The King's Deception (17 page)

Befitting the new king’s uncle, Thomas was made Duke of Somerset and bestowed the title Lord High Admiral. This should have placated him, but he was furious that his brother was Protector. So Thomas decided to change his lot. Being a bachelor provided him options, and a smart marriage could shift things dramatically. Henry VIII’s will specifically provided that his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, could not marry without the regency council’s approval. Thomas tried to secure permission to marry one or the other, but was rebuked. So he turned his attention to the Queen Dowager
.

Katherine Parr was thirty-four in 1547 and still retained a great beauty. She and Seymour had once been lovers so, when he appeared at Chelsea and began to romance her, the result was inevitable. They married secretly sometime in the spring, the young king not providing his blessing until months later
.

It was after this that something curious began to occur. Seymour, Parr, and Elizabeth lived together at Chelsea, or in the country at Hanworth, or at Seymour Place, Thomas’ London residence. The atmosphere was light and merry. When at Chelsea, Seymour began to visit Elizabeth’s chambers, early, and bid her a good day, occasionally striking her upon the bottom. This he also did with other maidens in her household. If Elizabeth was still in bed, he’d open the curtains and attempt to climb into the bed with her. Witnesses reported that Elizabeth would shrink beneath her covers, seeking refuge. One morning he even attempted to kiss her but Kate Ashley, Elizabeth’s governess, chased him away. Eventually, Elizabeth began to rise earlier and be dressed, ready for his visits. Lady Ashley eventually confronted Seymour, who was unrepentant about his actions. Parr herself at first thought the matter harmless, but soon changed her opinion. She became angry at her husband’s
flirtations with the princess, realizing that he’d married her only because his attempts to secure Mary or Elizabeth were refused by the council. She was, in essence, third choice. Now he was trying to directly ingratiate himself with Elizabeth
.

But to what end?

By January 1548, Parr was pregnant with her first child by Seymour. She was thirty-five years old and birthing at that age, in that time, was perilous. In February 1548 Parr caught Seymour and Elizabeth together, the princess in the arms of her husband. Parr confronted Lady Ashley about the matter, a conversation that history has never recorded, until now
.

This passage has been translated exactly as it appeared in Robert Cecil’s journal (with some adjustment for modern word usage). I managed to break the code so that the journal can be read. These words have confirmed all that we suspected. Katherine Parr knew not only the secret her husband, Henry VIII, told her on his deathbed. She also knew what had occurred before that. What Henry himself never knew. Her ultimate response to Seymour’s amorous overtures was to have Elizabeth, in April 1548, removed from their household. Never again did Elizabeth and the Queen Dowager see one another as, five months later, Parr was dead. Thomas Seymour did not even attend his wife’s funeral. Instead, he immediately sought out the princess Elizabeth, renewing his intentions to marry her. But nothing ever came of such
.

Malone stopped reading.

Ian stood beside him and had read along with him.

“What does it mean?” Ian asked.

“A good question. Farrow Curry seems to have been conducting some interesting historical research.”

“Is that the man who died in Oxford Circus?”

He nodded. “These are his notes, some kind of report he was working on.”

He scanned farther down the screen.

W
E NOW KNOW FROM
R
OBERT
C
ECIL’S JOURNAL THAT
K
ATHERINE
P
ARR
left a letter to Elizabeth, which was delivered at Christmas 1548, four months after Parr died. It appears to have been penned before Parr gave birth to her daughter in September 1548, and is a revealing piece of correspondence that, once placed in proper context, answers many questions. I have translated and adjusted the wording to compensate for modern spelling and usage
.

This came directly from Cecil’s journal. There are other similar references, all equally compelling. Each confirming that the legend is in fact true
.

The narrative continued with a series of shorthand references, as if Curry would return later and finish. Malone scanned them, noticing several mentions of Hatfield House, Robert Cecil’s country estate north of London, and the Rainbow Portrait of Elizabeth I that hung there. No further mention of the legend, whatever it might be, and its truth appeared. But a notation at the end explained,
only way to know for sure is to go and see
.

A second file, the largest in kilobytes, contained images from a handwritten journal, the green-and-gold pages filled with a cryptic script. The file was labeled
CECIL JOURNAL ORIGINAL
. Apparently what Curry had managed to translate. No explanations or other entries were in the file.

The final file he could not open.

Password-protected.

Which, obviously, was the most important.

“How do you get the password?” Ian asked.

“Experts can get around it.”

His phone rang. He closed the drive.

“Mr. Malone,” a new voice said. “We rescued Gary.”

Had he heard right?

“We’re pulling up at your location now.”

His gaze shot out the café’s front windows.

A car was wheeling to the curb.

“Stay here,” he told Ian, and he darted for the front door.

Outside, the car’s rear door opened and Gary bounded out.

Thank God.

“You okay?” he asked his son.

The boy nodded. “I’m fine.”

A man exited the car. Tall, broad-shouldered, thinning hair. Maybe fifty years old. He wore a navy, knee-length overcoat that hung open. He rounded the trunk and approached, offering his hand to shake.

