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Cecil’s first son, Thomas, was more suited to soldiering than government. William himself held the work of an army in low esteem. A reign gaineth more by one year’s peace than ten years’ war. William eventually became high treasurer, was knighted and made a baron, Lord Burghley. He served the queen until his death in 1598 when his second son, Robert, became Lord Burghley and assumed the post as Elizabeth’s chief adviser.
“William Cecil was quite an administrator,” Eva said. “One of the best in our history. Elizabeth owes much of her success to him. He founded the Cecil barony, which still exists today. Two prime ministers have come from that family.”
“But aren’t they all Cambridge graduates?” Kathleen asked, with a smile.
“We won’t hold that against them.
“Robert Cecil was like his father,” Eva said, “but more devious. He died young, age 48, in 1612. He served Elizabeth the last five years of her reign and James I for the first nine of his, both as secretary of state. He was also James’ spymaster. He discovered the Gunpowder Plot and saved James I’s life. The great Francis Walsingham was his teacher.”
She knew that name, the man regarded as the father of British intelligence.
“Walsingham was an odd man,” Eva said. “He constantly wore dark clothes and cast himself in secrecy. He was rude and could be quite crude, but the queen valued his advice and respected his competency, so she tolerated his eccentricities. It was Walsingham who uncovered the treasonous evidence that forced Elizabeth to execute her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. Walsingham who laid the groundwork for the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Eventually, Elizabeth knighted him. I tell you this because I want you to understand the personalities who trained Robert Cecil. Unfortunately, Robert, like his father, left few written records. So it is difficult to say exactly what Robert Cecil may or may not have known and what he truly accomplished. But there is one thing history confirms.”
She was listening.
“He ensured that James I succeeded Elizabeth.”
How all of this related to Blake Antrim escaped her, but obviously it did. Mathews had sent her here for a reason.
So she kept listening.
“Elizabeth never married and never birthed a child,” Eva said. “She was the last of five Tudor monarchs, reigning forty-five years. Toward the end everyone was nervous. Who would succeed her? There were many contenders, and the prospect of civil war loomed great. Robert Cecil made sure it would be James, the son of Elizabeth’s dead cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, now the Scottish king. There is a series of letters between Robert and James that have survived, which detail how that was accomplished. This happened between 1601 and Elizabeth’s death in 1603. The Union of Crowns, it’s called. Scotland joined with England. The beginnings of Great Britain. When James assumed both thrones, this country began to change. Forever.”
“Robert Cecil made that happen?”
“Indeed, but Elizabeth herself confirmed that.”
ROBERT CECIL AND THE LORD ADMIRAL CAME CLOSE TO THE BED. ROBERT stood at the foot, the admiral and several other lords on either side.
“Your Majesty,” the lord admiral said. “We must ask this of you. Who do you desire to succeed you?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Where yesterday they had seemed weak and near death, Robert now saw in them something of the fire this old woman had displayed before taking to her bed.
“I tell you my seat hath been the seat of kings. I will have no rascal to succeed me, and who should succeed me but a king?”
The words were barely a whisper, but all there heard them clearly. A few of the lords appeared puzzled by the cryptic response, but Cecil understood perfectly, so he asked, “A name, Your Majesty.”
“Who but our cousin of Scotland?”
The effort seemed to tax what little strength she possessed.
“I pray you trouble me no more,” she said.
The lords withdrew and discussed what they’d heard. Many were unsure, as Cecil thought would be the case. So the next day they returned to Elizabeth’s bedside with a larger, more representative group. Unfortunately, the queen’s ability to speak had waned. She was fading fast.
Cecil bent close and said to her, “Majesty, these gentlemen require a further sign that your cousin, King James of Scotland, is your choice. I beg you to provide them that.”
Elizabeth’s eyes signaled that she understood and the men waited. Slowly, her arms rose from the sheets to her head. Her fingers joined in a circle, forming a crown, which she held there for a moment.
No one could now argue as to her intent.
A few hours later, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, died.
