Chapter Sixty-One
A
tworthy sat across from me in the limo as we drove away from JFK Airport. I had landed as the sun was peeking over the horizon, filling the sky with the pale sherbet colors of early morning. I shifted in the leather seat and stared at him, trying to understand how I could have been so utterly duped.
“Do you have the ring, Catherine?” he asked. He had the tone of someone asking for a spare pen, not a priceless gold and ruby ring. The arrogant bastard.
I said nothing but removed the Lionheart from my purse and handed it to him. He nodded and tucked it swiftly away.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why did you help us get away in Venice? Why didn’t you kill us all then?”
“Big picture, Catherine. The goal has never been to simply stop you and your team. I wanted more than that. I wanted
you
.”
“So . . . you were just trying to gain my trust?”
“You could say that.”
“And you helped me steal the ring in Singapore—”
“Because I needed leverage. I knew I would get the Lionheart back from you eventually. I also knew you wouldn’t willingly come over to our side. I needed to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“So this was all an elaborate plan? Everything you did was to get me into this position, to put Templeton in danger, to force me to join Caliga?”
He smiled. “You should be flattered.”
“Surprisingly, I’m not.”
He chuckled briefly. “Are you ready to hear about your assignment?”
I wasn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was work for Caliga. But it was the only way to save Templeton. “Yes,” I said. I prayed it would be a straightforward job, an in-and-out that would be over with quickly. Once Templeton was free, and safe, I would somehow sever all ties with Caliga.
He handed me a tablet and tapped open a file. “The job will happen here.”
I stared at the screen showing a photograph of a midtown high-rise beside Central Park, topped with a spectacular roof garden. The next pages contained blueprints and schematics.
“And what will I be taking?”
He watched me carefully. “It’s . . . complicated.” He twisted the watch on his wrist, choosing his words. “To understand this assignment, you need to know what’s at stake.”
In spite of myself, I felt a prickle of curiosity at the base of my skull.
“You see, Catherine, Caliga has one large enemy we need to get rid of. Can you think who it is?”
“AB&T?” I offered.
He laughed. “Sweet, Catherine. But no. I’m talking about someone with true power to stop us.”
“The CIA? The FBI?”
“Think bigger.”
“Interpol.”
“Bigger. And not so . . . organizational. A country.”
“A country? I don’t know.” I was impatient. “North Korea. Iran. I have no idea. It might as well be the United States.” I flung this last one out with exasperation.
His eyes gleamed.
I stared at him in disbelief. “You want to take down the United States?”
Well, that clinched it. They were completely insane.
“Of course it won’t be easy,” he continued, uttering the understatement of the decade. “So to do it, we need to use its oldest opponent.”
“Russia?”
“Older.”
I thought. “Britain?”
He put his finger on his nose. “You’ve heard of the deputy prime minister, Duncan Wakefield?”
The name tickled a memory. Then it flooded into my mind—Duncan Wakefield had been in the center of that whole Succession Bill controversy, the one that had recently been passed, the one the locals had been arguing over in Harrow Hall Pub.
“Duncan Wakefield is one of us,” Atworthy said.
I struggled not to let my mouth drop open. “So you—Caliga—did you fix the vote? The Succession Bill—was that you?”
He nodded smugly.
“So if he gets into power, what would he do?”
“A few things. But eventually . . . declare war against America.”
“That’s completely ridiculous. It would never fly. The people of Britain would never stand for that.”
He shrugged. “You’d be surprised. With the right proof, the right people behind the cause, it would take less than you’d think. And you’re underestimating the degree to which Caliga has infiltrated the system. We’ve been planting the evidence for years now. Evidence of Americans spying on British citizens. Evidence of crimes against the British government. Evidence of plots to invade, reviving the old War Plan Red.”
The old War Plan Red?
“What’s that?” I asked.
“In the nineteen-thirties, the US government drew up a plan to invade Britain. It’s fact. Look it up. They just never acted on it. But if the British government had evidence the Americans were planning it again . . .”
“The Brits would be entering a war they couldn’t win.”
“Probably. Although it’s a debatable point. But even if they lost they’d cause a mountain of destruction in the process.”
I didn’t know what to believe. It seemed impossible, but I remembered reading an article somewhere, the
New Yorker
maybe, a hypothetical discussion about who would win—Britain or the United States—if the two powers came to blows. It wasn’t as clear-cut as you’d think. The United States had greater numbers, but the article argued that Britain had a more sophisticated military intelligence and a more powerful navy. Numbers don’t always dictate. Take Vietnam. War is a complicated thing.
“The UK would be crazy to enter into war with the States.”
“Maybe not so crazy. Especially if they had allies.”
“What kind of allies?”
“Eastern ones.” His eyes glittered.
“Why would the East join Britain against the United States?”
“Because of this,” he said, holding up the Lionheart Ring. “Well, not only this. This, plus the other items in the Fabergé egg. I’m sure you know this ring was made with the lost Gold. With it, we now have all three Gifts of the Magi.”
“The Gifts of the Magi are part of
Christian
legend,” I said confidently. Another hole in his plot.
“Are they?” His triumphant smile caused a fluttering doubt in my chest. “The Gifts are from Eastern kings. The three Magi were from Africa, Asia, and Europe, according to the ancient legends, the old paintings. The power is Zoroastrian, and has nothing to do with Christ. He just happened to be the recipient. Plus—and this is where things get really beautiful—the Lionheart has the additional benefit of being a gift from an Eastern king—the sultan Saladin—to the king of England, Richard. It’s the perfect symbol of the joining of East and West.”
A wave of nausea curled in my stomach. It made some sense, in a very twisted way.
“Don’t you see, Catherine? This is the way to reunite the old countries of the world. We have the Gifts; we are the old power. We need to take back the power from the new dragon.”
