The King's Deception (14 page)

He knew the area from his childhood, recalling the array of nearby textile sweatshops, clothing stores, and Bengali restaurants. The East End was once the city’s dumping ground, a place where immigrants first settled. Tomorrow, Saturday, market day, meant the alleys would be filled with vendors hawking fresh fruit and secondhand clothes. He remembered as a kid roaming these streets, getting to know the peddlers, learning about life.

His target was strolling ahead of him at a brisk pace, but lingered a few moments before a music hall advertising a cabaret show.

Then the man crossed the street.

A multistory car park rose to the right, but the dark-haired gentleman kept strolling, the Union Jack, lit by floodlights, fluttering high above the Tower. The site was closed for the day, the admission booths dark and empty. Beyond, on the banks of the Thames, people
milled back and forth, the illuminated Tower Bridge in the distance heavy with stop-and-go traffic. The dark-haired man ventured to the riverbank, then sat on one of the benches.

Antrim approached and sat beside him.

Winter’s prelude clawed its way from the cold stone through the seat of his pants. Thank goodness he’d worn gloves and a lined coat.

“I hope this is important,” the other man said to him. “I had plans tonight.”

“One of my men was just killed.”

The man kept his gaze out to the river.

He explained what had happened inside St. Paul’s. The man, a senior deputy to America’s ambassador to the United Kingdom, faced him. “Do the Brits know what we’re doing?”

The meeting had been arranged by Langley, after he’d reported some but not all of what happened. He’d specifically omitted who’d killed his man in St. Paul’s and what happened in the Temple Church.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s under control.”

“Is it, Antrim? Really? Under control?”

They were in public, so decorum was required.

“Do you understand what’s at stake here?” the man asked.

Sure he did, but thought it best to cast a smoke screen of goodwill. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“The Scottish government is about to release al-Megrahi. That insanity is happening. Forty-three United Kingdom citizens died on that plane. Eleven Scots died on the ground. But everyone seems to have forgotten all that.”

“The CIA lost a station chief on Pan Am 103. So did the Defense Intelligence Agency and the Diplomatic Security Service. Four agents flying home. I understand what’s at stake.”

“And we were told that you had a way to stop it. That, of course, was a year ago. Yet here we are, no closer to stopping anything. That prisoner release will show just how weak we are in the world right now. Can you imagine how this is going to play? Kaddafi will laugh in our faces. He’ll parade al-Megrahi before every news camera he can find. The message will be crystal clear. We can’t even get one of
our allies to hold on to a mass murderer—a man who killed some of their own people. I need to know. Can you stop this?”

He was awaiting word that everything had gone right in that mews with Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne, but was a bit disturbed that he hadn’t received any further reports.

“The way to stop this,” he said, “is to force the British to intervene. The Scots normally can’t take a crap without London’s consent. They have little to no home rule. So we both know the Scottish government is acting with the Brits’ tacit consent. One word from London and that deal with the Libyans would be off.”

“Like I don’t know that.”

“I’m working on leverage that could force the British to act.”

“Which we have not been briefed on.”

“And you won’t, until we have it. But we’re close. Real close.”

“Unfortunately, your time is about up. We’re told this transfer is going to happen within the next few days.”

News to him. Langley had omitted that tidbit, most likely since, per the flash alert earlier, King’s Deception was about to be scrapped. The death of an agent just made that decision more imperative. He wondered, were they setting him up to fail? He’d seen it done before. Nobody at the director level was going to take the blame for these mistakes when there was someone lower on the pole available.

You are a worthless little man
.

Denise’s words from Brussels, which still stung.

“The sorry son of a bitch Libyan,” the diplomat said, “should have been hung or shot, but the stupid Scottish have no death penalty. Progressive, they call it. Stupid as hell, if you ask me.”

For some reason, on this issue, the British were willing to snub their closest ally in the world. If not for the CIA learning of the private talks no one would have known until the deal had been done. Luckily, negotiations had dragged on through back channels. But apparently, that time was coming to an end.

“You’re it,” the man said. “We have no way to force London to do anything. We’ve tried asking, offering, reciprocating, even pleading. Downing Street says it’s not getting involved. Your operation is all we have left. Can. You. Make. It. Happen?”

He’d worked for the Central Intelligence Agency long enough to know that when a frustrated politician, in a position of power, asked if you could make something happen, there was but one correct response.

But he knew that would be a lie.

He was no closer to solving the problem than he had been a month ago, or a year ago. Ian Dunne’s reemergence offered hope but, at this point, he had no way of knowing if that hope would be salvation.

So he said the only thing he could, “I don’t know.”

The diplomat turned his head back toward the river. The last of the day’s scenic cruises motored by, headed west, from Greenwich.

“At least you’re being honest,” the man said, his voice low. “That’s more than others can say.”

“I want to know something,” Antrim said. “Why are the British unwilling to intervene? It seems out of character. What do they have to gain by letting that murderer go?”

The diplomat stood.

“It’s complicated and not your concern. Just do your job. Or at least what’s left of it.”

And the man walked off.

K
ATHLEEN DOVE BEHIND A DAMP STONE BENCH
,
JUST AS THE
shooter aimed her way. Her body was coiled, poised for action. Each exhale of her breath clouded in the brisk night air.

