The Intelligencer

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Apart from the historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Leslie Silbert

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-3986-4

  First Atria Books hardcover edition February 2004

  ATRIA Books is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  www.SimonSays.com

  FOR MY PARENTS

  Cast of Characters

  THEELIZABETHANS

  Lee Anderson—sailor with the Muscovy Company

  Richard Baines—middle-aged spy

  Ambrosia Bellamy—tavern hostess

  Sir Robert Cecil—head of a private intelligence-gathering network

  Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex—head of a rival espionage network

  Elizabeth I—Tudor queen who ruled England from 1558 to 1603

  Oliver Fitzwilliam(“Fitz Fat”)—customs official

  Ingram Frizer—businessman

  Thomas Hariot—scientist in Walter Ralegh’s employ

  Thomas Kyd—playwright

  Christopher Marlowe—playwright, poet, and spy

  Kit Miller—forger

  Thomas Phelippes—senior officer in Essex’s intelligence network

  Robert Poley—senior officer in Cecil’s network

  Sir Walter Ralegh—courtier, poet, explorer

  Teresa Ramires—maid in Essex’s household

  Nicholas Skeres—spy in Essex’s network

  Ned Smyth—Master of the Ordnance

  Richard Topcliffe—the royal rack-master

  Sir Francis Walsingham(c. 1530–1590)—founder of Queen Elizabeth’s first official secret service

  Thomas Walsingham—young cousin of Francis Walsingham

  PRESENT-DAYCHARACTERS

  Jason Avera—paramilitary operative employed by the Slade Group

  Hamid Azadi—senior Iranian intelligence officer

  Connor Black—paramilitary operative employed by the Slade Group

  Vera Carstairs—Oxford student

  Edward Cherry—Sotheby’s executive

  Alexis Cruz—director of central intelligence

  Colin Davies—Scotland Yard detective

  Luca de Tolomei—wealthy art dealer

  Peregrine James—Marchioness of Halifax

  Khadar Khan—businessman based in Islamabad

  Surina Khan—daughter of Khadar Khan

  Max Lewis—database researcher for the Slade Group

  Bill Mazur—private investigator in New York City

  Cidro Medina—financier

  Donovan Morgan—U.S. senator, Kate’s father

  Kate Morgan—private eye and spy

  Jack O’Mara—Kate’s best friend

  Hannah Rosenberg—rare-book dealer

  Andrew Rutherford—Oxford historian

  Jeremy Slade—director of the Slade Group

  Hugh Synclair—Oxford detective

  Adriana Vandis—Kate’s college roommate

  Except for those marked with an asterisk, all are real historical figures, described as they were in 1593.

  You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,

  And now and then stab, as occasion serves.

  —YOUNGSPENCER,in Marlowe’sEdward II

  1

  What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars…

  That I may vanish o’er the earth in air,

  And leave no memory that e’er I was?

  No, I will live…

  —BARABAS, in Marlowe’sThe Jew of Malta

  SOUTHWARK, ENGLAND—DUSK, MAY1593

  His rendezvous was set for nightfall and the sun was sinking quickly. The young man had no time to spare. But as he neared London Bridge, the familiar sounds along that particular stretch of the Thames were hard to resist. His pace slowed. His ears perked up. The clamor of the bear-baiting arena beckoned—a chained bear howling as canine jaws tore at its flesh, frenzied dogs shrieking with every swipe of the bear’s claws, groundlings hollering out bets and cheering wildly.

  Halting midstride, with one tall black boot hovering a few inches above the ground, he tested his resolve. It failed.

  He veered off the riverside path and headed toward the arena. En route, a swath of bold colors drew his attention—the canopy of an unfamiliar booth. Curious, he approached. Long scarlet tresses came into view, then the gnarled face of an old woman, smiling with red-stained lips that matched her shiny wig. At first she appeared to be selling decks of playing cards, but after looking him over, she lifted a small sign advertising her forbidden trade:GRIZEL’S TAROT. With his rakish clothing and brown hair hanging loose, it was clear he was no prim city official.

