The King's Deception, Page 2

  For the better.

  But now this.

  One boy in his charge was angry and confused.

  The other seemed to be a delinquent.

  Stephanie had told him some. Ian Dunne had been born in Scotland. Father unknown. Mother abandoned him early. He was sent to London to live with an aunt and drifted in and out of her home, finally running away. He had an arrest record—petty theft, trespassing, loitering. The CIA wanted him because a month ago one of their people was shoved, or jumped, into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Dunne was there, in Oxford Circus. Witnesses say he might even have stolen something from the dead man. So they needed to talk to him.

  Not good, but also not his concern.

  In a few minutes his favor for Stephanie Nelle would be over, then he and Gary would catch their connecting flight to Copenhagen and enjoy the week, depending of course on how many uncomfortable questions his son might want answered. The hitch was that the Denmark flight departed not from Heathrow, but Gatwick, London’s other major airport, an hour’s ride south. Their departure time was several hours away, so it wasn’t a problem. He would just need to convert some dollars to pounds and hire a taxi.

  They left Customs and claimed their luggage.

  Both he and Gary had packed light.

  “The police going to take me?” Ian asked.

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “What will happen to him?” Gary asked.

  He shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  And it was. Especially with the CIA involved.

  He shouldered his bag and led both boys out of the baggage area.

  “Can I have my things?” Ian asked.

  When Ian had been turned over to him in Atlanta, he’d been given a plastic bag that contained a Swiss Army knife with all the assorted attachments, a pewter necklace with a religious medal attached, a pocket Mace container, some silver shears, and two paperback books with their covers missing.

  Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.

  Their brown edges were water-stained, the bindings veined with thick white creases. Both were thirty-plus-year-old printings. Stamped on the title page was ANY OLD BOOKS, with an address in Piccadilly Circus, London. He employed a similar branding of inventory, his simply announcing COTTON MALONE, BOOKSELLER, HØJBRO PLADS, COPENHAGEN. The items in the plastic bag all belonged to Ian, seized by Customs when they took him into custody at Miami International, after he’d tried to enter the country illegally.

  “That’s up to the police,” he said. “My orders are to hand you and the bag over to them.”

  He’d stuffed the bundle inside his travel case, where it would stay until the police assumed custody. He half expected Ian to bolt, so he remained on guard. Ahead he spied two men, both in dark suits walking their way. The one on the right, short and stocky with auburn hair, introduced himself as Inspector Norse.

  He extended a hand, which Malone shook.

  “This is Inspector Devene. We’re with the Met. We were told you’d be accompanying the boy. We’re here to give you a lift to Gatwick and take charge of Master Dunne.”

  “I appreciate the ride. Wasn’t looking forward to an expensive taxi.”

  “Least we can do. Our car is just outside. One of the privileges of being the police is we can park where we want.”

  The man threw Malone a grin.

  They started for the exit.

  Malone noticed Inspector Devene take up a position behind Ian. Smart move, he thought.

  “You responsible for getting him into the country with no passport?”

  Norse nodded. “We are, along with some others working with us. I think you know about them.”

  That he did.

  They stepped out of the terminal into brisk morning air. A bank of dense clouds tinted the sky a depressing shade of pewter. A blue Mercedes sedan sat by the curb. Norse opened the rear door and motioned for Gary to climb in first, then Ian and Malone. The inspector stood outside until they were all in, then closed the door. Norse rode in the front passenger seat, while Devene drove. They sped out of Heathrow and found the M4 motorway. Malone knew the route, London a familiar locale. Years ago he’d spent time in England on assignments. He’d also been detached here for a year by the navy. Traffic progressively thickened as they made their way east toward the city.

  “Would it be all right if we made one stop before we head for Gatwick?” Norse asked him.

  “No problem. We have time before the plane leaves. The least we can do for a free ride.”

  Malone watched Ian as the boy gazed out the window. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to him. Stephanie’s assessment had not been a good one. A street kid, no family, completely on his own. Unlike Gary, who was dark-haired with a swarthy complexion, Ian was blond and fair-skinned. He seemed like a good kid, though. Just dealt a bad hand. But at least he was young, and youth offered chances, and chances led to possibilities. Such a contrast with Gary, who lived a more conventional, secure life. The thought of Gary on the streets, loose, with no one, tore at his heart.

  Warm air blasted the car’s interior and the engine droned as they chugged through traffic.

  Malone’s eyes surrendered to jet lag.

  When he woke, he glanced at his watch and realized he’d been out about fifteen minutes. He willed himself to alertness. Gary and Ian were still sitting quietly. The sky had darkened further. A storm was approaching the city. He studied the car’s interior, noticing for the first time no radio or communications equipment. Also, the carpets were immaculate, the upholstery in pristine condition. Certainly not like any police car he’d ever ridden in.

  He then examined Norse.

  The man’s brown hair was cut below the ears. Not shaggy, but thick. He was clean-shaven and a bit overweight. He was dressed appropriately, suit and tie, but it was the left earlobe that drew his attention. Pierced. No earring was present, but the puncture was clear.

  “I was wondering, Inspector. Might I see your identification? I should have asked at the airport.”

