The King's Deception

“One was greedy. The other smart. But as you know, in this business such moves are quite common. I have a task to perform, and there is little room to maneuver.”

“You want to kill Ian Dunne, too. No. That’s not right. You actually have to kill him.”

“Another unfortunate circumstance.”

He needed to leave. Every second he lingered only increased the risk that he was already taking.

“Do you have any idea why Antrim involved you?” Mathews asked.

The older man stood tall and straight, his signature cane held by the right hand. Malone recalled something about a bad hip, that had progressively worsened with age, necessitating the walking stick.

“He asked me to find Ian Dunne. That’s all.”

A curious look came to Mathews’ face. “That’s not what I mean. Why are you here, in London?”

“I was doing a favor.”

A curious look came to Mathews face. “You truly don’t know.”

He waited.

“Antrim maneuvered for you to escort Ian Dunne back from the United States. The boy was caught in Florida, then transported to Atlanta to meet up with you. Why was that necessary? Are there not agents in Florida who could have escorted him home? Instead, he specifically asked for you to do it, having his supervisor call Stephanie Nelle.”

“How in the hell do you know that?”

“Cotton, I’ve been in this job a long time. I have many friends. Many sources. You do realize that Gary was taken by men hired by Antrim?”

No, he did not.

“The entire thing was a show for your benefit.”

He had a horrible feeling, like he was three steps behind everyone else.

And that usually meant trouble.

He found his phone, switched it on, and called Antrim’s number. No answer. No voice mail. Just ringing. Over and over.

Which signaled more trouble.

He clicked the phone off and said, “I have to leave.”

“I can’t allow that.”

He still held his gun. “I’m not Antrim.”

He heard a noise and saw two men enter the court from one of the doors leading to the viewing booths that lined the walls.

Both were armed.

* * *

Kathleen closed the door to the break room, the two agents sprawled motionless on the floor. She approached the door leading back to the tennis court, armed and angry. Beyond, in the narrow hall that wrapped the court on two sides, she saw no one. But through glass panels that separated the corridor from viewing boxes she spotted four men. Two from the garden, with guns. Thomas Mathews. And Cotton Malone — armed, but clearly in trouble. What was Malone doing here? He should have been gone.

“Please lay down your weapon,” Mathews said to Malone.

Her vantage point was at the court’s far end, short side, where none of the others could see her.

A door stood open a few meters away.

She crouched below the glass and crept toward it, slipping inside one of the viewing booths. Three rows of seats ran parallel. She stayed low and approached another door that opened into the court.

Time to repay a debt.

Forty-nine

Ian followed Miss Mary onto the train.

He knew the London Underground, having many times explored parts that were off limits to the public. Several of the tunnels offered a respite from either winter’s cold or summer’s heat, places where he could linger in safety, so long as the police or a worker didn’t find him. He hadn’t utilized them in a while, ever since Miss Mary allowed him to guard her shop. He was grateful to her, more than he could ever express, glad she was here with him now.

They sat in two empty seats.

“I don’t know about you,” she whispered. “But I am anxious to read more of what Robert Cecil wrote.”

He agreed.

She found her phone and again accessed the email she’d sent herself, locating in the attachment where they’d left off.