The King's Deception

“The question is why you felt the need to render assistance.”

But he had no intention of volunteering an answer to that inquiry.

“Henry VIII himself played tennis here,” Mathews said. “It is said he learned of the execution of Anne Boleyn while engaged in a match. A different game from what we call tennis, but nonetheless exciting.”

Everything around him, though encased within an ancient shell, was more modern, the refurbished court still in use today. Real Tennis the game was called, which utilized not only the floor but also the walls and ceiling to maneuver the ball over the net.

“It’s impressive how things so old can still be relevant today,” Mathews said, tossing out more bait — which, this time, Malone decided to snag.

“Like that Elizabeth I may have been male?”

The older man appraised him with cool eyes. This was one of the world’s premier spymasters. Even Stephanie Nelle spoke of him with awe and respect. He vividly recalled their encounter from seven years ago. Mathews had proven formidable. Now Malone was, once again, within the Englishman’s sights.

“I was saddened by your retirement,” Mathews said. “You were an excellent operative. Stephanie must miss your talents.”

“She has plenty of other agents.”

“And modest. Always modest. That I recall about you, too.”

“Get to the point,” he said.

“You may not think the fact that Elizabeth I was an imposter would matter four hundred years later but, I assure you, Cotton, it does a great deal.”

“Enough to kill Farrow Curry?”

“Is that what the boy said?”

He nodded. “That’s why you want him. Not the flash drive. You want the boy. He’s a witness. You want to shut him up.”

“Unfortunately, these circumstances demand extraordinary actions. Ones, normally, I would never sanction. Especially here, on British soil.”

“You won’t harm a hair on that kid’s head. That much I guarantee.”

“From anyone else I would take that as unsubstantiated bravado. But I believe you. What about your own son? Is his life equally valuable?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“It may not be, considering who has him, right now, as we speak.”

He stepped close to Mathews. “Enough bullshit. What the hell is going on here?”

* * *

Kathleen sat at the table inside the small room, Eva Pazan positioned near the door.

“That show at Jesus College was for your benefit,” Pazan said. “A way to invest you in the situation.”

“Seems like a waste of time. You could have just told me. Who pressed my face to the floor with their shoe?”

Pazan chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t like that. That was my colleague outside the door. We thought a demonstration of violence, coupled with an attack on me, might keep you focused. Unfortunately, we were wrong.”

“Are you part of the Daedalus Society?”

“It doesn’t exist.”

That did not surprise her. “Thomas Mathews created it. Right?”

Pazan nodded. “If you realized that, why run inside the palace?”

“It’s hard to be sure of anything around here. And, the last I checked, Mathews wanted me dead.”

Her captor smiled. “The intelligence business is not like yours. You hunt down facts and work for convictions. We have no courts. No prisons. This is life or death, and success is the only thing that matters.”

“Mathews created Daedalus for Antrim, didn’t he? He wanted to manipulate him, but could not reveal SIS was involved.”

“Smart girl. We’ve been watching Antrim and his operation since the beginning. We needed a way to get close, without any fingerprints. A fictional, ancient society seemed the best way and, lucky for us, Antrim bought it. But you didn’t.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Hardly. You’ve proven quite a chore. We thought you might be helpful with Antrim, but things have changed.”

And she knew why.

“Because of Cotton Malone.”

* * *

Malone waited for an answer to his question, but decided to add, “I know about the release of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi.”

“Then you also know that your government doesn’t want that to happen. They want us to stop Edinburgh.”

“Which you can.”

He’d been thinking about why that wasn’t possible. And only one explanation made sense.

Oil.

“What is it you want from the Libyans? What’s the deal they offered for al-Megrahi’s release?”

“Let’s just say that we could not ignore their humanitarian request.”

“So you sold out for oil price concessions?”

Mathews shrugged. “This nation has to survive. We are stretched, as is everyone, to the limit. We have something they want. They have something we want. It’s a simple trade.”

“He murdered British, Scottish, and American citizens.”

“That he did. And he will soon meet his maker and atone for those sins. He has terminal cancer. It isn’t like we are releasing him to live a long life. If letting him go gains us more over the long run, then why not do it?”