She nodded her assent and Malone left the Cumberland Suite, heading back out to the busy gallery beyond. When he was gone Kathleen asked Tanya, “Are you saying that there is a real possibility that Elizabeth I was an imposter?”
“I have no idea. But I do know that the Bisley Boy legend is one of long standing. I think others, like the author of the passage you just read, suspected and wondered, but were too timid to say it. Bram Stoker, to his credit, did say it. Of course, he was ridiculed for his assertion. The press was not kind. Tommyrot, I believe, is how The New York Times described the theory in its review of his book.”
“But is this real?”
“From these notes Mr. Malone has just given me it seems others now believe it to be.”
She’d learned all she could.
Time to act.
She relieved Tanya of the pages. “I need these. I want you to wait here until Malone comes back.”
“And where are you going?”
She’d already noticed that there was but one way in and out of these rooms—the same way Malone had gone. But there were fair numbers of people milling about. Enough for cover.
“This is official SOCA business.”
“Mary said you were the impetuous type, as well.”
“I can also be the arresting type. So stay here and be quiet.”
Thirty-nine
ANTRIM MADE THE CALL FROM THE BOOTH IN THE PUB. HE’D eaten his burger and chips and decided on the direct approach. His watch read 10:40 AM, which made it 5:40 AM in Virginia. Of course the CIA operations center never slept and his call was routed to the director of counter-operations, his immediate supervisor and the only person besides the director of Central Intelligence who could give him an order.
“It’s done, Blake,” his boss said. “We tried to stop the Scots from going public, but they were hell-bent. The deal is made. They’re just fine-tuning details while they warm up public opinion.”
“That killer should die in jail.”
“We all agree. Unfortunately, he’s not our prisoner.”
“I’ll shut down things here.”
“Do that. And fast.”
“What about our fatality?”
“I don’t see any way to investigate that without alerting the wrong people. It could have been the Brits. Probably was. But it could have been somebody else. Doesn’t matter anymore. The death will have to stand as unaccountable.”
That meant the family would be told only that the agent died in the line of duty, serving his country—not where, or when, or how, just that it happened—and a star would be added to the wall at Langley. Last he could recall there were over a hundred stars. Doubtful any name would be noted in the Book of Honor that sat just beneath. Only those agents who’d been compromised in death were recorded there. Not that he really cared. In fact, letting all of this fade away suited his needs perfectly.
“I’ll have it ended by tonight,” he said.
“This was crazy from the start,” his boss said. “But hey, sometimes long shots play out.”
“I did my best.”
“No one is blaming you. Though I’m sure there will be some here who’ll try. It was imaginative and, if it’d worked, a stroke of genius.”
“It may be time for me to go,” he said, laying the groundwork for what he had in mind.
“Don’t be so hasty. Think about that. Don’t beat yourself up so bad.”
Not the reaction he’d expected.
“I hated losing this one,” he said.
“We all do. We’re going to look like idiots when that transfer happens. But it’s one we’re going to have to live with.”
He ended the call.
Operation King’s Deception was over. He’d first dismiss the two other agents, then shut down the warehouse himself, handing over everything to Daedalus. Then he’d receive the remainder of his money. By then, with any luck, Cotton Malone would have tragically died. Not a thing would point his way, so Gary would naturally gravitate to him.
They’d bond.
Become close.
Father and son.
Finally.
He thought of Pam Malone.
Screw you.
MALONE WAITED FOR HIS PHONE TO BOOT UP. HE’D INTENTIONALLY left it off to avoid being tracked and realized that for the next few minutes he’d be vulnerable. But he had to talk to Stephanie Nelle. When he’d left the breakfast table earlier at the Churchill he’d not only visited the hotel’s business center but also called Atlanta, waking her from sleep. Though he was no longer one of her twelve Magellan Billet agents he was doing the U.S. government a favor, and she’d told him last night, during their call about Antrim, that she was there if needed.
The phone activated and he saw that Stephanie had already called back, twenty minutes ago. So he answered her message with a return call.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Waiting to see if I’m a fool or a genius.”
“I hate to ask what that means.”
“What did you find out on Kathleen Richards?”
“She is SOCA. Ten years. Good investigator, but a loose cannon. Does things her way. Lots of damage and destruction in her wake. Actually, the two of you seem perfect for each other.”
“I’m more concerned with what she’s doing here with me.”
“Actually, that is a good question considering she’s currently on suspension for an incident a month ago. I was told she was in the process of being fired.”
“Learn anything relative to MI6’s involvement?”
He’d retreated to a corner in the gallery among the people and the noise. He turned and faced the wall, speaking low, keeping a watch out behind him.
“Not a thing. But I had to be careful with those questions.”
More people spilled in, heading from the Tudor to the Georgian portion of the palace.
“And you never said. Are you a fool or a genius?” she asked.
“That hasn’t been determined yet.”
“There’s a complication here.”
He hated that word. Complication. Stephanie’s code for a total, outright, get-your-ass-kicked mess.