The King's Deception

He now understood why the British government had stayed silent. If any hint of a trade leaked out, the repercussions would be enormous. The headlines devastating. GREAT BRITAIN DEALS WITH TERRORISTS. The American position was, and always had been, no negotiations with terrorists, period. That didn’t mean no talking with them, just use the talk to buy enough time to act.

“Cotton, look at this another way. After World War II, both the United States and Britain utilized former Nazis. Your space program was born from them. Your aviation and electronics industries excelled. Intelligence services expanded. All thanks to ex-enemies. Postwar Germany was governed with their open assistance. We both used them to keep the Soviets off base. Was that any different than here?”

“If it’s such a great idea, why not tell the world what you’re doing?”

“I wish things were so black and white.”

“That’s another reason I got out. I can actually do what’s right now.”

Mathews smiled. “I always liked you, Cotton. A man with courage and honor. Unlike Blake Antrim.”

He said nothing.

“Antrim has been running a CIA-sanctioned operation called King’s Deception, here, on British soil, for over a year now. He’s been systematically stealing our national treasures. Delving into our secrets. Over the past forty-eight hours he sanctioned the violation of Henry VIII’s tomb in St. George’s Chapel. He used percussion explosives to crack away the marble slab, then rummaged through the royal remains. He also accepted five million pounds to end Operation King’s Deception. Half has been paid, another half will soon be owed.”

That grabbed his attention. “How do you know that?”

“Because I engineered the payment. I created a mythical opponent. The Daedalus Society. And convinced Antrim of its sincerity.”

“By killing Farrow Curry?”

“You know that course is necessary, at times. Curry became far too knowledgeable. He learned our secret. I thought his death would solve the problem. Unfortunately, we had to kill another.”

That he knew nothing about.

“One of Antrim’s operatives who provided us information in return for compensation. But he became greedy and wanted more than he was worth. So we used his death as a way to ingratiate ourselves directly to Antrim. Which, I must say, worked. All was fine, and would have been, but for your appearance.”

“So you sent men to kill me in the tunnel?”

Mathews glared at him.

“That I did.”

* * *

Kathleen was becoming angrier by the second.

“Malone was an unknown,” Eva said. “His presence has accelerated everything. But this is going to end here, now, today.”

“What is going to end?”

“The Americans want us to do something. We don’t want to do it. So they decided to find some leverage. A way to force us to do what they want. Thankfully, we’ve prevented that. All that remains is to tidy up the mess.”

“Meaning me?”

“And Antrim.”

She thought fast and knew what to do.

“I don’t want to die.”

She stared straight at Pazan.

“I’ll do whatever you want. But I don’t want to die.”

She stood from the chair.

Her eyes watered as she kept her gaze locked on the other woman.

“Please. I’m begging you. I don’t want to die.”

Pazan stared at her.

“I’m tired of running. I get it. You people have the upper hand. I’m in your custody. Can’t you contact Mathews and tell him I did what he wanted?” She found the sheets in her pocket. “I stole these from Malone. It’s what was on the flash drive. I was bringing them to Sir Thomas when you cornered me. I didn’t know you were working with him. How could I?”

She crept closer, the pages leading the way in her trembling left hand.

Pazan reached out to take them.

She handed them over. “I just don’t want any more problems.”

Her right hand balled to a fist and swung up to meet Pazan’s left jaw in a perfect uppercut that propelled the woman backward off her feet. She grabbed one of the chairs and pounded Pazan’s midsection. The SIS agent crumpled forward. A rage consumed Kathleen. She swung the chair upward, then down on Pazan’s head, sending her captor to the floor, not moving.

The door burst open.

The other man who’d been with Pazan inside the palace rushed ahead, the one who’d planted his foot on her face, a gun leading the way.

She whirled the chair into the hand with the gun, jarring the weapon away.

Another swing into his chest stopped him cold.

Raising the chair and slamming it down, she surely cracked the man’s skull, dropping him beside Pazan. She tossed her weapon aside, then found the gun and the pages.

“That makes us even,” she whispered to the man on the floor.

Forty-seven

Ian stood beside Miss Mary as they both read the file emailed to Miss Mary’s phone.

A translation of Robert Cecil’s journal.