His mind swirled. Everything fit into place, except one thing. The paper Scott sent to Ginger. That had been bothering him for the past two days. Why do it? And why would Simon think it important enough to fly to Atlanta for a look?
Then it hit him.
How simple.
So simple that it had almost eluded him.
He stepped to the aft deck and found the brown envelope in his bag. He removed the page with the Admiral’s mark written across its face and brought it back inside the forward cabin. He switched on the overhead bulb and held the sheet close as the filament heated.
Slowly, brown numbers materialized.
Dubois watched carefully and realized. “He use lemon juice.”
Malone smiled. “That he did. Actually, not a bad way to send a message, if you don’t know it’s there.”
“I know those,” Dubois said. “They be for the wreck site.”
“Fire up the engine. I want to go back down.”
Malone kicked his fins and swam toward the massive hulk of rock with the crack and crevice. He’d come down alone, Dubois staying up top with Schwartz’s gun, keeping a lookout. No other boats had been around, and he wanted to keep it that way. The current today was weaker, but the same shark remained on patrol fifty yards away. The GPS numbers Scott had secretly sent to Ginger had led them straight back here.
He approached the opening and eased himself inside.
He examined the timbers in the sand and could see that they’d been hewn, man-made, now petrified by centuries in the water. A few other artifacts lay scattered. What looked like a cup, some nails, belt buckles. This was clearly a shipwreck. Whether it belonged to Christopher Columbus remained to be seen.
He fanned the sand and stirred up the bottom, revealing what lay a few inches beneath. The storm rose, then settled quickly, the warm water retaining its crystal clarity. A niche caught his eye, but he knew better than to stick his hand there. Some eel might decide a few fingers would make a great lunch.
Another niche to his right seemed more inviting.
Shallow, no more than a foot or so deep, the entire interior visible.
He fanned its sand.
And saw something.
Glass.
A little more stirring revealed more glass.
He reached down and freed the object.
A Coke bottle, the top stuffed with a cork and sealed with wax. Inside was a rolled piece of dirt-brown paper, similar in size and color to the other pages of the book he’d bought at the auction. A wax-sealed plastic bag provided an additional measure of protection.
He’d found the hiding place.
Risky as hell to leave it underwater, but Scott had never been noted for caution.
Malone stepped from the car at Cap-Haïtien’s main airport terminal. Dubois had driven him from the docks, and they’d made it here in plenty of time for his flight.
He shook his friend’s hand and thanked him again.
“No problem, mon. I glad you come. We solve everything.”
Not quite everything, but enough.
He handed Dubois $500. “Fix that engine, okay?”
“Ah, mon. This be too much. Way too much.”
“It’s all I have or I’d give you more.”
They said their goodbyes and he entered the terminal, checking in for his flight.
Matt Schwartz waited for him just before the security checkpoint.
“I didn’t think you’d let me leave without saying goodbye,” he told the Israeli.
“Did you find the page?”
He nodded.
“I thought you might. We wondered why you went back out on the boat.”
“What happened to Simon?”
“Went straight to the airport and is long gone.”
“Probably thinking that I had help in the citadelle.”
“That was the idea. Can I have the page?”
“I assume you’re not going to let me leave with it?”
“Payment for the favor I did you with Dubois.”
He reached into his back pocket and removed the curled page, still in its plastic bag. He’d broken the bottle to free it. The sheet was filled with nineteen lines of writing in faded black ink, along with the mark of the Admiral, just as Simon had described.
“Can we at least be provided with a copy?” he asked.
“I don’t suppose you would take my word that none of this is important to anything related to America.”
“It’s not my nature.”
“Then that copy you made on the way here should alleviate all of your government’s fears.”
He assumed Schwartz knew they’d stopped at the hotel on the way to the airport.
He handed the page over and said, “Any idea what this is? I speak several languages, but I can’t read it. Simon said it was Old Castilian.”
The Israeli shrugged. “Our people will translate it, as I’m sure will yours.”
“Simon killed a man for it.”
“I know. Which makes us all wonder. But people higher up than me will deal with this now.”
He understood. “Being at the bottom of the pile does come with disadvantages.”
Schwartz smiled. “I like you, Malone. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“Maybe so.”
The Israeli gestured with the bag. “Something tells me we’ve not seen, or heard, the last of Zachariah Simon.”
He agreed.
“All we can hope,” Schwartz said, “is that next time he’s someone else’s problem.”
“You got that right.”
And he headed for home.
About the Author
Steve Berry is the New York Times bestselling author of The Columbus Affair, The Jefferson Key, The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, and The Amber Room. His books have been translated into forty languages and sold in fifty-one countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org.
