The King's Deception

Thoughts of Norse and Devene filled his clouded brain. “Is something bad going to happen to you here?”

Ian just glanced out to the night.

Which was the answer he feared.

Twelve

Antrim opened his eyes.

He lay on the stone floor within the Round, beside the Templar effigies. His muscles ached and he knew what had happened. Two projectiles had pierced his chest and 50,000 volts had sent him into unconsciousness. He’d been stunned by a Taser. Better than being shot, but still an experience.

The Daedalus Society.

What the hell was that?

He’d love to dismiss them as crackpots, but those old men killed Farrow Curry and his man in St. Paul’s and knew nearly everything he’d been doing. Clearly, they were a force that had to be dealt with. Just as clearly, he was on to something. His men had methodically acquired historical artifacts and manuscripts from repositories all around England. They’d managed to photograph relevant texts in the British Library. They’d even breached the tomb of Henry VIII. No hint of anyone being aware of their efforts had ever surfaced. Yet this Daedalus Society knew he would be in St. Paul’s Cathedral tonight. He wondered, did they know the most important thing? No mention had been made of Ian Dunne, a flash drive, and what may be on that.

And that gave him hope.

The past three years had been a string of stinging setbacks, the most notable in Poland where his failure had generated consequences. One thing Langley detested was consequences, especially from its special counter-operations unit. His job was to turn things around, not make them worse. Washington was looking for a way to stop Scotland from handing back a convicted mass murderer to Libya. Great Britain was America’s ally. So his instructions from the beginning were clear.

Do it. But don’t. Get. Caught.

He rubbed his sore chest and massaged his eyes with the flat of his palms.

What happened in St. Paul’s, and what happened here, certainly qualified as being caught.

Maybe he should end this?

Five million pounds.

He slowly came to his feet, his damp coat rustling in the silence. The Round and the choir remained empty, the same few lights burning. His mind seemed incapable, as yet, of forming coherent thoughts, but he realized whoever they were had connections with the Middle or Inner Temples. How else could so much privacy have been assured?

He rubbed his scalp, sore from the fall. Once he’d sported a thick patch of auburn hair. Now the crown was nearly bare, only the sides shaded with a gray-brown fringe. His father had gone bald in his forties, too. He’d inherited almost everything else from him, why not that?

He found his phone and checked for messages.

None.

What was happening with Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne?

He needed to know.

Something on the floor between the effigies caught his eye.

A business card.

He bent down and retrieved it.

One of his, from Belgium, part of his State Department cover that noted his office phone and address at the embassy, along with his title, DEPUTY INFORMATION LIAISON OFFICER.

On the back was writing, in blue ink, printed neatly.

THE PENETENTIAL CELL

He knew what that was. Here. A tiny room at the top of the stairs where Knights Templars who disobeyed the Order’s Rule would be confined for punishment. He’d been inside once as a kid.

His head turned toward the choir.

What was there?

He stepped through the dim interior and found the staircase. Hinges and the catch of a long-missing door still remained. He climbed to the cell. Two small apertures admitted light, one facing the altar, the other opening into the Round. The space was no more than four feet long and two feet wide, impossible to lie down in with any degree of comfort, which, he thought, had been the whole idea.

His man who’d used the alias Gaius Wells, shot dead in St. Paul’s, lay propped against the wall, the body contorted into the tiny space, his head unnaturally cocked to one shoulder.

They’d brought him here?

Of course.

To show him what they could do.

Against the corpse’s chest, both arms wrapped around it, was a book.

Mythology of the Ancient World.

He slipped the volume from the dead man’s grasp. Another of his business cards marked a place about halfway into the text. He should check Wells’ pockets and make sure there was no identification, but he realized this body would never be found.

With the book in hand he descended the stairs and stepped close to one of the choir’s incandescent fixtures. He opened to the marked page and saw a passage circled.