This passage has been translated exactly as it appeared in Robert Cecil’s journal (with some adjustment for modern word usage). I managed to break the code so that the journal can be read. These words have confirmed all that we suspected. Katherine Parr knew not only the secret her husband, Henry VIII, told her on his deathbed. She also knew what had occurred before that. What Henry himself never knew. Her ultimate response to Seymour’s amorous overtures was to have Elizabeth, in April 1548, removed from their household. Never again did Elizabeth and the Queen Dowager see one another as, five months later, Parr was dead. Thomas Seymour did not even attend his wife’s funeral. Instead, he immediately sought out the princess Elizabeth, renewing his intentions to marry her. But nothing ever came of such.
Malone stopped reading.
Ian stood beside him and had read along with him.
“What does it mean?” Ian asked.
“A good question. Farrow Curry seems to have been conducting some interesting historical research.”
“Is that the man who died in Oxford Circus?”
He nodded. “These are his notes, some kind of report he was working on.”
He scanned farther down the screen.
WE NOW KNOW FROM ROBERT CECIL’S JOURNAL THAT KATHERINE PARR left a letter to Elizabeth, which was delivered at Christmas 1548, four months after Parr died. It appears to have been penned before Parr gave birth to her daughter in September 1548, and is a revealing piece of correspondence that, once placed in proper context, answers many questions. I have translated and adjusted the wording to compensate for modern spelling and usage.
There was no choice but to send you away. Please forgive me child, and that is what I have always considered you, my child, though no common blood flows between us. We are linked instead by the bond of your father. My current husband is a man of no character, who cares nothing for anyone save himself. Surely you have seen this and recognize the evil and danger he represents. He knows nothing of what he seeks and would be unworthy to be privy to your truth. God has given you great qualities. Cultivate them always and labor to improve them, for I believe you are destined by heaven to be Queen of England.
This came directly from Cecil’s journal. There are other similar references, all equally compelling. Each confirming that the legend is in fact true.
The narrative continued with a series of shorthand references, as if Curry would return later and finish. Malone scanned them, noticing several mentions of Hatfield House, Robert Cecil’s country estate north of London, and the Rainbow Portrait of Elizabeth I that hung there. No further mention of the legend, whatever it might be, and its truth appeared. But a notation at the end explained, only way to know for sure is to go and see.
A second file, the largest in kilobytes, contained images from a handwritten journal, the green-and-gold pages filled with a cryptic script. The file was labeled CECIL JOURNAL ORIGINAL. Apparently what Curry had managed to translate. No explanations or other entries were in the file.
The final file he could not open.
Password-protected.
Which, obviously, was the most important.
“How do you get the password?” Ian asked.
“Experts can get around it.”
His phone rang. He closed the drive.
“Mr. Malone,” a new voice said. “We rescued Gary.”
Had he heard right?
“We’re pulling up at your location now.”
His gaze shot out the café’s front windows.
A car was wheeling to the curb.
“Stay here,” he told Ian, and he darted for the front door.
Outside, the car’s rear door opened and Gary bounded out.
Thank God.
“You okay?” he asked his son.
The boy nodded. “I’m fine.”
A man exited the car. Tall, broad-shouldered, thinning hair. Maybe fifty years old. He wore a navy, knee-length overcoat that hung open. He rounded the trunk and approached, offering his hand to shake.
“Blake Antrim.”
“This is the man who found me,” Gary said.
Two more men emerged from the car’s front seat, both dressed in overcoats. He knew the look.
“You CIA?” he asked Antrim.
“We can talk later. Do you have Ian Dunne?”
“He’s here.”
“Get him.”
Malone turned back to the café, but did not see Ian through the window. He hustled back inside to the computer.
The drive was gone.
And so was Ian.
His eyes raked the room and he spotted a door that let back into the kitchen. He rushed through and asked the two women busy preparing food about Ian.
“Gone out the back door.”
He followed and found himself in a dark, empty alley that right-angled fifty feet away.
No one in sight.
Twenty-two
ANTRIM, WITH GARY IN TOW, ENTERED THE CAFé AND SPOTTED Malone pushing through a rear door.
“Ian ran,” Malone said. “He’s gone.”
“We really needed him.”
“I get that.”
“Was he okay?” Gary asked.
But Malone did not answer.
The patrons inside were all focused on what was happening, so Antrim motioned for them to leave. On the sidewalk, near the car, while his men kept watch, he stepped close to Malone and said, “This is an ongoing CIA operation.”
“A lot of attention for a covert op.”
“Caused by having to rescue your son.”
“Is the operation yours?”
He nodded. “For over a year now.”
Malone appraised him with a cool gaze. “I was to drop Ian Dunne off at Heathrow to Metropolitan Police. That’s all. The next thing I know, I’m facedown unconscious and my son is taken.”
“All I can say is that some problems have surfaced. But I still need to find Ian Dunne.”
“Why?”
“That’s classified.”
“Like I give a crap. How’d you find me?”
“Gary told us about your phone, so we tracked it, hoping you still had it with you.”
“And how did you find Gary?”
“Let’s just say a little birdie tipped us off and leave it at that.”