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Nothing about any of this rang right.
She wondered if Mathews had expected her to be too eager or too grateful to question anything. Or was it that he simply had become accustomed to people obeying? True, she was glad to still have a job. And despite the fact that she could at times be a problem, she’d not forged a career by being either stupid or complacent. So before leaving Oxford she headed back to Jesus College and the quad. There, she found the same quiet scene, the soporific drone of diesel engines drifting in from the nearby streets. She approached the stone bench where she’d sought cover and recalled the shots. On the stone steps leading back to the dining hall, where Pazan’s body had laid, she bent down and rubbed the coarse surface, noticing not a speck of blood anywhere. Her gaze drifted to the roof and the parapets, where the shooter had hidden. The down angle was unobstructed. Nothing to prevent a clear shot.
She crossed to the oak door with the brass handle and tried the latch.
Still locked.
Inside the chapel, which remained empty, she climbed the steep stairs to the organ and saw where her attacker had hidden, near the keyboard, behind the pipes, between the instrument and the wall. Which meant he was waiting long before she’d sought refuge inside.
With a Taser?
I’m sure you now realize that you were led here.
That’s what he’d said.
So they’d known she’d be in Oxford, at Jesus College, meeting Pazan. Enough in advance to be ready. Then they’d shot Pazan, but not her.
Why?
Because they needed to deliver a message?
An awful lot of trouble when so many simpler options were available.
And what happened to Pazan’s body?
She decided as long as she was being insubordinate, she’d be thorough. Though Oxford University was composed of thirty-nine separate collegiate parts, there was a centralized administration that included security patrolling the streets, quads, and buildings. She recalled them from her student days and found the main office near the city police station. Her SOCA credentials earned instant respect, and the personnel on duty were more than happy to answer her questions.
“Do you have a roster of university employees?”
The young woman smiled. “Everyone is badged and credentialed on hiring. They have identity cards that have to be carried.”
Which made sense.
“Is there an employee for Lincoln College named Eva Pazan?”
The woman worked a keyboard, then scanned her monitor. “I don’t see one.”
“Any Evas or Pazans, separately?”
A pause as the screen was searched, then, “Nothing.”
“Any employee anywhere, at any of the colleges, with those names?”
More taps on the keyboard.
None.
Why wasn’t she surprised?
She left the building.
Pazan could have simply been lying. But why? She’d specifically mentioned teaching history at Lincoln and attending Exeter College.
And that Mathews sent her.
Which the spymaster confirmed.
Then, she was shot.
Had she died? Or was she able to walk away? If so, why no blood anywhere?
Now, apparently, the woman didn’t even exist.
She didn’t like anything about this.
A few hours ago she’d been dispatched to the Inns of Court precisely at the same time Blake Antrim had been present. Everything had been coordinated, timed with precision.
Which wasn’t so shocking.
After all, she was dealing with the Secret Intelligence Service.
In Middle Hall she’d thought herself a knight or a rook on the chessboard. Now she carried the distinct feel of a pawn.
Which made her suspicious.
Of everyone.
MALONE LISTENED TO STEPHANIE NELLE.
He’d found her by phone twenty minutes ago and told her what he needed to know. Now she’d called back.
“Antrim is CIA, special counterterrorism. Most of it is off the charts, lots of black ops buried deep under national security. He’s got twenty years. And he’s the one heading the operation there. It’s called King’s Deception, but Langley would not give me any particulars.”
“What happened to all that post-9/11 cooperation?”
“It ended on 9/12.”
Which he already knew. “Any problems with Antrim?”
“I couldn’t get that much that quick, but I think my source would have told me if he’s a loose cannon. Sounds like a typical career man.”
Which jibed. Counter-operations required patience, not heroics. If anything, Antrim would lean toward hesitancy instead of being a Lone Ranger.
“Is everything okay there?” she asked.
“It is now. But it was touch and go for a while.”
He filled her in on the details. Then said, “I should have flown coach.”
“You realize you can go home,” she said.
He did. “But before Gary and I go to sleep, I’m going to give Ian Dunne one shot.”
