The King's Deception

“You won’t succeed,” another voice pointed out.

Then a third said, “We will stop you.”

The first man raised a hand, silencing the others.

“Mr. Antrim, you have, so far, not been successful. My feeling is that once you do fail your superiors will forever abandon this effort. All we have to do is make sure that happens.”

“Show yourself.”

“Secrecy is our ally,” the first voice said. “We operate outside of the law. We are subject to no oversight. We decide what is best and appropriate.” A pause. “And we care nothing about politics.”

He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and said, “We’re not going to allow the release of that Libyan murderer. Not without repercussions.”

“As I said, Mr. Antrim, politics matters not to us. But we are curious. Do you truly think that what you seek will stop that?”

He hated the feeling of helplessness that surged through him. “You killed an American intelligence agent. That won’t go unpunished.”

The older man chuckled. “And that is supposed to frighten us? I assure you, we have faced far greater threats from far greater sources. Cromwell and his Puritans beheaded Charles I. We tried to prevent that, but could not. Eventually, though, we engineered Cromwell’s downfall and the return of Charles II. We were there to make sure William and Mary secured the throne. We shepherded George III through his insanity and prevented a revolt. So many kings and queens have come and gone, each more self-destructive than the last. But we have been there, to watch and to guard. We fear not the United States of America. And you and I both know that if your investigations are discovered, no one on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean will acknowledge responsibility. You will be disavowed. Forgotten. Left to your own devices.”

He said nothing because the SOB was right. That had been an express condition of King’s Deception. Take a shot. Go ahead. But if caught, you’re on your own. He’d worked under that disclaimer before, but he’d also never been caught.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We could kill you, but that would only arouse further curiosity and bring more agents. So we are asking you to leave this be.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you are afraid. I see it on your face, in your eyes. Fear is paralyzing, is it not?”

“I came after your man.”

“That you did. But let us be honest with each other. Your past does not include much heroism. Your service record is one of caution and deliberation. We have learned much about you, Mr. Antrim, and, I must say, none of it is impressive.”

“Your insults don’t bother me.”

“We will pay you,” one of the shadows said. “Five million pounds, deposited wherever you choose. Simply tell your superiors there was nothing to find.”

He did the math. Seven million dollars. His. For just walking away?

“We knew that offer would interest you,” the first voice said. “You own little and have saved nothing. At some point your usefulness to your employer will wane, if not already, and then what will you do?”

He stood in a pool of weak light, among the floor effigies, feeling defeated. Had that been the whole idea?

Rain continued to fall outside.

These men had chosen their play carefully and, he had to admit, the offer was tempting. He was fifty-two years old and had thought a lot lately about the rest of his life. Fifty-five was the usual age for operatives to leave, and living off a meager government pension had never seemed all that appealing.

Seven million dollars.

That was appealing.

But it bothered him that these men knew his weakness.

“Think on it, Mr. Antrim,” the first voice said. “Think on it hard.”

“You can’t kill every agent of the U.S. government,” he felt compelled to say.

“That’s true. But, by paying you off, we will ensure that Operation King’s Deception fails, which means no more agents will be dispatched. You will report that failure and assume all blame. We believe this simpler and more effective than force. Lucky for us that someone negotiable, like yourself, is in charge.”

Another insult he allowed to pass.

“We want this over. And with your help, it will be.”

The shadow’s right hand rose, then flicked.

The man with the weapon surged forward.

A paralysis seized Antrim’s body and made him unable to react.

He heard a pop.

Something pierced his chest.

Sharp. Stinging.

His legs went limp.

And he dropped to the floor among the dead knights.

Ten

Kathleen parked her car on Tudor street, just outside the gate. On the card her supervisor had provided was written MIDDLE TEMPLE HALL, which stood within the old Temple grounds, part of the Inns of Court, where for 400 years London’s lawyers had thrived. Two of the great legal societies, the Middle Temple and Inner Temple were headquartered here, their presence dating back to the time of Henry VIII. Dickens himself had been a Middle Templar, and she’d always liked what he’d written about life inside the Inn walls.

Who enters here leaves noise behind.