The King's Deception

“I bet you two had some fun when you were young,” he said.

She seemed to understand what he meant. “We still do, Mr. Malone. People have a difficult time telling us apart.”

“You know why we’re here?” Richards asked.

“Mary explained. She knows my interest with all things Tudor, especially Elizabeth.”

“Is this real?” he asked.

The older woman nodded. “It just might be.”

* * *

Kathleen was careful not to allow her interest to show. She assumed Mathews was somewhere nearby, watching. She’d acknowledged her consent back at the hotel, then sat quietly until Malone returned with three sheets that he’d printed in the Churchill’s business center.

From the flash drive, he told her.

But he’d not mentioned where the drive was located. She had to assume he was carrying it, but to ask would be foolish.

Just be patient.

And wait for an opportunity.

* * *

Antrim was not happy with having Ian Dunne and the bookstore owner around. They interfered with his time with Gary. He had only a few precious hours to make an impact and the fewer interruptions the better. But he could not have refused Malone’s request. He needed the ex-agent dead, and for that to happen he needed him in the field. If the price for that was two more joining the party, then so be it. He’d keep them all together a little while longer. Once he returned to the warehouse, he’d have the woman and Dunne taken back to the safe house.

He’d left Westminster and stopped at a pub to grab a bite to eat. He’d also verified by phone that the one-half payment had in fact been deposited in a Luxembourg account. He was three and a half million dollars richer.

And it felt great.

Though it wasn’t yet 10:00 AM, he decided some lunch would be good. He placed an order for a burger and chips and sat in one of the empty booths. A television played behind the bar, set to the BBC. Its volume was down, but something on the screen caught his eye.

A man.

And a tag scrolled across the bottom.

ABDELBASET AL-MEGRAHI SET TO BE RELEASED BY SCOTTISH AUTHORITIES.

He spotted a TV remote on the bar, quickly stepped over and increased the volume. The attendant gave him a glance but he told him he wanted to hear what the reporter had to say.

“… Scottish officials have confirmed that Libyan terrorist Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, will be sent back to Libya. Al-Megrahi has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and, for humanitarian reasons, will be returned to Libya to live out his final days. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died that day, December 21, 1988, including eleven on the ground in Scotland. On hearing the news, relatives were shocked. No word, as yet, on Downing Street’s reaction. Sources close to the negotiations, ongoing with Libya, say that the release may come within the next few days. Reports of the release first came from Libya, confirmed by Edinburgh within hours. No one has, as yet, spoken publicly about the possibility, but no one has denied the reports, either. We will be following this closely and will provide additional reports, as they are obtained.”

He muted the volume and returned to his booth.

He knew the drill. A leak designed to gauge public reaction. The news would be allowed to simmer a few days, then more would be leaked. Done correctly, in just the right amounts, the story’s shock value would fade. Unless some groundswell of opposition rose, supported by a relentless media barrage, the story would eventually be forgotten as the world moved on to something else.

Allowing the leak also announced one more thing.

No turning back. Everyone was committed. The idea now was to get it done before anything could stop it. But what were the Brits receiving for their silence? Why allow it to happen? He still wanted to know the answer to that question, along with one other thing.

What was happening at Hampton Court?

Thirty-eight

Kathleen walked with Cotton Malone and Tanya Carlton. They’d paid their admission and entered Hampton Court, along with a swarm of other visitors. Two days ago she was home in her flat wondering what to do with the rest of her life. Now she was a clandestine operative working against a retired American intelligence agent, trying to retrieve a flash drive.

And all for a man who might have tried to kill her.

It didn’t feel right, but she had little choice. Mathews’ invocation of country had worked. Though her mother was an American she’d always felt deeply English, and her entire career had been devoted to upholding the law. If her country needed her, then her path was clear.

They were inside the Great Hall, another Tudor hammerbeam ceiling overhead. Magnificent tapestries draped the towering walls, a nearby guide explaining to a group that they were commissioned by Henry VIII and hung here then.