  Slapping a few pennies on her table, the young man asked, “Should I put my money on the bear?”

  “You would rather hear the bear’s fortune than your own?”

  He looked away for a moment, as if thoughtful, then turned back with a mischievous smile. “Yes.”

  “It would be more worth your while to attend to yourself.”

  “Well, that is a subject I’m fond of.” He took a seat.

  She laid her battered cards out slowly, several ill-fitting rings sliding along her shriveled fingers. When the tenth card had been carefully placed facedown upon the table, the woman looked up.

  “May we skip to the end? I haven’t much time.”

  “Why don’t you let Grizel be the judge of that? First, I must know who you are.” Near her left hand, five cards were arranged in the shape of a Celtic cross. She picked up the central card. “Your soul.” Turning it over, she gazed reverently at the faded image of a man in a red cloak and cap. “The Magician. Manipulator of the natural world…loves tricks and illusions. Has a powerful imagination. A master of language, he is most nimble with words.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Raising a gray brow at his inarticulate response, she double-checked the card. With a shrug, she set it down, then selected the bottommost card of the cross. “The card of the present moment. Oh, my, the Page of Swords. You have a passionate mind, don’t you, my friend? Always searching, seeking to uncover the hidden truth. Indeed, you begin such a quest today.”

  The young man leaned forward with interest. “Sweet lady, you’re good.”

  Flattered, she began flipping over the cards that formed the remainder of the cross. “The Ten of Coins—in reverse. You like gambling. And risk, grave risk. Toeing the edge of a precipice.”

  “Keeps life interesting, and my pockets full.”

  “Outside influences…let me see. The Three of Swords—a dangerous triangle, a fierce conflict. Two powerful forces threaten you.” Looking up, she noticed that his expression remained calm. “You’d best take heed,” she declared sternly. “Danger discovered in this position is real, but it can be survived.”

  “Threats, conflicts…such things are everyday occurrences.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you please, my last card?”

  Grumpily she turned to the second formation of cards on her table: a column five cards high. Lifting the top one, she peered at the image for a moment, hesitated, then showed it to him—a hand-painted skeleton, skull on the ground, toe bones in the air. “How could this be? Upside down, the Death card signifies an impending brush with danger, but one that will be survived. Here, in the afterlife position, it seems to mean you will live after your death…”

  Puzzled, she tilted her head and studied his fac
e.

  “Does seem odd, I admit,” he said. “Though some have called mylooks otherworldly, perhaps—”

  She scowled, then broke into a toothless grin. “Ah, of course. I forgot who you are, Magician. Now I understand. It is your magic that is to survive. Long after you take your last breath.”

  The young man bowed his head bashfully. Though Grizel didn’t know it, she was talking to London’s most popular playmaker, a writer whose deft pen had worked magic upon the theatrical stage. He marveled at her insight. Then his jaw muscle twitched.A pox on it! The cursed thought had wormed its way back into his head—the very one he had been chasing away for months. Would he make such magic again? Of course he would. When the time was right, he told himself.

  Looking back up, he flashed his mischievous smile once more. “My lady, could you tell me just one thing I do not yet know?”

  Grizel tried to frown, but the twinkle in his eye was contagious. Lifting the second highest card in the column on her right, she glanced at it, then slammed it down as if it burned her fingertips.

  “What is it?”

  Sadly she placed a hand over his. “Barring angelic intervention, you’ll not live to see the next moon.”

  Vaguely startled, he slid his right hand into the pocket of his close-fitting silk doublet. “There’s nothing like a second opinion. Particularly when the first suggests your end is nigh. Do not mistake me, you’ve been a delight, but there’s another lady I always consult when it comes to matters of fate.” He produced a silver coin. “If it’s her face that greets me, I’ve nothing to worry about.”

