He seemed to grab control of himself and fought back the vision. “At his death, my father told me of a secret place. One only for Tudors. I have cherished this place and made fine use of it. My son must know of it. Will you tell him, my queen?”
She was amazed that this man, so ruthless in life, so distrusting of anyone and anything, would, at the hour of his death, bring her into his confidence. She wondered if it be another subterfuge to entrap her. He’d tried that once before, months back, when she’d pressed him too far on religion. Bishop Gardiner of Winchester had quickly seized on her error, obtaining royal permission to both investigate and arrest her. Thankfully, she’d learned of the plot and managed to turn the king’s favor back her way. Eventually, it had been Gardiner who’d been banished from court.
“I would, of course, do whatever you request of me,” she said. “But why not tell your dear son and heir yourself?”
“He cannot see me like this. I have not allowed any of my children to see me like this. Only you, sweetheart. I must know that you will carry out this duty.”
She nodded again. “That is not in question.”
“Then, listen to me.”
COTTON MALONE KNEW A LIE WOULD BE BETTER, BUT DECIDED, as part of his new cooperative relationship with his ex-wife, to tell the truth. Pam watched him with an intensity he’d seen on her face before. Only this time her eyes were softened by a difficult reality.
He knew something she didn’t.
“What does the death of Henry VIII have to do with what happened to you two years ago?” she asked him.
He’d started to tell her the story, but stopped. He hadn’t thought about those hours in London in a long while. They’d been eye opening, in more ways than one. A father-and-son experience only an ex-agent for the United States Justice Department could survive.
“The other day, Gary and I were watching the news,” Pam said. “A Libyan terrorist, the one who bombed that plane in Scotland back in the 1980s, died of cancer. Gary said he knew all about him.”
He’d seen the same story. Abdelbaset al-Megrahi had finally succumbed. A former intelligence officer, al-Megrahi was accused in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. But it wasn’t until January 2001 that three Scottish judges, sitting in a special court held in the Netherlands, handed down their guilty verdict and a life sentence.
He wanted to know, “What else did Gary say?”
Depending on what his now seventeen-year-old son had revealed, he might be able to limit his own comments.
Or at least he hoped so.
“Only that in London you two were involved with that terrorist.”
Not exactly true, but he was proud of his son’s hedging. Any good intelligence officer knew that ears-open-and-mouth-shut always works best.
“All I know,” she said, “is that two years ago Gary left here with you for a Thanksgiving break in Copenhagen. Instead, now I learn he was in London. Neither one of you ever said a word about that.”
“You knew I had to make a stop there on the way home.”
“A stop? Sure. But it was more than that and you know it.”
They’d been divorced going on four years. Before that they’d been married eighteen years. His entire naval career had been spent with Pam. He became a lawyer and started with the Justice Department while with her, but he ended his twelve-year career as a Magellan Billet agent as her ex-husband.
And it had not been a good separation.
But they’d finally worked things out.
Two years ago.
Just before all that happened in London.
Maybe she should be told everything.
No more secrets, right?
“You sure you want to hear this?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table inside the Atlanta house where Pam and Gary had moved before the divorce. Just after the marriage ended he’d left Georgia and moved to Denmark thinking he’d left the past behind.
How wrong could someone be?
Did he want to hear what happened again?
Not really.
But it might be good for them both.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
One
LONDON
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21
6:25 PM
COTTON MALONE STEPPED UP TO THE CUSTOMS WINDOW AT Heathrow Airport and presented two passports—his own and his son Gary’s. Positioned between himself and the glass-enclosed counter, however, stood a problem.
Fifteen-year-old Ian Dunne.
“This one doesn’t have a passport,” he told the attendant, then explained who he was and what he was doing. A brief call to somebody led to verbal approval for Ian to reenter the country.
Which didn’t surprise Malone.
He assumed that since the Central Intelligence Agency wanted the boy in England they’d make the necessary arrangements.
He was tired from the long flight, though he’d caught a few hours of sleep. His knee still hurt from the kick Ian had delivered in Atlanta, before trying to flee from that airport. Luckily, his own fifteen-year-old, Gary, had been quick to tackle the pesky Scot before he’d escaped the concourse.
Favors for friends.
Always a problem.
This one for his former boss, Stephanie Nelle, at the Magellan Billet.
It’s the CIA, she’d told him. Langley had called directly. Somehow they were aware Malone was in Georgia and wanted him to escort the boy back to London, handing him over to the Metropolitan Police. After that he and Gary could head on to Copenhagen. In return, they’d received first-class tickets all the way home to Denmark.
Not bad. His own were coach.
Four days ago he’d flown to Georgia for two reasons. The State Bar of Georgia required twelve hours of continuing legal education from all of its licensed lawyers. Though he’d retired from the navy and the Magellan Billet, he still kept his law license active, which meant he had to satisfy the annual education mandate. Last year he’d attended a sanctioned event in Brussels, a three-day meeting on multinational property rights. This year he’d chosen a seminar in Atlanta on international law. Not the most exciting way to spend two days, but he’d worked too hard for that degree to simply allow his ticket to lapse.