He felt a little better, but not much.
He wondered why this meeting was necessary.
He listened to one of the tour guides explaining how the Crown Jewels were, during World War II, moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks for secure keeping. There, a magnificent star-shaped case had been constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last set of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view them had proven too much for the cramped chamber and this larger location, back at ground level, was built.
Bright sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semidarkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers moving. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. The effect was magical. Another impressive British display.
Gary was outside, wandering the tower grounds. He’d told him not to leave the walled enclosure and that he would not be long inside.
“This is quite a spectacle,” a female voice said from behind.
He turned.
And was shocked by who he saw.
Denise Gérard.
GARY ROAMED THE GROUNDS OUTSIDE THE JEWEL HOUSE. HE stopped at a sign that identified the magnificent White Tower, which dominated the enclosure. He’d already examined the Tower Green, near the spot where, one of the uniformed Beefeaters had explained, executions once took place. Two of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads there, as had Lady Jane Grey, a seventeen-year-old who ruled for nine days as queen until Mary, Henry VIII’s first daughter, chopped her head off, too.
His gaze focused on the White Tower and he read the sign. Its hundred-foot walls of stone formed an uneven quadrilateral, defended on the corners by three square towers and one round one. Once the exterior had been whitewashed, giving the building its name, but now its stone glistened a golden brown. High above, the Union Jack fluttered in a light breeze. He knew that this ancient citadel was one of the symbols of England, like the Statue of Liberty was to America.
He wondered what they were doing here. They hadn’t spoken much on the taxi ride over. Antrim had simply said that there were a few loose ends he had to deal with, which shouldn’t take long, then they’d return to the warehouse and wait for his dad to call. He’d asked about speaking to his mother and Antrim had assured him that they would do that, too.
She needs to hear from you, Antrim had said. Then I need to speak with her again, too. But we should talk to your dad first.
He agreed.
That should be first.
The day was bright and sunny, the sky a deep blue. Lots of people were visiting the site. Antrim had bought them both tickets to the grounds, which he noticed also included access to the Jewel House, where Antrim had gone.
What was happening inside?
Why were they here?
He decided to find out.
ANTRIM WAS IN SHOCK. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
Denise looked gorgeous, wearing a pale blue bouclé skirt with a stylish jacket.
“I’m what they wanted you to see.”
He was confused and cautious.
“Don’t be so lame,” she said. “I was there, in Brussels, watching you all along.”
Could that be? “You’re with Daedalus?”
A slight nod of her head. “I was sent to monitor your whereabouts. That I did, for nearly a year.”
Shock filled him. He’d been the leak?
For a moment his gaze drifted through the polished glass a few feet away where he saw the four-hundred-year-old St. Edward’s Crown, the same crown the Archbishop of Canterbury reverently placed upon a monarch’s head, as echoes of God save the king or queen bounced from the walls of Westminster Abbey. What was happening here?
He gathered his thoughts.
“The whole thing with the man I saw you with in Brussels. Not real?”
“It was time that we parted ways. So we manufactured a reason that you would not question. We know how you become violent with women. There’s quite a trail behind you, Blake. We needed you to move on, in your own way, where you would be comfortable.”
“What would have happened? Another woman would have taken your place?”
She shrugged. “If need be. We decided to motivate you through other means.”
“By killing my agent in St. Paul’s?”
“The Lords wanted you to know then, and now, what they are capable of accomplishing. It’s important you fully grasp the extent of their resolve.”
She motioned for them to step off the conveyor belt, where they could linger for a few moments. He did, exhaling a short breath.
“These are symbols of what once was,” she said. “Reminders of a time when kings and queens held true positions of power.”
“Everything between us was an act?”
She chuckled. “What else would it have been?”
Her dig hurt.
She motioned at the jewels. “I’ve always believed that the English monarchy did itself a great disservice when it gave up real power in return for survival. They allowed Parliament to rule in exchange for being allowed to stay kings and queens. That downfall started in 1603, with James I.”
He recalled Farrow Curry’s lessons. James, the first from the house of Stuart to sit on the throne, was a weak ineffectual man who cared more about pomp, circumstance, and pleasure than ruling. His first nine years were bearable, thanks to Robert Cecil’s strong hand. But with Cecil’s death in 1612 the remaining thirteen years of his reign were characterized by a calculated indifference, one that weakened the monarchy and ultimately led to his son Charles I’s beheading twenty-three years later.
“Elizabeth I was the last monarch who enjoyed true power on the throne,” she said. “A queen, in every way.”
“Except one.”
Denise pointed a slender finger at him, the nail manicured and polished, like always. “Now that’s the wisdom and wit that you can, at times, express. Such a shame that, otherwise, you are a worthless excuse for a man.”