The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

Shock filled him. He’d been the leak?

For a moment his gaze drifted through the polished glass a few feet away where he saw the four-hundred-year-old St. Edward’s Crown, the same crown the Archbishop of Canterbury reverently placed upon a monarch’s head, as echoes of God save the king or queen bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey. What was happening here?

He gathered his thoughts.

“The whole thing with the man I saw you with in Brussels. Not real?”

“It was time that we parted ways. So we manufactured a reason that you would not question. We know how you become violent with women. There’s quite a trail behind you, Blake. We needed you to move on, in your own way, where you would be comfortable.”

“What would have happened? Another woman would have taken your place?”

She shrugged. “If need be. We decided to motivate you through other means.”

“By killing my agent in St. Paul’s?”

“The Lords wanted you to know then, and now, what they are capable of accomplishing. It’s important you fully grasp the extent of their resolve.”

She motioned for them to step off the conveyor belt, where they could linger for a few moments. He did, exhaling a short breath.

“These are symbols of what once was,” she said. “Reminders of a time when kings and queens held true positions of power.”

“Everything between us was an act?”

She chuckled. “What else would it have been?”

Her dig hurt.

She motioned at the jewels. “I’ve always believed that the English monarchy did itself a great disservice when it gave up real power in return for survival. They allowed Parliament to rule in exchange for being allowed to stay kings and queens. That downfall started in 1603, with James I.”

He recalled Farrow Curry’s lessons. James, the first from the house of Stuart to sit on the throne, was a weak ineffectual man who cared more about pomp, circumstance, and pleasure than ruling. His first nine years were bearable, thanks to Robert Cecil’s strong hand. But with Cecil’s death in 1612 the remaining thirteen years of his reign were characterized by a calculated indifference, one that weakened the monarchy and ultimately led to his son Charles I’s beheading twenty-three years later.

“Elizabeth I was the last monarch who enjoyed true power on the throne,” she said. “A queen, in every way.”

“Except one.”

Denise pointed a slender finger at him, the nail manicured and polished, like always. “Now that’s the wisdom and wit that you can, at times, express. Such a shame that, otherwise, you are a worthless excuse for a man.”

She was taunting him. In total control.

And he was powerless to respond.

“What does Daedalus want?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, that seems to be changing by the moment. Your Cotton Malone escaped Hampton Court. He’s still alive. Your two agents, though, were not as fortunate.”

Now he realized.

He was alone.

“I work for the CIA. There are plenty more agents.”

She seemed not in the mood for bravado. “But, sadly for you, none is here. We want Ian Dunne.”

“You can have him. He’s at the warehouse, which you obviously know about since your head Lord told me what’s in it.”

“That we do. But I wonder, Blake. I know that deceitful part of you. I’ve seen it. I told the Lords that you are not a truthful man. So, one chance, one opportunity. What else is there we don’t know about?”

And he suddenly realized that he may have a trump card, after all.

The copies of the hard drives.

No one had mentioned those.

“You know all I know.”

She stepped back toward the conveyor belt. Before leaving she stopped and brushed her lips across his cheek. A gentle gesture. More for the benefit of the people around them.

“Dear Blake,” she whispered. “We already have the copies of those hard drives you left with the man you hired. I told the Lords you would lie.”

She stepped onto the conveyor.

“Take care, darling,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

Forty-six

MALONE APPROACHED THOMAS MATHEWS. THEY STOOD AT center court, the spacious rectangle that enclosed them lit from a bright sun pouring through the upper windows.

“Haven’t seen you since London,” he said. “What? Seven years ago?”

“I recall.”

“So do I,” Malone said, and he meant it. Mathews had nearly cost him his life.

“Tell me, Cotton. Did you come back solely for Kathleen Richards?”

“So you’ve been watching?”

“Of course.”

“You make it sound like that was a mistake.”

The older man shrugged. “All depends on your point of view.”

He could tell Mathews was treading lightly, unsure of what, where, and when, at least insofar as things related to a retired American agent right in the middle of an active CIA operation.

“You attacked my men outside the bookstore,” Mathews said.

“Your men? I don’t recall anyone saying that. But it seemed like Richards needed help.” He paused. “And she did.”

“The question is why you felt the need to render assistance.”

But he had no intention of volunteering an answer to that inquiry.

“Henry VIII himself played tennis here,” Mathews said. “It is said he learned of the execution of Anne Boleyn while engaged in a match. A different game from what we call tennis, but nonetheless exciting.”

Everything around him, though encased within an ancient shell, was more modern, the refurbished court still in use today. Real Tennis the game was called, which utilized not only the floor but also the walls and ceiling to maneuver the ball over the net.

“It’s impressive how things so old can still be relevant today,” Mathews said, tossing out more bait—which, this time, Malone decided to snag.

“Like that Elizabeth I may have been male?”

The older man appraised him with cool eyes. This was one of the world’s premier spymasters. Even Stephanie Nelle spoke of him with awe and respect. He vividly recalled their encounter from seven years ago. Mathews had proven formidable. Now Malone was, once again, within the Englishman’s sights.

“I was saddened by your retirement,” Mathews said. “You were an excellent operative. Stephanie must miss your talents.”

“She has plenty of other agents.”

“And modest. Always modest. That I recall about you, too.”

“Get to the point,” he said.

“You may not think the fact that Elizabeth I was an imposter would matter four hundred years later but, I assure you, Cotton, it does a great deal.”

“Enough to kill Farrow Curry?”

“Is that what the boy said?”

He nodded. “That’s why you want him. Not the flash drive. You want the boy. He’s a witness. You want to shut him up.”

“Unfortunately, these circumstances demand extraordinary actions. Ones, normally, I would never sanction. Especially here, on British soil.”

“You won’t harm a hair on that kid’s head. That much I guarantee.”

“From anyone else I would take that as unsubstantiated bravado. But I believe you. What about your own son? Is his life equally valuable?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“It may not be, considering who has him, right now, as we speak.”

He stepped close to Mathews. “Enough bullshit. What the hell is going on here?”

KATHLEEN SAT AT THE TABLE INSIDE THE SMALL ROOM, EVA Pazan positioned near the door.

“That show at Jesus College was for your benefit,” Pazan said. “A way to invest you in the situation.”

“Seems like a waste of time. You could have just told me. Who pressed my face to the floor with their shoe?”

Pazan chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t like that. That was my