  Norse did not answer him. The question aroused Ian’s attention, and he studied Malone with a curious look.

  “Did you hear me, Norse? I’d like to see your identification.”

  “Just enjoy the ride, Malone.”

  He didn’t like the curt tone so he reached for the front seat and pulled himself forward, intending to make his point clearer.

  The barrel of a gun came around the headrest and greeted him.

  “This enough identification?” Norse asked.

  “Actually, I was hoping for a picture ID.” He motioned to the weapon. “When did the Metropolitan Police start issuing Glocks?”

  No reply.

  “Who are you?”

  The gun waved at Ian. “His keeper.”

  Ian reached across Gary and wrenched the chrome handle up and down, but the door would not open.

  “Great things, child locks,” said Norse. “Keeps the wee ones from slipping away.”

  Malone said, “Son, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Ian said nothing.

  “These men have apparently gone to a lot of trouble to make your acquaintance.”

  “Sit back, Malone,” Norse said. “This is none of your concern.”

  He reclined in the seat. “On that we agree.”

  Except his son was in the car, too.

  Norse kept his head turned back toward them, his gaze and the gun glued on Malone.

  The car continued through morning congestion.

  He absorbed what was whirling past outside, recalling what he could about the geography of North London. He realized the bridge they’d just crossed was for Regent’s Canal, a corridor-like waterway that wound a snaking path through the city, eventually spilling into the Thames. Stately trees lined the four-laned promenade. Traffic was heavy. He spotted the famous Lord’s Cricket Ground. He knew that the fictional Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes lay a few blocks over. Little Venice wasn’t far away. />
  They crossed the canal again and he glanced down at brightly painted houseboats dotting the waterway. Longboats dotted the canal, no more than ten feet high, designed to fit under the tight bridges. Rows and rows of Georgian houses and flats lined the boulevard, fronted with tall trees less their leaves.

  Devene turned the Mercedes onto a side lane. More houses rolled past on either side. The scene was not unlike Atlanta, where his own house had once stood. Three more turns and they entered a courtyard enclosed on three sides by high hedges. The Mercedes stopped outside a mews constructed of pastel-colored stones.

  Norse exited. Devene also climbed out.

  Both rear doors were released from the outside.

  “Get out,” Norse said.

  Malone stood on cobblestones outlined by emerald lichens. Gary and Ian emerged on the other side.

  Ian tried to bolt.

  Norse slammed the boy hard into the car.

  “Don’t,” Malone called out. “Do as he says. You too, Gary.”

  Norse shoved the gun into Ian’s neck. “Stay still.” The man’s body pinned Ian to the car. “Where’s the flash drive?”

  “What drive?” Malone asked.

  “Shut him up,” Norse called out.

  Devene jammed a fist into Malone’s gut.

  “Dad,” Gary called out.

  He doubled over and tried to regain his breath, motioning to Gary that he was okay.

  “The flash drive,” Norse said again. “Where is it?”

  Malone rose, arms hugging his stomach. Devene drew back to swing again, but Malone jammed his knee into the man’s groin, then smacked Devene’s jaw with his right fist.

  He may have been retired and jet-lagged, but he wasn’t helpless.

  He whirled in time to see Norse aim the gun his way. The retort from a single shot came the instant after Malone lunged for the pavement, the bullet finding the hedges behind him. He stared up into the Mercedes’ passenger compartment and saw Norse through the half-open doors. He sprang to his feet, pivoted off the hood, and propelled his legs through the car’s interior into the far-side door.

  The panel flew out and smashed into Norse, sending the phony inspector reeling backward into the mews.

  He shoved himself through the open door.

  Ian was running from the courtyard, toward the street.

  Malone’s gaze met Gary’s. “Go with him. Get out of here.”

  He was tackled from behind.

  His forehead slapped wet stone. Pain shuddered through him. He’d thought Devene out of commission.

  A mistake.

  An arm wrapped around his throat and he tried to release the stranglehold grip. His prone position gave him little room to maneuver and Devene was hinging his spine at an unnatural angle.

  The buildings around him winked in and out.

  Blood trickled down his forehead and into his eye.

  The last thing he saw before blackness enveloped him was Ian and Gary, disappearing around a corner.

  Two

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  7:45 PM

  BLAKE ANTRIM WAS NOT A FAN OF COCKY WOMEN. HE ENDURED them, as the Central Intelligence Agency was loaded with wiseass females. But that did not mean he had to tolerate them once off the clock. If a team leader, responsible for nine agents scattered across England and Europe, could ever truly be on his own time.

  Denise Gérard was both Flemish and French, a combination that had produced a tall, svelte package with exquisite dark hair. She had a face that begged for attention, and a body that you wanted to embrace. They’d met inside the Musée de la Ville de Bruxelles, where they’d discovered a mutual love of old maps, architectural relics, and paintings. Since then they’d spent a lot of time together, making a few trips outside Brussels, one to Paris that had proven quite memorable.

  She was excitable, discreet, and devoid of inhibition.

  Ideal.

  But not anymore.

  “What have I done?” she asked, her voice soft. “Why end it now?”