Besides, he wanted to know why the boy ran, and why he snatched the flash drive.
“I wouldn’t get too deep into this,” Stephanie told him.
“I don’t plan to. But the stuff on that flash drive got me curious. What the hell are they up to over here?”
“No telling. But I’d leave the kids to play in their sandbox and head on home.”
Good advice.
They’d left the café and driven to a house beyond Portman Square. He knew this part of London, near busy Oxford Street, since he always stayed at the Churchill, located at the west edge of the square. Gary, Antrim, and the other two agents were inside the house. He’d stepped out to take the call.
“It’s getting late here,” he said. “We can’t leave until morning anyway. And Antrim did find Gary. So I owe him one.”
“Sorry for all this. I thought it was a simple favor.”
“It’s not your fault. I seem to have a way of finding trouble.”
He ended the call.
The front door opened and Gary walked toward him on the sidewalk.
“What are you going to do?” his son asked.
“I’ll take a quick look for Ian. Antrim is the real deal. He’s CIA. You’ll be okay here with him.”
“He seems like a good guy. He told me I could see some of the things he’s working on.”
“I won’t be long. Just a few hours. Then we’ll find a hotel and get out of here in the morning.”
He’d meant what he’d said to Stephanie. Farrow Curry had definitely been into some odd stuff—especially for a government counter-intelligence operation being conducted within the borders of an American ally.
“You know why I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with you.”
He nodded.
“Mom told me about my real … I mean, my birth father.”
“It’s okay, son. I know this is tough.”
“She won’t tell me who he is. I want to know. She really never told you?”
He shook his head. “Not until a few months ago and she never mentioned a name. If she had, I’d tell you.”
And he wasn’t trying to undercut Pam, it was just that you can’t choose to tell half a story. Especially one this explosive.
“When we get out of here,” Gary said, “I’d like to know what happened before I was born. Everything.”
Not his favorite subject. Who enjoyed reliving their mistakes? But thanks to Pam, he had no choice. “I’ll tell you whatev
er you want to know.”
“I wish Mom would do the same.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. She’s kicking herself bad on this one.”
They stood on the street, the curbs on both sides lined with parked cars. A busy avenue, a hundred feet away, hummed with traffic.
“You think Ian could be in trouble?” Gary asked.
He heard the concern and shared the anxiety.
“I’m afraid so.”
Twenty-four
ANTRIM WAS PLEASED. HE’D CONNECTED WITH MALONE AND convinced him to go after Ian Dunne, feigning enough frustration to telegraph that his entire operation was in trouble. Which had not been all that hard since it was the truth. Ordinarily, though, he would have never shared those problems with a stranger.
But he wanted a little private time.
After all, Gary was the whole reason he’d maneuvered Malone to London.
“You lied to me,” he said.
Pam Malone stared back. She stood behind her desk on the twelfth floor in a downtown Atlanta office building. Two days ago he’d run into her at a mall. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in sixteen years. Back then he’d been a CIA operative, assigned to a duty station in Wiesbaden, Germany. Pam was a navy wife, her lawyer husband a lieutenant commander, part of the United States’ NATO contingent. They’d met, had a brief affair, then she ended it.
“I never lied,” she said. “I just never told you anything.”
“That boy is mine.”
He’d known it the first moment he met Gary Malone. Everything reminded him of himself as a teenager. And—
“He has my gray eyes.”
“My ex-husband’s are gray.”
“There you go. Lying again. I remembered your ex-husband’s name. In fact, I’ve come to hear it many times since you and I were together. He was quite the agent. But I pulled his jacket yesterday. His eyes are green. Yours are blue.”
“You’re delusional.”
“If I am, why are you shaking?”
He’d located her with a quick check of the Georgia State Bar directory. Their talk in the mall had been brief and light. She’d mentioned that she was now a lawyer so it had not taken much to find her. He’d appeared unannounced, wanting to catch her off guard. She’d at first informed the receptionist that she was busy, but when he told the woman to pass on that he’d “just see her at home,” he was led to her office.
