And the homer lay in pieces on the floor.
So—
Then it hit him.
Son of a bitch.
He lunged toward Eleanor and grabbed her by the throat. “Where is it?”
Her eyes went wide as she struggled against him.
Albert moved to help her, but William stopped him.
He tightened his grip. “We could stay here and wait for the thing to arrive. Weren’t you supposed to be gone by now?”
He saw the observation registered.
“My … purse.”
She carried no purse, and none was inside the chapel.
“Where?”
“Outside … my secretary has it.”
He released his hold and rushed from the chapel.
Malone scanned the Tower Green, William standing beside him. Two security men kept Eleanor and Albert inside the chapel, behind heavy stone walls. Albert had demanded an explanation, but there was no time. The man who’d provided the first warning stood with them, an ear fob linking him with security command.
“Missile is still inbound,” the young man said. “Two minutes to arrival. Give or take.”
“What is happening?” William asked.
“Eleanor brought a second homer. The real one.”
“There she is,” William said pointing. “Eleanor’s secretary. Her name is Audrey.”
He spotted the older woman, dressed in a dark business ensemble, standing off to the side, holding two purses. They sprinted for her and William ordered her to hand over Eleanor’s purse. She didn’t argue. Malone released its clasp and found another homer inside. Smashing it would certainly prevent the missile from landing at the Tower. But where would the warhead, with no guidance, finally strike the ground? It would fly until its fuel was depleted, then drop onto whatever lay below. Which could still be inside London. He had to make sure that nobody was hurt. His gaze locked on the gate that led from the Tower to the Thames, maybe 200 yards away.
“One minute,” the younger man said. “Still on course. Headed here.”
Malone grabbed the purse and bolted for the gate. His feet pounded the pavement as he kept on a straight line for the river. Inside his head he ticked off the time.
45 seconds.
40 seconds.
He crossed a broad walk and stopped at the bank.
30 seconds.
Or at least he hoped.
Nobody occupied any of the benches. The walkways were likewise deserted, as was the river in either direction for more than a mile. Surely all of those areas had been secured for the royal visit.
20 seconds.
He kept running and dropped the homer into the purse, then, using his momentum, hurled the bundle as far as he could out into the water. It splashed fifty-plus feet out, lingered a moment, then disappeared beneath the surface.
He heard the whine of the missile as it overflew the Tower and sought its target. He fled the bank and dove behind one of the concrete benches.
The missile arrived, dropping from the sky, splashing into the Thames.
Then exploded.
Yourstone sat in his study, his ears ready to register a low rumble as, across town, the missile slammed into the Tower Green. The resulting fireball should kill not only Albert and the Archbishop of Canterbury, but an assortment of lesser members of the royal family, too. A terrorist, bent on revenge against a Western nation that dared to try his associates, had struck a blow by murdering the second in line to the British throne. Killing Albert instead of Richard would further divert any thought of a royal coup. After all, Richard was still alive. The act would be attributed to senseless violence. Days or weeks later, when Richard abdicated in favor of Eleanor, that would be chalked up to the heir apparent’s ineptness — and the second phase of Yourstone’s revolution would be complete.
But at 7:00 P.M. nothing was heard.
He checked the television.
No reports of anything unusual.
At 7:30 the house phone rang.
“Lord Yourstone, my task is complete.”
Peter Lyon.
Calling here? Not good.
“What happened?”
“The missile was fired but missed the target. I was across the Thames, watching. A man tossed a purse into the river just moments before the missile arrived. It overflew the Tower and slammed into the water. The explosion occurred beneath the surface. Quite spectacular, actually. A towering plume of water that fell harmlessly back to the surface, doing no harm.”
How could that be? Everything had been set up according to plan.
“Please deposit the remainder of the money you owe me.”
“You didn’t deliver the results promised.”
“But I did. The missile was fired, and it arrived. You were the one responsible for securing the homing device.”
“I’m not paying you any more money.”
“Then I will kill you.”
A shiver swept through him.
He reconsidered. “All right. I’ll make the transfer.”
“Excellent. And by the way, you’re fortunate that I don’t kill you anyway. You disrupted my plans. I wanted that spectacle. But at the moment, I have a greater need for your money.”
He heard a click.
The call ended.
What had happened?
He dialed another number, hoping to find out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Malone strapped himself into the helicopter’s rear compartment. Professor Goulding sat beside him. An RAF pilot settled in behind the controls and fired up the turbine. A couple of minutes later they lifted off into a frigid, murky Icelandic morning.
A military transport had flown them both from London to a NATO base at Keflavik. En route Malone had spoken on a secure line with Stephanie Nelle, briefing her on what had happened yesterday at the Tower with the missile. He’d even managed a few hours’ sleep last night and adjusted his clothing for arctic conditions, donning thermal underwear, thick wool shirt and pants, gloves, and a fur-lined insulated coat with a hood. Goulding had done the same. He’d brought the professor knowing he might need some immediate expertise. The queen had personally requested the journey and Goulding had been anxious to go. On Stephanie’s orders he’d revealed to the queen all of what he’d learned about Arthur’s grave, but kept MI6’s involvement secret.
The official story from yesterday was that a military exercise had gone awry, the armed missile falling into the Thames and exploding underwater.
But Malone knew who was behind it.
Peter Lyon.
Who remained at large.
He had questions for Sir Thomas Mathews, but the head of MI6 was also nowhere to be found. No surprise, really. Considering the implications. He’d reported everything to Stephanie, including all of his suspicions. On the transatlantic flight, Goulding had briefed him on three important details left out of yesterday’s talk. The first was a journal, compiled during the Catholic occupation of Iceland, contained within the British Museum.
Irish settlements on Iceland were abandoned when the Vikings arrived in 90 °CE, but a few new monasteries appeared in the centuries after, all closed during the Reformation when Danes banned Catholicism. Before evacuating one of the monasteries near Skri∂uklauster, on the eastern coast, an industrious monk had recorded what he’d found among the ancient records. The monk spoke of a cave haunted by a ghost where someone of great importance lay buried. The location was supposedly to the south of a pyramid-shaped peak, beyond a brown-and-red-striped gorge, in the face of a sheer cliff known only to birds. The journal was sketchy, reflecting a time when myth and magic predominated, and ordinarily the tale would be summarily dismissed. Yet Goulding had noticed drawings contained within the journal, etchings supposedly seen by locals who’d ventured into the cave, that matched the plates on the ceremonial vessel.