“The CIA called back a little while ago.”
He listened as she described something called Operation King’s Deception, presently ongoing in London, headed by Blake Antrim. She then told him about Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the 1988 Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, and that the Scottish government had decided to send him back to Libya to die of terminal cancer.
“That decision was made public a few hours ago,” Stephanie said. “Seems this transfer has been in the works for nearly a year. King’s Deception was authorized to stop it.”
“Which apparently failed.”
“And they just pulled the plug on the operation. But they asked if you could take one last stab.”
“At what?”
“That flash drive you have contains information that died with the man in the Underground station. He was a CIA analyst assigned to King’s Deception. Langley knows you have the drive. Antrim reported that. They want you to see if it leads anywhere.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. “I don’t even know what they were looking for. How in the hell would I know if I found anything?”
“I asked the same question. Their answer was that the drive should tell you. If it doesn’t, then there’s nothing there.”
“Is there a problem with Antrim? He has Gary and Ian Dunne.”
“Not that I’ve been told. It’s just that he wasn’t successful with his operation and they’d like you to give it one last try. That prisoner transfer is going to be a PR disaster for us.”
Which he knew, and the thought of it even happening made him angry. The son of a bitch should die in jail.
A tour group drifted in and moved toward his corner of the room. He used them as cover and kept watch on the doorway that led into the Cumberland Suite.
Kathleen Richards appeared.
She hesitated a moment, glanced around, seemed satisfied that all was clear, then darted right.
“I’m a genius,” he quietly said into the phone.
“Which means?”
“That I was right about our SOCA agent.”
“What are you going to do? The CIA wants to know.”
He hadn’t seen Stephanie in five months, not since France, back in June, when he’d helped her out. So much so that she told him, before leaving, that she owed him a favor. But he also recalled her warning.
Use it wisely.
“If I look into this, does this mean you owe me two favors?”
She chuckled. “This one’s not mine. I’m just the messenger. But if you can do anything to stop that murderer from being released, you’d be doing us all a favor.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“One last thing, Cotton. Antrim knows nothing of this request, and they want to keep it that way.”
He ended the call and shut down the phone.
GARY SHOWED IAN AND MISS MARY THE ARTIFACTS IN THE warehouse. The older woman seemed fascinated with the books, some of which she noted were valuable 17th-century originals. He watched as she examined the special one beneath the glass lid with the green-and-gold pages.
“Your Mr. Antrim is a thief,” she said. “This volume belongs to Hatfield House. I am familiar with it.”
“Blake is CIA,” he made clear again. “He’s here on official business.”
“Blake?”
“He told me to call him that.”
He did not like the appraising look she gave him.
“I wonder what gives Blake the right to pilfer our national treasures? I have visited the library at Hatfield House. The attendants there would have gladly allowed him to photograph or copy whatever he may have needed. But to steal it? That is unforgivable.”
Since his dad retired from the Justice Department, they’d spoken some about fieldwork. Its pressures. Demands. The unpredictability. A month ago he’d even experienced some of that firsthand, so he was not about to judge Blake Antrim. And what did this woman know, anyway? She owned a bookstore and could not possibly understand what intelligence agents did.
She lifted the glass lid. “Did Mr. Antrim explain what this is?”
“It’s a codebook,” he told her. “From a guy named Robert Cecil.”
“Did he explain its significance?”
“Not really.”
“Would you like to know?”
KATHLEEN HAD NOT SPOTTED COTTON MALONE, SO SHE USED the moment and embraced the crowd. Hopefully, the information on the sheets she’d obtained would satisfy Mathews. She felt bad about deceiving Malone, but she intended to do her job. Without questions.
She headed away from where they’d entered, deeper into the baroque portions of the palace, and came to what was identified as the Communications Gallery. One wall was lined with windows that overlooked a fountain court, the other was wood-paneled and dotted with doors and oil portraits. Decorative iron posts supported a red velvet rope that prevented visitors from approaching too close to the paintings. Surely there was an exit from the palace if she just kept moving forward.
A quick glance back and she saw a face she recognized.
Eva Pazan.
Back from the dead.
Ten meters away.
A man at her side.
A chill swept through her. Even though she was sure Pazan had not been killed at Jesus College, seeing the woman alive unnerved her.
Was she really part of Daedalus?
Or something else?
Pazan hung back, fifty people in between them admiring the gallery. No effort was made to approach.
Apparently, they were flushing her ahead.
With no choice she kept moving.