The Tudor Plot A Cotton Malone Novella - By Steve Berry Page 0,23
grand style. A missile, fired at the Tower of London. With Albert there.”
All of which fit Lyon’s grandiose personality. His people were being tried on British soil, and he would make sure the entire nation understood that error.
“Lyon wants to strike a public blow. Yourstone and Princess Eleanor want the second in line for the throne dead. Of course, they want no blame for that. So they made a most diabolical arrangement.”
Lyon was one of the world’s premier arms dealers. Procuring a surface-to-surface guided missile would not be a problem.
“And you kept all of this to yourself?”
“I head the Secret Intelligence Service. As you noted back at the college, my jurisdiction lies outside this country. MI5 handles internal matters.”
“Has MI5 been alerted?”
Mathews shook his head. “I couldn’t risk it. They are not the most reliable of people. Besides, Peter Lyon is an international matter and I want him. Now I have him. My people have worked hard to keep this contained. We just need to finish it.”
“We?”
“A tracking device has been smuggled into the Tower, one the missile will use for guidance. I need you to locate that device.”
“Why not just stop the missile before it fires?”
“I will do that. We have the launch point under surveillance. There is no danger of any missile leaving that locale and striking Albert. But we need to implicate the right culprits in this vengeful plot.”
“You don’t have agents who can handle that?”
“None of my people was recruited by the queen. You were. The palace apparently trusts you, so you are the logical choice to reveal the conspirators.”
“The queen already suspects Yourstone and her daughter.”
“And she is correct. But proof must be uncovered.”
He understood. “And my doing it also insulates you.”
“Exactly. By law, I should not be involved. Luckily, here I am.”
He wasn’t exactly sure of that conclusion, but didn’t argue. “Where is the proof?”
“Now, that’s the most interesting part.”
And as the chopper continued flying toward London, he listened while Mathews explained.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Yourstone followed the cortege into the ground floor of the Wellington Barracks. In a few days the building would be packed with tourists, all eager to view the royal regalia of crowns, scepters, orbs, and swords proudly displayed behind bulletproof glass. Today the crowds were absent, replaced by a small contingent of royal family members taking advantage of the first opportunity to view the newly constructed Jewel House before it was formally opened to the public.
Eleanor walked beside him, her dress a pale blue bouclé, the jacket similar with a gray velvet collar. Hats were her trademark, and she’d chosen a wide-brimmed lattice straw design. Her no-frills wardrobe brought both compliments and complaints. The press praised her frugality, the fashion columnists harangued her lack of style. But no one could accuse her of extravagance.
“This is quite a spectacle,” she whispered. “It will be fine pomp and circumstance for the masses.”
During World War II her grandfather had ordered the crown jewels moved from the nearby Wakefield Tower to an underground chamber beneath the Waterloo Barracks. There a magnificent star-shaped case was constructed and elaborately lit to showcase one of the last sets of crown jewels left in the world. But the swarm of visitors that flocked each year to view the display had proven too much for the cramped chamber, and Victoria had commissioned a larger location back at ground level. It had taken two years to remodel an old barracks into a state-of-the-art vault that not only ensured security but also provided a dazzling spectacle.
Evening sunshine from outside was replaced by a cool semi-darkness. A wide corridor led forward, equipped with a conveyor-belt walkway designed to keep viewers from lingering. The cases themselves were illuminated with a combination of halogen floods and miniature lasers. He’d never seen the collection in such vivid color, and the effect was remarkable. Today the conveyor belt was still and the twenty or so guests strolled about, taking their time. Eleanor had come to represent her mother, her appearance limited to this tour, as other duties would shortly take her to North London and Greenwich. Her causes varied from animal rights to organizations for the disabled to environmental concerns. Richard tended to draw the industrial plant openings, state visits, and trade association gatherings.
“The ceremony will begin promptly at 7:00 P.M.,” an attendant reminded everyone. “We need you outside around 6:30. Until then, please enjoy the display.”
Eleanor led the way as they drifted to where her nephew, Albert, stood alone admiring the crowns.
“One of those will someday be