The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

“Which, amazingly, still has explosive relevance today. Hence why we are here.”

How was that possible? But she stayed silent.

“Sir Thomas Wriothesley wrote an account of what happened that day. April 20, 1509. Henry VII died the following day. Unfortunately, Wriothesley’s account did not record what the father actually told the son. That was learned second hand, from Henry VIII himself, many decades later. What we do know is that Henry VIII passed on the information about this special place to his sixth wife, Katherine Parr, just before he died in 1547. We also know that the value of Henry VII’s wealth, at the time of his death, was around four and a half million pounds. In today’s money that would be incalculable, since most of it was in precious metals, the quantity and quality of which is uncertain. But into the billions of pounds would not be out of the question.”

He then told her about what happened at Henry VIII’s deathbed in January 1547. A conversation between husband and wife similar, in so many ways, to the one thirty-eight years before between father and son.

“Henry VIII was foolish when it came to women,” Mathews said. “He misplaced his trust in Katherine Parr, who hated Henry. The last thing she would do is pass that information on to Edward VI.” The older man paused. “Do you know much about Katherine Parr?”

She shook her head.

Mathews explained that she was born to one of Henry VIII’s early courtesans, named after his first wife, Katherine of Aragon. Highly educated, she spoke French, Spanish, and Italian. Henry married her in 1543. When he died in 1547 she was but thirty-six. Shortly after she married a fourth time, to Thomas Seymour, and eventually became pregnant. She moved to Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire and gave birth to a daughter in August 1548, but died six days later. Seymour himself lived until March 1549, when he was executed for treason. After that, Katherine Parr, Thomas Seymour, and their daughter, Mary, faded into oblivion.

“But that may no longer be the case,” Mathews said.

Something serious is happening here. That’s what her supervisor had said at Windsor. All of the talk about her SOCA career being over and being back in Middle Hall had stirred memories of sitting at the tables, with other barristers and students, and taking a meal, a duty required periodically from all Temple members. Once, centuries ago, they’d blow a horn on the hall steps half an hour before dinner. But the horn could not be heard by those hunting hares on the Thames far bank, so it was eventually retired to the vault.

She’d often imagined what it must have been like, hundreds of years ago, living here, reading law. Maybe she’d be back soon, as an ex-agent, to see for herself.

Time for a little pushback.

“Why am I here?”

Her supervisor had said, They asked for you.

“Blake Antrim.”

A name she’d not heard in a long time. And to hear it here, in Middle Hall, only compounded her surprise.

“Apparently you are aware that Antrim and I were once close.”

“We were hoping someone within one of our agencies would be familiar with him. A computer search revealed a rather glowing recommendation written by Antrim, as part of your application for SOCA employment.”

“I have not seen or spoken to him in ten years.”

And never wanted to again.

“Your father was a Middle Templar,” Mathews said. “As were your grandfather and great-grandfather. Each a barrister. Your great-grandfather was a bencher. You were to follow them. But you left the law and became an inspector. Yet to this day you diligently retain your Temple membership, never shirking any obligation. Why is that?”

She’d been thoroughly checked out. Some of that was not in her SOCA personnel file. “Why I chose not to practice law is irrelevant.”

“I do not agree. In fact, it might become an overriding truth that none of us can ignore.”

She said nothing and he seemed to sense her hesitancy.

With his mahogany cane Mathews again gestured to the hall. For the first time she noticed the ivory globe that formed its handle, the continents etched in black upon its polished surface. “This building has stood 500 years, and remains one of the last Tudor structures. Supposedly, the War of the Roses started just outside, in the garden. Sides were chosen in 1430 by the pick of a flower. The Lancasterians plucked a red rose—the Yorks white—and fifty-five years of civil war began.” He paused. “These Temple grounds have seen so much of our history—and they endure, becoming more relevant with each passing year.”

He’d still not answered her original question.

“Why did you ask me to come here?”

“May I show you?”

Eleven

MALONE GATHERED UP HIS AND GARY’S CLOTHES, REPLACING everything in their travel bags. He noticed how Gary had packed light, like he’d taught him. His head still hurt from the pounding to the pavement, his field of vision fuzzy. Ian helped him, and made no attempt to leave. To be safe, though, Malone kept Ian between himself and the mews’ rear wall.

He sat back down on the pavement and allowed his mind to clear. The rain outside had slackened to a mist. The air was chilly, which helped, but he was glad for his leather jacket.

“You okay?” Ian asked.

“Not really. My head took a banging.”

He rubbed his scalp, careful of the sore knot. All he could think about was Gary, but he needed information and its main source was right here.

“I didn’t mean to leave your son,” Ian said. “I told Gary to jump.”

“He’s not you.”

“He told me on the plane that you’re not his real dad.”

Hearing that jarred him. “I’m not his birth dad, but I am his real dad.”

“He wants to know who that is.”

“He told you that?”

Ian nodded.

Now was not the time to delve into this. “How much trouble are you in?”

“No bother. I’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t ask you that. How much trouble?”

Ian said nothing.

He needed answers. Pieces were missing. And where before it had not mattered, now, with Gary gone, he had to know.

“How did you get from London to Georgia?”

“After I ran from the car with that flash drive, men started looking for me. Some came to visit Miss Mary, but she told them nothing.”

“Who is that?”

“She owns a bookshop in Piccadilly. The men came there, and to other places I go, asking questions. I finally met a guy who offered me a trip to the States, so I took it.”

Stephanie had told him that Ian had been detained by Customs in Miami, trying to enter the country on a false passport. His traveling c

ompanion, an Irish national wanted on several outstanding warrants, had also been arrested. No telling what plans that man ultimately had for Ian. Free trips were never free.

“You know that guy was bad.”

Ian nodded. “I was planning on getting away from him as soon as we left the airport. I can handle myself.”

But he questioned that observation. Obviously the boy had been scared enough to run. Stephanie told him that the CIA had been searching for Ian since mid-October. When caught in Miami—the name flagged—they’d immediately assumed custody, and he was flown to Atlanta.

All they needed was an escort back to England.

Which he became.

“Why’d you run away from me in the Atlanta airport?”

“I didn’t want to come back here.”

“You have no family?”

“Don’t need any.”

“Did you ever go to school?” he asked.

“I’m not thick and wet. I can read. Wouldn’t be any wiser if I went to school every day.”

He’d apparently struck a nerve. “How many times have you been in jail?”

“A few, after a spot of trouble.”

But he wondered how far the tough act went. He’d caught the flicker of fear back in Georgia when Ian first realized they were headed for London.

He’d also spotted the confusion in his own son’s face.

Two weeks ago Gary’s life was certain. He had a mother and father, a family, though scattered on two continents. Now he’d been told that he had a birth father, too. Gary wanted to know who that man was. Pam was wrong withholding the name. Surely it frightened Gary that he was no longer a Malone, at least not by blood. So wanting to know where he’d come from was natural.

“Gary said you were once a secret agent for the government. Like James Bond.”