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“Please step into the Round,” the first voice said.
No choice.
So he did as told, now among the floor effigies and encircled by the six men. “You killed my man just to get me here?”
“We killed him because a point needed to be made.”
The shadowy chin on the speaker looked as tough as armor plate.
What had Wells said? Not supposed to happen.
“How did you know I’d be in St. Paul’s?”
“Our survival has always been predicated on operating with excellent intelligence. We have been watching your actions in our country for many months.”
“Who are you?” He truly wanted to know.
“Our founder called us the Daedalus Society. Do you know the story of Daedalus?”
“Mythology never interested me.”
“To you, the seeker of secrets? Mythology should be quite an important subject.”
He resented the condescending tone, but said nothing.
“The name Daedalus means ‘cunning worker,’ ” the older man said.
“So what are you? Some kind of club?”
The other five shadows had neither moved nor said a word.
“We are the keepers of secrets. Protectors of kings and queens. God knows, they have needed protection, and mainly from themselves. We were created in 1605, because of the particular secret you seek.”
Now he was interested. “You’re saying that it’s real?”
“Why do you seek this?” another of the shadows asked, the voice again older and raspy.
“Tell us,” another said. “Why meddle in our affairs?”
“This an interrogation?” he asked.
The first man chuckled. “Not at all. But we are curious. An American intelligence agent delving into obscure British history, looking into something that few in this world know exists. You asked your man in St. Paul’s, what happened to Farrow Curry? We killed him. The hope was that you would abandon the search. But that was not to be. So we killed another of your men tonight. Must we kill a third?”
He knew who that would be, but still said, “I have a job to do.”
“So do we,” one of the shadows said.
“You won’t succeed,” another voice pointed out.
Then a third said, “We will stop you.”
The first man raised a hand, silencing the others.
“Mr. Antrim, you have, so far, not been successful. My feeling is that once you do fail your superiors will forever abandon this effort. All we have to do is make sure that happens.”
“Show yourself.”
“Secrecy is our ally,” the first voice said. “We operate outside of the law. We are subject to no oversight. We decide what is best and appropriate.” A pause. “And we care nothing about politics.”
He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and said, “We’re not going to allow the release of that Libyan murderer. Not without repercussions.”
“As I said, Mr. Antrim, politics matters not to us. But we are curious. Do you truly think that what you seek will stop that?”
He hated the feeling of helplessness that surged through him. “You killed an American intelligence agent. That won’t go unpunished.”
The older man chuckled. “And that is supposed to frighten us? I assure you, we have faced far greater threats from far greater sources. Cromwell and his Puritans beheaded Charles I. We tried to prevent that, but could not. Eventually, though, we engineered Cromwell’s downfall and the return of Charles II. We were there to make sure William and Mary secured the throne. We shepherded George III through his insanity and prevented a revolt. So many kings and queens have come and gone, each more self-destructive than the last. But we have been there, to watch and to guard. We fear not the United States of America. And you and I both know that if your investigations are discovered, no one on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean will acknowledge responsibility. You will be disavowed. Forgotten. Left to your own devices.”
He said nothing because the SOB was right. That had been an express condition of King’s Deception. Take a shot. Go ahead. But if caught, you’re on your own. He’d worked under that disclaimer before, but he’d also never been caught.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We could kill you, but that would only arouse further curiosity and bring more agents. So we are asking you to leave this be.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you are afraid. I see it on your face, in your eyes. Fear is paralyzing, is it not?”
“I came after your man.”
“That you did. But let us be honest with each other. Your past does not include much heroism. Your service record is one of caution and deliberation. We have learned much about you, Mr. Antrim, and, I must say, none of it is impressive.”
“Your insults don’t bother me.”
“We will pay you,” one of the shadows said. “Five million pounds, deposited wherever you choose. Simply tell your superiors there was nothing to find.”
He did the math. Seven million dollars. His. For just walking away?
“We knew that offer would interest you,” the first voice said. “You own little and have saved nothing. At some point your usefulness to your employer will wane, if not already, and then what will you do?”
He stood in a pool of weak light, among the floor effigies, feeling defeated. Had that been the whole idea?
Rain continued to fall outside.
These men had chosen their play carefully and, he had to admit, the offer was tempting. He was fifty-two years old and had thought a lot lately about the rest of his life. Fifty-five was the usual age for operatives to leave, and living off a meager government pension had never seemed all that appealing.
Seven million dollars.
That was appealing.
But it bothered him that these men knew his weakness.
“Think on it, Mr. Antrim,” the first voice said. “Think on it hard.”
“You can’t kill every agent of the U.S. government,” he felt compelled to say.
“That’s true. But, by paying you off, we will ensure that Operation King’s Deception fails, which means no more agents will be dispatched. You will report that failure and assume all blame. We believe this simpler and more effective than force. Lucky for us that someone negotiable, like yourself, is in charge.”
Another insult he allowed to pass.
“We want this over. And with your help, it will be.”
The shadow’s right hand rose, then flicked.
The man with the weapon surged forward.
A paralysis seized Antrim’s body and made him unable to react.
He heard a pop.
Something pierced his chest.
Sharp. Stinging.
His legs went limp.
And he dropped to the floor among the dead knights.
Ten
KATHLEEN PARKED HER CAR ON TUDOR STREET, JUST OUTSIDE the gate. On the card her supervisor had provided was written MIDDLE TEMPLE HALL, which stood within the old Temple gr
ounds, part of the Inns of Court, where for 400 years London’s lawyers had thrived. Two of the great legal societies, the Middle Temple and Inner Temple were headquartered here, their presence dating back to the time of Henry VIII. Dickens himself had been a Middle Templar, and she’d always liked what he’d written about life inside the Inn walls.
Who enters here leaves noise behind.
The sight of Henry’s bones still bothered her. Never had she thought that she’d be privy to such a thing. Who would have burglarized that tomb? Bold, whoever they were, since security within Windsor Castle was extensive. And why? What did they think was there? All of these questions had weighed on her mind as she drove back into London, eager to know what awaited her at Middle Temple Hall.
The rain came in spurts, her short brown hair dry from earlier but once again being doused by a steady mist. No one manned the vehicle gate, the car park beyond empty. Nearly 7:30 PM and the Friday workday was over at the Inns of Court.
Hers, though, appeared to be only just beginning.
She crossed the famous King’s Bench Walk and passed among a cluster of redbrick buildings, every window dark, entering the courtyard before the famous Temple Church. She hustled toward the cloister at the far end, crossing another brick lane and finding Middle Hall. A sign out front proclaimed CLOSED TO VISITORS, but she ignored its warning and opened the doors.
The lit space within stretched thirty meters long and half that wide, topped by a double hammerbeam roof, its oak joists, she knew, 900 years old. The towering windows lining both sides were adorned with suits of armor and heraldic memorials to former Middle Templars. Along with Dickens, Sir Walter Raleigh, William Blackstone, Edmund Burke, and John Marston were all once members. Four long rows of oak tables, lined with chairs packed close together, ran parallel from one end to the other. At the far end beneath five massive oil paintings stretched the ancients table, where the eight most senior barristers had eaten since the 16th century. The portraits above had not changed in two hundred years. Charles I, James II, William III, Charles II, Queen Anne, and, to the left, hidden from view until farther inside, Elizabeth I.
At the far end a man appeared.
He was short, early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was so immaculately coiffed it almost demanded to be ruffled. As he came close she saw that thick, steel-rimmed glasses not only hid his eyes but erased the natural symmetry of his blank features. He wore a stylish, dark suit with a waistcoat, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. He walked dragging a stiff right leg, aided by a cane. Though she’d never met him, she knew who he was.
