The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry
CHAPTER ONE
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Cotton Malone hated surprises.
And this one was no exception.
He’d arrived at Buckingham Palace ten minutes ago, bypassing a throng of tourists crowded around the front fence by motoring through a guarded side gate. Now he sat in a green silk upholstered chair and watched as the two men who’d brought him left the room. No one had spoken during the trip across town and he was beginning to wonder. He’d been in England less than two days and now, for some unknown reason, he was about to see the queen.
His waiting room appeared to be an office—the flocked wallpaper a mixture of pinks and blues, the ceiling adorned with cream-colored ornamental molding. A white marble fireplace consumed one wall, the deep-blue-and-gold carpet outlined by a parquet floor. A desk sat catty-corner to the windows, stacked with paper, neat and orderly. He thought perhaps the room belonged to someone on staff, the space elegant but not regal.
The door opened and a man in a three-piece wool suit strolled in, followed by a wheelchair that contained Victoria II. Malone had many times seen the queen on television and in photographs. Never, though, had she been pictured handicapped, and the sight was disconcerting.
Victoria had reigned his entire adult life. She was the only English monarch most Americans knew. Her face was wizened, her color drained, her body frail. Though her hair remained a familiar shade of silver, fashioned in her trademark layered bob, he noticed an oily sheen on her forehead and skin flaking at the sides of her nose. This, the stooped posture, and an expression that seemed frozen in place evidenced how Parkinson’s now controlled her muscles. The one glimmer of hope was the radiant glow that seeped from her green eyes.
He came to his feet.
Victoria was being pushed by her husband, Prince James, the Duke of Edinburgh.
“Please, Mr. Malone, do sit,” Victoria said. “I apologize for the wheelchair, but within the palace I find it much more convenient. Unfortunately, walking has become a chore—and, besides, I don’t think pretense is called for.” She threw him a smile. “I have brought you here under the most suspicious of circumstances. I could well understand if you were even angry with me.”
“It would be difficult to be angry with so gracious a lady.”
“And a flatterer. The reports on you were correct.”
He wondered what reports she was referring to, but kept his mouth shut.
James stepped forward and faced him, a tall man with a beefy countenance. “It’s good of you to be here, Mr. Malone.” The prince offered his hand, and he felt the power in the older man’s grip. “We have a problem that we hope you might assist us in solving.”
The third man, younger, wearing the three-piece suit, stood behind the desk. Apparently, this was his office. James motioned toward him. “My private secretary, William. He’s the one who found you.”
Malone acknowledged the man with a slight nod of his head, which was returned.
Victoria glanced at her husband. “Do tell him, James.”
The prince cleared his throat before saying, “Two days ago an individual contacted the palace and asked for a meeting. He said there was something of the utmost importance to the nation, and our family, that he needed to discuss. It concerned our son, Richard, and, our grandson, Albert. Beyond that he offered nothing but riddles. We were scheduled to talk in this office. Today. But that man died yesterday.”
“Died? Or was killed?”
“Unfortunately,” Victoria said, “that is hard to say. A car accident. But at a most inopportune moment, would you not say?”
“Depends on which side of that opportunity you’re on.”
James nodded. “Our thoughts exactly.”
“You said he spoke in riddles. What kind?”
“He talked of Arthur. Sent us information from ancient journals.”
“As in Pendragon? Camelot? The Round Table?”
The prince nodded. “Exactly.”
“Tell me, Mr. Malone,” Victoria said. “Do you fancy yourself a believer in Arthur?”
He shrugged. “I’ve read quite a bit about him. The Dark Ages are one of my favorite periods. But who knows? One thing I’ve learned is that all legend is based on some fact.”
“It’s a story,” James said. “Concocted by Thomas Malory. Who, by the way, has a lot in common with our dead messenger. Both were thieves, Malory the worst kind for his era since he robbed churches.”
Malone knew Malory’s bio. The scribe had spent a lot of time in and out of prison before being granted a royal pardon. But he was curious. “Your messenger was some sort of felon?”
