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He had no doubt this woman could handle herself. She’d proven that. He hopped onto shore. The gun was still wedged in the crook of his back, beneath his jacket, its presence reassuring.
“Use cash,” he said. “And stay put. Don’t leave until I get there.”
“I can follow directions. Just you don’t go and get yourself hurt.”
He wasn’t planning on it. But he also wasn’t betting against it.
Tanya engaged the throttle and glided the boat back out into the Thames. He watched as the motor’s growl faded downstream.
A wide graveled path fronted the river. On its far side he spotted a tuft-grass fairway and headed toward it. Copses of oak framed the edges. He recalled the links feel to the course, with its undulating terrain and contoured greens framed by deep bunkers. He spotted a few players and some deer roaming, but kept moving toward the palace, about six hundred yards away.
He left the fairways and found a grassy avenue, lined on both sides with lime trees. A long canal stretched to his right. He recalled that there was a tree around here somewhere, Methuselah’s Oak, that was said to
be 750 years old. He headed toward an open iron gate at the avenue’s far end, where the grass ended and another graveled path began. Tall, toadstool-shaped yews lined the path. Past the trees a fountain spewed water.
He slowed and told himself to be careful. He was back in the vicinity of cameras. Visitors crowded the paths around him, admiring the lovely trees and flowers. The palace’s baroque east façade rose ahead, many of the older Tudor buildings to his right, nestled tightly together. Beneath more ornamental yews trimmed bare eight feet up he caught sight of Kathleen Richards, flanked by two men, a woman leading the way. He stopped his advance and used the trees for cover, retreating behind one of the thick trunks.
Richards was led past the baroque section to the end of the Tudor buildings and a far corner, where the rear palace right angled back toward its main entrance. He crossed the graveled avenue to another tree for a better view and saw the entourage enter the last building. A pitched roof topped the long rectangle, a line of tall windows, side by side, stretching the length of the second floor.
Which he knew was not a floor at all.
He’d been inside that part of Hampton Court before.
KATHLEEN WAS POWERLESS TO DO ANYTHING. MAKE A BREAK? Nowhere to run. The gardens were like an open field, purposefully designed to offer clear lines of sight in every direction, which only worked to her detriment. She’d been led back from the riverbank, through the Privy Garden to the palace, then around to where a placard announced THE ROYAL TENNIS COURT.
They stepped through an opening in a brick wall and entered another portal, a louvered metal door closing behind them. She was led down a narrow corridor with plate-glass windows on one side that offered views into what was once Henry VIII’s tennis court, one of the first ever in England. No one was around. No visitors or staff anywhere.
They turned at the end and proceeded down the court’s short side to another door that led to what appeared to be storage and workrooms. She was motioned inside one that had a table and chairs along with a coffee machine, cups, and condiments. Some sort of break room.
Eva Pazan came inside with her.
The three men waited outside.
Pazan closed the door and said, “Sit down. We have things to discuss.”
MALONE LEFT THE FOUNTAIN GARDEN AND HEADED FOR THE entrance to the royal tennis court. There, beyond a brick wall that encircled the Tudor portions of the palace, he saw that the entrance to the court was shut, a sign announcing that the exhibit was closed.
He tried the latch.
Locked.
The door was metal with a set of thin and pliable louvers at the top and bottom, no glass or screen inside. He bent one of the slats in the top set up and the one beneath it down enough for him to reach inside and find a lock.
A twist and the door was open.
He readied the gun and slipped inside, closing and relocking the door.
A narrow passage stretched to his right, which paralleled the indoor court, windows above, lining both long sides, bathing the court with sunlight. Through glass, past what appeared to be seats within compact viewing booths, he saw a man in a three-piece suit standing at the net.
Thomas Mathews.
“Please, Mr. Malone,” the older man called out. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Forty-five
IAN STARED AT ANTRIM’S CELL PHONE. HE AND MISS MARY had examined the most recent calls from the log, three to a number noted as UNKNOWN.
“The call he just made was also to an unrecorded number,” he said.
“I wonder if it can be called back.”
“You think we should?”
“I don’t like or trust Mr. Antrim. He seems … preoccupied.”
He agreed. “That last call got his knickers all in a twist. He didn’t like what he was hearing.”
“He will soon know that the phone is missing.”
He shrugged. “I’ll say it fell out of his pocket and I found it outside.”
Miss Mary smiled. “That he will never believe, especially considering your background.”
“Gary should not have gone with him.”
“That’s true. But neither you nor I could have stopped him. He wants to know his birth father. You can understand that.”
