The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry Page 0,2
exploited.
“Did you ever discover who recorded them?” he asked.
James shook his head. “They tried to blame palace security, but no one here made them. The conversations were all on open, mobile phones, so they could have been recorded by anyone. Bloody embarrassing for our family. But, as with everything else, Richard seemed unaffected.”
“The disturbing thing about those conversations,” William said, “was that they occurred over an extended period, on different mobile lines, in different parts of the country. How did someone happen to be tuned to the precise frequency at the precise moment?”
“What did your security people say?”
“They offered no explanation, and to this day we have no idea who made those tapes, nor who forwarded them to the press.”
“Let me guess,” Malone said. “The Globe had an exclusive.”
William nodded. “The source was, as always, ‘unidentified palace insiders.’ Just like in today’s Globe. A front-page story about Richard and the daughter of one of the more vocal lords in Parliament. Pictures and all. A grand romp he had last weekend. Richard may be reckless and foolish, but he does not invite the press to follow him. Yet they were somehow alerted to that liaison.”
“But why is his sister suspect?” Malone asked.
“My daughter,” Victoria said, “tries hard to convince me that she is a good child. But she married into an ambitious family. Nigel Yourstone says he is a friend of the realm, yet his son is hardly the man I would have thought Eleanor would marry. Her decision to do so has always puzzled me. But the boy was fair born, of the right lineage, and pronounced fertile. That is all I can require of her choice in a husband.”
“Our daughter,” James said, “is far more devious and capable than her brother.”
“You think she’s the leak?”
Neither parent answered him.
Finally, James said, “We simply don’t know.”
Silence passed between them.
“There is no one in the palace we can trust with this,” James said. “William has kept his concerns and his suspicions to himself. Victoria and I speak only between ourselves. We need someone independent to analyze the situation and tell us if there is any reason to be concerned.”
“Your intelligence people can’t do the job?”
The prince shook his head. “Far too sensitive. William is close with your supervisor. She told us where to find you and said you might be able to help us out for a few days.”
“You know Stephanie Nelle?” he asked William.
“Goodness, yes. She and I have been acquainted for years. Quite a delightful woman, wouldn’t you say? She said you were her best agent. We need the best here, Mr. Malone.”
“And we need to move with speed and authority,” James said.
But there was still the matter of the terrorists’ trial, scheduled to start in less than a week. He was merely assisting, but he hated to leave his colleagues in the lurch.
One of three phones on the desk rang and William answered. After listening for a moment he hung up. “The BBC has a broadcast running that the front office says we should see.”
William stepped over to an ornate cabinet and swung open its double doors, revealing a television. He switched on the set and adjusted the volume. An older man was standing before a bevy of microphones.
“That’s Lord Bryce,” James said. “A stubborn blowhard. No friend of the Crown. Though I rarely agree with Richard, his choice of sexual companion this time is fitting punishment for that bloke.”
Malone was puzzled and William explained about today’s Globe story, which detailed Richard’s tryst from last weekend with Bryce’s daughter. Bryce was no monarchist, and the on-screen announcer was explaining how he intended to move aggressively toward the abolition of the monarchy. No one gave his effort much of a chance, but the attempt would definitely generate more negative discussion about an institution that, the announcer noted, “had begun to outlive its usefulness.” The voice went on to say, “Tourist dollars generated from the millions who travel to Britain each year to experience royal culture should not be justification for perpetuating a national embarrassment. Is it too much to ask for the privileged to behave themselves?”
The image suddenly shifted to another man. Mid-fifties, handsome, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. He approached the microphones and spoke in a deep, authoritative voice, expressing his loyalty to the Crown, but also his disagreement with the heir’s immoral actions.
“That is Nigel Yourstone,” James said.
He made the connection.
Yourstone’s son was married to Eleanor.
“I have to agree with my colleague,” Yourstone said. “Enough is enough. The time