The King's Deception

He left the fairways and found a grassy avenue, lined on both sides with lime trees. A long canal stretched to his right. He recalled that there was a tree around here somewhere, Methuselah’s Oak, that was said to be 750 years old. He headed toward an open iron gate at the avenue’s far end, where the grass ended and another graveled path began. Tall, toadstool-shaped yews lined the path. Past the trees a fountain spewed water.

He slowed and told himself to be careful. He was back in the vicinity of cameras. Visitors crowded the paths around him, admiring the lovely trees and flowers. The palace’s baroque east façade rose ahead, many of the older Tudor buildings to his right, nestled tightly together. Beneath more ornamental yews trimmed bare eight feet up he caught sight of Kathleen Richards, flanked by two men, a woman leading the way. He stopped his advance and used the trees for cover, retreating behind one of the thick trunks.

Richards was led past the baroque section to the end of the Tudor buildings and a far corner, where the rear palace right angled back toward its main entrance. He crossed the graveled avenue to another tree for a better view and saw the entourage enter the last building. A pitched roof topped the long rectangle, a line of tall windows, side by side, stretching the length of the second floor.

Which he knew was not a floor at all.

He’d been inside that part of Hampton Court before.

* * *

Kathleen was powerless to do anything. Make a break? Nowhere to run. The gardens were like an open field, purposefully designed to offer clear lines of sight in every direction, which only worked to her detriment. She’d been led back from the riverbank, through the Privy Garden to the palace, then around to where a placard announced THE ROYAL TENNIS COURT.

They stepped through an opening in a brick wall and entered another portal, a louvered metal door closing behind them. She was led down a narrow corridor with plate-glass windows on one side that offered views into what was once Henry VIII’s tennis court, one of the first ever in England. No one was around. No visitors or staff anywhere.

They turned at the end and proceeded down the court’s short side to another door that led to what appeared to be storage and workrooms. She was motioned inside one that had a table and chairs along with a coffee machine, cups, and condiments. Some sort of break room.

Eva Pazan came inside with her.

The three men waited outside.

Pazan closed the door and said, “Sit down. We have things to discuss.”

* * *

Malone left the Fountain Garden and headed for the entrance to the royal tennis court. There, beyond a brick wall that encircled the Tudor portions of the palace, he saw that the entrance to the court was shut, a sign announcing that the exhibit was closed.

He tried the latch.

Locked.

The door was metal with a set of thin and pliable louvers at the top and bottom, no glass or screen inside. He bent one of the slats in the top set up and the one beneath it down enough for him to reach inside and find a lock.

A twist and the door was open.

He readied the gun and slipped inside, closing and relocking the door.

A narrow passage stretched to his right, which paralleled the indoor court, windows above, lining both long sides, bathing the court with sunlight. Through glass, past what appeared to be seats within compact viewing booths, he saw a man in a three-piece suit standing at the net.

Thomas Mathews.

“Please, Mr. Malone,” the older man called out. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Forty-five

Ian stared at Antrim’s cell phone. He and Miss Mary had examined the most recent calls from the log, three to a number noted as UNKNOWN.

“The call he just made was also to an unrecorded number,” he said.

“I wonder if it can be called back.”

“You think we should?”

“I don’t like or trust Mr. Antrim. He seems … preoccupied.”

He agreed. “That last call got his knickers all in a twist. He didn’t like what he was hearing.”

“He will soon know that the phone is missing.”

He shrugged. “I’ll say it fell out of his pocket and I found it outside.”

Miss Mary smiled. “That he will never believe, especially considering your background.”

“Gary should not have gone with him.”

“That’s true. But neither you nor I could have stopped him. He wants to know his birth father. You can understand that.”

They’d rarely discussed his past. That was what he liked best about Miss Mary. She didn’t dwell on things that could not be changed. She was always positive, looking forward, seeing the best.

“I told him I never knew my dad. Or my mum. And it really doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.”

She always could see through him.

“I’ll never know them, so why get upset over it?”

“There are ways to find people,” she said. “You know that whenever you are ready we’ll try and find your parents.”

“I don’t want to know them.”

“Maybe not now, but you will.”

The phone vibrated in his hand.