Free The King's Deception by Steve Berry

weakness.
    “Think on it, Mr. Antrim,” the first voice said. “Think on it hard.”
    “You can’t kill every agent of the U.S. government,” he felt compelled to say.
    “That’s true. But, by paying you off, we will ensure that Operation King’s Deception fails, which means no more agents will be dispatched. You will report that failure and assume all blame. We believe this simpler and more effective than force. Lucky for us that someone negotiable, like yourself, is in charge.”
    Another insult he allowed to pass.
    “We want this over. And with your help, it will be.”
    The shadow’s right hand rose, then flicked.
    The man with the weapon surged forward.
    A paralysis seized Antrim’s body and made him unable to react.
    He heard a pop.
    Something pierced his chest.
    Sharp. Stinging.
    His legs went limp.
    And he dropped to the floor among the dead knights.

Ten
    K ATHLEEN PARKED HER CAR ON T UDOR S TREET , JUST OUTSIDE the gate. On the card her supervisor had provided was written MIDDLE TEMPLE HALL , which stood within the old Temple grounds, part of the Inns of Court, where for 400 years London’s lawyers had thrived. Two of the great legal societies, the Middle Temple and Inner Temple were headquartered here, their presence dating back to the time of Henry VIII. Dickens himself had been a Middle Templar, and she’d always liked what he’d written about life inside the Inn walls.
    Who enters here leaves noise behind
.
    The sight of Henry’s bones still bothered her. Never had she thought that she’d be privy to such a thing. Who would have burglarized that tomb? Bold, whoever they were, since security within Windsor Castle was extensive. And why? What did they think was there? All of these questions had weighed on her mind as she drove back into London, eager to know what awaited her at Middle Temple Hall.
    The rain came in spurts, her short brown hair dry from earlier but once again being doused by a steady mist. No one manned the vehicle gate, the car park beyond empty. Nearly 7:30 PM and the Friday workday was over at the Inns of Court.
    Hers, though, appeared to be only just beginning.
    She crossed the famous King’s Bench Walk and passed among a cluster of redbrick buildings, every window dark, entering the courtyard before the famous Temple Church. She hustled toward the cloister at the far end, crossing another brick lane and finding Middle Hall. A sign out front proclaimed CLOSED TO VISITORS , but she ignored its warning and opened the doors.
    The lit space within stretched thirty meters long and half that wide, topped by a double hammerbeam roof, its oak joists, she knew, 900 years old. The towering windows lining both sides were adorned with suits of armor and heraldic memorials to former Middle Templars. Along with Dickens, Sir Walter Raleigh, William Blackstone, Edmund Burke, and John Marston were all once members. Four long rows of oak tables, lined with chairs packed close together, ran parallel from one end to the other. At the far end beneath five massive oil paintings stretched the ancients table, where the eight most senior barristers had eaten since the 16th century. The portraits above had not changed in two hundred years. Charles I, James II, William III, Charles II, Queen Anne, and, to the left, hidden from view until farther inside, Elizabeth I.
    At the far end a man appeared.
    He was short, early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was so immaculately coiffed it almost demanded to be ruffled. As he came close she saw that thick, steel-rimmed glasses not only hid his eyes but erased the natural symmetry of his blank features. He wore a stylish, dark suit with a waistcoat, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. He walked dragging a stiff right leg, aided by a cane. Though she’d never met him, she knew who he was.
    Sir Thomas Mathews.
    Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.
    Only 16 men had ever led that agency, responsible for all foreign