred years ago.
“This is quite amazing,”
Tanya said. “What a life that imposter led.”
“How could no one know?” he asked.
“Because Elizabethan England wasn’t like today. There was no television or newspapers to invade one’s privacy. If you breached royal etiquette you could lose your life, and many did. The journal makes clear that those closest to the queen — Lady Ashley, Thomas Parry, and the two Cecils — were aware. Which certainly helped.”
He wanted to know, “Why would they do that?”
Tanya smiled. “For the most basic of reasons. They would all, forever, be closest to power, and to be close to the Crown was the goal of all courtiers. The imposter clearly knew he required assistance and he chose wisely in his accomplices. Quite remarkable. The Bisley Boy legend is true.”
“I still can’t see how it was possible to fool people all those years,” Ian said.
Tanya smiled. “We truly have little idea what Elizabeth actually looked like. All of the surviving portraits are suspect. And she was definitely a person of strange habits. As Robert Cecil noted, she wore wigs, heavy makeup, and unflattering clothing. By all accounts she was not a pretty woman, her language coarse, her manner brusque. She controlled her life, and her world, totally. No one could, or would, question her decisions. So it is entirely possible that the ruse could have worked.”
He noticed that Miss Mary had stayed quiet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I worry about Gary. Perhaps we should not have left the warehouse.”
Fifty-three
Antrim, with Gary, approached the warehouse. Outside seemed quiet, the district crammed with storage facilities, which was one reason he’d chosen the locale. Even so, he approached the main door with caution and eased it open. Inside was still lit, the tables with artifacts unaffected, but the bookstore owner and Ian Dunne were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are they?” Gary asked.
He heard the concern. “I told them to stay here. Check the bathroom.”
Gary ran around the walls that formed the interior office, and Antrim heard the metal door open.
The boy reappeared and shook his head. “Not there.”
The other exit door, on the far side, remained closed, secured by a digital lock. Where had they gone? Had someone taken them? No matter. Their being gone saved him the trouble of ditching them. He entered the office and spotted his cell phone on the metal desk.
How did it get there?
Then he realized.
When Ian Dunne bumped into him. The little delinquent picked his pocket.
It was the only explanation that made sense.
He snatched up the unit and saw only one email. From the man who was hacking into Farrow Curry’s hard drive. He read the short message, which offered success and the password-protected file, deciphered, attached.
He quickly opened it and scanned the text.
“What is it?” Gary asked.
He kept reading, then said, “Something I was waiting for.”
He made another decision. What had, at first, seemed a good idea was now becoming a problem. There were things he needed to do himself. Screw the Daedalus Society. He already possessed half of what they owed him and that would be enough. From the little he’d just read from Robert Cecil’s journal, there may be more to this than he’d ever believed. Those Irish lawyers from forty years ago were onto something that could be worth a hundred times more than five million pounds. He recalled how excited Farrow Curry was that day, and the source of that anticipation might lie within Cecil’s journal, which he needed to carefully read.
None of which could be done with Gary Malone underfoot.
He’d been childless all of his adult life. Maybe he should keep it that way. He was going to have to disappear, escape both Daedalus and the CIA. That could prove next to impossible with a young boy around. Especially one whose mother hated him and whose father was an ex-agent with an attitude.
Malone had escaped Daedalus.
It was unlikely that there would be other opportunities to take him out.
Time to get the hell out of here.
But what was he to do with Gary?
First, secure the email. It had been sent to the account he’d provided the analyst. His more secure locations he kept to himself. So he forwarded the message and attachment to an address where it would be safe behind multiple firewalls, then deleted it from the phone.
“We need to find Miss Mary and Ian,” Gary said.
He ignored the boy and kept thinking.
“Can I use that phone to call my dad?” Gary asked.
He was about to say no, but a rumbling from outside caught his attention. Car engines. Switching off. Then doors opening and closing. He whirled toward the lone window in the outer wall and spotted two vehicles.
Two men exited the lead car.
The same faces from the Tower.
Denise emerged from the other.
All carried pistols.
