The King's Deception

“I thought you might like to see what it is you were after,” Mathews said. “After all, you did go to much trouble to find it.”

“It’s real?”

“Oh, my goodness, Mr. Antrim. It is most real.”

“Who built these tunnels?”

“We think the Normans first dug them as escape routes. Then the Templars refined them, adding the brick walls. We are not far from the Inns of Court, their former headquarters, so I assume these paths served a great many of the knights’ purposes.”

He heard a rumble, growing in intensity, and wondered if it was another train passing through its own tunnel nearby.

“The River Fleet,” Mathews said. “Just ahead.”

They came to an open doorway at the end, where the tunnel crossed perpendicularly another man-made expanse, this one tall, wide, and channeling water. They stood on an iron bridge that spanned ten feet above the flow.

“This bridge was added after the discovery of the tunnel we just traversed,” Mathews said. “When the Fleet was enclosed centuries ago, the route was unknowingly blocked. It is low tide at the moment, but that will soon be changing. At high tide, the water will rise to nearly where we stand.”

“I guess you wouldn’t want to be down there when that happens.”

“No, Mr. Antrim, you most certainly would not.”

* * *

Malone kept following the tunnel, the water now up to his calves and rising at a steady pace. The entry point from the Goldsmith house had led to this wide passage, maybe twenty feet across and fifteen feet high, the brick walls mortared tightly, their surface smooth as glass. He was surely standing in the Fleet River. Its pollution was long gone, the water cold, but the turgid air carried a rank odor. He’d once read a book about London’s many underground rivers — names like Westbourne, Walbrook, Effra, Falcon, Peck, Neckinger — the Fleet and the Tyburn the most prominent. About a hundred miles of subterranean flow, he recalled, the city balanced atop them like a body on a water bed. In the ceiling high above ventilation shafts periodically pierced the brick arch, leading to metal grates that allowed in light and air. He’d seen some of those grates on the streets. Now here he was underground, inside an impressive Victorian creation, the Fleet River washing past him at an impressive pace. His normal discomfort at being enclosed was eased by the wide space and tall ceilings. Also, Gary was here. Somewhere.

And that meant he had to keep going.

Mathews had told him to follow the power cables. The one that had snaked a path from his entry point at the Inns of Court was affixed above him, past any high-water mark, disappearing ahead into the semidarkness. The gun was still nestled to his spine, beneath his jacket. He was being led. No doubt. But not for the first time. His job with the Magellan Billet had been to take these kinds of risks. He knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know was what had happened between Antrim and Gary. Had he laid a hand on the boy? Hurt him in any way? At a minimum a stranger had entered their family and come between him and his son. Worse, this stranger was not to be trusted, paid millions of dollars to sell out his country. Were the deaths of the two American agents on Antrim’s shoulders? Damn right. And now this traitor had Gary within his clutches.

What a mess.

And all because of mistakes made long ago.

* * *

Kathleen found the source of the commotion and watched as Ian Dunne sprayed a man in the face. Pepper spray, most likely, judging from the reaction. Ian had clearly disobeyed Malone’s instructions to stay put at the hotel. She was hidden behind a concrete mixing machine, its exterior caked in gray grout. She watched as the boys ran and realized the other was Malone’s son, Gary. She heard Ian as he explained that Malone was nearby and Gary saying that he knew where. She decided to stay anonymous, at least for the moment, ducking and allowing them to pass.

She followed, giving them distance.

Plenty of cover was present from the debris and equipment. She saw them find the ladder from the video and climb down. She approached, spotted no one below, and hustled down, too. At the bottom a quick glance to her right revealed Gary Malone disappearing into a tunnel.

Air billowed from another tunnel to her left.

A few seconds later an Underground train roared past, entering the tunnel where the boys had gone. She rushed over and waited for the cars to pass, then peered into the darkness.

The two boys had pressed themselves to the concrete walls and were now hustling ahead, finding a door and entering.

* * *

Antrim descended a flight of marble steps into a lit chamber. The vaulted room was oval-shaped, its ceiling supported by eight evenly spaced pillars. Most of the walls were shelved, the bays divided by chiseled pilasters. Cups, candlesticks, kettles, lamps, bowls, porcelain, chalices, jugs, and tankards were displayed.

“Royal plate,” Mathews said. “Part of the Tudor wealth. These objects were of great value five hundred years ago.”