The King's Deception (Cotton Malone 8)

But there’d been nothing but bones.

Another failure.

And costly.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “The Brits will now be on alert. We abused their royal chapel.”

“It was a clean in and out. No witnesses. They’d never suspect us.”

“Do we know any more about how Curry died?”

A month had passed since Farrow Curry either fell or was pushed into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Ian Dunne had been there, picking Curry’s pocket, and had been seen holding a flash drive before assaulting a man, then fleeing the station. They needed to hear what the boy had to say, and they wanted that flash drive.

The rain continued to fall outside.

“You realize that this could all be legend,” Wells said. “Not a shred of truth to any of it.”

“So what was it Curry found? Why was he so excited?”

True, Curry had called a few hours before he died and reported a breakthrough. He was a CIA contract analyst with a degree in encryption, specifically assigned to King’s Deception. But with his sorry lack of progress over the past few months, Antrim had been leaning toward replacing him. The call changed that, and he’d sent a man to meet Curry at Oxford Circus, the two of them off to investigate whatever it was Curry had found. But they never connected. Murder? Suicide? Accident? Nobody knew. Could the flash drive Ian Dunne was seen holding provide answers?

He certainly hoped so.

“I’ll be here, in town, from this point on,” he told Wells.

Tonight he’d visit one of his favorite restaurants. His culinary skills were limited to microwave directions on a box, so he ate most meals out, choosing quality over economy. Maybe a particular waitress he knew would be on duty. If not, he’d give her a call. They’d enjoyed themselves several times in the past.

“I need to ask,” Wells said. “Why involve Cotton Malone in all of this? Seems unnecessary.”

“We can use all the help we can get.”

“He’s retired. I don’t see where he’d be an asset.”

“He can be.”

And that was all he intended to offer.

An exit opened a few feet away, the one he’d used to climb to the gallery. Another waited on the far side. “Stay here until I’m gone. No use being seen together down below.”

He traversed the circular walk, hugging the cathedral’s upper walls and came to the far side. Wells stood a hundred feet away, staring across at him. A placard beside the exit informed him that if he spoke softly into the wall, the words could be heard on the other side.

Hence, the Whispering Gallery.

He decided to give it a try. He faced the gray stone wall and murmured, “Make sure we don’t screw things up with Malone and Dunne.”

A wave confirmed that he’d been understood.

Wells disappeared into the archway. Antrim was about to do the same when a pop echoed across the still air.

Then a cry from the other side.

Another pop.

The cry became a moan.

He raced back across and glanced inside the exit, saw nothing, then advanced forward. A few steps down the circular way he found Wells on the stone steps, facedown, blood pouring from two wounds. He rolled him over and spotted a flicker of disbelief in the eyes.

Wells opened his mouth to speak.

“Hang in there,” Antrim said. “I’ll get help.”

Wells’ hand clutched his coat sleeve.

“Not … supposed to … happen.”

Then the body went limp.

He checked for a pulse. None.

Reality jarred him.

What the hell?

He heard footfalls below, receding away. He was unarmed. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Why would he? He started down the 259 steps, keeping watch, concerned that the shooter could be waiting around the next turn. He came to the bottom and carefully peered out into the nave, seeing only a handful of visitors. Across, in the far transept, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward the exit doors.

A man.

Who stopped, turned, and aimed his gun.

Antrim dove to the floor.

But no bullet came his way.

He sprang to his feet and saw the shooter flee out the exit doors.

He rushed ahead and pushed the bronze portal open.

Darkness had rolled in.

Rain continued to wash down.

He caught sight of the man, beyond the steps that led from the church, trotting away toward Fleet Street.

Six

GARY MALONE HAD BEEN WRESTLED FROM THE BRIDGE AND forced back into the Mercedes. His hands had been tied behind his back, his head covered with a wool mask.

He was afraid. Who wouldn’t be? But he was even more concerned about his dad and what may have happened in that garage. He never should have run, but he’d followed his father’s order. He should have ignored Ian and stayed close by. Instead, Ian leaped off that bridge. Sure, he’d been t

old to jump, too. But what sane person would have done that? Norse tried and failed, the man, in his wet clothes, cursing all the way during the drive in the car.

Ian Dunne had guts, that he’d give him.

But so did he.

Yesterday he was home packing, his mind in turmoil. Two weeks ago his mother told him that the man he’d called dad all of his life was not his natural father. She’d explained what happened before he was born—an affair, a pregnancy—confessing to her mistake and apologizing. At first he’d accepted it and decided, what did it matter? His father was his father. But he quickly began to question that decision.

It did matter.

Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he belong? With his mother, as a Malone? Or with someone else?

He had no idea.

But he wanted to know.

He didn’t have to return to school for another ten days, and was looking forward to a Thanksgiving holiday in Copenhagen, thousands of miles from Georgia. He had to get away.

At least for a while.

A swarm of bitter feelings had settled inside him that he was finding increasingly hard to control. He’d always been respectful, obeying his mother, not making any trouble, but her lies were weighing on him. She told him all the time to tell the truth.

So why hadn’t she?

“You ready?” his mother asked him before they’d left for the airport. “You’re off to England, I hear.”

His dad had explained they were going to make a stop in London and drop a boy named Ian Dunne off with the police, then catch a connecting plane for Copenhagen. He noticed her red, watery eyes. “You been crying?”

She nodded. “I don’t like it when you go. I miss you.”

“It’s just for the week.”

“I hope that’s all.”

He knew what she meant, a reference to their conversation from last week when, for the first time, he’d said he might want to live somewhere else.

She bit her lip. “We can work this through, Gary.”

“Tell me who my birth father is.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“No. You won’t. There’s a difference.”

“I promised myself I would never have him part of our life. I made a mistake being with him, but not a mistake in having you.”