The King's Deception

“Antrim is CIA, special counterterrorism. Most of it is off the charts, lots of black ops buried deep under national security. He’s got twenty years. And he’s the one heading the operation there. It’s called King’s Deception, but Langley would not give me any particulars.”

“What happened to all that post-9/11 cooperation?”

“It ended on 9/12.”

Which he already knew. “Any problems with Antrim?”

“I couldn’t get that much that quick, but I think my source would have told me if he’s a loose cannon. Sounds like a typical career man.”

Which jibed. Counter-operations required patience, not heroics. If anything, Antrim would lean toward hesitancy instead of being a Lone Ranger.

“Is everything okay there?” she asked.

“It is now. But it was touch and go for a while.”

He filled her in on the details. Then said, “I should have flown coach.”

“You realize you can go home,” she said.

He did. “But before Gary and I go to sleep, I’m going to give Ian Dunne one shot.”

Besides, he wanted to know why the boy ran, and why he snatched the flash drive.

“I wouldn’t get too deep into this,” Stephanie told him.

“I don’t plan to. But the stuff on that flash drive got me curious. What the hell are they up to over here?”

“No telling. But I’d leave the kids to play in their sandbox and head on home.”

Good advice.

They’d left the café and driven to a house beyond Portman Square. He knew this part of London, near busy Oxford Street, since he always stayed at the Churchill, located at the west edge of the square. Gary, Antrim, and the other two agents were inside the house. He’d stepped out to take the call.

“It’s getting late here,” he said. “We can’t leave until morning anyway. And Antrim did find Gary. So I owe him one.”

“Sorry for all this. I thought it was a simple favor.”

“It’s not your fault. I seem to have a way of finding trouble.”

He ended the call.

The front door opened and Gary walked toward him on the sidewalk.

“What are you going to do?” his son asked.

“I’ll take a quick look for Ian. Antrim is the real deal. He’s CIA. You’ll be okay here with him.”

“He seems like a good guy. He told me I could see some of the things he’s working on.”

“I won’t be long. Just a few hours. Then we’ll find a hotel and get out of here in the morning.”

He’d meant what he’d said to Stephanie. Farrow Curry had definitely been into some odd stuff — especially for a government counter-intelligence operation being conducted within the borders of an American ally.

“You know why I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

He nodded.

“Mom told me about my real … I mean, my birth father.”

“It’s okay, son. I know this is tough.”

“She won’t tell me who he is. I want to know. She really never told you?”

He shook his head. “Not until a few months ago and she never mentioned a name. If she had, I’d tell you.”

And he wasn’t trying to undercut Pam, it was just that you can’t choose to tell half a story. Especially one this explosive.

“When we get out of here,” Gary said, “I’d like to know what happened before I was born. Everything.”

Not his favorite subject. Who enjoyed reliving their mistakes? But thanks to Pam, he had no choice. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“I wish Mom would do the same.”

“Don’t be too hard on her. She’s kicking herself bad on this one.”

They stood on the street, the curbs on both sides lined with parked cars. A busy avenue, a hundred feet away, hummed with traffic.

“You think Ian could be in trouble?” Gary asked.

He heard the concern and shared the anxiety.

“I’m afraid so.”

Twenty-four

Antrim was pleased. He’d connected with Malone and convinced him to go after Ian Dunne, feigning enough frustration to telegraph that his entire operation was in trouble. Which had not been all that hard since it was the truth. Ordinarily, though, he would have never shared those problems with a stranger.

But he wanted a little private time.

After all, Gary was the whole reason he’d maneuvered Malone to London.

“You lied to me,” he said.

Pam Malone stared back. She stood behind her desk on the twelfth floor in a downtown Atlanta office building. Two days ago he’d run into her at a mall. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in sixteen years. Back then he’d been a CIA operative, assigned to a duty station in Wiesbaden, Germany. Pam was a navy wife, her lawyer husband a lieutenant commander, part of the United States’ NATO contingent. They’d met, had a brief affair, then she ended it.

“I never lied,” she said. “I just never told you anything.”