“I have no way of contacting him. Let’s check this out, then we’ll figure out how to find him.”
That sounded logical.
“But I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
Malone was ready to do something. Anything. Yet he was stymied as to the proper course. He had no way of contacting Blake Antrim and no way of finding Gary. He was furious at himself for making a multitude of poor decisions, his son’s welfare now in jeopardy thanks to his carelessness. Miss Mary and Tanya had shown him the translation of Robert Cecil’s journal, which he and Kathleen Richards had now read in its entirety.
“Blackfriars Abbey is gone,” Tanya told him. “It has been for a long time.”
Another piece of bad news, which he added to the growing heap.
“There’s an Underground station there now,” Tanya said. “It’s presently closed, being totally rebuilt.”
He listened as the sisters told him about the station, which had existed on the site since the 19th century. Both rail and Underground lines converged there. Last year, the station was demolished and a sleek new glass-fronted building was erected, which was slowly taking shape. No rail trains stopped there now, and hadn’t for over a year. But the Underground still passed beneath.
“The place is a mess,” Miss Mary said to him. “Construction everywhere. The pavements are closed all around it. That station sits on the riverbank beside a busy street.”
“What you’re saying is that this four-hundred-year-old puzzle is at a dead end.”
“Then why is SIS so interested?” Richards asked. “If there’s nothing to find, why does Thomas Mathews care?”
He knew the answer. “Because there is something to find.”
He quickly ran through his options and determined that the choices were down to a precious few. Doing nothing? Never. Calling Stephanie Nelle back? Possible, but the time lag before anything happened could be a problem. Trying to find Antrim on his own? Impossible. London was a big place.
There seemed only one path.
He faced Richards. “Can you contact Mathews?”
She nodded. “I have a number.”
He pointed to the room phone. “Dial it.”
Kathleen forgave Malone for his attitude. Who could blame him? He was in a quandary, the only way out possibly coming from a man who’d just tried to kill them both. This spy business was so different from her everyday experience. Things seemed to change by the minute, with no warning and little time to react. That part she actually liked. Still, it was frustrating not knowing who was on what side, and where she fit in.
But at least she was still standing.
In the game.
And that meant something.
She dialed the number from the note Mathews had provided earlier.
Two rings.
Then it was answered.
“I assumed you would be making contact sooner rather than later,” Mathews said in her ear.
She handed over the phone.
Malone gripped the headset and said, “Listen to me. My son is God knows where. He didn’t ask to be put into this—”
“No. He was maneuvered into this.”
“Which you allowed to happen. I didn’t know.
“I just communicated with Blake Antrim.”
That’s what he wanted to hear.
“Does he have Gary?”
“He does. They’re on the run. Antrim killed three of my agents.”
“How?”
“He blew them up, thinking they were his enemy.”
“And Gary?”
“He was there. But he’s fine.”
Not good. Time to play his trump card. “I have the flash drive, which contains a complete translation of Robert Cecil’s journal. I read it. Which means I’m not forgetting it.”
“I have that translation now myself.”
“I also know what this is all about.”
He paused.
“Ireland.”
Silence on the other end of the phone confirmed his suspicion.
“What do you want?” Mathews finally asked.
“My son, and to be gone from here.”
“And what of all that you know?”
“That’s my insurance to make sure you behave. I can email that drive to Stephanie Nelle with one click. In fact, I have it loaded up right now. Would you like me to send it along to her? The CIA would probably love to know that what they were after is real. They’d also love to know that you killed two of their men. Maybe they’ll pay you back by releasing it all to the world, just to spite Downing Street.”
Mathews chuckled. “We both know that once you do any of that I have nothing left to gain. You, on the other hand, still have something to lose. Your son.”
“That’s right, you son of a bitch. So cut the crap and let’s make a deal.”
“I know where Antrim is headed. He, too, has Cecil’s translation.”
“Blackfriars Abbey is gone.”
“I see you do know. And you’re right, it is gone. But the Tudor sanctuary is not. If I give you Antrim, will you give me the drive?”
“I can still tell Washington.”
“You could, but you won’t. This is personal, not business. Your son is at stake. For me, it’s the other way around.”
He knew better, but said what was expected. “Deal.”
“Then here is where you must go.”
