“What was so urgent?” he quietly asked.
“I believe you have a problem.”
He listened as his spy told him about a man named Cotton Malone, a barrister who worked for the American Justice Department, in a specialized intelligence unit known as the Magellan Billet.
“Never heard of it.”
The man explained that it handled highly sensitive investigations worldwide, working outside the established American intelligence community. Malone, a former navy commander, possessed a reputation for competence and was in England to help prosecute the terrorists’ trial, set to begin next week.
“At the moment, though, Mr. Malone is meeting with the queen.” The spy paused. “About you.”
He told himself to stay calm. All was in place. Too late now to turn back. “I don’t suppose you could discover the content of that meeting?”
“It would be difficult and might risk exposure.”
“Give it a try. Results would be most appreciated.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
The other man stood and left, following the crowd toward the main doors. Money motivated most weak souls. This one particularly.
Or at least he hoped.
He sat for a few moments and considered this new development, unsure of its implications.
American Justice Department?
He’d not factored that into the equation.
He stood and ambled toward the far side and the east window. It was a magnificent stained-glass depiction, crafted in Flanders at the command of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1501 to celebrate the marriage of their daughter, Catherine of Aragon, to Arthur, the eldest son of Henry VII. Henry had been fascinated with the Arthurian legend and intentionally named his heir for the mythical monarch. After ending the Wars of the Roses and killing Richard III, the first Tudor king had been intent on resurrecting the English throne, beginning with his son, Arthur. Unfortunately, the boy died shortly after the marriage, even before the window rising before him had arrived on English soil. Poor Catherine eventually married Arthur’s brother, Henry VIII, and went on to suffer the disgrace of a forced divorce and an early death.
But he admired Henry VII’s audacity. That first Tudor king had thought of the right idea.
He told himself to stay calm.
Be patient.
And finish what he’d started.
CHAPTER THREE
Malone followed William out of Buckingham Palace toward a guarded gate that led to the street. The afternoon had turned cool, but a brilliant sun warmed the clear September sky.
“We do appreciate your service to the Crown,” William said. “Stephanie said you would be quite helpful. And we definitely need assistance.”
He was curious as to why his boss had so readily volunteered him. He needed to speak with her.
“The car just over there will return you to the hotel,” William continued. “Let me give you my private mobile number. I am available around the clock. Call if anything is needed. I understand you possess an eidetic memory, so I assume there’s no need for me to write anything down.”
He listened and memorized the number.
“You can see how all this affects Her Majesty. I’m extremely worried. The strain is taking a toll. The doctors have repeatedly warned her about undue stress.”
“So let’s do what we can to ease her mind.”
Malone entered Osborne House.
The hotel prided itself on English tradition, but was sophisticated enough to offer all of the amenities modern business travelers demanded. Back in his room, he connected his Magellan Billet–issued laptop to the Internet and contacted Stephanie by email.
So wonderful of you to volunteer my services. I didn’t know you were royally connected. Now tell me what’s really going on.
I received a report yesterday from Langley. A small-time smuggler named Jonathan Kent was apprehended in Liverpool with some unusual lavender-colored material. Turns out it was C-83 explosive. Unfortunately, Kent died before any more could be learned. The car transporting him to London was found wrecked, all of the occupants, including two local policemen, dead. You won’t see a press story on it. The Brits squelched it. They want to see if more C-83 turns up. That’s a powerful explosive. And, by the way, one of the arms dealers who routinely handles it is Peter Lyon.
You think this has something to do with the trial?
That thought crossed my mind. Lyon is not going to sit back and allow us to try his people. I’m guessing he killed Kent and those policemen.
What has this got to do with the queen?
While Kent was in custody, the Liverpool police managed to extract a few tidbits from him. He muttered something about Richard and Albert and changing the course of history. After talking with William and hearing the same thing, I thought a closer inspection was warranted.
What do you want me to do?
Just look around for a couple of days. See if there’s anything to this. They could be separate, unrelated incidents. But my gut tells me they’re connected. If you find nothing, get on with the trial and convict those SOBs. I’m sending you an updated profile on Peter Lyon, along with another file William forwarded to me, which, he says, you need to see.
He watched as the download indicator bar flooded with color. He opened the file on Lyon and absorbed the information. Not much there that he didn’t already know. Lyon was a violent, amoral prick who made his living off other people dying.
He opened the second file.
Color photographs of a spherical cauldron, fashioned of silver or pewter, appeared. Remnants of gilding lined the edges. Eight tattered plates made up the walls, another the base. A scale indicator revealed the object was about eighteen inches long and at least that high. The crafted plates were all crowded with engravings, and he noticed the images—foot soldiers, animals, boar-headed trumpets, knotwork designs.