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“Have a quick look and see if our minders are there.”
He peered around the doorway’s edge, allowing more tourists to pass, and caught sight of one of the men in the same corridor they’d originally entered after the stairway. Tanya had led them on a U-shaped path back around to it.
“One of them is behind us,” she told him.
He turned and spotted the problem in the kitchen, who had not, as yet, seen them.
“Come on,” he said.
They crossed the courtyard and he saw the man farther down the long corridor, moving away, but the one behind them would soon be here.
“We need to enter that doorway,” Tanya said, pointing to the right side of the corridor, twenty feet away. If they hurried they could be inside before either man noticed.
“Why didn’t we just go there first?” he asked her.
“And be seen? They were right behind us. This provided a little confusion.”
He could not argue with that.
She scampered off with determined steps, disappearing inside the doorway.
He followed and quickly stepped down a short set of stone stairs to a brick floor into what once served as the palace’s wine cellar, the vaulted ceiling supported by three columns. Windows allowed sunlight to pour through. Huge wine casks, lying on their sides, lined the outer walls and filled the center space between the columns.
Tanya headed for the chamber’s rear and he spotted another set of steps that led down to a closed door. She descended and he saw an electronic lock, but she knew the code, punching it in, then beckoning him to follow.
The two men appeared behind them, at the entrance.
One reached beneath his jacket.
He knew what that meant.
So he reached faster and found his gun, firing one round to the right of the entranceway. The closed space and the stone walls amplified the shot to an explosion. People admiring the wine barrels winced, then realized he held a gun and panicked. He used the moment to hop down the steps and into the open doorway. Once inside, Tanya slammed the door.
“The electronic lock engaged,” she said. “Unless they know the combination, they won’t be following.”
His best guess was the men were MI6, working for Thomas Mathews, maybe with the help of the Metropolitan Police. But who knew. So involving local security was not an impossibility.
He studied where they were, a pitch-black space, the air dank and moldy.
He heard Tanya moving and suddenly a flashlight switched on.
“The staff keep them here,” she said.
“Where are we?”
“Why, in the sewers. Where else?”
KATHLEEN REACHED THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRWAY, BACK ON ground level. She exited into a long corridor, then immediately entered a narrow room identified as the Upper Orangery. The outer walls were one closely spaced window after another. Sunlight filled the chamber. People were here, too. Not as many as on the first floor, though.
If Thomas Mathews was on site, why wasn’t he helping?
Instead, Eva Pazan was after her undaunted. It would not take long for her pursuer to realize that her target had fled downward. She was unsure which side Pazan was on, but after her experience at the bookstore she decided to trust no one.
Just leave.
But not by one of the exits, as those were certainly being watched.
Past the windows she spotted the magnificent Privy Garden, which stretched from the palace to the river.
That seemed the way to go.
She stepped to one of the windows and noticed no alarms. And why would there be? There were hundreds of windows in the palace, the cost and logistics of wiring every one incalculable. Instead, motion sensors were the way, and she spotted them inside the orangery, positioned high to catch anyone who might enter through one of the windows.
But those would be deactivated during the day.
She surveyed the room and saw none of the uniformed staff. So she unlatched the pane and hoisted the bottom panel upward.
The drop down was maybe two meters.
A few of the people nearby gave her a stare.
She ignored them and climbed out.
Forty-one
IAN WANTED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT HENRY FITZROY. HE’D been fascinated by what Miss Mary had said.
“This bloke, FitzRoy, married at fifteen to a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“That was quite common at the time. Marriages among the privileged were not for love. They were for alliances and the acquisition of wealth. Henry VIII saw the marriage to a Howard as a way to cement his relationship with that rich, powerful family. At the time his son’s illegitimacy was not considered a problem, since Henry was so open in his affections.”
“What did Henry’s wife think about that?” Gary asked.
“She was not pleased. It created tension, and probably accounted for some of the miscarriages. Katherine of Aragon was, in many ways, a fragile woman.”
