Free The King's Deception by Steve Berry Page A

intelligence matters since the beginning of the 20th century. Americans liked to call it MI6, a tag attached during World War II.
    She stood on the oak plank floor, not quite knowing what to say or do.
    “I understand you are a member of the Middle Temple,” he said to her, his voice low and throaty.
    She nodded, catching the cockney accent in his vowels. “After I studied law at Oxford, I was granted membership. I ate many a meal in this hall.”
    “Then you decided enforcing the law would be more intriguing than interpreting it?”
    “Something like that. I enjoy my job.”
    He pointed a thin finger at her. “I am familiar with what you did a couple of years ago with the fish.”
    She recalled the batches of tropical fish, imported from Colombia and Costa Rica to be sold in British pet stores. Smugglers had dissolved cocaine in small plastic bags, which hung invisibly as they floated with the fish.
    But she’d found the ruse.
    “Quite clever on your part, discovering that scheme,” he said. “How unfortunate that your career is now in jeopardy.”
    She said nothing.
    “Frankly, I can sympathize with your superiors. Agents who refuse to show good judgment eventually get themselves, or someone else, killed.”
    “Forgive me, but I’ve been insulted enough for one evening.”
    “Are you always so forward?”
    “As you mentioned, my job is probably gone. What would be gained by being coy?”
    “Perhaps my support in saving your career.”
    That was unexpected. So she asked, “Then, could you tell me what you want?”
    Mathews motioned with his walking stick. “When was the last time you were here, in Middle Hall.”
    She thought back. It had been almost a year. A garden party for a friend who’d attainted the rank of bencher, one of the select few who governed the Middle Temple.
    “Not in a long time,” she said.
    “I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, allstood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”
    “Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”
    Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”
    She maintained a stiff face.
    “May I tell you a story?”
    P RINCE H ENRY ENTERED THE P RIVY C HAMBER AT R ICHMOND P ALACE . He’d been summoned from Westminster by his father, King Henry VII, and told to come at once. Not an unusual request, considering the odd relationship they’d forged over the past seven years, ever since his brother, Arthur, died and he became heir to the throne. There’d been many summonses, most to either instill or extract a lesson. His father was desperate to know that his kingdom would be safe in the hands of his second son
.
    The king lay upon a cloth of scarlet and gold, amid pillows, cushions, and bolsters. Tonsured clerics, physicians, and courtesans surrounded the canopy on three sides. The sight shocked him. He’d known of previous illnesses. First a throat infection, then rheumatic fever, chronic fatigue, loss of appetite, and bouts of depression. But he’d not been informed of this latest affliction, one that appeared quite serious
.
    A confessor stood near the foot of the bed, administering last rites, anointing the bare feet with holy oil. A crucifix was brought close to his father’s lips, which was kissed, then he heard the raspy voice that had so many times chastised him
.
    “With all his might and power, I call on the Lord for a merciful death.”
    He stared at the crafty and calculating man who’d ruled England for twenty-three years. Henry VII had not inherited his crown. Instead, he’d won it on the battlefield, defeating the despicable Richard III at Bosworth Field, ending the time of the Yorks and Lancasters, and creating a new dynasty
.
    The Tudors
.
    His father motioned for him to approach. “Death is an