The King's Deception

Provided, of course, that Thomas Mathews’ word—as a knight of the realm—meant anything.

She sucked in a breath.

Steeled herself.

And nodded her head.

Thirty-six

8:30 AM

Antrim paid his admission fee for Westminster Abbey and made his way into the massive church. He passed the black marble slab that marked the grave of the Unknown Warrior, then the choir with its famous wooden benches. Beyond the altar rails, in the sanctuary, was where British kings and queens were crowned. He caught site of a placard that identified the tomb of Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, the only one smart enough to walk away. Over the past year he’d read a lot about Henry, his wives and children, especially Elizabeth. He once thought his own family dysfunctional, but the Tudors proved that there was always something worse.

Crowds were heavy — no surprise as it was the weekend and this one of those must-sees for any visitor to London with its Poets’ Corner, the elaborate chapels, and the dust of so many monarchs. America had nothing to equal it. This church was a thousand years old and had borne witness to nearly everything associated with England since the Norman invasion.

He followed the ambulatory around the sanctuary to polished marble stairs that led up to the chapel of Henry VII. Built by the first Tudor king as his family’s tomb, it eventually acquired the name orbis miraculum, wonder of the world, and rightly so. The massive entrance gates were of bronze, mounted to oak, embellished with roses, fleurs-de-lis, and Tudor badges. Inside was a three-aisled nave with four bays and five chapels. Wooden stalls lined both sides, above which were hung the banner, sword, helmet, and scarf of a Knight of the Bath.

Another one of those ancient groups.

Created by George I, revived by George V, now part of English lore as the fourth most senior order of chivalry.

Unlike the Daedalus Society.

Which seemed to exist only in the shadows.

Richly carved niches, each displaying a statue, encircled the chapel beneath fragile-looking, clerestory windows. But it was the ceiling that captivated. Fan-vaulted with tracery and pendants, suspended as if by magic, the fretted roof more like a fragile cobweb than carved stone.

At the far end stood Henry VII’s tomb. A focal point and a contradiction. More Roman than Gothic. Understandable, considering an Italian created it. Maybe seventy-five people were admiring the chapel. He’d made the call last night, after leaving the analyst’s apartment, and was told to come at opening time, with the hard drives, which he carried in a plastic shopping bag. This place, with its many visitors, offered him some comfort regarding security, but not much. The people he was bargaining with were connected, determined, and bold.

So he told himself to stay on guard.

“Mr. Antrim.”

He turned to see a woman, late fifties, short, petite, gray-blond hair drawn into a bun. She wore a navy pantsuit with a short jacket.

“I was sent to meet with you,” she said.

“You have a name?”

“Call me Eva.”

* * *

Gary had been glad, last night, to see Ian. And he instantly liked the older woman who introduced herself as Miss Mary.

She was a lot like his dad’s mother, who lived a few hours south of Atlanta in middle Georgia. He always spent a week with her in the summer, as his mother maintained a good relationship with her ex-mother-in-law. But it was hard not to like Grandma Jean. Soft-spoken, easygoing, never a bad word uttered.

They’d spent the night at the house where he and his dad had been taken yesterday. Ian had told him what happened at the bookstore, then after when they rescued the SOCA agent. Gary was concerned but pleased that his dad had handled things. Antrim had not stayed with them, but called to say that all was well with his dad.

“He’s going to follow up on a few things in the morning,” Antrim said. “I told him you were fine here.”

“Did you mention anything about you and me?”

“We’ll do that together, face-to-face. He’s got a lot to deal with at the moment. We can tell him tomorrow.”

He’d agreed.

Now they were back in the warehouse office, alone, the other two agents outside. Antrim nowhere around.

“Do you know where my dad was headed?” he asked Ian and Miss Mary.

Ian shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

Yesterday he’d wanted to talk more with Antrim, but that had not been possible. He had to talk about it. So he told them what he’d learned last night.

“Are you sure this is true?” Miss Mary asked him when he finished.

He nodded. “We took a DNA test that will prove it.”

“What a shock this must be to you,” she said. “Finding your birth father. Here.”

“But at least you found out,” Ian said. “Your mom should have told you.”