The American named Antrim had retreated into the office with the two other men. Though he’d just met the man, Ian sensed something not right about him. And he’d learned to trust his instincts. He’d immediately liked Miss Mary and Cotton Malone. Gary was okay, too, though the younger Malone had little idea how tough life could be. Ian had not known either his mother or his father, and probably never would. His aunt had tried to tell him about his family, but he’d been too young to understand and, after he left, too angry to care.
Gary had two fathers.
What was the problem?
He’d caught the caution in Miss Mary’s eyes as she challenged Antrim. She had a bad feeling, too. That was clear. Gary, though, was too absorbed in his own problem to think straight.
That was okay.
He could think for him.
After all, Malone had told him to look after Gary.
“Eventually,” Miss Mary said, “Henry VIII married a Howard, too. Her name was Katherine, and she became his fifth wife. Unfortunately, this Howard was promiscuous and the king had her head chopped off. The Howards never forgave Henry for that, nor did the king forgive them. The Howards began to fall from grace, no longer in favor. Mary Howard’s brother, Henry, the Earl of Surrey, was executed for treason, the last person Henry sent to the block before he died in January 1547.”
“How do you know all this?” Gary asked.
“She reads books,” Ian said.
Miss Mary smiled. “That I do. But this particular subject has always interested me. My sister, especially, is knowledgeable about the Tudors. It seems Mr. Antrim shares our interest.”
“He’s doing his job,” Gary said.
“Really? And what is his great interest in British history? The last I was aware, Great Britain and the United States were close allies. Why is it necessary to be spying here? Holed up in this warehouse? Why not just ask for what you want?”
“Spying is not always that easy. I know. My dad was one for a long time.”
“Your father seems like a decent man,” Miss Mary said. “And, I assure you, he is as perplexed by all of this as I am.”
ANTRIM WAS IN A PANIC.
MI6 had been involved with Farrow Curry’s murder? Which meant they were aware of Operation King’s Deception. Daedalus said they killed Curry. Which meant either they or Ian Dunne lied.
But which one?
And now Cotton Malone was at Hampton Court with Kathleen Richards?
What in the hell was she doing there?
He had to know, so he dispatched both of his agents to immediately find out what was happening.
He stared out into the warehouse to where the woman a
nd the two boys sat among the items that would shortly be destroyed. He was waiting for the call that confirmed Cotton Malone was dead. He’d tell the sad news to Gary himself. Pam would certainly then become involved, but he should be okay. Gary would not allow her to block him out a second time, and there’d be no other father to interfere. The thought of victory made him smile. He’d already alerted his investigator in Atlanta to step up surveillance. Taps on Pam’s phone lines could prove useful in the months ahead. Information was the intelligence operative’s greatest ally. The more the better. And with seven million dollars in the bank, there’d be no worries about financing.
But first things first.
Operation King’s Deception had to end.
As agreed.
GARY WAS BOTHERED BY MISS MARY’S CRITICISM OF ANTRIM. She had no right to say anything negative about him. And though her words seemed carefully chosen, he’d caught her meaning loud and clear.
Are you sure about this man?
As sure as he could be. At least Blake Antrim had not lied to him. Unlike his mother. And Antrim had not hurt his mother. Unlike his father. He still needed to speak with his mother. She wouldn’t like what was happening, but she’d have to accept it. If not, he would follow through on his threat and move to Denmark. Maybe his dad would be more understanding.
“Henry FitzRoy,” Miss Mary said, “and Mary Howard had a child. A boy. He was thirteen when his grandfather, Henry VIII, died in 1547. This boy was thin and pale, with red hair, like the Tudors. But strong and determined, like the Howards.”
“Is this what my dad is looking into?” Gary asked.
“I don’t know. I truly don’t.”
Gary had seen that Antrim was bothered by something. He’d quickly excused himself and hustled back to the office. A few minutes ago the two other agents left the building. Antrim was still inside the office. He needed to talk to him. Movement across the interior caught his attention.