THE TUDOR PLOT
An original short story by Steve Berry, featuring
Cotton Malone
Coming April 2013
Available for preorder in March
Published by Ballantine Books
Read on for an excerpt from
The
King’s
Deception
by Steve Berry
Coming May 2013
available for preorder now
Published by Ballantine Books
LONDON
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21ST
6:25 P.M.
Cotton Malone stepped up to the Customs window at Heathrow Airport and presented two passports—his own and his son Gary’s. Positioned between himself and the glass-enclosed counter, however, stood a problem.
Fifteen-year-old Ian Dunne.
“This one doesn’t have a passport,” he told the attendant. then explained who he was and what he was doing. A brief call to somebody led to verbal approval for Ian to re-enter the country. Which didn’t surprise Malone. He assumed that since the Central Intelligence Agency wanted the boy here they’d make the necessary arrangements with the British.
He was tired from the long flight, though he’d caught a few hours of sleep. His knee still hurt from the kick Ian had delivered in Atlanta, before trying to flee from that airport. Luckily, his own fifteen-year-old, Gary, had been quick to tackle the little Scot before he escaped the concourse.
Favors for friends.
Always a problem.
This one for his former-boss, Stephanie Nelle, at the Magellan Billet.
“You’re headed that way,” Stephanie said, her voice tinny but still commanding over the phone.
“And how does anyone know that?”
 
; “It’s the CIA, Cotton. Langley called me directly. Somehow, they were aware that you’re in Georgia. All they want is for you to escort the boy back to London and hand him over to the Metropolitan Police. Then you and Gary can head to Copenhagen. In return, they’ve purchased first class tickets all the way home to Denmark.”
Not bad. His own tickets were coach.
“Seems like a simple request,” she said.
Four days ago he’d flown to Georgia for two reasons. The State Bar of Georgia required twelve hours of continuing legal education from all of its licensed lawyers. Though he’d retired from the Navy and the Magellan Billet, he still kept his law license active, which meant he had to satisfy the annual education mandate. Last year he’d attended a sanctioned event in Brussels, a three day meeting on multi-national property rights. This year he’d chosen a seminar in Atlanta on international law. Not the most exciting way to spend two days, but he’d worked too hard for that degree to simply allow it to lapse.
The second reason was personal.
Gary had asked to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with him. School was out for the week and his ex-wife, Pam, thought an overseas trip a good idea. He’d wondered why she was so reticent, and found out last week when Pam had called his bookshop in Copenhagen.
“Gary’s angry,” she said. “He’s asking a lot of questions.”
“Ones you don’t want to answer?”
“Ones I’m going to have a tough time answering.”
Which was an understatement. Six months ago she’d revealed a harsh truth during another call from Atlanta to Denmark. Gary was not his natural son. Instead, Gary was the product of an affair some sixteen years past. For Malone, the news had been both crushing and disturbing. He could only imagine what it had been for Gary.
“Neither one of us were saints back then, Cotton.”
She liked to remind him of that—as if somehow he’d forgotten that their marriage ultimately ended because of mutual lapses. He’d been foolish enough to think all of those demons had been dealt with last year during the divorce.
Now she’d sprung something new on him.
“Anything else you’ve not told me?”
“Gary wants to know about his birth father.”
“So would I.”
She’d told him nothing about the man, and refused his requests for information.
“He has no involvement here,” she said. “He’s a total stranger to all of us. Just like the women you were with have nothing to do with this, either. I don’t want to open that door. Ever.”
“Why did you tell Gary about this? We agreed to do that together, when the time was right.”
That decision had been made back in October, when Pam was in Copenhagen with Gary.
“I know. I know. My mistake.”
But not out of character. She liked to be in control. Of everything. Only she wasn’t in control here. Nobody was, actually.
“He hates me,” she said. “I see it in his eyes.”
“You turned the boy’s life upside down.”
“He told me today that he might want to live with you.”
He had to say, “You know I would never take advantage of this.”
“I know that. This is my fault. Not yours. He’s so angry. Maybe a week with you would help ease some of that.”
He’d come to realize that he didn’t love Gary one drop less because he carried no Malone genes. But he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t bothered by the fact. Six months had passed and the truth still hurt. Why? He wasn’t sure. He’d not been faithful to Pam while in the Navy. He was young and stupid and got caught. She supposedly forgave him, but now he knew that she’d had an affair of her own. Would she have strayed if he hadn’t?
He doubted it. Not her nature.
So he wasn’t blameless for the current mess.
He and Pam had been divorced over a year, but only back in October had they made their peace. Time and circumstances had a way of making that happen.
Now this.
One boy in his charge was angry and confused.
The other seemed to be a delinquent.
“Ian Dunne was born in Scotland,” Stephanie said. “Father is unknown. Mother abandoned him early. He was sent to London to live with an aunt, who wasn’t much of a parent. He drifted in and out of her home, finally running away. He has an extensive arrest record—petty theft, trespassing, loitering, that kind of thing.”
