“And you were willing to kill Albert Saxe-Coburg?”
Mathews chuckled. “For someone who thinks himself so smart you are quite stupid. I had no intention of Albert dying. On the contrary, he should clearly be king. And you offered the perfect way to make that happen now. As did Cotton Malone. He stopped the missile and exposed Eleanor, which in turn exposes you. All of the conspiratorial rats taken down in one sweep. Richard will be his own downfall. He will never be king.”
“Nothing exists to stop that now.”
“Don’t be so sure. There are matters of which you have no knowledge. Be assured, he will not be crowned.”
Silence passed between them, and he was comforted by the sight of the gun, in the drawer, only inches away. Mathews moved away from the desk and momentarily turned his back on him.
He eased the drawer fully open.
Mathews turned and said, “Your son. I heard him earlier. Apparently there is no relationship there?”
“He is an inept fool.”
Mathews shrugged, as if agreeing. “My thoughts, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malone left the kitchen.
As best he could determine he was in the south wing of the irregular-shaped mansion. Yourstone’s study was west, at the other end, so he began to navigate the wide corridors. The rooms he passed were filled with fine furniture, paintings, tapestries, and ceramics. He passed through a dining room, lit only from lights in the hall, and stopped at the beginning of another long corridor.
Voices could be heard.
He crept down a carpet runner, gun drawn, and turned a corner. A small foyer opened before him and contained a settee and two tables. A magnificent crystal lamp burned brightly. A set of double doors were cocked open.
He heard the voices again.
One was Yourstone’s.
The other Thomas Mathews’.
Yourstone sat still in the chair.
“What of your son and Eleanor?” Mathews asked. “I take it they will make their own arrangements with the queen?”
“Royals always look after royals.”
“That they do. A shame you’re not a royal. Nor married to one.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Then go ahead,” Mathews said.
He started to rise from the chair and leave.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He settled back down.
“Go for the gun.”
He said nothing.
“It’s lying there. In the drawer. Reach for it. I want you to have a sporting chance.”
A cold clammy feeling surged through his body. His face must have betrayed the question that formed in his mind. How did he know?
“I’ve been a spy a long time.”
Mathews’ pistol hung at his side, barrel pointed to the floor. Yourstone’s right arm shook. He needed to grip the gun and roll to the floor, using the desk for protection. It was his only chance. His gaze again darted to the drawer, but his hand remained glued to the armrest.
Sweat beaded on his brow.
Mathews stood five meters away.
He realized what he’d become.
Not longer an ally. Now a problem.
Yourstone lunged for the weapon and slid from the chair. But his hand never made it to the drawer, nor his body to the floor.
A bullet slammed into his chest.
The sensation was at once surprising, then horribly painful. Blood poured from the wound. He tried to ease the hemorrhage with a hand but blood oozed through his clenched fingers.
He stared at Thomas Mathews.
“So sorry. But this matter must end here.”
Mathews stepped to the desk and retrieved the passbooks. “Your money will be put to good use, though. Rest easy on that matter.”
And the last thing Yourstone saw was Mathews raise his weapon and fire once more.
Malone heard the distinctive pop of a sound-suppressed gun discharging twice. Thomas Mathews had surely just saved the British government the trouble of prosecuting Nigel Yourstone.
The double doors swung open.
Mathews stepped into the hall, holding a Glock 9mm with sound suppressor in one hand, two booklets in the other.
Malone stepped from the shadows and raised his weapon.
The spymaster halted, then slowly turned around. “I didn’t think you were dead.”
He and Professor Goulding had been flown directly to Reykjavik, the NATO pilot ordered to say they’d been lost in the wilderness. Goulding had been ensconced in a hotel and told to contact no one. Malone had been flown by U.S. military transport to a base in England, then made his way into London by car.
He kept his gun trained on Mathews’ head, assuming under the tweed suit there might be a Kevlar vest. “It was you, making everything happen. You were Yourstone’s information source.”
Mathews stood rigid. “You are an interesting man, Cotton. A bit lucky, too. Never underestimate the value of luck.”
“We were supposed to die out there in Iceland?”
“That was the idea. I had the camp burned and the tunnel sealed. It seemed a good way to end the problem. You and Goulding both succumbing to natural causes. Few questions would have been asked.”
“Let the gun fall from your hand. Don’t raise your arm.”
Mathews’ fingers released their grip, and the Glock thudded on the carpet.
He said, “I should kill you.”
“But you are a naval officer. That means you are a man of honor. Taught to respect life. Play fair. Would your father have shot an unarmed man?”
“What do you know about my father?”
“Quite a lot, actually. He was a naval officer, too. Lost at sea. Doing his duty. Another man of honor. Would you disgrace him by shooting a defenseless man?”
“I wouldn’t characterize you as defenseless.”
“Lord Yourstone was a traitor. Now he is dead. Prince Albert is safe. This matter is at an end.”
“The palace must have suspected you, or someone else in intelligence, because they refused to involve you or MI5.”
“I assumed the same thing. Which explains why they turned to you.”
“And you set me up at the Tower.”
“Really? I thought you performed brilliantly. Saving the day, and all that.”
“What if I hadn’t found that second homer?”