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“Not that I’ve been told. It’s just that he wasn’t successful with his operation and they’d like you to give it one last try. That prisoner transfer is going to be a PR disaster for us.”
Which he knew, and the thought of it even happening made him angry. The son of a bitch should die in jail.
A tour group drifted in and moved toward his corner of the room. He used them as cover and kept watch on the doorway that led into the Cumberland Suite.
Kathleen Richards appeared.
She hesitated a moment, glanced around, seemed satisfied that all was clear, then darted right.
“I’m a genius,” he quietly said into the phone.
“Which means?”
“That I was right about our SOCA agent.”
“What are you going to do? The CIA wants to know.”
He hadn’t seen Stephanie in five months, not since France, back in June, when he’d helped her out. So much so that she told him, before leaving, that she owed him a favor. But he also recalled her warning.
Use it wisely.
“If I look into this, does this mean you owe me two favors?”
She chuckled. “This one’s not mine. I’m just the messenger. But if you can do anything to stop that murderer from being released, you’d be doing us all a favor.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“One last thing, Cotton. Antrim knows nothing of this request, and they want to keep it that way.”
He ended the call and shut down the phone.
GARY SHOWED IAN AND MISS MARY THE ARTIFACTS IN THE warehouse. The older woman seemed fascinated with the books, some of which she noted were valuable 17th-century originals. He watched as she examined the special one beneath the glass lid with the green-and-gold pages.
“Your Mr. Antrim is a thief,” she said. “This volume belongs to Hatfield House. I am familiar with it.”
“Blake is CIA,” he made clear again. “He’s here on official business.”
“Blake?”
“He told me to call him that.”
He did not like the appraising look she gave him.
“I wonder what gives Blake the right to pilfer our national treasures? I have visited the library at Hatfield House. The attendants there would have gladly allowed him to photograph or copy whatever he may have needed. But to steal it? That is unforgivable.”
Since his dad retired from the Justice Department, they’d spoken some about fieldwork. Its pressures. Demands. The unpredictability. A month ago he’d even experienced some of that firsthand, so he was not about to judge Blake Antrim. And what did this woman know, anyway? She owned a bookstore and could not possibly understand what intelligence agents did.
She lifted the glass lid. “Did Mr. Antrim explain what this is?”
“It’s a codebook,” he told her. “From a guy named Robert Cecil.”
“Did he explain its significance?”
“Not really.”
“Would you like to know?”
KATHLEEN HAD NOT SPOTTED COTTON MALONE, SO SHE USED the moment and embraced the crowd. Hopefully, the information on the sheets she’d obtained would satisfy Mathews. She felt bad about deceiving Malone, but she intended to do her job. Without questions.
She headed away from where they’d entered, deeper into the baroque portions of the palace, and came to what was identified as the Communications Gallery. One wall was lined with windows that overlooked a fountain court, the other was wood-paneled and dotted with doors and oil portraits. Decorative iron posts supported a red velvet rope that prevented visitors from approaching too close to the paintings. Surely there was an exit from the palace if she just kept moving forward.
A quick glance back and she saw a face she recognized.
Eva Pazan.
Back from the dead.
Ten meters away.
A man at her side.
A chill swept through her. Even though she was sure Pazan had not been killed at Jesus College, seeing the woman alive unnerved her.
Was she really part of Daedalus?
Or something else?
Pazan hung back, fifty people in between them admiring the gallery. No effort was made to approach.
Apparently, they were flushing her ahead.
With no choice she kept moving.
At the end of the gallery she decided to buy some time. So she grabbed the last two iron rails, swinging them both around and blocking the path crosswise. The people behind her stopped at the velvet rope, which caused traffic to congeal, her two pursuers trapped at the rear. She caught the quizzical looks, visitors thinking she was someone official and that they could not proceed any farther.
But she didn’t hang around to explain, darting into a doorway and turning left, hustling down what was labeled the Cartoon Gallery. Fifty more people filled the gallery admiring the ambience. She caught sight of a video camera high in the corner at the far end, right of the exit doorway, and realized she was going to have to avoid those.
She heard a shout from behind and saw Pazan and her pal appear twenty meters away. She turned another corner and passed through one elegant room after another, identified as the Queen’s bedchamber, dining room, dressing room, and drawing room.
In the last one she hooked right.
A man blocked her way.
MALONE SLIPPED PAST THE CROWD AND REENTERED THE CUMBERLAND Suite, finding Tanya Carlton and asking, “What happened?”
“She snatched the papers you gave me and left. Threatened to arrest me.”
He’d wondered what Richards would do, so he’d provided her an opportunity. True, she had the information from the unprotected files but, to his way of thinking, there wasn’t much there.
Nothing at all, in fact.
“You don’t seemed surprised,” Tanya said.
“I’m not.”
“I must say, Mr. Malone, I think you are a bit of a conjurer.”
“Comes from getting burned by dishonest people.”
“What will she do now?”
He shrugged. “Go back where she came from. Or at least we can only hope.”
He had a new problem.
Helping the CIA.
“Mary told me that you and young Ian might have saved that woman’s life,” Tanya said. “Strange way for her to repay the debt.”
“But not unusual in my former line of work.”
“I managed to read the papers before she took them. Nothing there shocking. Not to me, anyway. But I have long be
en familiar with this legend.”
“Let’s get out of here. I’d like to talk with you some more, but with fewer people around.”
“Then we must see the gardens. They are magnificent. We can have a lovely walk in the sunshine.”
He liked this woman, just as he’d liked her sister.
They exited the Cumberland Suite and returned to the outer gallery, which remained noisy and crowded.
Two men appeared to their right.
Both faces he recognized.
The officers from the bookstore, out of uniform, dressed casually, both of whom appeared not to have forgotten what happened earlier. One had a nasty knot to his left forehead.
“We have a bit of a problem,” he whispered. “Seems there are some people here who would like to detain us.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Can you get us out of the building?”
“I worked here for many years as a guide, before being assigned to the gift shop. I know Hampton Court intimately.”
He pointed out the two problems. A small camera hung from the ceiling in one corner of the gallery. He’d seen others throughout. That meant people were watching, and dodging those electronic eyes would be tough.
“Angry-looking chaps,” she said. “Who are these men?”
Excellent question. Probably MI6. “Some type of police.”
“I’ve never been arrested before,” Tanya said.
“It’s not fun, and usually leads to a lot of other bad things.”
“Then it is no bother, Mr. Malone. No bother at all. I can make our escape.”
Forty
HENRY VIII FATHERED AT LEAST TWELVE CHILDREN. EIGHT OF those were either stillborn or miscarried, six by his first wife, Katherine of Aragon, and two by his second wife, Anne Boleyn. Three were legitimate. Mary, Elizabeth, and Edward, all mothered by different women. One was illegitimate, Henry FitzRoy, born in 1519 to Henry’s mistress Elizabeth Blount. FitzRoy itself is a surname that meant “son of the king” and was commonly used by the illegitimate sons of royalty. Henry openly acknowledged FitzRoy, his firstborn child by any woman, calling him his worldly jewel, making him at age six the Earl of Nottingham, Duke of Somerset, and Duke of Richmond, the title Henry himself held before becoming king. He was raised like a prince in Yorkshire and Henry held a special place for the boy, especially considering, at the time, his wife, Katherine of Aragon, had failed to give birth to a son. FitzRoy was proof, in Henry VIII’s mind, that the problem did not lie with him. Which was why he pressed so hard to have his marriage to Katherine annulled—so that he could find a wife who could actually provide him a legitimate heir.
