a Western nation that dared to try his associates, had struck a blow by murdering the second in line to the British throne. Killing Albert instead of Richard would further divert any thought of a royal coup. After all, Richard was still alive. The act would be attributed to senseless violence. Days or weeks later, when Richard abdicated in favor of Eleanor, that would be chalked up to the heir apparent’s ineptness—and the second phase of Yourstone’s revolution would be complete.
But at 7:00 P.M. nothing was heard.
He checked the television.
No reports of anything unusual.
At 7:30 the house phone rang.
“Lord Yourstone, my task is complete.”
Peter Lyon.
Calling here? Not good.
“What happened?”
“The missile was fired but missed the target. I was across the Thames, watching. A man tossed a purse into the river just moments before the missile arrived. It overflew the Tower and slammed into the water. The explosion occurred beneath the surface. Quite spectacular, actually. A towering plume of water that fell harmlessly back to the surface, doing no harm.”
How could that be? Everything had been set up according to plan.
“Please deposit the remainder of the money you owe me.”
“You didn’t deliver the results promised.”
“But I did. The missile was fired, and it arrived. You were the one responsible for securing the homing device.”
“I’m not paying you any more money.”
“Then I will kill you.”
A shiver swept through him.
He reconsidered. “All right. I’ll make the transfer.”
“Excellent. And by the way, you’re fortunate that I don’t kill you anyway. You disrupted my plans. I wanted that spectacle. But at the moment, I have a greater need for your money.”
He heard a click.
The call ended.
What had happened?
He dialed another number, hoping to find out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Malone strapped himself into the helicopter’s rear compartment. Professor Goulding sat beside him. An RAF pilot settled in behind the controls and fired up the turbine. A couple of minutes later they lifted off into a frigid, murky Icelandic morning.
A military transport had flown them both from London to a NATO base at Keflavik. En route Malone had spoken on a secure line with Stephanie Nelle, briefing her on what had happened yesterday at the Tower with the missile. He’d even managed a few hours’ sleep last night and adjusted his clothing for arctic conditions, donning thermal underwear, thick wool shirt and pants, gloves, and a fur-lined insulated coat with a hood. Goulding had done the same. He’d brought the professor knowing he might need some immediate expertise. The queen had personally requested the journey and Goulding had been anxious to go. On Stephanie’s orders he’d revealed to the queen all of what he’d learned about Arthur’s grave, but kept MI6’s involvement secret.
The official story from yesterday was that a military exercise had gone awry, the armed missile falling into the Thames and exploding underwater.
But Malone knew who was behind it.
Peter Lyon.
Who remained at large.
He had questions for Sir Thomas Mathews, but the head of MI6 was also nowhere to be found. No surprise, really. Considering the implications. He’d reported everything to Stephanie, including all of his suspicions. On the transatlantic flight, Goulding had briefed him on three important details left out of yesterday’s talk. The first was a journal, compiled during the Catholic occupation of Iceland, contained within the British Museum.
Irish settlements on Iceland were abandoned when the Vikings arrived in 900 CE, but a few new monasteries appeared in the centuries after, all closed during the Reformation when Danes banned Catholicism. Before evacuating one of the monasteries near Skri∂uklauster, on the eastern coast, an industrious monk had recorded what he’d found among the ancient records. The monk spoke of a cave haunted by a ghost where someone of great importance lay buried. The location was supposedly to the south of a pyramid-shaped peak, beyond a brown-and-red-striped gorge, in the face of a sheer cliff known only to birds. The journal was sketchy, reflecting a time when myth and magic predominated, and ordinarily the tale would be summarily dismissed. Yet Goulding had noticed drawings contained within the journal, etchings supposedly seen by locals who’d ventured into the cave, that matched the plates on the ceremonial vessel.
Further confirmation was found in the second revelation.
During World War II the Allies had operated a base on Iceland’s rocky east coast. A British colonel assigned there became fascinated with the legend of the haunted cave. His treks into the surrounding mountains were documented in a diary that Mathews had managed to obtain from the soldier’s grandnephew. The entries talked of a cave found