The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry Page 0,1

queen said. “Of some infamous repute. He steals people’s privacy, their secrets, true or not, and publishes them for the world to know.”

He caught the bitterness. “So why exactly was I brought here?”

He’d come to England on assignment for the Magellan Billet. Three years ago the American embassies in Greece and Egypt were targeted by a terrorist named Peter Lyon, a South African who blamed the United States for the destruction of apartheid, a rise of black rule, and an overall dilution of the white race worldwide. He was also a nefarious arms dealer, particularly dangerous because of his personal wealth and close association with many fanatical elements. The two embassy attacks had taken the lives of a dozen marines and six State Department representatives, including the deputy ambassador to Greece. Civilian casualties had topped 100. The Justice Department quickly linked Lyon with the killings, and four of those involved, all on Lyon’s payroll, were captured last year by a team of Navy SEALs.

Lyon remained a fugitive.

The International Court of Justice had assumed jurisdiction and Great Britain was chosen as the venue for the trial, with the United States prosecuting. A Justice Department team had been sent over to handle the matter, which included Malone. He’d been at his hotel, readying himself for trial, when men with badges appeared and politely asked him to come with them. They’d allowed a call to Atlanta and he spoke with his boss, Stephanie Nelle, who said that she wanted him to go with them, too.

But she’d offered no explanations.

Victoria settled back in her wheelchair, her right hand trembling. “My body is failing me, Mr. Malone. I am eighty-two years old and the one thing that keeps me alive is the realization that, after I’m gone, my son will succeed me. Richard is our most poignant disappointment. Like parents throughout the world with a troubled child, I wonder where we went wrong.”

Malone was surprised by her frank admission.

“I have tried,” Victoria said, “to convey to my son the importance of his position, but he remains resolute in defiance. Being a monarch in this century is difficult enough—without erecting artificial barriers. My son fails to understand this.”

A quotation came to mind, so he said, “His will is not his own. For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, carve for himself, for on his choice depends the sanity and health of this whole state.”

Victoria gave a slight nod. “Shakespeare wrote Laertes’ speech with great eloquence. Ophelia should have taken heed. So should my son. Thankfully, our grandson is more mature than his father. Albert will be our saving grace.”

Now he understood. “So when an infamous newspaper publisher mentioned that whatever he wanted to discuss concerned Albert, your attention was piqued?”

She nodded again, a slight bob of the head, her neck muscles surely restricted by the disease. “He is our joy.”

“And our hope,” James said.

Malone turned toward the Duke of Edinburgh. “What’s the problem?”

James motioned across the room. “William will explain.”

He turned toward the desk.

“The Prince of Wales, as I’m sure you know, stays in the press. Over the past nine years I have charted the reports from every London newspaper. That survey shows the Globe printed well over 70 percent of the initial stories about Richard. Now, that could simply be from hard work, luck—”

“Or a little inside help.”

“Precisely,” James said.

“And the dead man? He published the Globe?”

“He was its founder and owner.”

“Have you spoken to Richard about this?”

James shook his head. “It would do no good. He could not care less about any perceptions, problems, or embarrassments.”

Malone sensed something in the prince’s tone. “What are you not saying?”

“It is our daughter,” Victoria said. “Eleanor is an ambitious woman. We fear that she might have something to do with all of this.”

That shocked him. “What would be gained by disgracing her brother? She’s far removed from the succession.”

“As long as Albert is safe,” James said.

“You think he might be in danger?”

“We don’t know what to think,” James made clear. “We hope this is all simply the paranoia of two old people with difficult children. But William is not so sure. Neither am I anymore. After the tapes incident, my mind was changed.”

He recalled the furor that had erupted a few months back when audiotapes of Richard’s private telephone conversations surfaced in the media. Calls made to various women, some married, others with less-than-stellar reputations. The conversations were juvenile and sexually explicit, displaying an amazing immaturity—which the press had