“I had every confidence you would.”
“And along the way you allowed Peter Lyon to escape.”
“We actually never had him. But luckily, we discovered the details of his plan and the launch point.”
“What if Albert had been killed?”
Mathews shrugged. “Now, that would have been MI5’s problem.”
“This was about a turf war?”
“It’s about the security of this nation. Which I take seriously. But others do not. MI5 was not even aware Lyon was in the country. And that was after the incident of the dead policemen and the C-83, which even Stephanie Nelle uncovered. MI5 does not do its job. A point I’ve tried to make clear to the Home Secretary. Yet she fails to listen.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. He’d heard of Mathews’ determination, how his enemies feared him.
But this was arrogance and stupidity.
“Every operation,” Mathews said, “should have at least two objectives, each running parallel to the other. If the primary goal fails, then the secondary becomes paramount. Here, the primary was achieved. You stopped the missile and exposed the conspiracy. I will now finish what Yourstone started, and Richard will abdicate in favor of Albert. All will be right.”
“And if I had not lived up to your expectations?”
“Then the secondary objective, of exposing how poor our domestic security measures truly are, would have been realized by a missile striking the Tower of London. I’m sure there was little threat to Albert. You had him away form the impact point, never in any real danger.”
“But a lot of other people could have died to prove your point.”
“Every cause has its martyrs.”
“Like Yourstone’s son, who’s lying dead in the kitchen?”
“I’m afraid the young Yourstone knew a bit too much. He was one of those loose ends that have a terrible habit of reasserting themselves.”
“The three men in Iceland fall into that category, too?”
Mathews nodded. “A pity there. They were actually quite good at what they did.”
He was tired of the banter, ready to end this.
“I was troubled to learn that your marriage is ending,” Mathews said. “That’s too bad. There’s a son there, correct?”
Gary was nine years old and dealing with his parents’ separation as best he could. They lived on one side of Atlanta and he on the other.
“Leave my son out of this.”
“A measure of a man is the character of his child. I’m told your son is a fine young man.”
Mathews was sending a message. I can hurt you. Where it counts.
“I’m leaving,” the spymaster said. “We’re going to assume that this conversation never happened.”
“I’m one of those loose ends.”
“That you are. And if you had died in Iceland, as planned, there would have been no problem. Killing you and Dr. Goulding now, though, presents issues that I’m not prepared to deal with. Surely Stephanie Nelle is aware you’re here. I haven’t heard from her officially, as yet, since you were supposedly dead. In any event, I don’t want a war with the Americans. Killing you will mean one of my own will be targeted. So we’ll call it a day.”
Mathews turned and started to walk away.
Malone fired into the floor just ahead of the Brit. “The next bullet will be to your head.”
“No, it won’t. You have the same dilemma as I. Neither one of us can kill the other.” Mathews had stopped but was still facing away. “No matter how much we each would like to.”
The bastard was right.
Stalemate.
Mathews started walking again. Ten feet remained until the hallway right-angled. His adversary kept moving, the cane leading the way.
Finally, Mathews stopped, turned, and faced the gun.
“Only you and I know the truth. And that is the way it will stay.”
He lowered the gun. “One day, Sir Thomas, you’re going to push someone too far.”
The older man smiled.
“I doubt that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Malone finished packing his bag. His flight left Heathrow in a little over three hours. The trial was finished and the terrorists convicted, each sentenced to life in prison. His two months in England were over. A light rap on his hotel room door disturbed the silence, and Stephanie Nelle entered. His boss had flown over a few days ago for the verdict.
“Ready to leave?” she asked.
“Been ready.”
“This was a tough one, wasn’t it?”
“You could say that. My faith in the good guys is beginning to wane.”
Everything he’d learned from and about Thomas Mathews still bothered him.
He folded the last of his shirts into the bag and zipped the lid shut.
In the weeks after the missile attack the press had been told precious little. The two Yourstones’ deaths were blamed on a robbery gone bad. Eleanor was saying nothing, playing the part of the grieving widow. And none of the royals would ever talk. The queen privately extracted a written declaration from her daughter renouncing all claims to the throne. There would be no repeats of regicide, or at least the effort would do her no good. Eleanor was allowed to keep her title, but no more royal duties. The official line was her desire to withdraw from public life and mourn her husband.
He laid his travel bag on the floor.
And not a word from the Secret Intelligence Service.
But he hadn’t expected any.
“William called,” Stephanie said. “The queen has asked us to come for a quick visit. She wants to say goodbye.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Let’s do it fast.”
He followed Stephanie through Buckingham Palace and into the audience hall. Victoria sat at the far side of the long chamber in her wheelchair, Albert standing beside her. William and Prince James stood off to the side. An array of ancient armor and weapons adorned the chamber, the finely carved, cream-colored walls resembling lace.
“Come in, Mr. Malone,” Victoria said.
Her pale voice resonated through the vast space, and she sounded upbeat.