MALONE WAS SHOCKED BY WHAT HE’D HEARD. “WHAT THE hell are you talking about?”
“I actually know the results of that test.”
Was he hearing right?
“I told you that Antrim maneuvered your initial stateside involvement with Ian Dunne. He wanted you and your son in London. Once here, he managed to divert you off in search of Dunne while he kept watch over your son.”
“He found Gary, after he’d been taken.”
“It was all staged.”
“For what?”
“The DNA test showed that Antrim is Gary’s birth father.”
“I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
“I assure you, Cotton, I speak the truth.”
And something told him that was the case.
“I was unaware of your personal situation,” Mathews said, “until recently. Your son is not biologically yours. A fact you did not know until a few months ago.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Antrim has been watching your ex-wife for several months. We monitored calls made to a person in Georgia he employed for surveillance.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It seems your ex-wife despises him. She refused him any contact with the boy. So, apparently, he decided to create his own opportunity for them to meet.”
Reality slammed him hard.
Gary’s birth father was here?
“Does Gary know this?” he asked.
Mathews nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“I have to leave.”
“I can’t allow that,” Mathews said.
KATHLEEN LISTENED TO THE CONVERSATION. APPARENTLY, there was a direct connection between Blake Antrim and Malone’s son.
One that Malone had clearly been unaware existed.
Knowing Antrim, she was not surprised. He’d fathered a child? And the mother hated him? Probably because he’d pounded her at some point, too.
The two men with guns continued to aim their weapons at Malone.
She decided to even the odds and burst from the darkened viewing box, firing, taking down one of the armed men with a bullet to the thigh.
The other man instantly reacted to her attack and readjusted his aim.
Toward her.
MALONE HEARD THE SHOT AND SAW ITS RESULT, HIS GAZE darting left where Kathleen Richards appeared. She’d shot one of the men, the other now swinging his weapon around. He followed her lead, shooting the second man in the thigh, collapsing him. Richards ran forward and gathered both weapons, the two men writhed in pain, blood gushing from the wounds, staining the court surface.
“We’re leaving,” he told Mathews.
“A mistake.”
He stepped close to the spymaster. “I’m going to see about my boy.” What he’d just learned, coupled with the fact that he could not contact Antrim, spelled big trouble. “Stay out of my way.”
“You might not like what you find.”
“I can handle it.”
But he wondered.
“You’ve got four agents who are going to need medical care,” Kathleen said, her gun trained on Mathews.
Mathews shook his head. “You are quite the personality.”
“I did your man over there a favor with only a leg injury. Next time I won’t be as generous.”
“Neither will I,” Malone added.
“Are you willing to risk your life for this?” Mathews asked him.
“The question is, are you?”
He motioned to Richards and they fled the building, back out into the afternoon sun. No more agents were in sight and they ran left, past the famous garden maze, to a street that they followed back to the palace front. Taxis were lined near the main walk. They hailed one, climbed inside, and left.
“I appreciate that,” he said to her.
“Least I could do.”
His mind reeled.
He found his phone and tried Antrim’s number again. No answer.
“You can’t find him?” Richards asked.
He shook his head.
“Where to?” the driver asked from the other side of the Plexiglas shield.
“The Goring Hotel.”
“I heard what Mathews said about your boy.”
He faced Richards.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Blake Antrim.”
Fifty-two
THE QUEEN DIED PEACEFULLY IN HER BEDCHAMBER, HAVING fallen into a long sleep from which she never awoke. Sadness filled me. I never once thought of the imposter as anything other than my sovereign. He strengthened both the monarchy and the nation while dodging the royal duty of marriage and procreation. King Henry would always be remembered for follies. Elizabeth would be recalled by accomplishments.
The queen left precise instructions on what was to be done after death. On the day before he died, the imposter dismissed all and called me close.
“Listen,” he said, the hoarse voice only breath.
He spoke uninterrupted for several minutes, the act taxing what little strength remained. He told me of Queen Katherine Parr, at a time soon after the deception began, when King Henry was dead and he was sent to live in the queen dowager’s household.
“She discovered the ruse,” he said to me. “She knew I was not the princess.”
Which made sense, as the queen dowager, when King Henry was alive, had spent much time with both the princesses Mary and Elizabeth.
“But she did not reveal me. Instead, she saw a certain irony, a justice, that befit her departed husband. She was not Henry’s champion. She had not wanted to marry him, but was forced into that decision. She cared little for him, regarding his surly attitude as that of a tyrant. She discharged her duty as queen with no joy and longed only to be free, which the king’s death finally granted her.”