They’d rarely discussed his past. That was what he liked best about Miss Mary. She didn’t dwell on things that could not be changed. She was always positive, looking forward, seeing the best.
“I told him I never knew my dad. Or my mum. And it really doesn’t matter.”
“But it does.”
She always could see through him.
“I’ll never know them, so why get upset over it?”
“There are ways to find people,” she said. “You know that whenever you are ready we’ll try and find your parents.”
“I don’t want to know them.”
“Maybe not now, but you will.”
The phone vibrated in his hand.
Miss Mary took it from his grasp. “Perhaps we should answer.” She studied the screen. “It’s only an email alert, not a call.”
“You’re good with that thing.”
She smiled. “I do a respectable business in book sales from the Internet.”
He watched as she punched the screen a few times.
“It’s from a gentleman who says he was successful in opening the files on the drive. Attached is the password-protected file, as requested.”
Ian knew exactly what that meant. “There were three files on the drive I lifted. One could not be opened without a password. Malone said experts could get around that.”
“That they can,” Miss Mary said. “I think I will forward this email to my own account.”
He smiled. “That way we can read it?”
“I certainly hope so.”
She punched the screen and waited a few moments. “There. It’s gone. Now to delete the fact that I sent something from this phone. That should give us a little cover from Mr. Antrim noticing.”
She handed the phone back to him.
“Place it in the office. On the desk. He can wonder how it found its way there.”
“He’ll never believe that.”
“Maybe not. But we won’t be anywhere around.”
ANTRIM FOLLOWED A CORTEGE INTO THE ROYAL JEWEL HOUSE, located within the walls of the Tower of London. The voice on the phone from Daedalus had proposed a safe location, and no better one could have been chosen. Security was everywhere, from armed guards, metal detectors, and cameras, to motion sensors. The hall was packed with tourists, all eager to view the British royal regalia of crowns, scepters, orbs, and swords proudly displayed behind wafers of bulletproof glass. No way to bring a weapon in here and little chance existed of anything bad happening since the entrance and exit were both heavily protected.
He felt a little better, but not much.
He wondered why this meeting was necessary.
He listened to one of the tour guides explaining how the Crown Jewels were, during World War II, moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks for secure keeping. There, a magnificent star-shaped case had been constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last set of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view them had proven too much for the cramped chamber and this larger location, back at ground level, was built.
Bright sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semidarkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers moving. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. The effect was magical. Another impressive British display.
Gary was outside, wandering the tower grounds. He’d told him not to leave the walled enclosure and that he would not be long inside.
“This is quite a spectacle,” a female voice said from behind.
He turned.
And was shocked by who he saw.
; Denise Gérard.
GARY ROAMED THE GROUNDS OUTSIDE THE JEWEL HOUSE. HE stopped at a sign that identified the magnificent White Tower, which dominated the enclosure. He’d already examined the Tower Green, near the spot where, one of the uniformed Beefeaters had explained, executions once took place. Two of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads there, as had Lady Jane Grey, a seventeen-year-old who ruled for nine days as queen until Mary, Henry VIII’s first daughter, chopped her head off, too.
His gaze focused on the White Tower and he read the sign. Its hundred-foot walls of stone formed an uneven quadrilateral, defended on the corners by three square towers and one round one. Once the exterior had been whitewashed, giving the building its name, but now its stone glistened a golden brown. High above, the Union Jack fluttered in a light breeze. He knew that this ancient citadel was one of the symbols of England, like the Statue of Liberty was to America.
He wondered what they were doing here. They hadn’t spoken much on the taxi ride over. Antrim had simply said that there were a few loose ends he had to deal with, which shouldn’t take long, then they’d return to the warehouse and wait for his dad to call. He’d asked about speaking to his mother and Antrim had assured him that they would do that, too.
She needs to hear from you, Antrim had said. Then I need to speak with her again, too. But we should talk to your dad first.
He agreed.
That should be first.
The day was bright and sunny, the sky a deep blue. Lots of people were visiting the site. Antrim had bought them both tickets to the grounds, which he noticed also included access to the Jewel House, where Antrim had gone.
What was happening inside?
Why were they here?
He decided to find out.
ANTRIM WAS IN SHOCK. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
Denise looked gorgeous, wearing a pale blue bouclé skirt with a stylish jacket.
“I’m what they wanted you to see.”
He was confused and cautious.
“Don’t be so lame,” she said. “I was there, in Brussels, watching you all along.”
Could that be? “You’re with Daedalus?”
A slight nod of her head. “I was sent to monitor your whereabouts. That I did, for nearly a year.”
