Chapter EIGHTEEN
Malone left the kitchen.
As best he could determine he was in the south wing of the irregular-shaped mansion. Yourstone’s study was west, at the other end, so he began to navigate the wide corridors. The rooms he passed were filled with fine furniture, paintings, tapestries, and ceramics. He passed through a dining room, lit only from lights in the hall, and stopped at the beginning of another long corridor.
Voices could be heard.
He crept down a carpet runner, gun drawn, and turned a corner. A small foyer opened before him and contained a settee and two tables. A magnificent crystal lamp burned brightly. A set of double doors were cocked open.
He heard the voices again.
One was Yourstone’s.
The other Thomas Mathews’.
Yourstone sat still in the chair.
“What of your son and Eleanor?” Mathews asked. “I take it they will make their own arrangements with the queen?”
“Royals always look after royals.”
“That they do. A shame you’re not a royal. Nor married to one.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Then go ahead,” Mathews said.
He started to rise from the chair and leave.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He settled back down.
“Go for the gun.”
He said nothing.
“It’s lying there. In the drawer. Reach for it. I want you to have a sporting chance.”
A cold clammy feeling surged through his body. His face must have betrayed the question that formed in his mind. How did he know?
“I’ve been a spy a long time.”
Mathews’ pistol hung at his side, barrel pointed to the floor. Yourstone’s right arm shook. He needed to grip the gun and roll to the floor, using the desk for protection. It was his only chance. His gaze again darted to the drawer, but his hand remained glued to the armrest.
Sweat beaded on his brow.
Mathews stood five meters away.
He realized what he’d become.
Not longer an ally. Now a problem.
Yourstone lunged for the weapon and slid from the chair. But his hand never made it to the drawer, nor his body to the floor.
A bullet slammed into his chest.
The sensation was at once surprising, then horribly painful. Blood poured from the wound. He tried to ease the hemorrhage with a hand but blood oozed through his clenched fingers.
He stared at Thomas Mathews.
“So sorry. But this matter must end here.”
Mathews stepped to the desk and retrieved the passbooks. “Your money will be put to good use, though. Rest easy on that matter.”
And the last thing Yourstone saw was Mathews raise his weapon and fire once more.
Malone heard the distinctive pop of a sound-suppressed gun discharging twice. Thomas Mathews had surely just saved the British government the trouble of prosecuting Nigel Yourstone.
The double doors swung open.
Mathews stepped into the hall, holding a Glock 9mm with sound suppressor in one hand, two booklets in the other.
Malone stepped from the shadows and raised his weapon.
The spymaster halted, then slowly turned around. “I didn’t think you were dead.”
He and Professor Goulding had been flown directly to Reykjavik, the NATO pilot ordered to say they’d been lost in the wilderness. Goulding had been ensconced in a hotel and told to contact no one. Malone had been flown by U.S. military transport to a base in England, then made his way into London by car.
He kept his gun trained on Mathews’ head, assuming under the tweed suit there might be a Kevlar vest. “It was you, making everything happen. You were Yourstone’s information source.”
Mathews stood rigid. “You are an interesting man, Cotton. A bit lucky, too. Never underestimate the value of luck.”
“We were supposed to die out there in Iceland?”
“That was the idea. I had the camp burned and the tunnel sealed. It seemed a good way to end the problem. You and Goulding both succumbing to natural causes. Few questions would have been asked.”
“Let the gun fall from your hand. Don’t raise your arm.”
Mathews’ fingers released their grip, and the Glock thudded on the carpet.
He said, “I should kill you.”
“But you are a naval officer. That means you are a man of honor. Taught to respect life. Play fair. Would your father have shot an unarmed man?”
“What do you know about my father?”
“Quite a lot, actually. He was a naval officer, too. Lost at sea. Doing his duty. Another man of honor. Would you disgrace him by shooting a defenseless man?”
“I wouldn’t characterize you as defenseless.”
“Lord Yourstone was a traitor. Now he is dead. Prince Albert is safe. This matter is at an end.”
“The palace must have suspected you, or someone else in intelligence, because they refused to involve you or MI5.”
“I assumed the same thing. Which explains why they turned to you.”
“And you set me up at the Tower.”
“Really? I thought you performed brilliantly. Saving the day, and all that.”
“What if I hadn’t found that second homer?”
“I had every confidence you would.”
“And along the way you allowed Peter Lyon to escape.”
“We actually never had him. But luckily, we discovered the details of his plan and the launch point.”
“What if Albert had been killed?”
Mathews shrugged. “Now, that would have been MI5’s problem.”
“This was about a turf war?”
“It’s about the security of this nation. Which I take seriously. But others do not. MI5 was not even aware Lyon was in the country. And that was after the incident of the dead policemen and the C-83, which even Stephanie Nelle uncovered. MI5 does not do its job. A point I’ve tried to make clear to the Home Secretary. Yet she fails to listen.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. He’d heard of Mathews’ determination, how his enemies feared him.
But this was arrogance and stupidity.
“Every operation,” Mathews said, “should have at least two objectives, each running parallel to the other. If the primary goal fails, then the secondary becomes paramount. Here, the primary was achieved. You stopped the missile and exposed the conspiracy. I will now finish what Yourstone started, and Richard will abdicate in favor of Albert. All will be right.”
“And if I had not lived up to your expectations?”
“Then the secondary objective, of exposing how poor our domestic security measures truly are, would have been realized by a missile striking the Tower of London. I’m sure there was little threat to Albert. You had him away form the impact point, never in any real danger.”
“But a lot of other people could have died to prove your point.”
“Every cause has its martyrs.”
“Like Yourstone’s son, who’s lying dead in the kitchen?”
“I’m afraid the young Yourstone knew a bit too much. He was one of those loose ends that have a terrible habit of reasserting themselves.”
“The three men in Iceland fall into that category, too?”
Mathews nodded. “A pity there. They were actually quite good at what they did.”
He was tired of the banter, ready to end this.
“I was troubled to learn that your marriage is ending,” Mathews said. “That’s too bad. There’s a son there, correct?”
Gary was nine years old and dealing with his parents’ separation as best he could. They lived on one side of Atlanta and he on the other.
“Leave my son out of this.”
“A measure of a man is the character of his child. I’m told your son is a fine young man.”
Mathews was sending a message. I can hurt you. Where it counts.
“I’m leaving,” the spymaster said. “We’re going to assume that this conversation never happened.”
“I’m one of those loose ends.”
“That you are. And if you had died in Iceland, as planned, there would have been no problem. Killing you and Dr. Goulding now, though, presents issues that I’m not prepared to deal with. Surely Stephanie Nelle is aware you’re here. I haven’t heard from her officially, as yet, since you were supposedly dead. In any event, I don’t want a war with the Americans. Killing you will mean one of my own will be targeted. So we’ll call it a day.”
Mathews turned and started to walk away.
Malone fired into the floor just ahead of the Brit. “The next bullet will be to your head.”
“No, it won’t. You have the same dilemma as I. Neither one of us can kill the other.” Mathews had stopped but was still facing away. “No matter how much we each would like to.”
The bastard was right.
Stalemate.
Mathews started walking again. Ten feet remained until the hallway right-angled. His adversary kept moving, the cane leading the way.
Finally, Mathews stopped, turned, and faced the gun.
“Only you and I know the truth. And that is the way it will stay.”
He lowered the gun. “One day, Sir Thomas, you’re going to push someone too far.”
The older man smiled.
“I doubt that.”