  He tossed the coin up in the air. Glinting now and again, it flipped over a few times before falling into his left palm, landing face up. “Ah, not to worry, Grizel. The queen here says all will be well. And as her dutiful subject, I am honor-bound to take her word over yours.”

  With a blown kiss and a smile, the young man left the Tarot booth and hurried once more on his way to London Bridge. Tilting his coin to catch the setting sun’s orange glow, he looked closely at the metallic image of Queen Elizabeth’s face. He winked at her, and as always, she winked back; he’d scratched off a fragment of the silver over her left eye, revealing just a speck of the darker metal beneath. The trick coin, which had more silver plate on one side than the other, was a counterfeit English shilling he’d fashioned with an associate while on a clandestine mission in the Netherlands the previous year.The fates are fickle. Better to manufacture your luck, than hope for it.

  Luck of any kind was a precious commodity to him. After all, he was not just a writer in search of his muse. Young Christopher Marlowe was a spy in the queen’s secret service…a spy with no idea that the old crone was right.

  2

  LONDON—8:20P.M., THE PRESENT DAY

  The silver Daimler pulled to a stop at Eaton Square in Belgravia, an exclusive residential enclave in central London. A young baron stepped out, buttoned his dinner jacket, and reached for the long-stemmed roses resting on the seat. Nodding to his chauffeur, he began strolling past the pillared white homes alongside the fragrant park.

  It was a cool evening for spring, and his hat, thin scarf, and gloves appeared entirely appropriate. No one would guess that he wasn’t wearing them for warmth. The accessories were intended to prevent anyone in the vicinity from being able to describe him later on, should they even remember seeing him, which was unlikely. An expensively dressed man in this neighborhood, with the right level of self-assurance in his stride, blended in better than camouflaged soldiers moving through a jungle.

  A few minutes later, he stood at the door of a five-story townhouse on Wilton Crescent, a street shaped like its name. The lantern-lit façade was curved as well, and ivy hung from the terrace. Pretending to rap on the front door with his left hand, he surreptitiously operated a small hand-made pick gun with his right—the delicate maneuvering hidden by the bouquet balanced in the crook of his right arm.

  Having inserted the steel needle jutting from the gun’s muzzle into the lock, he used his index and middle fingers to adjust the long trigger and manipulate the lock’s cylinder pins. Made of walnut and steel with mother-of-pearl inlay, it was a device he’d fashioned himself. It had not been easy to leave his favorite set of antique picks at home, but out in the open like this, there simply wasn’t time to manually pick a lock he knew would have at least five internal levers. Pick guns turned a fifteen-minute operation into a matter of seconds. And while he tended to disdain anything considered de rigueur among rookie thieves, for this situation, there was little choice.

  The lock’s tumblers turned, and once inside the foyer, he set down his flowers, slipped his pick gun into the holster strapped to his left forearm, then stepped around lightly with his arms in the air. Graceful movements, but the whimsical dance was not what it seemed. A soft chirp sounded, and his right wrist came to an abrupt halt as the electronic device in his platinum cuff link homed in on the hidden security panel. With a short-range electromagnetic pulse, it promptly jammed the system.

  For a master thief, breaking into an ordinary home was child’s play, particularly when the owner had moved in so recently that sophisticated security measures had yet to be installed. It was like using a top SAS marksman to shoot a seated fat man from point-blank range.

  The baron had agreed to do it as a favor for a friend, his only friend who knew the truth: that he was something of a modern-day Robin Hood. Not out of altruism—he simply had an intense dislike for the idle rich. His set. The very people whose company he kept at exclusive social clubs in London, casinos in Monaco, and posh Portofino hotels. He was a silent traitor in the ranks—filching their priceless treasures, quietly selling the items on the black market, then donating the proceeds to exactly those charitable causes that would most gall the involuntary donors. Courtesy of his most recent coup, a conservative Member of Parliament—a known xenophobe—was unwittingly funding a health clinic for destitute immigrants. The black-clad baron had snatched a Degas statuette while the MP and his wife were in the next room playing cards in their dressing gowns.

