The King's Deception

Ian’s special hiding place was located behind a set of Georgian buildings in a part of London known as Holborn. The block faced a park encircled by a narrow one-car lane, multistory brick buildings in varying colors on all sides. From the name plates he noted that most were occupied by lawyers — who, he knew, had long dominated this section of London. A rich confection of cloisters, courtyards, and passageways defined the place. What had Shakespeare allowed Richard III to say? My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn I saw good strawberries in your garden. The strawberry patches were gone and the old marketplace had become a diamond exchange. Only the lit park across the street seemed a remnant of the Middle Ages — meticulously landscaped and dotted with bare sycamore trees.

The time was approaching 9:00 PM, but the sidewalks remained busy. The sight of a boy being urged by his mother not to dawdle made him think of Pam. She’d always been a calculating woman, careful with her words, stingy with her emotions. He resented her for forcing this situation with Gary on him. Sure, she was tugged by a long-held guilt. But couldn’t she see that there were skeletons behind those doors — none of which should have ever been opened? Six months ago, when she informed him about Gary’s parentage, her explanation was that she wanted to be fair.

Since when?

She’d kept the secret this long. Why not forever? Neither he nor Gary would have ever known.

So what prompted her sudden need for truth?

Long ago, he’d been a foolish navy lieutenant and hurt her. They’d attended counseling, worked through it, and he’d thought his sincere request for forgiveness had been granted. Ten years later, when she walked out, he came to see that their marriage had never had a chance.

Trust broken is trust lost.

He’d read that somewhere and it was true.

But he wondered what it took to watch, day in and day out, while a father and son bonded, knowing that it was, at least partly, an illusion.

He felt for the cell phone in his pocket and wished it to ring. He hadn’t told Ian the substance of the earlier conversation. Of course, he had no intention of handing the boy over.

But he needed that flash drive.

His and Gary’s travel bags were slung over his shoulders and he followed Ian into a darkened alley that led to an enclosed courtyard, brick walls from the buildings encasing all sides. Lights from a handful of windows cast enough of a glow for him to notice a small stone structure on one side. He knew what it was. One of London’s old wells. Many of the city’s districts took their names from water sources that once supplied residents. Camberwell. Clerk’s. St. Clement’s. Sadler’s. Then there were the holy wells. Sacred healing springs that dated back to Celtic times, most of which were long gone, but not forgotten.

He stepped over and peered down past the waist-high stone wall.

“There’s nothing down there,” Ian said. “It’s sealed off a meter or so below with concrete.”

“Where’s your special place?”

“Over here.”

Ian approached what appeared to be a grate in one of the brick walls. “It’s a vent that leads into the basement. It’s always been loose.”

He watched as Ian hinged the panel upward and reached inside, feeling around at the top.

Another plastic shopping bag, from Selfridges, appeared in the boy’s hand.

“There’s a ledge above the grate. I found it one day.”

He had to admire the boy’s ingenuity.

“Let’s go back to the street, where there’s more light.”

They left the courtyard and found a bench beneath one of the streetlights. He emptied the contents of the bag and inventoried the assortment of items. A couple of pocketknives, some jewelry, three watches, twenty pounds sterling, and a flash drive, 32G. Plenty of room for data.

“Is that it?” he asked.

Ian nodded. “It felt like a lighter or a pocket recorder when I first got my hand on it.”

He scooped up the drive.

“What do we do now?” Ian asked.

Some insurance would be good.

“We find a computer and see what’s on this thing.”

* * *

Gary lay on the sofa, the man sucking licorice still nearby. He estimated another half hour had elapsed from their arrival. His arms were beginning to ache from being bound behind his back, his face sweating from the wool cap, his shirt damp with perspiration. He quelled the rapidly growing tension within him with thoughts that if these men wanted him hurt, then that would have already happened. Instead, it seemed he was needed in one piece.

But for how long?

He heard a pounding, then a crack.

Wood splintering.

“What the—” the man nearest him said.

“Drop it,” a new voice screamed. “Now.”

He heard something hard thud to a rug or carpet.

“On the floor. Hands where I can see them.”

“We have the other one,” a voice said from farther off.

Footsteps, then, “Down, beside your buddy.”

No British accents anywhere. These guys were American.