The side door leading into the church opened and a figure emerged. A man, buttoning his coat and moving away toward King’s Bench Walk and the gate that led out of the Temple grounds.

“That is Blake Antrim,” Mathews said. “He’s the lead agent on a CIA operation known as King’s Deception that is presently ongoing within our country.”

She watched as Antrim vanished beyond the pale of the wrought-iron lights.

“How close were you and he?” Mathews asked.

“We were only together a year. It was when I studied law at Oxford, then applied for membership here at Middle Temple.”

“And Antrim changed your career path?”

She shrugged. “Not directly. I was drifting toward law enforcement while we were together. I had already applied to SOCA when we separated.”

“You don’t impress me as a woman who would allow a man to affect her so profoundly. Everything I have read or been told about you says you are tough, smart, independent.”

“He was … difficult,” she said.

“Precisely what your supervisors say about you.”

“I try not to be.”

“I notice that you have little to no accent, and your diction and syntax are barely British.”

“My father, a Brit, died when I was eight. My mother was American. She never remarried and, though we lived here, she remained American.”

“Do you know an American named Cotton Malone?”

She shook her head.

“He’s a former intelligence agent. Highly regarded. Competent. Quite different from Antrim. Apparently, Antrim knows him, and made it possible for Malone to be here, in London. There is a young man, Ian Dunne, whom Malone returned here a few hours ago. Antrim has been searching for this boy.”

She had to say, “You do know that Blake and I did not part on the best of terms?”

“Yet he provided a glowing recommendation for your SOCA application.”

“That was before we split,” she said, offering nothing more.

“I chose you, Miss Richards, because of your past relationship with Antrim. If that was hostile, or nonexistent, then you are of no use to me. And as you painfully know, your usefulness to SOCA has already waned.”

“And you can fix that?”

He nodded. “If you can assist me with my problem.”

“I can re-ingratiate myself with Blake,” she said.

“That is what I wanted to hear. He must suspect nothing. At no point can you reveal any involvement with us.”

She nodded.

In the spill of light that leaked in from the window she studied England’s top spymaster. A Cold War legend. She’d heard stories, the exploits, and had often dreamed of being a part of the SIS. But to see and speak to Blake Antrim again? What a price to pay for admission.

“I am of the Inner Temple,” Mathews said. “A member fifty years. I read the law just over there.” He pointed out the window, beyond the Temple Church dome.

“And you opted for law enforcement, too.”

“That I did. See, you and I have something in common.”

“You still have not told me what this is about.”

Mathews stepped toward a tiered desk. He slid out a chair and beckoned for her to sit. She complied and, for the first time, noticed the dark outline of a laptop before her.

He opened the machine and pressed one of the keyboard’s buttons. The screen sprang to life and bathed her in a harsh light. She squinted and gave her eyes time to adjust.

“Read this, then do as instructed.”

Mathews headed for the door.

“How will I find Antrim?” she asked.

“Not to worry, you will have additional information when needed.”

“How will you find me?”

He stopped, turned, and shook his head. “Don’t ask silly questions, Miss Richards.”

And he left.

Fourteen

Malone led Ian away from the mews, back to Little Venice where there were plenty of taxis. No return call had come as yet from Devene. The fact that Gary was in jeopardy tore at his heart. How had he allowed this to happen? It ran counter to everything he’d tried to do when he retired from the Justice Department.

“I’m quitting my job,” he said to Gary.

“I thought you loved what you did.”

He shook his head. “The risks have become too great.”

It happened in Mexico City. He was there helping prosecute three defendants who’d murdered a DEA agent. During a lunch break he’d been caught in the crossfire of an assassination attempt in a public park that turned into a bloodbath. Seven dead, nine injured. He’d finally brought down the shooters, but not before taking a round in his left shoulder. He’d spent a month recovering, and making some decisions about his life.

“You’re thirteen,” he said to Gary. “This is going to be tough for you to understand, but sometimes life has to change.”