The King's Deception

The truth of her words enraged him more.

“You simply do not offer enough for someone to exclude all others,” she said.

“I heard no complaints from you.”

Their mouths were inches away. He could feel her breathe, smell the sweet scent that seeped from her skin.

“I have many men, Blake. You are but one.”

As far as she knew he worked for the State Department, dispatched to the American embassy in Belgium.

“I’m an important person,” he told her, his hand still around her throat.

“But not enough to command me solely.”

He admired her courage.

Foolish. But still admirable.

He released his grip, then kissed her hard.

She reciprocated, her tongue finding his and signaling that all might not be lost.

He ended the embrace.

Then kneed her in the gut.

Her breath spewed out in an explosive burst.

She doubled over, arms wrapping around her stomach. She began to choke as nausea enveloped her.

She shrank to her knees and vomited on the parquet floor.

Her composure had vanished.

Excitement surged through him.

“You are a worthless little man,” she managed to spit out.

But her opinion no longer mattered.

So he left.

* * *

He entered his office in the American embassy, located on the east side of the Parc de Bruxelles. He’d walked back from Denise’s apartment feeling satisfied, but confused. He wondered if she would involve the police. Probably not. First, it was a he-said-she-said thing with no witnesses, and second, her pride would never allow it.

Besides, he’d left no marks.

Women like her took their lumps and moved on. But her confidence would never again be so certain. She’d always wonder. Can I play this man? Or does he know?

Like Blake knew.

Her doubts pleased him.

But he felt bad about the knee. Why she pushed him to such extremes he did not know. Cheating was bad enough. But lying only made it worse. It was her own fault. Still, he’d send her flowers tomorrow.

Pale blue carnations. Her favorite.

He logged into his computer and provided the day’s access code. Not much had arrived since early afternoon, but a FLASH ALERT from Langley caught his eye. A post-9/11 thing. Far better to disseminate information across the grid than keep it to yourself and shoulder all of the blame. Most of the alerts did not concern him. His area was special counter-operations, targeted assignments that were, by definition, not the norm. All were highly classified and he reported only to the director of counter-operations. Five missions were currently ongoing, another two in the planning stages. This alert, though, was addressed only to him, decrypted automatically by his computer.

KING’S DECEPTION IS NOW TIMELINED. IF NO RESULTS IN NEXT 48 HOURS CEASE OPERATIONS AND EXIT.

Not entirely unexpected.

Things had not been going right in England.

Until a few days ago, when they’d finally caught a break.

He needed to know more and reached for the desk phone, calling his man in London, who answered on the second ring.

“Ian Dunne and Cotton Malone are on the ground at Heathrow,” he was told.

He smiled.

Seventeen years with the CIA had taught him how to get things done. Cotton Malone in London, with Ian Dunne, was proof of that.

He’d made that happen.

Malone had once been a hotshot Justice Department agent at the Magellan Billet, where he served a dozen years before retiring after a shootout in Mexico City. Malone now lived in Copenhagen and owned an old-book shop but maintained a close relationship with Stephanie Nelle, the Billet’s longtime head. A connection he’d used to draw Malone to England. A call to Langley led to a call to the attorney general, which led to Stephanie Nelle, who’d contacted Malone.

He smiled again.

At least something had gone right today.

Three

WINDSOR, ENGLAND

5:50 PM

Kathleen Richards had never been inside Windsor Castle. For a born-and-bred Brit that seemed unforgivable. But at least she knew its past. First built in the 11th century to guard the River Thames and protect Norman dominance on the outer reaches of a fledgling London, it had served as a royal enclave since the time of William the Conqueror. Once a motte-and-bailey castle built of wood, now it was a massive stone fortification. It survived the First Barons’ War in 1200, the English Civil War in the 1600s, two world wars, and a devastating fire in 1992 to become the largest inhabited castle in the world.

The twenty-mile drive from London had been through a late-autumn rain. The castle dominated a steep chalk bluff, the gray walls, turrets, and towers — thirteen acres of buildings — barely discernible through the evening storm. The call had come from her supervisor an hour ago, telling her to head there.

Which shocked her.