“Cecil was ready,” Eva said. “He assembled the council and informed them of her announced choice. The witnesses who were there confirmed the truth. Then, the next morning, from Whitehall Palace, heralded by trumpets, he personally read a proclamation declaring King James VI of Scotland, James I, King of England. That same proclamation was read all over the land throughout that day. Not a word of opposition was raised. In one clean move, Robert Cecil ensured a swift, bloodless succession from a monarch who left no direct heirs. Pretty skilled, wouldn’t you say?”
“But you’re going to have to explain what all this means in relation to what Sir Thomas wants me to do.”
“I know. And I plan to. The rain seems to have finally abated outside, let’s enjoy the quad.”
They stepped from the hall into one of the college’s grassy quadrangles. Gothic buildings, most of their windows dark, enclosed them on all four sides. Darkened archways and doors led in and out. The rain was indeed gone, the night sky clear.
They were alone.
“Though both Cecils were secretive,” Eva said, “and left nearly nothing in the way of personal papers, there is one artifact from them that survived. I am told that you saw an image of it earlier.”
She recalled the page with gibberish.
“Robert’s coded notebook was preserved at Hatfield House, where he lived until he died in 1612. Unfortunately, that original volume was stolen almost a year ago.”
One of those thefts her supervisor had described. “I was told a man named Farrow Curry may have solved the code.”
“He may have. Which is why it is imperative that you retrieve whatever data Curry may have accumulated.”
“The page I saw was incomprehensible.”
“Exactly how Cecil wanted it to be. That code has never been cracked. But we have clues as to how that might be accomplished. Would you like to see more images from the journal?”
She nodded.
“I have them inside. You wait here, and I’ll retrieve them.”
The professor turned and headed back toward the lit hall.
Kathleen heard a pop, like hands clapping.
Then another.
She turned.
A ragged hole exploded in the knit material at Eva’s right shoulder. The older woman let out a strangled grunt.
Another pop.
Blood spewed.
Eva fell forward to the stone.
Kathleen whirled and spotted the outline of a shooter on the far roof, maybe thirty meters away.
Who was readjusting his rifle’s aim.
At her.
Seventeen
ANTRIM APPROACHED THE TOWER OF LONDON. THE ANCIENT taupe-colored citadel nestled near the Thames, the picturesque Tower Bridge nearby. What was once an enormous moat encircling the fortress was now a sea of emerald grass, lit by a sodium vapor glow, that spanned a void between the imposing wall curtain and the street. A cool night breeze, which had blown away the storm, eased off the river.
He knew the area from his childhood, recalling the array of nearby textile sweatshops, clothing stores, and Bengali restaurants. The East End was once the city’s dumping ground, a place where immigrants first settled. Tomorrow, Saturday, market day, meant the alleys would be filled with vendors hawking fresh fruit and secondhand clothes. He rem
embered as a kid roaming these streets, getting to know the peddlers, learning about life.
His target was strolling ahead of him at a brisk pace, but lingered a few moments before a music hall advertising a cabaret show.
Then the man crossed the street.
A multistory car park rose to the right, but the dark-haired gentleman kept strolling, the Union Jack, lit by floodlights, fluttering high above the Tower. The site was closed for the day, the admission booths dark and empty. Beyond, on the banks of the Thames, people milled back and forth, the illuminated Tower Bridge in the distance heavy with stop-and-go traffic. The dark-haired man ventured to the riverbank, then sat on one of the benches.
Antrim approached and sat beside him.
Winter’s prelude clawed its way from the cold stone through the seat of his pants. Thank goodness he’d worn gloves and a lined coat.
“I hope this is important,” the other man said to him. “I had plans tonight.”
“One of my men was just killed.”
The man kept his gaze out to the river.
He explained what had happened inside St. Paul’s. The man, a senior deputy to America’s ambassador to the United Kingdom, faced him. “Do the Brits know what we’re doing?”
The meeting had been arranged by Langley, after he’d reported some but not all of what happened. He’d specifically omitted who’d killed his man in St. Paul’s and what happened in the Temple Church.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s under control.”
“Is it, Antrim? Really? Under control?”
They were in public, so decorum was required.
“Do you understand what’s at stake here?” the man asked.
Sure he did, but thought it best to cast a smoke screen of goodwill. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
