The archbishop smiled. “This nation has endured much. These jewels are just one testament to its greatness.”
He wasn’t in the mood for abstractness. “The true test of a monarch is the ability to garner subjects’ respect—without the need for props. It should not be necessary to don a robe, or wear a crown, for the people to offer loyalty. They should do that because a monarch proves worthy of their affection. The sole interest and desire of any king or queen is making sure the nation is well.”
He watched as Albert considered what had been said. This Saxe-Coburg was clearly a product of the modern age. He’d bypassed the customary tour in the military that most royal offspring endured, choosing graduate studies in politics and literature. The time of a king leading troops into battle had long passed. The 21st century demanded far more skills than filling out a uniform, and Albert was intuitive enough to realize that fact. He was the choicest of the litter, as The Times once described him. If not born to royalty he would have been a natural politician, another observer had written.
And he agreed.
Which made this young man most dangerous.
He casually glanced at his watch. “I believe you are needed on the Tower Green.”
Albert nodded, donning the grin photographers had come to love. “Quite right. Shall we exit.”
They said their goodbyes to the archbishop, then left the Jewel House.
Yourstone was not staying for the ceremony, either. He’d come only to make sure that all was in place. So he watched as the royal contingent headed away, then he followed the pavement around the magnificent White Tower toward one of the gates leading out. A small reviewing stand had been constructed on the Tower Green, near the spot where privileged executions once took place. Two of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads there, as had Lady Jane Grey, the seventeen-year-old who ruled for nine days as queen until Mary, Henry VIII’s daughter, had her head removed, too.
English history had turned on this spot.
As it would today.
Eleanor accompanied Albert. But she would depart in a few minutes, too.
Before 7:00 P.M.
His gaze focused on the White Tower. Its 100-foot walls of Kentish and Caen stone formed an uneven quadrilateral, defended on the corners by three square towers and a round one. Once the stone had been whitewashed, giving the building its name, but now it glistened a golden brown with an elegance that perpetual care assured. High above, the Union Jack fluttered in a light breeze. This ancient citadel was the symbol of the nation.
A place of pride and honor.
He walked through the exit gate and headed toward his waiting car.
Acolytes continued to prepare the reviewing stand. A small contingent of press was ready and waiting, including television cameras.
The royals had begun to take their seats.
His gaze shifted from the White Tower toward the northeast.
Another glance at his watch.
6:45 P.M.
The evening sky was calm and clear.
But not for long.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Malone arrived at the Tower of London.
The Royal Navy Westland Lynx chopper had landed in a parking lot a few blocks away and he’d run the distance, arriving just as Lord Yourstone was climbing into a car and speeding away. He’d called William during the flight from Salisbury and the royal secretary was waiting past the ticket stalls, on the concrete path that led into the Tower.
“I’ve alerted security,” William said. “They are standing by for you.”
He was winded. “And Eleanor?”
“Still inside. I delayed her departure.”
He grabbed his breath. “Then let’s go meet the princess.”
They hustled toward the entrance gate, where two security men kept watch. Past that barrier and into the Tower Green he spotted a reviewing stand and the podium where Albert would speak. People milled about, some taking their seats, others talking in small groups. No one seemed concerned about a thing. He’d told William to keep a low profile. The press was set up behind a rope barrier with a clear view of everything. Several cameras on tripods were being readied. Mathews had told him where to find the homing device, so he hustled straight for the podium and a silver box with a bow that rested beneath.
“You haven’t explained a thing,” William said.
Malone laid the box on a nearby chair.
“That is the royal gift,” William said. “It is customary to present one at affairs such as this. Albert would have done such during his dedication speech.”
He removed the lid and exposed a porcelain crown, Victoria’s official regalia painted on one side. He carried it away from the crowd, past where the press had gathered, near one of the building entrances, where he and William stood unseen.
No time for niceties.
He dropped it to the pavement.
The crown shattered, exposing a small black rectangle among the shards. He bent down and retrieved the object.
“What is it?” William asked.
“A homer. Once fired, a missile would have locked on to this and flown straight for it. You never miss with one of these at the other end.”
“How did you know where it was?”
He honored his deal with Mathews and said, “I received some good intelligence.”
“Does this mean everything is okay?”
He nodded. “Here, at least. But you still have a problem. Who brought the gift here?”
“I would imagine someone on Albert or Eleanor’s staff, since it is being offered directly from the queen. I will have to check.”
“Do that. Where is the princess?”
He glanced at his watch: 6:50 P.M.
“She and Albert are inside the chapel.”
“Take me to her.”
They entered the Chapel of St. John the Evangelist. Limestone walls and a tunnel-vaulted nave cast a Norman feel. Eleanor and Albert stood near the altar, among a few rows of empty wooden chairs. No one else was inside. William introduced Malone.
“What is an American agent doing here?” Eleanor asked.
The princess was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. But he reminded himself that she was also devious and dangerous.