The King's Deception (44 page)

She caught the heightened level of concern in Malone’s voice.

“You were all supposed to be together.”

Tanya Carlton sat at a small desk, her twin sister standing behind her. A laptop computer was open before them.

“Gary left with Antrim,” Ian said. “We didn’t want him to go, but he went anyway.”

“So I decided we should leave,” Miss Mary said. “It was clear Antrim was through with us. I had a bad feeling about that place.”

“What place?” Malone asked.

Miss Mary told them about a warehouse near the river.

“Any idea where Antrim and Gary went?” Malone asked.

Miss Mary shook her head. “He didn’t say. Only that they would be back soon. But something told me that wasn’t going to happen, so we left. Prior to that, though, Ian managed to steal Mr. Antrim’s cell phone. Which turned out to be a good thing.”

“How is that?” Malone asked. “I’ve been trying to contact Antrim on that phone.”

“We left it in the warehouse,” Ian said.

Which meant either Antrim and Gary had not returned to find it, or something else had happened.

Tanya pointed to the laptop. “We have discovered what this is all about.”

Malone nodded.

“So have I.”

W
ITHIN THESE PAGES
I
HAVE REVEALED A MOMENTOUS SECRET
, one that would have deep repercussions if ever revealed. My hope is that by the time these words are deciphered the fact that her majesty, Elizabeth I, was not as she appeared would be nothing more than a historical curiosity. My father taught me that truth is fleeting, its meaning fluid, depending on time and circumstances. No greater example of that wisdom exists than what has transpired here. I am sure that the reader has not forgotten what the two King Henrys passed down and what Katherine Parr told the imposter. Your reward for deciphering this journal is the opportunity to see that which only royalty has been privy to visit. There I have left the wealth of the Tudors. Also, there rests the imposter, safe from all prying eyes, peaceful in his eternal sleep. England was lucky to have him, no matter the fact that he was illegitimate in every legal way. But no more remorse. The time for that is over. I go to my grave with no regrets, glad that I will not be here to witness the downfall of all that my family holds dear. I fear a grave mistake was made in empowering the Stuarts. Kingship is more than a crown. Once I thought of telling James what I know. That was before I realized he was wholly unfit to be king. He knows nothing, nor does any other living soul. I am the last. You, reader, are now the first. Do what you may with your knowledge. My only hope is that you show the wisdom that the good Queen Elizabeth demonstrated during his forty-five years on the throne
.

What you seek can be found beneath the former Blackfriars Abbey. It was placed there long before the abbey existed and found by one of the friars during the reign of Richard III. Access is through what was once the wine cellar, an opening in its floor concealed by one of the casks. Upon the cask is carved an old monk’s prayer. “He who drinks wine sleeps well. He who sleeps well cannot sin. He who does not sin goes to heaven.”

Antrim finished Robert Cecil’s narrative.

He was inside an Internet café before one of the desktops, Gary standing beside him.

“Where is Blackfriars Abbey?” the boy asked.

A good question.

He knew the name. A locale near the Inns of Court, within the City, on the banks of the Thames, but there was no abbey there. Only an Underground station that bore the name. He typed
BLACKFRIARS
into Google search and read what he found on one of the sites.

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” he said. “The abbey is gone.”

A sense of defeat filled him.

What to do now?

“Look,” Gary said. “On the screen.”

His gaze locked on the monitor. An email had appeared in his secured account. He read the
FROM
line.
THOMAS MATHEWS
. Then the subject.
YOUR LIFE
.

“Wait over there,” he said to Gary.

The boy’s gaze signaled defiance.

“This is CIA business. Wait over there.”

Gary retreated across to the other side of the room.

He opened the email and read the message.

He glanced up from the screen.

MI6 knew all of his business, too.

What choice did he have?

He read the directions. Not far away. He could be there within the half hour. The knapsack he’d taken from the warehouse sat at his feet. Inside was Cecil’s original journal and the remaining PEs. He should have retrieved one of the guns from the bodies in the warehouse, but his main concern had been to get the hell out of there.

He glanced across the room at Gary, who was staring out of one of the café’s street-front windows.

Mathews had not mentioned a thing about him.

Maybe Gary could be used.

To his advantage.

G
ARY WAS CONFUSED
.

This man who was his birth father was so different from his father. Moody. Emotional. Sharp-tongued. But he was a big boy and could handle it, though all of this was a new experience.

He’d also just watched as this man incinerated three people, then showed no remorse. The woman had obviously known Antrim since she’d twice called him by his first name and, just before Antrim ignited the explosives, he’d taunted her.
Rot in hell, Denise
.

His dad had only once spoken about killing. That happened a month ago, when he, his father, and his mother were all in Copenhagen.
Not something you like to do, but something you sometimes have to do
. He could appreciate that.

Blake Antrim seemed to take another approach. But that did not make him wrong. Or bad. Just different.

Antrim now seemed agitated. Upset. Concerned.

Not the same confidence from yesterday, when he first revealed that he was the man who’d been with Gary’s mother.

Things had changed.

He watched as Antrim hoisted the knapsack from the floor and walked over.

“We have to go.”

“Where to?”

“To the place the journal mentions. I know where that is now.”

“What about my dad?”

“I have no way of contacting him. Let’s check this out, then we’ll figure out how to find him.”

That sounded logical.

“But I’m going to need you to do something for me.”

M
ALONE WAS READY TO DO SOMETHING
. A
NYTHING
. Y
ET HE
was stymied as to the proper course. He had no way of contacting Blake Antrim and no way of finding Gary. He was furious at himself for making a multitude of poor decisions, his son’s welfare now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. Miss Mary and Tanya had shown him the translation of Robert Cecil’s journal, which he and Kathleen Richards had now read in its entirety.

“Blackfriars Abbey is gone,” Tanya told him. “It has been for a long time.”

Another piece of bad news, which he added to the growing heap.

“There’s an Underground station there now,” Tanya said. “It’s presently closed, being totally rebuilt.”

He listened as the sisters told him about the station, which had existed on the site since the 19th century. Both rail and Underground lines converged there. Last year, the station was demolished and a sleek new glass-fronted building was erected, which was slowly taking shape. No rail trains stopped there now, and hadn’t for over a year. But the Underground still passed beneath.

“The place is a mess,” Miss Mary said to him. “Construction everywhere. The pavements are closed all around it. That station sits on the riverbank beside a busy street.”

“What you’re saying is that this four-hundred-year-old puzzle is at a dead end.”

“Then why is SIS so interested?” Richards asked. “If there’s nothing to find, why does Thomas Mathews care?”

He knew the answer. “Because there is something to find.”

He quickly ran through his options and determined that the choices were down to a precious few. Doing nothing? Never. Calling Stephanie Nelle back? Possible, but the time lag before anything happened could be a problem. Trying to find Antrim on his own? Impossible. London was a big place.

There seemed only one path.

He faced Richards. “Can you contact Mathews?”

She nodded. “I have a number.”

He pointed to the room phone. “Dial it.”

K
ATHLEEN FORGAVE
M
ALONE FOR HIS ATTITUDE
. W
HO COULD
blame him? He was in a quandary, the only way out possibly coming from a man who’d just tried to kill them both. This spy business was so different from her everyday experience. Things seemed to change by the minute, with no warning and little time to react. That part she actually liked. Still, it was frustrating not knowing who was on what side, and where she fit in.

But at least she was still standing.

In the game.

And that meant something.

She dialed the number from the note Mathews had provided earlier.

Two rings.

Then it was answered.

“I assumed you would be making contact sooner rather than later,” Mathews said in her ear.

She handed over the phone.