The King's Deception

She tried to assess the cool, clipped voice. Young. Male. Not unlike Mathews’ tone, but less formal.

“We are the protectors of secrets,” the man said.

What in the world was he talking about?

“Pazan is dead,” the man said. “She knew too much. At the moment you know little. A word of advice. Keep it that way. Knowing too much will prove fatal.”

Her body was relaxing, the pain gone, her wits returning, but she kept her head to the floor, the man still behind her.

“Domine, salvam fac Regnam.”

She’d studied Latin in school and understood what he’d said.

O Lord, keep the queen safe.

“That is our duty,” he said. “Et exaudi nos in die qua invocaerimes te.”

And hear us in the day in which we call on thee.

“Our reward for that duty. We live by those words. Don’t you forget them. This is your first and final warning. Leave this be.”

She had to get a look at him. But she wondered — was he the one who fired the Taser? Or was there someone else here, too?

A gloved hand came across her body and the electrodes were removed.

She heard the chapel door open.

“Lie still, Miss Richards. Wait a few moments before rising.”

The door closed.

She immediately tried to stand. Her skin felt itchy all over. She was woozy, but she forced her legs to work and stood, staggering a moment, then regaining her balance. She stepped to the chapel door and turned the latch. Easing it open, she spied out into the lit quadrangle.

Empty.

She stepped out. The cool night air helped clear her head.

How had the man disappeared so fast?

She glanced right, to the doorway ten meters away, where she’d first sought cover. The closest exit.

She walked over and retried the latch.

Still locked.

Her eyes found the steps and the archway that led back into the dining hall.

Eva Pazan’s body was gone.

Nineteen

Antrim sat on the bench and stared at the dark Thames. The arrogant bastard from the State Department was gone. He was a twenty-year veteran and resented being ordered around like the hired help. But he had a dead operative on his hands and Langley had made clear that there’d be repercussions.

Now this time crunch.

A few days.

Which nobody mentioned.

Was he being set up? That seemed the way of this business. You were only as good as your last act. And his last few had not been memorable. He was hoping King’s Deception would be his salvation.

He’d stumbled across the idea in a 1970s CIA briefing memo. An obscure Irish political party had investigated a radical way to end the British presence in Northern Ireland. A legal, nonviolent method that utilized the rule of law. But no evidence to support their theory been found, though the memo detailed a host of clues that had been uncovered. Once he proposed the concept, moles within British intelligence, most likely the same eyes and ears who’d alerted Langley to the Libyan prisoner transfer, had provided information from long-buried MI6 files. Enough for Operation King’s Deception to be approved and counter-intelligence assigned. But after a year’s worth of work, nothing significant had been discovered.

Except the information that died with Farrow Curry.

And this Daedalus Society.

Both of which seemed to confirm that there was something to find.

His mind ached from months of worrying, scheming, and dreaming.

Five million pounds. That was what Daedalus had offered, just to walk away. Maybe he should take it? Things seemed destined for failure anyway. Why not leave with something for himself?

Especially after the text he’d just received.

Have one boy in custody, but Dunne escaped.

Idiots. How could they allow a fifteen-year-old kid to elude them? Their orders were simple. Take Malone, his son, and Dunne from Heathrow to a house near Little Venice. There, Malone should have been incapacitated and his son and Dunne transported to another locale. Apparently, everything had happened, except the most important part.

Corralling Ian Dunne.

Another text.

Mews video recording interesting. Watch.

The house in Little Venice was wired both for sound and pictures. So he accessed the feed and found the mews’ hidden camera. A recorded image sprang onto his smart phone and he saw Cotton Malone, gathering clothes back into a travel bag.

And Ian Dunne.

Watching.

He brought the phone close to his eyes.

What a break.

Malone and Dunne left the mews together.

Yesterday, he’d formulated a plan. One he’d thought smart and workable. But a new idea streaked through his brain. A way to perhaps reap all five million of the rewards.

First, though, he had to know something, so he texted his men.

Did you enable the phone?

He’d told them to make sure the locator feature was working on Malone’s cell and to learn the phone number.

The response came quick.

Done.

* * *

Malone, with Ian, exited the taxi. Luckily, the driver agreed to accept U.S. dollars and he tipped an extra twenty for the favor.