The King's Deception

The Thames flowed a few hundred yards to his left, the Royal Courts of Justice only blocks ahead. This was the City, an autonomous district, separately chartered and governed since the 13th century. Some called it the Square Mile, occupied since the 1st century and the Romans. The great medieval craft guilds were founded right here, then the worldwide trading companies. The City remained crucial to Great Britain’s finance and trade, and he wondered if his target had a connection to either.

His man turned left.

He hustled forward, rain tickling his face, and saw that the assailant had entered the Inns of Court, passing through its famous stone gateway.

This place he knew.

It had once been the home of the Templars and the knights stayed until the early 14th century. Two hundred years later Henry VIII dissolved all religious orders and allowed the lawyers to assume the Temple grounds, forming their Inns of Court. James I eventually ensured their perpetual presence with a royal grant. He’d many times, as a kid, wandered through the maze of buildings with their courtyards. He recalled the plane trees, sundials, and green lawns sloping to the Embankment. Its gateways and alleys were legendary, the things of books and movies, many with elegant names like King’s Bench Walk and Middle Temple Lane.

He stared through the entrance and spotted his man making haste down a narrow, brick-paved street. Four men brushed past and headed through the gate, so he joined them, hanging back, using them as cover. Light came from a few windows and wall lamps that illuminated the entrances to the buildings.

His target turned left again.

He rushed past the men ahead of him and found a cloister framed out by archways. A courtyard opened on the other side and he saw the man enter the Temple Church.

He hesitated.

He’d been inside before. Small, with few places to hide.

Why go there?

One way to find out.

He stepped back out into the rain and trotted for the church’s side door. Inside, his gaze searched the scattered folds of weak light. Silence reigned, which unnerved him. Beneath the circular roof lay the marble effigies of slumbering crusaders resting in full armor. He noted the marble columns, the interlaced arches, the solid drum of handsome stonework. The round church was embroidered by six windows and six marble pillars. In the rectangular choir to his right, beyond three more lofty arches, the altar was illuminated by a faint coppery glow. His target was nowhere in sight, nor anyone else.

Nothing about this felt right.

He turned to leave.

“Not yet, Mr. Antrim.”

The voice was older with a hollow tone.

He whirled back around.

In the Round, among the floor effigies, six figures appeared from the deep shadows that engulfed the walls. No faces could be seen, just their outline. Men. Dressed in suits. Standing. Arms at their sides, like vultures in the gloom.

“We need to speak,” the same voice said.

From his left, ten feet away, another man appeared, the face too in shadows, but enough was visible for him to see a weapon aimed straight at him.

“Please step into the Round,” the first voice said.

No choice.

So he did as told, now among the floor effigies and encircled by the six men. “You killed my man just to get me here?”

“We killed him because a point needed to be made.”

The shadowy chin on the speaker looked as tough as armor plate.

What had Wells said? Not supposed to happen

.

“How did you know I’d be in St. Paul’s?”

“Our survival has always been predicated on operating with excellent intelligence. We have been watching your actions in our country for many months.”

“Who are you?” He truly wanted to know.

“Our founder called us the Daedalus Society. Do you know the story of Daedalus?”

“Mythology never interested me.”

“To you, the seeker of secrets? Mythology should be quite an important subject.”

He resented the condescending tone, but said nothing.

“The name Daedalus means ‘cunning worker,’ ” the older man said.

“So what are you? Some kind of club?”

The other five shadows had neither moved nor said a word.

“We are the keepers of secrets. Protectors of kings and queens. God knows, they have needed protection, and mainly from themselves. We were created in 1605, because of the particular secret you seek.”

Now he was interested. “You’re saying that it’s real?”

“Why do you seek this?” another of the shadows asked, the voice again older and raspy.

“Tell us,” another said. “Why meddle in our affairs?”

“This an interrogation?” he asked.

The first man chuckled. “Not at all. But we are curious. An American intelligence agent delving into obscure British history, looking into something that few in this world know exists. You asked your man in St. Paul’s, what happened to Farrow Curry? We killed him. The hope was that you would abandon the search. But that was not to be. So we killed another of your men tonight. Must we kill a third?”

He knew who that would be, but still said, “I have a job to do.”

“So do we,” one of the shadows said.