“And why is the CIA involved?”
“One of their people was shoved, or jumped, into the path of oncoming Underground train about a month ago. Dunne was there, in Oxford Circus. Witnesses say he might even have stolen something from the dead man.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“Just a person of interest they want to talk to.”
Not good, but also not his concern. In a few minutes his favor for Stephanie Nelle would be over, then he and Gary would catch their connecting flight to Copenhagen and enjoy the week, depending of course on how many uncomfortable questions his son might want answered. The problem was the Denmark flight departed not from Heathrow, but Gatwick, London’s other major airport, an hour’s ride east. Their departure was several hours away, so it wasn’t a problem. He would just need to convert some dollars to pounds and hire a taxi.
They left Customs and claimed their luggage.
Both he and Gary had packed light.
“The police going to take me?” Ian asked.
“That’s what I’m told.”
Gary appeared bothered. “What will happen to him?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say.”
And it was. Especially with the CIA involved.
He shouldered his bag and led both boys out of the baggage area.
“Can I have my things?” Ian asked.
When Ian had been turned over to him in Atlanta, he’d been given a plastic bag that contained a Swiss Army knife with all the assorted attachments, a pewter necklace with a religious medal attached, a pocket mace container, some silver shears, and two paperback books with their covers missing. Ivanhoe and Le Morte D’arthur. Their brown edges were water stained, the bindings veined with thick white creases. Both were thirty-plus-year-old printings. Stamped on the title page was ANY OLD BOOKS, with an address in Piccadilly Circus, London. Malone employed a similar branding of inventory, his simply announcing COTTON MALONE, BOOKSELLER, HOJBRO PLADS, COPENHAGEN. The items in the plastic bag all belonged to Ian, seized by Customs when they took him into custody at Miami International, after trying to enter the country illegally.
“That’s up to the police,” he said. “My orders are to hand you and the bag over to them.”
He’d stuffed the bundle inside his travel bag, where it would stay until the police assumed custody. He half expected Ian to bolt, so he remained on guard. Ahead he spied two men, both in dark suits walking their way. The one on the right, short and stocky with auburn hair, introduced himself as Inspector Norse.
He extended a hand, which Malone shook.
“This is Inspector Devene. We’re with the Met. We were told you’d be accompanying the boy. We’re here to give you a lift to Gatwick and take charge of Master Dunne.”
“I appreciate the ride. Wasn’t looking forward to an expensive taxi.”
“Least we can do. Our car is just outside. One of the privileges of being the police, we can park where we want.”
The man threw Malone a grin.
They started for the exit.
Malone noticed Inspector Devene take up a position behind Ian. Smart move, he thought.
“You responsible for getting him into the country with no passport?”
Norse nodded. “We are, along with some others working with us. I think you know about them.”
That he did.
They stepped out of the terminal into brisk morning air. A bank of thick clouds tinted the sky a depressing shade of pewter. A blue Mercedes sedan sat by the curb. Norse opened the rear door and motioned for Gary to climb
in first, then Ian and Malone.
The inspector stood outside until they were all in, then closed the door. Norse rode in the front passenger’s seat, while Devene drove. They sped out of Heathrow and found the M4 motor way. Malone knew the route, London a familiar locale. Years ago he’d spent a lot time in England on assignments. He’d also been detached here for a year by the navy. Traffic progressively thickened as they made their way east towards the city.
“Would it be all right if we made one stop before we head for Gatwick?” Norse asked him.
“No problem. We have time before the plane leaves. The least we can do for a free ride.”
Malone watched Ian as the boy gazed out the window. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to him. Stephanie’s assessment had not been a good one. A street kid, no family, completely on his own. Whereas Gary was dark-haired with a swarthy complexion, Ian was blond, fair skinned. He seemed like a good kid dealt a bad hand. But at least he was young, and youth offered chances, and chances led to possibilities. Such a contrast to Gary, who lived a more conventional, secure life. The thought of Gary on the streets, loose, with no one, tore at his heart.
Warm air blasted the car’s interior and the engine droned as they chugged through traffic.
Malone’s eyes surrendered to jet lag.
When he woke, he glanced at his watch and realized he’d been out about fifteen minutes. He willed himself to alertness. Gary and Ian were still sitting quiet. The sky had darkened. A storm was approaching the city. He studied the car’s interior, noticing for the first time no radio or communications equipment. Also, the carpets were immaculate, the upholstery in pristine condition. Certainly not like any police car he’d ever ridden in.
He then examined Norse.
The man’s brown hair was cut below the ears. Not shaggy, but thick. He was clean shaven and a bit overweight. He was dressed appropriately, suit and tie, but it was the left ear lobe that drew his attention. Pierced. No earring was present, but the puncture was clear.
“I was wondering, Inspector. Might I see your identification? I should have asked at the airport.”