He darted to the desk and yanked open the drawer. No weapon. Then he remembered. He’d taken it last night and left it in his hotel room. Why would he have needed it today? This morning he’d thought this a day of cleanup, nothing more. Then off to enjoy his money and kindle a relationship with his son, rubbing it all in the face of Pam Malone.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Except the money part.
To enjoy that, though, he had to escape the warehouse in one piece.
Then it hit him.
“Come on,” he said to Gary.
They ran from the office and across the interior, toward the tables and artifacts. He assumed that before Denise and her entourage plunged ahead, they’d scope out the landscape.
Which should buy him a few moments.
He spotted the plastic container resting on the concrete and lifted it onto a table. He snapped off the lid to expose eight clumps of pale gray clay, the remainder of the percussion explosives, the same substance used to violate Henry VII’s grave inside Windsor.
Nasty stuff.
Tricky, too.
Eight detonators lay inside. He pressed one each into four of the clumps and activated them. He snatched up a small remote, his thumb resting atop its single button. He stuffed the remaining four packets and detonators into a knapsack from one of the tables. Before popping the lid back on, he tossed the cell phone inside. No need for it any longer.
He pointed behind them. “That door across there is bolted from the inside with a digital lock. Go open it. 35. 7. 46.”
Gary nodded and ran off.
He retrieved Cecil’s journal from beneath its glass dome and slipped it into the knapsack.
The main door to the warehouse burst open.
Denise led the way in with the two men, guns drawn. Antrim shouldered the knapsack and ran toward where Gary stood, at the other door, nearly a hundred feet away.
“Stop,” he heard Denise yell.
He kept moving.
A bang.
One round zinged off the concrete near his right foot.
He froze.
Denise and the two men stood across the warehouse, each with their pistols aimed. He was careful, palming the detonator in his right hand, hidden by his cuffed fingers, thumb still on the button.
Get the door open, he mouthed to Gary, before turning around.
“Hands up,” one of the men said. “Keep them where we can see them.”
He slowly raised his arms, but kept his right hand facing away, four fingers open, thumb holding the controller in place.
“Your computer analyst told us he sent you what Farrow Curry deciphered,” Denise called out.
“He did. But I didn’t get a chance to read it before you showed up.”
She approached the tables and admired the stolen books and papers.
“A five-hundred-year-old secret,” she said. “And these are the keys to its unraveling.”
He hated the smug look on her face. She thought herself so clever. So in charge. Her rebukes of him,
both in Brussels and at the Tower, still stung. He hated everything about cocky women, especially that arrogance bred from good looks, wealth, confidence, and power. Denise possessed at least three of those, and knew it.
She approached the empty glass lid. “Where is Robert Cecil’s journal?”
“It’s gone.”
She’d yet to pay any attention to the plastic container.
“Not good, Blake.”
“Do you know what it says?” he asked her.
“Oh, yes. Your man talked freely. He was almost too easy to persuade. We have the copies of the hard drives and the entire translation.”
The two other men stood behind her, now closer to the tables, their guns still aimed. He kept his arms raised, hands still. Percussion explosives were state of the art. Lots of heat, a manageable concussion, and minimum noise. Their effect came from high temperatures directed at a targeted focal point, which could do far more damage to certain surfaces.
Like stone.
Where intense heat weakened its structure.
Here was a no-brainer.
Lots of paper, plastic, glass, and flesh.
“We need that journal, Blake.”
He was a good fifty feet away.
Which should be enough.
“Rot in hell, Denise.”
His thumb pressed the button.
He dove back, toward Gary, pounding the concrete and covering his head.
* * *
Gary had easily spotted Antrim holding the controller with his right hand, concealed from the three people across the warehouse. He’d wondered what the clumps of clay could do.
Now he saw.
Antrim dove to the floor just as a bright flash erupted from the tables and a swoosh of intense heat surged his way. He’d managed to release the lock before the three had corralled Antrim, the door slightly ajar. Now he fell outside, the door banging against the warehouse’s exterior wall, his body slapping the pavement. Heat rushed past him and sought the sky. He stared back through the open doorway. The flash was gone. But the tables were charred and everything on them annihilated. The woman and two men lay on the warehouse floor, their smoking bodies black.