The King's Deception Read Online Free Page A

carnations. Her favorite.
    He logged into his computer and provided the day’s access code. Not much had arrived since early afternoon, but a FLASH ALERT from Langley caught his eye. A post-9/11 thing. Far better to disseminate information across the grid than keep it to yourself and shoulder all of the blame. Most of the alerts did not concern him. His area was
special counter
-operations, targeted assignments that were, by definition, not the norm. All were highly classified and he reported only to the director of counter-operations. Five missions were currently ongoing, another two in the planning stages. This alert, though, was addressed only to him, decrypted automatically by his computer.
    KING’S DECEPTION IS NOW TIMELINED . IF NO RESULTS IN NEXT 48 HOURS CEASE OPERATIONS AND EXIT .
    Not entirely unexpected.
    Things had not been going right in England.
    Until a few days ago, when they’d finally caught a break.
    He needed to know more and reached for the desk phone, calling his man in London, who answered on the second ring.
    “Ian Dunne and Cotton Malone are on the ground at Heathrow,” he was told.
    He smiled.
    Seventeen years with the CIA had taught him how to get things done. Cotton Malone in London, with Ian Dunne, was proof of that.
    He’d made that happen.
    Malone had once been a hotshot Justice Department agent at the Magellan Billet, where he served a dozen years before retiring after a shootout in Mexico City. Malone now lived in Copenhagen and owned an old-book shop but maintained a close relationship with Stephanie Nelle, the Billet’s longtime head. A connection he’d used to draw Malone to England. A call to Langley led to a call to the attorney general, which led to Stephanie Nelle, who’d contacted Malone.
    He smiled again.
    At least something had gone right today.

Three
    WINDSOR , ENGLAND
    5:50 PM
    K ATHLEEN R ICHARDS HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE W INDSOR C ASTLE . For a born-and-bred Brit that seemed unforgivable. But at least she knew its past. First built in the 11th century to guard the River Thames and protect Norman dominance on the outer reaches of a fledgling London, it had served as a royal enclave since the time of William the Conqueror. Once a motte-and-bailey castle built of wood, now it was a massive stone fortification. It survived the First Barons’ War in 1200, the English Civil War in the 1600s, two world wars, and a devastating fire in 1992 to become the largest inhabited castle in the world.
    The twenty-mile drive from London had been through a late-autumn rain. The castle dominated a steep chalk bluff, the gray walls, turrets, and towers—thirteen acres of buildings—barely discernible through the evening storm. The call had come from her supervisor an hour ago, telling her to head there.
    Which shocked her.
    She was twenty days into a thirty-day suspension without pay. An operation in Liverpool involving illicit arms to Northern Ireland had turned ugly when the three targets decided to run. She’d given motor chase and corralled them, but not before havoc had erupted on the local highways. Eighteen cars ended up wrecked. Afew injuries, some serious, but no fatalities. Her fault? Not in her mind.
    But her bosses had thought differently.
    And the press had not been kind to SOCA.
    The Serious Organized Crime Agency, England’s version of America’s FBI, handled drugs, money laundering, fraud, computer crimes, human trafficking, and firearms violations. Ten years she’d been an officer. When hired she’d been told that four qualities made for a good recruit—working with others, achieving results, leadership, making a difference. She’d like to think at least three of those were her specialty. The “working with others” part had always presented problems. Not that she was hard to get along with, it was just that she preferred to work alone. Luckily, her performance evaluations were excellent, her conviction record exemplary. She’d even received three commendations. But