  Never before had he robbed a home without having been invited in on a previous occasion. Going in blind was always a bad idea, but his friend knew the owner well and had gathered enough information to guarantee that tonight’s theft would be a sure thing. There were as yet no pressure pads installed in the floors. No cameras, no wiring in the windows. And the safe was somewhere in the study, located on the third floor.

  After climbing the stairs, he examined the study’s outer wall—the one between himself and the street—the only wall thick enough to contain a safe. Two good-sized windows, nothing behind the single painting. He turned his attention to the floor. With some strategic tapping and a practiced ear, he quickly detected a hollow beneath a corner of the intricately patterned Shiraz rug. Using a letter opener from the homeowner’s desk, he pried up a two-foot-square panel of hardwood slats and saw the safe. Around a decade old, it was a steel contraption with a Sargent & Greenleaf combination lock.

  “Mr. Sargent? Mr. Greenleaf? Gentlemen, let’s see what you’ve got for me this time.” Lowering himself to the floor, the baron settled onto his side and slipped off his gloves, then placed an ear over the safe and a hand on the lock. While rotating the dial, he lightly caressed the safe door with his free hand, attempting to feel and possibly hear when the lock’s tumblers came into contact with each other, in order to calculate where the notches for the locking mechanism had been placed on each wheel.

  He frowned. There was chaos beneath his fingertips. Far too many pulses. The lock was definitely a manipulation-resistant model. One with dummy notches added to the wheel edges—shallow enough to avoid interfering with the locking process but deep enough to feel similar to legitimate contact points when an expert like himself turned the dial. With a tilt of his head, he dislodged his hat. It slipped to the floor. “Hats off, my demure darlings. You took round one. But round two, I’m afraid, is mine.”

  Sitting up, he lifte
d his right trouser leg, opened a Velcro pouch strapped to the inside of his calf, and withdrew several objects: a fine length of plastique with aV -shaped metal liner—a shaped charge fresh from an underground lab in Bratislava—a digital detonator, two coils of wire, and a small lithium battery-operated power supply. He gently arranged the plastique along the right edge of the safe door, placing it directly over each spot where the door’s steel bolts entered the frame. Courtesy of his practiced method, the explosive would slice through the bolts without affecting the safe’s interior. Toasting these contents would not do at all—the item he was after was highly flammable.

  Inserting the detonator, he connected it to the power source and flipped the switch. A fifteen-second count began. Pulling his gloves back on, he used his handkerchief to wipe down the safe, threw his dinner jacket across the square hole in the floor, then moved a rolling file cabinet over it to secure the fabric.Three, two… The detonation was barely audible, muffled as it was by his jacket’s thin Kevlar lining. Wisps of smoke snaked upward as he rolled the cabinet back to its original position. Kneeling, he peered into the hole, grasped the safe’s handle, and gingerly pulled it upward.

  And there, not even singed, was an old leather-bound manuscript. He’d been told it had been buried for centuries, along with a secret his friend’s family seemed desperate to keep. Titillating stuff, to be sure. He would demand the full story before turning over his takings.

  He lifted the plain black volume from the safe. It was fairly heavy, about an inch and a half thick, with leather remarkably smooth for something so old. It had no title on the outside, he noticed, nor much in the way of decoration—just thin, single gold leaf stripes glimmering along the edges of the front and back covers and across the five raised bands on the spine. He started to open it, then caught himself. There would be ample time for that later.

  With the manuscript salted away in his black rucksack, the baron spun for a quick survey of the room. The sparkle of crystal caught his eye—a dozen decanters on tiered shelving across the room, perched in rows with the formality and precision of a boy’s choir. After sniffing the contents of each and replacing the bottles with care, he poured himself a glass. Nothing—not even a getaway—should come between a man and an old cognac. The evening’s sport might have been a bore, but the refreshments were exceptional. Lifting the velvety liquid to his lips, he enjoyed what was more of a soft kiss than a sip.