The King's Deception

The acrid odor of London soaked his nostrils. He kept a close eye out for the blue Mercedes, but Norse and Devene would not assume he’d stay in the area, particularly after making such a bold escape. He caught the enticing aroma of fresh bread from a bakery a few doors down, which only aggravated his hunger. He’d not eaten since the little bit of lunch offered on the flight hours ago. People occasionally passed by on the sidewalk, but no one paid him any mind. Few ever did. What would it be like to be special? Perhaps even unique. He could only imagine. He’d quit school early, but stayed long enough to learn how to read and write. He was glad for that. Reading provided one of his few joys.

Which brought to mind the plastic bag Cotton Malone had carried.

His things.

A look was worth the chance.

So he fled the alcove.

Five

LONDON

6:30 PM

Blake Antrim climbed from the cab into the misty night. A storm had arrived an hour ago, draping the city in a cool, soggy blanket. Before him rose the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and he hoped the weather would discourage the usual throng of visitors.

He paid the driver, then climbed broad concrete steps to the church’s entrance, the massive wooden doors easing shut behind him. The last gong from Big Tom, the clock that filled the south tower, completed its announcement of the half hour.

He’d flown over immediately after speaking to his agent on the ground, utilizing a State Department jet from Brussels to London. On the short flight he’d reviewed all of the reports on King’s Deception, refamiliarizing himself with every detail of the operation.

The problem was simple.

Scotland planned to release Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a former Libyan intelligence officer convicted in 1988 of 270 counts of murder for bombing Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. In 2001 al-Megrahi was sentenced to life imprisonment, but now, after only a few years behind bars, he’d contracted cancer. So, for so-called humanitarian reasons, the Scots were going to allow al-Megrahi to die in Libya. No official announcement of the release decision had occurred as yet, since the highly secret negotiations were still ongoing. The CIA had learned of the proposal over a year ago and Washington had already voiced strong opposition, insisting that Downing Street stop it. But the English had refused, saying this was an internal Scottish affair in which they could not meddle.

Since friggin’ when? the diplomats had asked.

London had been meddling in Edinburgh’s politics for a thousand years. The fact that the two nations were united under the mantle of Great Britain just made things easier.

But they’d still refused.

Al-Megrahi going home to Libya would be a slap in the face to the 189 murdered Americans. It had taken the CIA thirteen years to apprehend the accused, try him, and obtain a guilty verdict.

Now to just let him go?

Kaddafi, Libya’s leader, would rub al-Megrahi’s return in Washington’s face, only amplifying his position among Arab leaders. Terrorists around the world would be fortified, their causes becoming that much more important in light of a weak America that could not even keep a friend from turning a murderer loose.

He unbuttoned his wet overcoat and approached the high altar, passing a side chapel where red-shielded candles sparkled in the amber light. His agent had selected this locale for their meeting because he’d been working in the church’s archives all day, using false journalistic credentials, searching for more information.

He followed the south aisle to the base of a spiral stairway and glanced around one more time. His hopes about the weather seemed to have been granted. Few people milled about. Thankfully, Operation King’s Deception had, so far, generated no British interest.

He stepped through an archway to a staircase that corkscrewed a path upward. He passed the time climbing by counting. Two hundred and fifty-nine steps came and went beneath his leather soles before he reached the Whispering Gallery.

Waiting for him was a fair-skinned man with pale green eyes and a balding head mottled with brownish age spots. What he lacked in looks he made up for in skill, as he was one of Antrim’s best historical analysts, which was exactly what this operation required.

He stepped from the doorway into a narrow circular gallery. A polished iron railing offered the only protection from a one-hundred-foot drop down to the nave’s marble floor. He spotted the design etched into the marble below, a compasslike insignia centered by a brass grille. He knew that beneath that floor, in the crypt, lay the tomb of Christopher Wren, the architect who almost 400 years before had labored to construct St. Paul’s. Encircling the sunlike design was a Latin inscription dedicated to Wren.

READER, IF YOU SEEK HIS MONUMENT, LOOK AROUND YOU.

Antrim did.

Not bad, at all.