MI6 knew all of his business, too.
What choice did he have?
He read the directions. Not far away. He could be there within the half hour. The knapsack he’d taken from the warehouse sat at his feet. Inside was Cecil’s original journal and the remaining PEs. He should have retrieved one of the guns from the bodies in the warehouse, but his main concern had been to get the hell out of there.
He glanced across the room at Gary, who was staring out of one of the café’s street-front windows.
Mathews had not mentioned a thing about him.
Maybe Gary could be used.
To his advantage.
GARY WAS CONFUSED.
This man who was his birth father was so different from his father. Moody. Emotional. Sharp-tongued. But he was a big boy and could handle it, though all of this was a new experience.
He’d also just watched as this man incinerated three people, then showed no remorse. The woman had obviously known Antrim since she’d twice called him by his first name and, just before Antrim ignited the explosives, he’d taunted her. Rot in hell, Denise.
His dad had only once spoken about killing. That happened a month ago, when he, his father, and his mother were all in Copenhagen. Not something you like to do, but something you sometimes have to do. He could appreciate that.
Blake Antrim seemed to take another approach. But that did not make him wrong. Or bad. Just different.
Antrim now seemed agitated. Upset. Concerned.
Not the same confidence from yesterday, when he first revealed that he was the man who’d been with Gary’s mother.
Things had changed.
He watched as Antrim hoisted the knapsack from the floor and walked over.
“We have to go.”
“Where to?”
“To the place the journal mentions. I know where that is now.”
“What about my dad?”
“I have no way of contacting him. Let’s check this out, then we’ll figure out how to find him.”
That sounded logical.
“But I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
Fifty-six
MALONE WAS READY TO DO SOMETHING. ANYTHING. YET HE was stymied as to the proper course. He had no way of contacting Blake Antrim and no way of finding Gary. He was furious at himself for making a multitude of poor decisions, his son’s welfare now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. Miss Mary and Tanya had shown him the translation of Robert Cecil’s journal, which he and Kathleen Richards had now read in its entirety.
“Blackfriars Abbey is gone,” Tanya told him. “It has been for a long time.”
Another piece of bad news, which he added to the growing heap.
“There’s an Underground station there now,” Tanya said. “It’s presently closed, being totally rebuilt.”
He listened as the sisters told him about the station, which had existed on the site since the 19th century. Both rail and Underground lines converged there. Last year, the station was demolished and a sleek new glass-fronted building was erected, which was slowly taking shape. No rail trains stopped there now, and hadn’t for over a year. But the Underground still passed beneath.
“The place is a mess,” Miss Mary said to him. “Construction everywhere. The pavements are closed all around it. That station sits on the riverbank beside a busy street.”
“What you’re saying is that this four-hundred-year-old puzzle is at a dead end.”
“Then why is SIS so interested?” Richards asked. “If there’s nothing to find, why does Thomas Mathews care?”
He knew the answer. “Because there is something to find.”
He quickly ran through his options and determined that the choices were down to a precious few. Doing nothing? Never. Calling Stephanie Nelle back? Possible, but the time lag before anything happened could be a problem. Trying to find Antrim on his own? Impossible. London was a big place.
There seemed only one path.
He faced Richards. “Can you contact Mathews?”
She nodded. “I have a number.”
He pointed to the room phone. “Dial it.”
KATHLEEN FORGAVE MALONE FOR HIS ATTITUDE. WHO COULD blame him? He was in a quandary, the only way out possibly coming from a man who’d just tried to kill them both. This spy business was so different from her everyday experience. Things seemed to change by the minute, with no warning and little time to react. That part she actually liked. Still, it was frustrating not knowing who was on what side, and where she fit in.
But at least she was still standing.
In the game.
And that meant something.
She dialed the number from the note Mathews had provided earlier.
Two rings.
Then it was answered.
“I assumed you would be making contact sooner rather than later,” Mathews said in her ear.
She handed over the phone.
MALONE GRIPPED THE HEADSET AND SAID, “LISTEN TO ME. MY son is God knows where. He didn’t ask to be put into this—”
“No. He was maneuvered into this.”
“Which you allowed to happen. I didn’t know. You did. You used me, and you used Richards.”
“I just communicated with Blake Antrim.”
That’s what he wanted to hear.
“Does he have Gary?”
“He does. They’re on the run. Antrim killed three of my agents.”
“How?”
“He blew them up, thinking they were his enemy.”
“And Gary?”
“He was there. But he’s fine.”
Not good. Time to play his trump card. “I have the flash drive, which contains a complete translation of Robert Cecil’s journal. I read it. Which means I’m not forgetting it.”
“I have that translation now myself.”
“I also know what this is all about.”
He paused.
“Ireland.”
Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed his suspicion.
“What do you want?” Mathews finally asked.
“My son, and to be gone from here.”