“He was a newspaper publisher,” the queen said. “Of some infamous repute. He steals people’s privacy, their secrets, true or not, and publishes them for the world to know.”
He caught the bitterness. “So why exactly was I brought here?”
He’d come to England on assignment for the Magellan Billet. Three years ago the American embassies in Greece and Egypt were targeted by a terrorist named Peter Lyon, a South African who blamed the United States for the destruction of apartheid, a rise of black rule, and an overall dilution of the white race worldwide. He was also a nefarious arms dealer, particularly dangerous because of his personal wealth and close association with many fanatical elements. The two embassy attacks had taken the lives of a dozen marines and six State Department representatives, including the deputy ambassador to Greece. Civilian casualties had topped 100. The Justice Department quickly linked Lyon with the killings, and four of those involved, all on Lyon’s payroll, were captured last year by a team of Navy SEALs.
Lyon remained a fugitive.
The International Court of Justice had assumed jurisdiction and Great Britain was chosen as the venue for the trial, with the United States prosecuting. A Justice Department team had been sent over to handle the matter, which included Malone. He’d been at his hotel, readying himself for trial, when men with badges appeared and politely asked him to come with them. They’d allowed a call to Atlanta and he spoke with his boss, Stephanie Nelle, who said that she wanted him to go with them, too.
But she’d offered no explanations.
Victoria settled back in her wheelchair, her right hand trembling. “My body is failing me, Mr. Malone. I am eighty-two years old and the one thing that keeps me alive is the realization that, after I’m gone, my son will succeed me. Richard is our most poignant disappointment. Like parents throughout the world with a troubled child, I wonder where we went wrong.”
Malone was surprised by her frank admission.
“I have tried,” Victoria said, “to convey to my son the importance of his position, but he remains resolute in defiance. Being a monarch in this century is difficult enough—without erecting artificial barriers. My son fails to understand this.”
A quotation came to mind, so he said, “His will is not his own. For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, carve for himself, for on his choice depends the sanity and health of this whole state.”
Victoria gave a slight nod. “Shakespeare wrote Laertes’ speech with great eloquence. Ophelia should have taken heed. So should my son. Thankfully, our grandson is more mature than his father. Albert will be our saving grace.”
Now he understood. “So when an infamous newspaper publisher mentioned that whatever he wanted to discuss concerned Albert, your attention was piqued?”
She nodded again, a slight bob of the head, her neck muscles surely restricted by the disease. “He is our joy.”
“And our hope,” James said.
Malone turned toward the Duke of Edinburgh. “What’s the problem?”
James motioned across the room. “William will explain.”
He turned toward the desk.
“The Prince of Wales, as I’m sure you know, stays in the press. Over the past nine years I have charted the reports from every London newspaper. That survey shows the Globe printed well over 70 percent of the initial stories about Richard. Now, that could simply be from hard work, luck—”
“Or a little inside help.”
“Precisely,” James said.
“And the dead man? He published the Globe?”
“He was its founder and owner.”
“Have you spoken to Richard about this?”
James shook his head. “It would do no good. He could not care less about any perceptions, problems, or embarrassments.”
Malone sensed something in the prince’s tone. “What are you not saying?”
“It is our daughter,” Victoria said. “Eleanor is an ambitious woman. We fear that she might have something to do with all of this.”
That shocked him. “What would be gained by disgracing her brother? She’s far removed from the succession.”
“As long as Albert is safe,” James said.
“You think he might be in danger?”
“We don’t know what to think,” James made clear. “We hope this is all simply the paranoia of two old people with difficult children. But William is not so sure. Neither am I anymore. After the tapes incident, my mind was changed.”
He recalled the furor that had erupted a few months back when audiotapes of Richard’s private telephone conversations surfaced in the media. Calls made to various women, some married, others with less-than-stellar reputations. The conversations were juvenile and sexually explicit, displaying an amazing immaturity—which the press had exploited.
“Did you ever discover who recorded them?” he asked.