  No sadness or shock laced her plea. The words were spoken matter-of-factly, her way of shifting a decision she’d already made onto him.

  Which irritated him even more.

  She wore a striking silk skirt with a short hem that accentuated both her firm breasts and her long legs. He’d always admired her flat belly and wondered if it was from exercise or a surgeon’s touch. He’d never noticed any scars, her caramel-colored flesh smooth as porcelain.

  And her smell.

  Sweet lemons mixed with rosemary.

  She was something in the perfume industry. She’d explained her job one afternoon over coffee near the Grand Place, but he hadn’t been listening, that day consumed with an operation gone wrong in western Germany.

  Which seemed his lot of late.

  One failure after another.

  His title was coordinator of special counter-operations, European Theater. Sounded like he was part of a war—which, in a sense, he was. That undeclared one on terrorism. But he shouldn’t mock it. Threats definitely existed, and came from the oddest places. Of late, they seemed to originate more from America’s allies than its enemies.

  Hence, the purpose of his unit.

  Special counter-operations.

  “Blake, tell me how I can make it better. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

  But she didn’t mean it, and he knew it.

  She was playing with him.

  They sat in her apartment, an expensive, turn-of-the-century flat that overlooked the Parc de Bruxelles, a formal patch of greenery flanked by the Palais Royal and the Palais de la Nation. Past the open third-floor terrace doors he saw the trademark classical statues, framed by trees with meticulously trellised branches. The throngs of office workers, joggers, and families that normally filled the park were gone for the day. He figured her rent had to be several thousand euros a month. Nothing he could afford on his government salary. But most of the women he connected with made more than him, anyway. He seemed drawn to the professional type.

  And cheaters.

  Like Denise.

  “I was out and about yesterday,” he said. “Near the Grand Place. I heard the Manneken Pis was dressed as an organ grinder.”

  The famous statue was located not far from town hall, a two-foot-high, bronze sculpture depicting a naked boy peeing into the fountain basin. It had stood since 1618 and had become a national landmark. Several times a week the bronze boy was dressed in a costume, each one unique. Blake had been nearby to meet a contact and have a quick chat.

  And saw Denise.

  With another man.

  Her arm in his, enjoying the cool midday air, the two stopping to admire the spectacle and share a few kisses. She seemed utterly at ease, just as she always was with him. He’d wondered then, and still did now, how many men she kept around.

  “In French we call him le petit Julien,” she said. “I have seen him dressed many ways, but not as an organ man. Was it delightful?”

  He’d offered her a chance to tell the truth, but dishonesty was another common denominator of the women that attracted him.

  One last chance.

  “You missed that yesterday?” he asked, a trace of incredulity in his voice.

  “I was working out of the city. Perhaps they will dress him again like that.”

  He stood to leave.

  She rose from her chair. “Perhaps you could stay for a while longer?”

  He knew what she meant. Her bedroom door was open.

  But not today.

  He allowed her to drift close.

  “I’m sorry that we will not see each other again,” she said.

  Her lies had stirred a familiar fury. He’d tried to resist, but finally surrendered, his right hand whipping upward and grabbing her throat. He lifted her thin frame off the floor and slammed her into the wall. He tightened his grip on her neck and stared hard into her eyes.

  “You’re a lying whore.”

  “No, Blake. You are a dec
eitful man,” she managed to say, her eyes unafraid. “I saw you yesterday.”

  “Who was he?”

  He relaxed his grip enough so she could speak.

  “No one of your concern.”

  “I. Don’t. Share.”

  She smiled. “Then you are going to have to adjust your ways. Plain girls have to be grateful for love. Those of us not so plain fare much better.”

  The truth of her words enraged him more.

  “You simply do not offer enough for someone to exclude all others,” she said.

  “I heard no complaints from you.”

  Their mouths were inches away. He could feel her breathe, smell the sweet scent that seeped from her skin.

  “I have many men, Blake. You are but one.”

  As far as she knew he worked for the State Department, dispatched to the American embassy in Belgium.

  “I’m an important person,” he told her, his hand still around her throat.

  “But not enough to command me solely.”

  He admired her courage.

  Foolish. But still admirable.

  He released his grip, then kissed her hard.

  She reciprocated, her tongue finding his and signaling that all might not be lost.

  He ended the embrace.

  Then kneed her in the gut.

  Her breath spewed out in an explosive burst.

  She doubled over, arms wrapping around her stomach. She began to choke as nausea enveloped her.

  She shrank to her knees and vomited on the parquet floor.

  Her composure had vanished.

  Excitement surged through him.

  “You are a worthless little man,” she managed to spit out.

  But her opinion no longer mattered.

  So he left.

  He entered his office in the American embassy, located on the east side of the Parc de Bruxelles. He’d walked back from Denise’s apartment feeling satisfied, but confused. He wondered if she would involve the police. Probably not. First, it was a he-said-she-said thing with no witnesses, and second, her pride would never allow it.

  Besides, he’d left no marks.

  Women like her took their lumps and moved on. But her confidence would never again be so certain. She’d always wonder. Can I play this man? Or does he know?