“Blake Antrim.”

“This is the man who found me,” Gary said.

Two more men emerged from the car’s front seat, both dressed in overcoats. He knew the look.

“You CIA?” he asked Antrim.

“We can talk later. Do you have Ian Dunne?”

“He’s here.”

“Get him.”

Malone turned back to the café, but did not see Ian through the window. He hustled back inside to the computer.

The drive was gone.

And so was Ian.

His eyes raked the room and he spotted a door that let back into the kitchen. He rushed through and asked the two women busy preparing food about Ian.

“Gone out the back door.”

He followed and found himself in a dark, empty alley that right-angled fifty feet away.

No one in sight.

A
NTRIM
,
WITH
G
ARY IN TOW
,
ENTERED THE CAFÉ AND SPOTTED
Malone pushing through a rear door.

“Ian ran,” Malone said. “He’s gone.”

“We really needed him.”

“I get that.”

“Was he okay?” Gary asked.

But Malone did not answer.

The patrons inside were all focused on what was happening, so Antrim motioned for them to leave. On the sidewalk, near the car, while his men kept watch, he stepped close to Malone and said, “This is an ongoing CIA operation.”

“A lot of attention for a covert op.”

“Caused by having to rescue your son.”

“Is the operation yours?”

He nodded. “For over a year now.”

Malone appraised him with a cool gaze. “I was to drop Ian Dunne off at Heathrow to Metropolitan Police. That’s all. The next thing I know, I’m facedown unconscious and my son is taken.”

“All I can say is that some problems have surfaced. But I still need to find Ian Dunne.”

“Why?”

“That’s classified.”

“Like I give a crap. How’d you find me?”

“Gary told us about your phone, so we tracked it, hoping you still had it with you.”

“And how did you find Gary?”

“Let’s just say a little birdie tipped us off and leave it at that.”

“More classified information?”

Antrim caught the sarcasm. “Something like that.”

Gary stood beside his father, listening.

“What’s so important?” Malone asked him. “What are you doing here in London?”

“When you were one of us, did you go around discussing your business with strangers?”

No, he didn’t. “We’re leaving. Thanks for finding my boy.” He faced Gary. “Our bags are inside. We’ll get them, then find a hotel for the night.”

Antrim took stock of the ex–Magellan Billet agent. Personnel records had noted Malone to be forty-seven years old, but he looked younger, a thick mane of blondish brown hair barely tinted with gray. They were about the same height and build, and even their features were similar. Malone seemed in good shape for a man out of the game for over a year. But the eyes were what really interested him. As noted in the Justice Department personnel jacket, they were a pale shade of green.

He’d played this right so far.

Now for the finish.

“Wait.”

M
ALONE WAS PLEASED THAT HE’D GUESSED RIGHT
.

Blake Antrim was in trouble. He’d sensed it almost immediately, especially when Antrim realized Ian was gone. Whatever was happening was not going right.

He stopped and turned back.

Antrim came close and said, “We have a big problem. A national security problem. And Ian Dunne may have something we desperately need to solve it.”

“A flash drive?”

“That’s right. Did you see it?”

He nodded. “Ian has it. He took it when he ran.”

“Did you read it?”

“Some.”

“Care to share what was on it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Really? Your eidetic memory gone?”

“You been checking up on me?”

“After I learned you were here, with Ian Dunne, and your son was in trouble.”

He’d been born with a memory for details. Not photographic. Instead, he could recall the simplest of details, nearly at will. A curse at times, but more often a blessing. So he summarized for Antrim what Farrow Curry had written, noting that one file was password-protected.

“Any idea where Dunne might be?” Antrim asked.

“I just met the boy yesterday. He wasn’t the friendliest.”

“How about you, Gary?” Antrim asked. “He say anything to you?”

His son shook his head. “Not much. He lives on the streets. But he did say something on the plane about a bookstore he would sleep in sometimes at night. The lady who owns it, Miss Mary, was nice to him.”

“He say where that is?”

“Piccadilly Circus.”

“Seems like a good place to start,” Antrim said.

Malone could not resist. “Particularly considering it’s the only place you have.”

“That make you feel better?” Antrim asked. “I’ve told you I’m in trouble. Admitted the problem. What more do you want?”

“Call Langley.”

“Like you called Stephanie Nelle every time you got yourself into a tight one?”

He’d never made that call. Ever.

“That’s what I thought,” Antrim said. “You handled it yourself. How about another favor? Go to that store and see if Dunne shows up. You two seem to have made a connection, more than any of us.”

“Who were the guys at the airport? The ones who jumped me and took Gary?”

“They work for a shadow group called the Daedalus Society. They’ve been interfering with this operation for some time. I thought we had things under control with them, but I was wrong.”

“Ian was allowed into the country without a passport.”

“I did that. When he was located in the States, I asked British Customs to authorize his entry. I had men at the airport waiting for you. But the other two found you first. Just one more thing that went wrong.”

Malone could see that he’d struck a sore point. But he could sympathize. He, too, had experienced operations that simply would not go right.