James shook his head. “They tried to blame palace security, but no one here made them. The conversations were all on open, mobile phones, so they could have been recorded by anyone. Bloody embarrassing for our family. But, as with everything else, Richard seemed unaffected.”
“The disturbing thing about those conversations,” William said, “was that they occurred over an extended period, on different mobile lines, in different parts of the country. How did someone happen to be tuned to the precise frequency at the precise moment?”
“What did your security people say?”
“They offered no explanation, and to this day we have no idea who made those tapes, nor who forwarded them to the press.”
“Let me guess,” Malone said. “The Globe had an exclusive.”
William nodded. “The source was, as always, ‘unidentified palace insiders.’ Just like in today’s Globe. A front-page story about Richard and the daughter of one of the more vocal lords in Parliament. Pictures and all. A grand romp he had last weekend. Richard may be reckless and foolish, but he does not invite the press to follow him. Yet they were somehow alerted to that liaison.”
“But why is his sister suspect?” Malone asked.
“My daughter,” Victoria said, “tries hard to convince me that she is a good child. But she married into an ambitious family. Nigel Yourstone says he is a friend of the realm, yet his son is hardly the man I would have thought Eleanor would marry. Her decision to do so has always puzzled me. But the boy was fair born, of the right lineage, and pronounced fertile. That is all I can require of her choice in a husband.”
“Our daughter,” James said, “is far more devious and capable than her brother.”
“You think she’s the leak?”
Neither parent answered him.
Finally, James said, “We simply don’t know.”
Silence passed between them.
“There is no one in the palace we can trust with this,” James said. “William has kept his concerns and his suspicions to himself. Victoria and I speak only between ourselves. We need someone independent to analyze the situation and tell us if there is any reason to be concerned.”
“Your intelligence people can’t do the job?”
The prince shook his head. “Far too sensitive. William is close with your supervisor. She told us where to find you and said you might be able to help us out for a few days.”
“You know Stephanie Nelle?” he asked William.
“Goodness, yes. She and I have been acquainted for years. Quite a delightful woman, wouldn’t you say? She said you were her best agent. We need the best here, Mr. Malone.”
“And we need to move with speed and authority,” James said.
But there was still the matter of the terrorists’ trial, scheduled to start in less than a week. He was merely assisting, but he hated to leave his colleagues in the lurch.
One of three phones on the desk rang and William answered. After listening for a moment he hung up. “The BBC has a broadcast running that the front office says we should see.”
William stepped over to an ornate cabinet and swung open its double doors, revealing a television. He switched on the set and adjusted the volume. An older man was standing before a bevy of microphones.
“That’s Lord Bryce,” James said. “A stubborn blowhard. No friend of the Crown. Though I rarely agree with Richard, his choice of sexual companion this time is fitting punishment for that bloke.”
Malone was puzzled and William explained about today’s Globe story, which detailed Richard’s tryst from last weekend with Bryce’s daughter. Bryce was no monarchist, and the on-screen announcer was explaining how he intended to move aggressively toward the abolition of the monarchy. No one gave his effort much of a chance, but the attempt would definitely generate more negative discussion about an institution that, the announcer noted, “had begun to outlive its usefulness.” The voice went on to say, “Tourist dollars generated from the millions who travel to Britain each year to experience royal culture should not be justification for perpetuating a national embarrassment. Is it too much to ask for the privileged to behave themselves?”
The image suddenly shifted to another man. Mid-fifties, handsome, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. He approached the microphones and spoke in a deep, authoritative voice, expressing his loyalty to the Crown, but also his disagreement with the heir’s immoral actions.
“That is Nigel Yourstone,” James said.
He made the connection.
Yourstone’s son was married to Eleanor.
“I have to agree with my colleague,” Yourstone said. “Enough is enough. The time has come for some accountability from Buckingham Palace.”
The Duke of Edinburgh’s face hardened, and Malone spotted anger at the comments from the father-in-law of the third person in line for the throne.
But a tear tracked down Victoria’s cheek.
Her gaze caught his own.
And he suddenly felt the pain of a mother who’d quite possibly been betrayed.