“Like the American Revolution in reverse.”
He nodded.
“But what you’re really talking about is World War Three,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“You’re insane. Like Sandor was. He believed the Gifts had some kind of special power. Do you believe that, too? Is that why you’re doing this? Do you think the power of the Gifts will assure your success?”
He shrugged. With that gesture, I knew he didn’t believe the metaphysical bullshit any more than I did. “Either way, the ring is crucial for getting the other countries on our side. They know the value of talismans in the East.”
It was incredible. The depth, the layers of this plan made my brain spin. But I still found it hard to believe that Atworthy and Caliga would be able to catalyze war between Britain and America.
“And how do you plan to actually put this insanity into play? The deputy prime minister is just that. He’s not in power.”
Atworthy watched me carefully, waiting for me to piece it together. In the next second, I did. “Oh my God, you’re going to assassinate the prime minister of Britain.”
“And this is what we need you for.”
I choked. “I’m not an assassin. That’s not what I do—”
“Not to kill him. But because of what we need you to take, right before we kill him.”
“And that is?”
He pulled up a second file. It contained information on the prime minister. “The current PM has suspicions. He has, for a while. But he hasn’t dared to raise them publicly, as the deputy is too well-regarded. Duncan Wakefield is a very charismatic leader.”
“And?”
“The PM is old school. He has kept copious notes and lines of evidence, everything against the deputy PM. Things that would get him kicked out, if he ever did gain power.”
“And those files—they are what you want me to take?”
“Bingo.”
I frowned.
“He carries his files with him,” Atworthy said. “He locks them in a safe wherever he goes. But like I said, he’s old-fashioned, and he doesn’t save things electronically. Once the files are gone, our way is clear. Of course, accessing the private quarters of the PM would be exceedingly difficult. For anyone . . . except you.”
He flipped a page in the dossier for me, revealing an invitation. “There will be a gala at the PM’s residence in New York.” He pointed to the rooftop garden of the midtown high-rise. “You will be in attendance, and during the party you will sneak away and into the suite. You will take the files, and bring them to me. We will take care of the rest.”
I was quiet a while, staring out the window. “So if I get you those files, you will release Templeton.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll also assassinate the prime minister of Britain?”
He shrugged. “Catherine, it’s a tough world out there. Bad things happen to people. You have been searching for a purpose. This is a very singular purpose. You would be instrumental in reshaping the world, the political planet.”
It was a purpose, that was certain. But it was not something I believed in, not even a little. It was abhorrent; it was ridiculous. I was signing the death warrant of the British PM, and initiating all the repercussions. Did I really believe all this World War Three bullshit would actually happen? No. But—did it matter? Caliga believed it. Atworthy believed it. And they were prepared to do horrendous things to attempt to make it happen.
It occurred to me then—they would never let me live after this. I knew way too much.
I only had one choice. Agreeing to do this would be a play for time. There had to be some way I could stop their plans while appearing to go along with everything. Maybe there was a way out of this. I held on to a thin thread of hope.
In the back of my mind I knew if I didn’t find a way to stop them, I would be part of the plot to assassinate the British PM, and possibly start a war. It would forever make me an enemy of the League.
I was trapped. “Okay, Atworthy. Looks like you leave me no choice.”
His face beamed triumphantly.
I felt an immediate urge to negotiate the terms. To bargain, using the leverage I knew I had.
He needed me;
we wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. But I held my tongue. Better to play along for now.
We drove in silence for a while as I scanned the files. Questions exploded like grenades in my brain. The more information I could get, the better I could understand all the factors at play, and the more likely I could come up with a plan. I tried to ignore the weight of despair that pressed down on me.
“Why me, Atworthy? Why do you need me, exactly?”
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
I put down the file in my lap and waited.
“You must have noticed that everything about our plan has meaning. For Caliga, heritage, ancestry, and history plays a role. And that’s true for you, too.”
He handed me one final dossier. This time, it was a folder on . . .
me
.
“Can you guess what it is, about your ancestry, that intrigues me?”
I looked at him blankly. I had no idea. I opened the folder and stared at pages about myself. My history, my stats, my family . . .
“You are descended from thieves, Catherine. In fact, you are descended from the greatest thief of them all.”
I froze. I searched his face and saw that he looked . . . proud to be telling me this. I turned a page in the folder and stared at a list of names, a family tree with dates, an insignia, and family crest.
At the top:
The House of Loxley
.
“My mother’s family . . .” I whispered. My vision swam.
“No,” Atworthy said. “Not your mother.” I glanced at him sharply, knowing what was coming now. “
Your father
.”
“You’re lying,” I said.
He shook his head. “I assure you, I’m not.” He reached across and turned the page over. There was a crest for Clan Montgomery. “Here. All the proof you need.”
Underneath the crest for Clan Montgomery was the phrase
Garde Bien,
the official motto for the ancient Norman family. French for
Watch Well
. And the Latin translation of that was
Vigilate
.
I grabbed the Lionheart Ring from Atworthy. The inscription on it, the word I’d read on the beach that had felt so familiar:
Vigilate
.
“It’s one of the reasons Caliga targeted you years ago. It’s the reason I assigned myself to you at the University of Washington.”
Atworthy went on to explain the legend. It was told that when Richard the Lionheart gave Robin of Loxley his ring, Robin brought it home to England, and it became the motto under which he toiled, ever loyal to his king. Robin and his true love, Marian, had married, and when Robin had died she had been pregnant. Marian buried him with the ring. To honor him, and to keep his child safe and secret, she adopted the old name Montgomery for her own protection.
I scanned through the family tree in the dossier. Marian Montgomery was on my father’s tree, far, far back.