The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

“Oh, these devices are marvelous. Mary and I both use them.”

Malone increased the image size and they were able to read.

To Lord Charles Howard Elizabeth confided that she was in desperate extremities.

“My Lord,” she whispered hoarsely. “I am tied with a chain of iron about my neck. I am tied. I am tied, and the case is altered with me.”

The Queen lay prone, speechless, cadaverous. All the life that was left in her was centered in one long, still beautiful hand which hung down at the side of her bed and which still made signs to express her wishes. The Archbishop of Canterbury had been summoned to pray for the dying woman, which he did with unction and enthusiasm. It was presumably the last sound that entered the queen’s consciousness. A few hours later the breath left her body. At three o’clock in the morning of March 24, 1603 her body was pronounced lifeless. It was prepared for burial by her ladies and was not dissected and embalmed as was the rigorous custom in those days for sovereigns. The leaden mask and the waxen effigy were prepared, but no man’s hand touched the body of Elizabeth after it was dead.

She went to her grave with her secret inviolate.

She and Malone glanced up from the screen, both amazed.

“Quite right,” Tanya said. “That last sentence is meaningless, except if you know, or suspect.”

“When was this written?” Malone asked.

“1929. In a biography of Elizabeth that I have always admired.”

What had the writer meant?

Her secret inviolate.

“Mary asked me specifically to show you that. She and I have spoken on this subject before. She always told me I was foolish to consider such a thing. But now I hear that the two of you may have new information on this great mystery.”

Malone found the sheets he’d printed out at the Churchill, from the flash drive, and handed them to Tanya.

“Take a look at these.”

Malone faced Kathleen. “Keep an eye out here. I have to make a quick call to Antrim.”

She nodded her assent and Malone left the Cumberland Suite, heading back out to the busy gallery beyond. When he was gone Kathleen asked Tanya, “Are you saying that there is a real possibility that Elizabeth I was an imposter?”

“I have no idea. But I do know that the Bisley Boy legend is one of long standing. I think others, like the author of the passage you just read, suspected and wondered, but were too timid to say it. Bram Stoker, to his credit, did say it. Of course, he was ridiculed for his assertion. The press was not kind. Tommyrot, I believe, is how The New York Times described the theory in its review of his book.”

“But is this real?”

“From these notes Mr. Malone has just given me it seems others now believe it to be.”

She’d learned all she could.

Time to act.

She relieved Tanya of the pages. “I need these. I want you to wait here until Malone comes back.”

“And where are you going?”

She’d already noticed that there was but one way in and out of these rooms—the same way Malone had gone. But there were fair numbers of people milling about. Enough for cover.

“This is official SOCA business.”

“Mary said you were the impetuous type, as well.”

“I can also be the arresting type. So stay here and be quiet.”

Thirty-nine

ANTRIM MADE THE CALL FROM THE BOOTH IN THE PUB. HE’D eaten his burger and chips and decided on the direct approach. His watch read 10:40 AM, which made it 5:40 AM in Virginia. Of course the CIA operations center never slept and his call was routed to the director of counter-operations, his immediate supervisor and the only person besides the director of Central Intelligence who could give him an order.

“It’s done, Blake,” his boss said. “We tried to stop the Scots from going public, but they were hell-bent. The deal is made. They’re just fine-tuning details while they warm up public opinion.”

“That killer should die in jail.”

“We all agree. Unfortunately, he’s not our prisoner.”

“I’ll shut down things here.”

“Do that. And fast.”

“What about our fatality?”

“I don’t see any way to investigate that without alerting the wrong people. It could have been the Brits. Probably was. But it could have been somebody else. Doesn’t matter anymore. The death will have to stand as unaccountable.”

That meant the family would be told only that the agent died in the line of duty, serving his country—not where, or when, or how, just that it happened—and a star would be added to the wall at Langley. Last he could recall there were over a hundred stars. Doubtful any name would be noted in the Book of Honor that sat just beneath. Only those agents who’d been compromised in death were recorded there. Not that he really cared. In fact, letting all of this fade away suited his needs perfectly.

“I’ll have it ended by tonight,” he said.

“This was crazy from the start,” his boss said. “But hey, sometimes long shots play out.”

“I did my best.”

“No one is blaming you. Though I’m sure there will be some here who’ll try. It was imaginative and, if it’d worked, a stroke of genius.”

“It may be time for me to go,” he said, laying the groundwork for what he had in mind.

“Don’t be so hasty. Think about that. Don’t beat yourself up so bad.”

Not the reaction he’d expected.

“I hated losing this one,” he said.

“We all do. We’re going to look like idiots when that transfer happens. But it’s one we’re going to have to live with.”

He ended the call.

Operation King’s Deception was over. He’d first dismiss the two other agents, then shut down the warehouse himself, handing over everything to Daedalus. Then he’d receive the remainder of his money. By then, with any luck, Cotton Malone would have tragically died. Not a thing would point his way, so Gary would naturally gravitate to him.

They’d bond.

Become close.

Father and son.

Finally.

He thought of Pam Malone.

Screw you.

MALONE WAITED FOR HIS PHONE TO BOOT UP. HE’D INTENTIONALLY left it off to avoid being tracked and realized that for the next few minutes he’d be vulnerable. But he had to talk to Stephanie Nelle. When he’d left the breakfast table earlier at the Churchill he’d not only visited the hotel’s business center but also called Atlanta, waking her from sleep. Though he was no longer one of her twelve Magellan Billet agents he was doing the U.S. government a favor, and she’d told him last night, during their call about Antrim, that she was there if needed.

The phone activated and he saw that Stephanie had already called back, twenty minutes ago. So he answered her message with a return call.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Waiting to see if I’m a fool or a genius.”

“I hate to ask what that means.”

“What did you find out on Kathleen Richards?”

“She is SOCA. Ten years. Good investigator, but a loose cannon. Does things her way. Lots of damage and destruction in her wake. Actually, the two of you seem perfect for each other.”

“I’m more concerned with what she’s doing here with me.”

“Actually, that is a good question considering she’s currently on suspension for an incident a month ago. I was told she was in the process of being fired.”

“Learn anything relative to MI6’s involvement?”

He’d retreated to a corner in the gallery among the people and the noise. He turned and faced the wall, speaking low, keeping a watch out behind him.

“Not a thing. But I had to be careful with those questions.”

More people spilled in, heading from the Tudor to the Georgian portion of the palace.

“And you never said. Are you a fool or a genius?” she asked.

“That

hasn’t been determined yet.”

“There’s a complication here.”

He hated that word. Complication. Stephanie’s code for a total, outright, get-your-ass-kicked mess.

“The CIA called back a little while ago.”

He listened as she described something called Operation King’s Deception, presently ongoing in London, headed by Blake Antrim. She then told him about Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, and that the Scottish government had decided to send him back to Libya to die of terminal cancer.

“That decision was made public a few hours ago,” Stephanie said. “Seems this transfer has been in the works for nearly a year. King’s Deception was authorized to stop it.”

“Which apparently failed.”

“And they just pulled the plug on the operation. But they asked if you could take one last stab.”

“At what?”

“That flash drive you have contains information that died with the man in the Underground station. He was a CIA analyst assigned to King’s Deception. Langley knows you have the drive. Antrim reported that. They want you to see if it leads anywhere.”

He could not believe what he was hearing. “I don’t even know what they were looking for. How in the hell would I know if I found anything?”

“I asked the same question. Their answer was that the drive should tell you. If it doesn’t, then there’s nothing there.”

“Is there a problem with Antrim? He has Gary and Ian Dunne.”