The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

And nothing was falling.

“We’re out,” he called to the darkness.

“I’m here,” Richards said.

Directly ahead.

Not far.

He kept moving, each step cautious.

“There’s nothing out here,” Gary said. “It’s an empty room.”

Good to know.

“Keep talking,” he said to Richards.

She started counting again. He kept edging the boys toward the voice, picking through the dark, his right hand finding familiarity at a wall.

His fingers, curved into a claw, led the way.

The chamber they’d just fled seemed to be imploding, the crashes escalating to a crescendo.

His hand found air.

And Richards.

She grabbed hold and drew him into another tunnel, leading them away. Around two bends and he spotted a faint glow. Bluish. Like the pale wash of moonlight.

They stepped through an exit.

He noticed the door, its lock shot through. They stood on a bridge above another portion of the river tunnel he’d ventured through earlier. The pull of the tides had thrown up a wall of water, flooding the passage, raising the Fleet another eight to ten feet. Luckily, the bridge spanned above it with three feet to spare.

He checked on Gary and Ian.

Both boys were fine.

He faced Richards. “Thanks. We needed that.”

He noticed something lying on the bridge behind her.

Robert Cecil’s journal.

Then he saw the gun.

And knew.

He lifted the weapon and snapped out the magazine.

Empty.

“You found Mathews?”

She nodded.

“The older man knew Antrim had those explosives,” Gary said. “He told him he might have use for them.”

Malone understood. Mathews had clearly wanted Antrim to kill him. He was probably hoping that Antrim would also kill himself in the process. If not, then surely SIS agents would have taken him out. Antrim was either too foolish or too anxious to realize he could not win.

“Mathews also knew Gary and Ian were in there,” Richards said.

“He saw us,” Ian said. “When he left.”

He knew the drill. No witnesses.

The son of a bitch.

He stepped close, still holding the gun, and caught the truth in Kathleen Richards’ eyes. She’d killed the head of SIS.

Better not to say a word.

Same rule.

No witnesses.

But he wanted her to know something.

So he stared back and sent her a message.

Good job.

Sixty-three

HATFIELD HOUSE

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23

9:45 AM

MALONE ENTERED THE MANSION, LOCATED TWENTY MILES north of London. He’d taken the train with Kathleen Richards, Ian, Gary, Tanya, and Miss Mary, the station located immediately adjacent to the estate. The day had begun typically English in late fall—occasional sunshine, sudden showers. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep without any turbulent dreams. They’d all showered, changed clothes, and eaten breakfast. The horror of yesterday was over, everyone relieved but still apprehensive. Calls made long into last night had finally yielded results.

Washington and London had come to an uneasy peace.

And neither side was happy.

Washington was pissed because the Libyan prisoner transfer would occur. London remained angry over what it considered an unwarranted invasion of its historical privacy by an ally. In the end both sides agreed to walk away and leave it alone. The transfer would happen and both sides would drop any notions of retaliation for Operation King’s Deception.

The deal would be sealed here, at Hatfield House, the ancestral home of the Cecils, still owned by the 7th Marquess and Marchioness of Salisbury, themselves distant relatives of William and Robert Cecil. In 1607 James I traded the property to Robert Cecil, who then built a massive E-shaped brick residence—two wings joined together by a central block—a mixture of Jacobean style and Tudor distinction. Tanya had told Malone that little had changed about the exterior since Robert Cecil’s time.

“This is a place of great history,” she said. “Many kings and queens have come here.”

Inside was large and lofty, the furnishings simple in a grand style. The air reeked of varnish from the warm paneling, wax off the polished floors, and the smoky remnants of wood fires.

“We’ve visited here several times since we were little girls,” Miss Mary said. “And it always smells the same.”

They stood in Marble Hall, a Jacobean marvel that stretched up two floors and spanned the length of the great house. Oriel windows splashed golden blocks of sunshine on the paneled walls. He admired the minstrel’s gallery, the wall tapestries, and the namesake checkerboard marble floor. A fire crackled in a hearth before a row of oak tables and benches that were identified as original furnishings.

A few hours ago Thomas Mathews’ body had been fished from the Thames, a bullet hole in his chest. A preliminary autopsy had revealed water in his lungs, which meant he actually drowned. Nothing had been told to Stephanie Nelle about Kathleen Richards killing Mathews. The gun had been tossed into the Fleet River where, by now, it was long gone. Only he and Richards knew the truth, the tragedy officially ruled a consequence of a counter-operation gone wrong. Part of the brokered deal had been that Mathews’ death, along with those of Antrim and the other five agents, would remain unexplained.

Stephanie reported that SIS had tried to penetrate the subterranean chambers where everything had played out, but both were gone. Tiny cameras, used in earthquake rescue, located charred remains among the moraine of stones and smashed artifacts, confirming Antrim’s demise.

Operation King’s Deception was finished.

Only one last thing to do.

From the far side of the hall a woman entered. She was tall, thin, and stately, her honey-colored hair neatly shingled in precise waves. She marched toward them at a steady pace, the sharp ring of her heels absorbed by the paneled walls. He’d been told her name. Elizabeth McGuire. Secretary of state for the Home Department. Charged with all matters involving national security, including SIS oversight. Thomas Mathews had worked for her.

She stopped before Malone. “Would the rest of you excuse us? Mr. Malone and I must speak in private.”

He nodded to the others that it was okay.

“Enjoy a walk through the house,” McGuire said. “There is no one inside but us.”

He watched as Richards and the twin sisters led the boys from the hall.

As they departed, McGuire said, “You caused quite a commotion.”

“It’s a gift,” he said.

“Is this amusing to you?”

Obviously, this woman had not come to swap pleasantries or anecdotes. “Actually, the whole thing was stupid as hell. For both sides.”

“On that we agree. But let me be clear, the Americans started this.”

“Really? It was our idea to trade away a terrorist murderer?”

He wanted her to know on which side of the fence he stood.

Her face softened. “Stephanie Nelle is a close friend. She said you were once her best agent.”

“I pay her to tell people that.”

“I think she and I were both shocked by all that had happened. Particularly regarding Ian Dunne. And your son. Placing young boys in jeopardy was inexcusable.”

“Yet you still get what you wanted,” Malone said. “The Libyan goes home and Great Britain derives whatever concessions it is Libya promised.”

“As is the way of the world. The United States makes deals like those every day. So there is no need to become sanctimonious. We do what we have to.” She paused. “Within limits.”

Apparently the out-of-bounds marker on those limits stretched far, but the time for debate was over.

She motioned toward the hall’s far end and led him there. “I chos

e Hatfield House for our meeting because of this portrait.”

Malone had already noticed the canvas, hanging in the center of a paneled wall, open archways on either side, flanked by two smaller oil images, one of Richard III, the other Henry VI. A carved oak chest stood beneath, veins of silver and gold streaking the ancient wood.

“The Rainbow Portrait,” McGuire said.

He recalled its mention in Farrow Curry’s notes and in Robert Cecil’s journal. The face was that of a young woman, though the painting, as McGuire explained, was created when Elizabeth was seventy years old.

“Lots of symbolism here,” she said.

And he listened as she explained.

The bodice was embroidered with spring flowers—pansies, cowslips, and honeysuckles—to allude to springtime. Her orange mantle, powdered with eyes and ears, showed that Elizabeth saw and heard all. A serpent adorned her left sleeve, from whose mouth hung a heart, representing passion and wisdom.

“It’s the rainbow, held in her right hand, that gives the portrait its name.”