The King's Deception

The aisle between the railing and the gallery’s stone wall was little more than a yard wide, usually filled with camera-toting tourists. Tonight it loomed empty, save for them.

“What name are you using?” he asked in a low voice.

“Gaius Wells.”

He allowed his attention to drift up into the dome. Backlit frescoes depicting the life of St. Paul stared back at him.

The sound of rain quickened on the roof.

“We currently have Cotton Malone and Ian Dunne in the car, being transported,” Wells said. “I hope that boy kept the flash drive. If so, this gamble might still pay off.”

He wasn’t so sure.

“The puzzle we’re solving is 500 years old,” his man said. “The pieces were carefully hidden. It’s been tough finding them, but we’re making progress. Unfortunately, Henry VIII’s grave revealed nothing.”

He’d approved that risky move because Farrow Curry’s untimely death had set them back, so the chance had to be taken. The tomb had been inspected only once before, in 1813. At that time the king himself, William IV, had been present and everything that happened was meticulously recorded. No mention of opening Henry’s coffin had appeared anywhere in those accounts. Which meant those remains had laid inviolate since 1548. He was hoping they might discover that the fat old Tudor had taken the secret with him to his grave.

But there’d been nothing but bones.

Another failure.

And costly.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “The Brits will now be on alert. We abused their royal chapel.”

“It was a clean in and out. No witnesses. They’d never suspect us.”

“Do we know any more about how Curry died?”

A month had passed since Farrow Curry either fell or was pushed into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Ian Dunne had been there, picking Curry’s pocket, and had been seen holding a flash drive before assaulting a man, then fleeing the station. They needed to hear what the boy had to say, and they wanted that flash drive.

The rain continued to fall outside.

“You realize that this could all be legend,” Wells said. “Not a shred of truth to any of it.”

“So what was it Curry found? Why was he so excited?”

True, Curry had called a few hours before he died and reported a breakthrough. He was a CIA contract analyst with a degree in encryption, specifically assigned to King’s Deception. But with his sorry lack of progress over the past few months, Antrim had been leaning toward replacing him. The call changed that, and he’d sent a man to meet Curry at Oxford Circus, the two of them off to investigate whatever it was Curry had found. But they never connected. Murder? Suicide? Accident? Nobody knew. Could the flash drive Ian Dunne was seen holding provide answers?

He certainly hoped so.

“I’ll be here, in town, from this point on,” he told Wells.

Tonight he’d visit one of his favorite restaurants. His culinary skills were limited to microwave directions on a box, so he ate most meals out, choosing quality over economy. Maybe a particular waitress he knew would be on duty. If not, he’d give her a call. They’d enjoyed themselves several times in the past.

“I need to ask,” Wells said. “Why involve Cotton Malone in all of this? Seems unnecessary.”

“We can use all the help we can get.”

“He’s retired. I don’t see where he’d be an asset.”

“He can be.”

And that was all he intended to offer.

An exit opened a few feet away, the one he’d used to climb to the gallery. Another waited on the far side. “Stay here until I’m gone. No use being seen together down below.”

He traversed the circular walk, hugging the cathedral’s upper walls and came to the far side. Wells stood a hundred feet away, staring across at him. A placard beside the exit informed him that if he spoke softly into the wall, the words could be heard on the other side.

Hence, the Whispering Gallery.

He decided to give it a try. He faced the gray stone wall and murmured, “Make sure we don’t screw things up with Malone and Dunne.”

A wave confirmed that he’d been understood.

Wells disappeared into the archway. Antrim was about to do the same when a pop echoed across the still air.

Then a cry from the other side.

Another pop.

The cry became a moan.

He raced back across and glanced inside the exit, saw nothing, then advanced forward. A few steps down the circular way he found Wells on the stone steps, facedown, blood pouring from two wounds. He rolled him over and spotted a flicker of disbelief in the eyes.

Wells opened his mouth to speak.

“Hang in there,” Antrim said. “I’ll get help.”

Wells’ hand clutched his coat sleeve.

“Not … supposed to … happen.”

Then the body went limp.

He checked for a pulse. None.

Reality jarred him.

What the hell?

He heard footfalls below, receding away. He was unarmed. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Why would he? He started down the 259 steps, keeping watch, concerned that the shooter could be waiting around the next turn. He came to the bottom and carefully peered out into the nave, seeing only a handful of visitors. Across, in the far transept, he spotted a figure moving steadily toward the exit doors.