In
a few minutes his favor for Stephanie Nelle would be over, then he and Gary
would catch their connecting flight to Copenhagen and enjoy the week, depending
of course on how many uncomfortable questions his son might want answered. The
hitch was that
the Denmark
flight departed not from Heathrow, but Gatwick, London’s other major airport,
an hour’s ride east. Their departure time was several hours away, so it wasn’t
a problem. He would just need to convert some dollars to pounds and hire a
taxi.
They
left Customs and claimed their luggage.
Both
he and Gary had packed light.
“The
police going to take me?” Ian asked.
“That’s
what I’m told.”
“What
will happen to him?” Gary asked.
He
shrugged. “Hard to say.”
And
it was. Especially with the CIA involved.
He
shouldered his bag and led both boys out of the baggage area.
“Can
I have my things?” Ian asked.
When
Ian had been turned over to him in Atlanta, he’d been given a plastic bag that
contained a Swiss Army knife with all the assorted attachments, a pewter
necklace with a religious medal attached, a pocket Mace container, some silver
shears, and two paperback books with their covers missing.
Ivanhoe
and
Le Morte D’Arthur.
Their
brown edges were water-stained, the bindings veined with thick white creases.
Both were thirty-plus-year-old printings. Stamped on the title page was any old
books, with an address in Piccadilly Circus, London. He employed a similar
branding of inventory, his simply announcing COTTON MALONE, BOOKSELLER, HØJBRO
PLADS, COPENHAGEN. The items in the plastic bag all belonged to Ian, seized by
Customs when they took him into custody at Miami International, after he’d
tried to enter the country illegally.
“That’s up to the police,” he said. “My orders
are to hand you and the bag over to them.”
He’d
stuffed the bundle inside his travel case, where it would stay until the police
assumed custody. He half expected Ian to bolt, so he remained on guard. Ahead
he spied two men, both in dark suits walking their way. The one on the right,
short and stocky with auburn hair, introduced himself as Inspector Norse.
He
extended a hand, which Malone shook.
“This
is Inspector Devene. We’re with the Met. We were told you’d be accompanying the
boy. We’re here to give you a lift to Gatwick and take charge of Master Dunne.”
“I
appreciate the ride. Wasn’t looking forward to an expensive taxi.”
“Least
we can do. Our car is just outside. One of the privileges of being the police
is we can park where we want.”
The
man threw Malone a grin.
They
started for the exit.
Malone
noticed Inspector Devene take up a position behind Ian. Smart move, he thought.
“You
responsible for getting him into the country with no passport?”
Norse
nodded. “We are, along with some others working with us. I think you know about
them.”
That
he did.
They
stepped out of the terminal into brisk morning air. A bank of dense clouds
tinted the sky a depressing shade of pewter. A blue Mercedes sedan sat by the
curb. Norse opened the rear door and motioned for Gary to climb in fi rst, then
Ian and Malone. The inspector stood outside until they were all in, then closed
the door. Norse rode in the front passenger seat, while Devene drove. They sped
out of Heathrow and found the M4 motorway. Malone knew the route, London a
familiar locale. Years ago he’d spent time in England on assignments. He’d also
been detached here for a year by the navy. Traffi c progressively thickened as
they made their way east toward the city.
“Would
it be all right if we made one stop before we head for Gatwick?” Norse asked
him.
“No problem. We have time before the plane
leaves. The least we can do for a free ride.”
Malone
watched Ian as the boy gazed out the window. He couldn’t help but wonder what
would happen to him. Stephanie’s assessment had not been a good one. A street
kid, no family, completely on his own. Unlike Gary, who was dark-haired with a
swarthy complexion, Ian was blond and fair-skinned. He seemed like a good kid,
though. Just dealt a bad hand. But at least he was young, and youth offered
chances, and chances led to possibilities. Such a contrast with Gary, who lived
a more conventional, secure life. The thought of Gary on the streets, loose,
with no one, tore at his heart. Warm air blasted the car’s interior and the
engine droned as they chugged through traffic.
Malone’s
eyes surrendered to jet lag.
When
he woke, he glanced at his watch and realized he’d been out about fifteen
minutes. He willed himself to alertness. Gary and Ian were still sitting
quietly. The sky had darkened further. A storm was approaching the city. He
studied the car’s interior, noticing for the first time no radio or
communications equipment. Also, the carpets
were immaculate,
the upholstery in pristine condition. Certainly not like any police car he’d
ever ridden in.
He
then examined Norse.
The
man’s brown hair was cut below the ears. Not shaggy, but thick. He was
clean-shaven and a bit overweight. He was dressed appropriately, suit and tie,
but it was the left earlobe that drew hisattention. Pierced. No earring was
present, but the puncture was clear.
“I
was wondering, Inspector. Might I see your identification? I should have asked
at the airport.”
Norse
did not answer him. The question aroused Ian’s attention, and he studied Malone
with a curious look.
“Did
you hear me, Norse? I’d like to see your identification.”
“Just
enjoy the ride, Malone.”
He
didn’t like the curt tone so he reached for the front seat and pulled himself
forward, intending to make his point clearer.
The
barrel of a gun came around the headrest and greeted him.
“This
enough identification?” Norse asked.
“Actually,
I was hoping for a picture ID.” He motioned to the weapon. “When did the
Metropolitan Police start issuing Glocks?”
Excerpted from THE
KING’S DECEPTION Copyright © 2013 Steve Berry. Excerpted by permission of
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part
of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing
from the publisher.
