The King's Deception

News to him. Langley had omitted that tidbit, most likely since, per the flash alert earlier, King’s Deception was about to be scrapped. The death of an agent just made that decision more imperative. He wondered, were they setting him up to fail? He’d seen it done before. Nobody at the director level was going to take the blame for these mistakes when there was someone lower on the pole available.

You are a worthless little man.

Denise’s words from Brussels, which still stung.

“The sorry son of a bitch Libyan,” the diplomat said, “should have been hung or shot, but the stupid Scottish have no death penalty. Progressive, they call it. Stupid as hell, if you ask me.”

For some reason, on this issue, the British were willing to snub their closest ally in the world. If not for the CIA learning of the private talks no one would have known until the deal had been done. Luckily, negotiations had dragged on through back channels. But apparently, that time was coming to an end.

“You’re it,” the man said. “We have no way to force London to do anything. We’ve tried asking, offering, reciprocating, even pleading. Downing Street says it’s not getting involved. Your operation is all we have left. Can. You. Make. It. Happen?”

He’d worked for the Central Intelligence Agency long enough to know that when a frustrated politician, in a position of power, asked if you could make something happen, there was but one correct response.

But he knew that would be a lie.

He was no closer to solving the problem than he had been a month ago, or a year ago. Ian Dunne’s reemergence offered hope but, at this point, he had no way of knowing if that hope would be salvation.

So he said the only thing he could, “I don’t know.”

The diplomat turned his head back toward the river. The last of the day’s scenic cruises motored by, headed west, from Greenwich.

“At least you’re being honest,” the man said, his voice low. “That’s more than others can say.”

“I want to know something,” Antrim said. “Why are the British unwilling to intervene? It seems out of character. What do they have to gain by letting that murderer go?”

The diplomat stood.

“It’s complicated and not your concern. Just do your job. Or at least what’s left of it.”

And the man walked off.

Eighteen

OXFORD

Kathleen dove behind a damp stone bench, just as the shooter aimed her way. Her body was coiled, poised for action. Each exhale of her breath clouded in the brisk night air.

She spotted the gunman, who was using the crenellated roofline high above for cover, the dark slate roof behind him absorbing his shadow. The rifle appeared sound-suppressed — she’d spotted a bulge at the end of its long barrel. She was unarmed. SOCA agents rarely carried guns. If firepower was needed, policy mandated that the local police be involved. The quadrangle was devoid of cover, save for the few concrete benches scattered along the crisscrossing walkways. Six ornamental lights burned with an amber glow. She stole a look at Eva Pazan, who lay facedown, motionless on the steps leading up to the archway.

“Professor Pazan,” she called out.

Nothing.

“Professor.”

She saw the shooter disappear from his perch.

She used the moment and darted left into a covered porch, the mahogany door that led into the building decorated with a shiny brass knob and knocker.

She tried the latch. Locked.

She banged on the knocker and hoped somebody was inside.

No reply.

She was now flush against the building, below the shooter, out of his firing angle, protected by a stone awning above her. But with the door locked and no one responding to her pleas, she remained trapped. Another doorway opened ten meters away, this one more elaborate and pedimented with palms and cherubs in the tympanum. Lights from inside illuminated tracery windows in a dim glow. Greenery formed a narrow bed between a concrete walk and the exterior façade. A bower of wisteria hugged the stone wall and rose toward the roof. If she hurried and stayed close she could make it. The shooter above would have to lean straight down in order to acquire a shot. With a rifle that would take time.

Maybe just enough.

She kept her back to the locked door and stared out into the quadrangle. Training came to mind, where she’d been taught to flatten against a wall to offer the slimmest target.

Her mind raced.

Who was trying to kill her and the professor?

Who knew she’d be here?

She sucked in a breath and steeled herself. She’d certainly been in tight situations before, but always with backup nearby. Nothing like this.

But she could handle it.

A quick peek beyond the covered doorway and she saw nothing.

One.

Two.

With a burst of adrenaline, she rushed out and ran the ten meters toward the other entrance, quickly finding cover beneath its stone pediment.

No shots came her way.

Was the shooter gone?

Or was he coming down to ground level?