So he said the only thing he could, “I don’t know.”
The diplomat turned his head back toward the river. The last of the day’s scenic cruises motored by, headed west, from Greenwich.
“At least you’re being honest,” the man said, his voice low. “That’s more than others can say.”
“I want to know something,” Antrim said. “Why are the British unwilling to intervene? It seems out of character. What do they have to gain by letting that murderer go?”
The diplomat stood.
“It’s complicated and not your concern. Just do your job. Or at least what’s left of it.”
And the man walked off.
Eighteen
OXFORD
KATHLEEN DOVE BEHIND A DAMP STONE BENCH, JUST AS THE shooter aimed her way. Her body was coiled, poised for action. Each exhale of her breath clouded in the brisk night air.
She spotted the gunman, who was using the crenellated roofline high above for cover, the dark slate roof behind him absorbing his shadow. The rifle appeared sound-suppressed—she’d spotted a bulge at the end of its long barrel. She was unarmed. SOCA agents rarely carried guns. If firepower was needed, policy mandated that the local police be involved. The quadrangle was devoid of cover, save for the few concrete benches scattered along the crisscrossing walkways. Six ornamental lights burned with an amber glow. She stole a look at Eva Pazan, who lay facedown, motionless on the steps leading up to the archway.
“Professor Pazan,” she called out.
Nothing.
“Professor.”
She saw the shooter disappear from his perch.
She used the moment and darted left into a covered porch, the mahogany door that led into the building decorated with a shiny brass knob and knocker.
She tried the latch. Locked.
She banged on the knocker and hoped somebody was inside.
No reply.
She was now flush against the building, below the shooter, out of his firing angle, protected by a stone awning above her. But with the door locked and no one responding to her pleas, she remained trapped. Another doorway opened ten meters away, this one more elaborate and pedimented with palms and cherubs in the tympanum. Lights from inside illuminated tracery windows in a dim glow. Greenery formed a narrow bed between a concrete walk and the exterior fa?ade. A bower of wisteria hugged the stone wall and rose toward the roof. If she hurried and stayed close she could make it. The shooter above would have to lean straight down in order to acquire a shot. With a rifle that would take time.
Maybe just enough.
She kept her back to the locked door and stared out into the quadrangle. Training came to mind, where she’d been taught to flatten against a wall to offer the slimmest target.
Her mind raced.
Who was trying to kill her and the professor?
Who knew she’d be here?
She sucked in a breath and steeled herself. She’d certainly been in tight situations before, but always with backup nearby. Nothing like this.
But she could handle it.
A quick peek beyond the covered doorway and she saw nothing.
One.
Two.
With a burst of adrenaline, she rushed out and ran the ten meters toward the other entrance, quickly finding cover beneath its stone pediment.
No shots came her way.
Was the shooter gone?
Or was he coming down to ground level?
An arched oak door stood closed, but its latch opened. Inside was the college chapel, the nave long and narrow, lined on either side with carved benches beneath tracery windows.
Like St. George’s Chapel, only smaller.
Elaborate patterns of marble made up the floor and a muted stained-glass window loomed over the altar at the far end. Three fixtures threw off an orangey glow. Though she was inside, away from the shooter, a quick look around confirmed that the door she’d just entered was the only way in or out. Above her rose an organ nestled against the building’s rear wall, its pipes reaching toward a vaulted ceiling. A narrow set of stairs led up to where the instrument was played.
From behind the organ, three meters above her, a man appeared.
His face was hooded, and he wore a dark jacket.
He aimed a weapon and fired.
IAN RODE IN THE CAB WITH COTTON MALONE, HOLDING THE plastic bag with its varied contents. Malone had returned it to him.
He unzipped the top and lifted out the books.
Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.
Malone pointed to the title pages. “My books are owner-stamped like that, too.”
“Where’d you get that name? Cotton?”
“It’s shorter than my full name, Harold Earl Malone.”
“But why Cotton?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You don’t like answering questions, either, do you?”
“I prefer when you do that.” Malone pointed. “Good taste in books. Ivanhoe is one of my favorites, and King Arthur is hard to beat.”
“I like Camelot, the Knights of the Round Table, the Holy Grail. Miss Mary gave me a couple of other stories on Merlin and Guinevere.”
“I like books, too.”
“Never said I liked books.”
“You don’t have to. The way you hold them gives it away.”
He hadn’t realized there was a way to hold a book.
“You cradle it in your palm. Even though those books have seen a lot of use, they’re still precious to you.”
“They’re just books.” But his denial sounded hollow.
“I’ve always considered them ideas, forever recorded.” Malone motioned to one of the paperbacks. “Malory wrote King Arthur in the late part of the 15th century. So you’re reading his thoughts from five hundred years ago. We’ll never know Malory, but we know his imagination.”
“You don’t think Arthur existed?”
“What do you think? Was he real or just a character Malory created?”
“He was real.” The force of his declaration bothered him. He was showing too much of himself to this stranger.
Malone flashed a smile. “Spoken like a true Englishman. I would have expected no less from you.”
“I’m Scottish, not British.”