The King's Deception

“Your name. I always thought it ironic. There are six counties in Northern Ireland. Armagh, Down, Fermanagh, Londonderry, Tyrone—” Mathews paused. “—and Antrim. It’s an ancient place. Perhaps somewhere in your lineage there is Irish blood.”

“What does it matter?” Antrim asked.

“That’s the point. Nothing really does matter, except you. Now I will leave you two to settle your differences.”

And Mathews started up the stone risers.

* * *

Gary had taken Ian’s advice and stayed put. Ever since his mother had told him about his birth father, he’d imagined what that man would be like. Now he knew. A liar, traitor, and murderer. Someone vastly different than he’d hoped.

He heard the soles of shoes scrape across gritty stone.

Approaching.

“Someone is coming,” Ian whispered.

The area where they stood was small. No exit besides the way they’d come and the doorway into the next chamber. A bright bulb inside a wire cage dissolved the darkness, but not entirely. To their right, near the far wall, shadows remained thick. He and Ian fled there and huddled in a corner, waiting to see who appeared in the doorway.

The older man.

He stepped out and headed for the second exit.

Then stopped.

And turned.

His gaze locked their way.

“It’s impressive you both made it here,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “Perhaps that’s best. You both should see what is about to happen.”

Neither he nor Ian moved.

Gary’s heart pounded.

“Nothing to say?”

Neither boy spoke.

Finally, Ian said, “You wanted me dead.”

“That I did. You know things that you should not.”

In one hand the older man held a book, which Gary recognized. “That’s Cecil’s journal.”

“Indeed. Apparently you, too, know things you should not.”

Then he left.

Entering the tunnel that led to the bridge and the construction site.

They both hesitated, waiting to be sure he was gone.

Then they stepped back, closer to the doorway.

* * *

Antrim did not like anything about the situation. Mathews had led him here to confront Malone, who was staring at him holding a gun. The backpack with the explosives lay against one of the columns. Malone had paid it little attention. The remote detonator was tucked in his pocket. He didn’t actually have to remove it. Just a slap to his thigh would do the trick.

But not yet.

He was far too close.

And Mathews had said nothing about the explosives. No warning to Malone. As if he wanted them used. What had the old Brit said. Bring them along. You may have need of them.

Malone stood between him and the stairs that led up to the doorway through which Mathews had left. But the second exit, the one from which Malone had entered, beckoned.

That was the way.

Opposite the path Mathews had taken.

He needed to end this, go to ground, and enjoy his money.

“You’re a tough man,” he said to Malone, “with that gun. I’m unarmed.”

Malone tossed the weapon aside.

It clattered across the floor.

Challenge accepted.

* * *

Kathleen had followed Ian and Gary through the metal door and into a lit tunnel, walking slowly, her gun leading the way. She’d stayed back, waiting to see where the path would lead, concerned about the two boys, ready to confront them. A rush of water had grown louder and she came to a metal bridge that spanned a dark, swift current.

The Fleet River.

She’d been into its tunnels twice before, once in pursuit of a fugitive, another time to search for a body. Its subterranean path was one tall tunnel after another, at least ten meters high, the water now up to nearly half that height, just below the bridge.

Movement from the other side caught her eye.

She retreated back into the shadows.

Thomas Mathews emerged onto the bridge, then turned and closed the far door behind him. She watched as he inserted a key into the lock and secured the portal. Before leaving the door Mathews reached beneath his jacket and found a small radio.

She stepped onto the bridge.

Not a hint of surprise spread across the older man’s face.

“I was wondering when you would appear,” he said.

He approached, stopping two meters away.

She kept her gun aimed at him. “Where are those two boys?”

“Behind that locked door.”

Now she knew. “You lured them all here.”

“Only Antrim and Malone. But Ian Dunne was an unexpected bonus. He and Malone’s son are now there, too.”

What was happening beyond that door?

Then she noticed what else Mathews was holding. An old book, bound in brittle leather, clutched tight.

“What is that?” she asked.

“What I have sought. What, ultimately, you may have discovered for me.”

Then she realized. “Robert Cecil’s journal.”

“You are, indeed, an excellent agent. Quite intuitive. Unfortunate that no discipline accompanies that admirable trait.”

“I get what’s at stake here,” she told him over the water’s roar. “I know what Northern Ireland is capable of starting up again. I don’t agree with the Americans meddling in our business, but I also understand why they did. That bloody terrorist should stay in jail. All of you have handled this wrong.”

“Sharp criticism from a disgraced agent.”