Читаем The King's Deception полностью

“It doesn’t exist anymore,” he said. “The abbey is gone.”

A sense of defeat filled him.

What to do now?

“Look,” Gary said. “On the screen.”

His gaze locked on the monitor. An email had appeared in his secured account. He read the FROM line. THOMAS MATHEWS. Then the subject. YOUR LIFE.

“Wait over there,” he said to Gary.

The boy’s gaze signaled defiance.

“This is CIA business. Wait over there.”

Gary retreated across to the other side of the room.

He opened the email and read the message.

Clever, your escape from the Daedalus Society. Three of their operatives are dead. They will not be pleased. I am aware of Operation King’s Deception, as I am sure you now realize. I am also aware that you have learned the location of the Tudor sanctuary from Farrow Curry’s translation. We must speak in person. Why would you do such a thing? Because, Mr. Antrim, if you do not, my next communication will be to the United States and you surely know what the substance of that conversation will be. I know about the money the Daedalus Society paid. Actually, you and I now desire the same thing. So our intentions are similar. If you would like to see that which you have sought, then follow the directions below. I want you there within the next half hour. If not, then I will leave you to your superiors, who will not be pleased to learn what you have done.

He glanced up from the screen.

MI6 knew all of his business, too.

What choice did he have?

He read the directions. Not far away. He could be there within the half hour. The knapsack he’d taken from the warehouse sat at his feet. Inside was Cecil’s original journal and the remaining PEs. He should have retrieved one of the guns from the bodies in the warehouse, but his main concern had been to get the hell out of there.

He glanced across the room at Gary, who was staring out of one of the café’s street-front windows.

Mathews had not mentioned a thing about him.

Maybe Gary could be used.

To his advantage.

* * *

Gary was confused.

This man who was his birth father was so different from his father. Moody. Emotional. Sharp-tongued. But he was a big boy and could handle it, though all of this was a new experience.

He’d also just watched as this man incinerated three people, then showed no remorse. The woman had obviously known Antrim since she’d twice called him by his first name and, just before Antrim ignited the explosives, he’d taunted her. Rot in hell, Denise.

His dad had only once spoken about killing. That happened a month ago, when he, his father, and his mother were all in Copenhagen. Not something you like to do, but something you sometimes have to do. He could appreciate that.

Blake Antrim seemed to take another approach. But that did not make him wrong. Or bad. Just different.

Antrim now seemed agitated. Upset. Concerned.

Not the same confidence from yesterday, when he first revealed that he was the man who’d been with Gary’s mother.

Things had changed.

He watched as Antrim hoisted the knapsack from the floor and walked over.

“We have to go.”

“Where to?”

“To the place the journal mentions. I know where that is now.”

“What about my dad?”