She spotted the gunman, who was using the crenellated roofline high above for cover, the dark slate roof behind him absorbing his shadow. The rifle appeared sound-suppressed—she’d spotted a bulge at the end of its long barrel. She was unarmed. SOCA agents rarely carried guns. If firepower was needed, policy mandated that the local police be involved. The quadrangle was devoid of cover, save for the few concrete benches scattered along the crisscrossing walkways. Six ornamental lights burned with an amber glow. She stole a look at Eva Pazan, who lay facedown, motionless on the steps leading up to the archway.

“Professor Pazan,” she called out.

Nothing.

“Professor.”

She saw the shooter disappear from his perch.

She used the moment and darted left into a covered porch, the mahogany door that led into the building decorated with a shiny brass knob and knocker.

She tried the latch. Locked.

She banged on the knocker and hoped somebody was inside.

No reply.

She was now flush against the building, below the shooter, out of his firing angle, protected by a stone awning above her. But with the door locked and no one responding to her pleas, she remained trapped. Another doorway opened ten meters away, this one more elaborate and pedimented with palms and cherubs in the tympanum. Lights from inside illuminated tracery windows in a dim glow. Greenery formed a narrow bed between a concrete walk and the exterior façade. A bower of wisteria hugged the stone wall and rose toward the roof. If she hurried and stayed close she could make it. The shooter above would have to lean straight down in order to acquire a shot. With a rifle that would take time.

Maybe just enough.

She kept her back to the locked door and stared out into the quadrangle. Training came to mind, where she’d been taught to flatten against a wall to offer the slimmest target.

Her mind raced.

Who was trying to kill her and the professor?

Who knew she’d be here?

She sucked in a breath and steeled herself. She’d certainly been in tight situations before, but always with backup nearby. Nothing like this.

But she could handle it.

A quick peek beyond the covered doorway and she saw nothing.

One.

Two.

With a burst of adrenaline, she rushed out and ran the ten meters toward the other entrance, quickly finding cover beneath its stone pediment.

No shots came her way.

Was the shooter gone?

Or was he coming down to ground level?

An arched oak door stood closed, but its latch opened. Inside was the college chapel, the nave long and narrow, lined on either side with carved benches beneath tracery windows.

Like St. George’s Chapel, only smaller.

Elaborate patterns of marble made up the floor and a muted stained-glass window loomed over the altar at the far end. Three fixtures threw off an orangey glow. Though she was inside, away from the shooter, a quick look around confirmed that the door she’d just entered was the only way in or out. Above her rose an organ nestled against the building’s rear wall, its pipes reaching toward a vaulted ceiling. A narrow set of stairs led up to where the instrument was played.

From behind the organ, three meters above her, a man appeared.

His face was hooded, and he wore a dark jacket.

He aimed a weapon and fired.

I
AN RODE IN THE CAB WITH
C
OTTON
M
ALONE
,
HOLDING THE
plastic bag with its varied contents. Malone had returned it to him.

He unzipped the top and lifted out the books.

Ivanhoe
and
Le Morte d’Arthur
.

Malone pointed to the title pages. “My books are owner-stamped like that, too.”

“Where’d you get that name? Cotton?”

“It’s shorter than my full name, Harold Earl Malone.”

“But why Cotton?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You don’t like answering questions, either, do you?”

“I prefer when
you
do that.” Malone pointed. “Good taste in books.
Ivanhoe
is one of my favorites, and King Arthur is hard to beat.”

“I like Camelot, the Knights of the Round Table, the Holy Grail. Miss Mary gave me a couple of other stories on Merlin and Guinevere.”

“I like books, too.”

“Never said I liked books.”

“You don’t have to. The way you hold them gives it away.”

He hadn’t realized there was a way to hold a book.

“You cradle it in your palm. Even though those books have seen a lot of use, they’re still precious to you.”

“They’re just books.” But his denial sounded hollow.

“I’ve always considered them ideas, forever recorded.” Malone motioned to one of the paperbacks. “Malory wrote King Arthur in the late part of the 15th century. So you’re reading his thoughts from five hundred years ago. We’ll never know Malory, but we know his imagination.”

“You don’t think Arthur existed?”

“What do you think? Was he real or just a character Malory created?”

“He was real.” The force of his declaration bothered him. He was showing too much of himself to this stranger.

Malone flashed a smile. “Spoken like a true Englishman. I would have expected no less from you.”

“I’m Scottish, not British.”

“Really now? As I recall, Scots and English have been British since the 17th century.”

“Maybe so. But those sassanacks’ noses are too far up their arses for me.”

Malone let out a chuckle. “I haven’t heard an Englishman called a sassanack in a while. Spoken like a true jock.”

“How did you know we Scots are jocks?”

“I read, too.”

He’d come to realize that Cotton Malone paid attention, unlike most people he encountered. And he did not seem like a man given to having his knickers in a twist. In that mews, when faced with those fake police and a gun, he’d handled himself as a man in charge, strong and confident, like one of the horses at the track bolting from the gate. His wavy hair, cut neat and trim, carried the burnished tint of old stone. He was tall and muscular, but not overly so. His face was handsome, the features suited to him. He didn’t smile a lot, but there really wasn’t all that much to be happy about. Gary had said his father was a barrister, like the ones Ian had sometimes watched in London courts, parading about in wigs and
robes. Yet Malone did not seem cursed with any of that pompousness.

He actually appeared like someone Ian could trust.

And he’d trusted precious few people in his life.