The Intelligencer Page 11

  The arm of the ship’s crane was positioned directly above the crate, and the navigation officer reached for the cable dangling down. He took hold of the heavy steel carabiner at the end of the crane’s cable, silently cursing the ship’s master for giving him this terrifying assignment.

  His hands were not serving him well. They trembled and glistened with perspiration.Concentrate. Almost over. Still clutching the crane’s carabiner in his left hand, he gathered the four smaller carabiners connected to ropes crisscrossing the crate with his right and, careful not to jar the crate, clipped them all together.

  He took a few steps back and looked up. Over the starboard side of the ship, he saw a sleek yacht coming up alongside theNadezhda. The yacht was running dark, all deck lights off. Only the phosphorescent blue bulbs lining her hull just above sea level cut into the surrounding blackness.

  Within minutes, the two vessels were moving side by side at the same speed, only a few meters apart. The navigation officer turned his attention back to the crate. The ship’s engineer was operating the crane, rotating a lever to retract the cable and hoist the crate into the air. Slowly it began to rise.

  A metal creak tore through the quiet night. The crane’s cable hit a snag, and the crate jerked to a halt.

  The navigation officer gulped for air. Dizziness washed over him. But nothing happened. There was no thunderous crack, no fiery boom. They were safe.

  The engineer continued his work, and the navigation officer exhaled with relief as the crate he so despised swung away from him toward the yacht’s bow. Four deckhands were waiting to ease the crate down to the foredeck. Watching them unhook the crane’s cable, the navigation officer studied their faces. They didn’t appear to be nervous. Clearly no one had warned them about the crate’s menacing contents, he thought to himself, not sure whether to pity or envy their ignorance.

  The yacht veered away and vanished into the night. Overwhelmed with relief, the navigation officer breathed deeply and for a moment closed his eyes.

  Another set of eyes remained wide open. Eyes that never closed. The American spy satellite passing overhead on its way to the Persian Gulf had snapped dozens of digital photographs of the crate’s transfer. Almost instantaneously the photos had been encrypted into electronic pulses and beamed upward to a relay satellite hovering farther out in space. Within seconds the relay satellite had beamed them down to a set of bland buildings in southeast Washington, D.C., a brick and concrete complex with tinted windows and a barbed-wire fence known by intelligence insiders to be part of NIMA, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency. And it was there, at the headquarters of NIMA’s Directorate of Analysis and Production, that the encrypted images of the crate joined the day’s enormous collection of geospatial intelligence—a collection so vast that only a fraction of it would ever be analyzed by the directorate’s thousands of employees.

  Oblivious to what had taken place more than a hundred miles above him, theNadezhda ’s navigation officer descended the aft stairs and headed to his cabin. Climbing into bed, he sighed with contentment and, for the first time in nearly two weeks, fell into a deep, unbroken sleep.

  ROME—9:12P.M.

  Standing beneath a sequoia on the edge of the Tiber, Luca de Tolomei gazed at the sluggish green water inching past. He was savoring a cigarette and the moment.

  The captain of de Tolomei’s yacht had just rung his cell phone. “The shipment was successfully received, sir,” the man told him. “I can assure you it is being handled with the greatest of care.”

  “Good,” de Tolomei replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  “It will arrive in Capri on schedule.”

  “By way of the southern entrance?” de Tolomei said, referring to a grotto in the cliffs beneath his Capri home. Uncomfortable in enclosed spaces that didn’t have hidden escape routes, he’d had an elevator shaft drilled, connecting his basement with the grotto below.

  “Yes, sir. Of course,” the captain said.

  “Have a good night, then.”

  “You, too, sir.”

  Oh, I will. I certainly will.

  NEWYORKCITY—3:15P.M.

  Kate was in her kitchen popping crisp red grapes into her mouth, waiting for her kettle to whistle. She squeezed some honey from a plastic honey-filled bear into her favorite oversized mug, then dropped in an Earl Grey tea bag.

  Minutes before, she’d been thrilled to come across two of the first intelligence reports written by Robert Poley, the most notorious agent provocateur in Elizabeth’s secret service. As a graduate student, Kate had read almost everything available on him, but the historical records were thin. So much about that fascinating spy remained a mystery, and now she was deciphering messages of his that had been buried for centuries. It didn’t feel real.

  As she stirred soy milk into her tea, her buzzer sounded. Picking up a remote control, she flipped on the television set in her living room. Instead of an afternoon soap opera, the screen showed a delivery man standing in the building’s foyer. Unbeknownst to her landlord, Max had fiddled with the building’s wiring one day, allowing Kate to pirate the security footage.

  The overweight delivery man wore a tight T-shirt and equally snug knee-length denim shorts. No weapons hiding beneath those clothes, Kate thought. She answered her intercom.

  “Hey, Miss K,” her doorman said. “Flowers here. Shall I send ’em up?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  After Kate signed his form and gave him a tip, the delivery man handed over a cylindrical glass vase full of fragrant Casablanca lilies. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, feeling as if she’d just dropped several floors in an elevator too quickly. “But thanks. They’re gorgeous.”

  Shutting the door behind him, Kate reached for the card as she headed back into her kitchen.

  Only she didn’t make it that far.

  She froze in her hallway, staring at the card’s message in disbelief, barely noticing the sound of the vase crashing to the floor.

  10

  …I stand as Jove’s huge tree,

  And others are but shrubs compar’d to me.

  All tremble at my name, and I fear none…

  —MORTIMER,in Marlowe’sEdward II

  LONDON—AFTERNOON, MAY1593

  While city constables ransacked Kit Marlowe’s lodgings, as well as those of his former chamber fellow, Robert Poley was walking briskly to Whitehall for a meeting with his employer, Sir Robert Cecil.

  The forty-year-old spy was tall and lithe, in spite of his dissolute lifestyle. Poley had thick, short black hair, harsh features, and snakelike eyes that missed nothing and mesmerized whomever he chose. It had been said that he could beguile a man of his wife or his life. The assessment was correct.

  Poley had just returned from Flushing, a Dutch seaport currently occupied by England. Spain had invaded the Netherlands eight years earlier, and English forces were helping their Protestant allies fight to drive the Spanish from Dutch soil. Poley had delivered the queen’s correspondence to government officials and military commanders, collected their responses, and met with local spies both on and off the battlefields.

  Turning onto a narrow street, he coughed with disgust.What in God’s name is that vile stench? Then he saw the red wooden crosses nailed to several doors.Ah, plague homes. The neighbors were burning old shoes and leaving rotten onions about to ward off the disease. It made it harder to breathe, but at least the overpopulation problem was being addressed, Poley thought to himself. Holding his sleeve over his nose, he picked up his pace.

  At Charing Cross, a group of rowdy apprentices passed by on his right, all clad in their characteristic dark blue doublets. Poley eyed them curiously. The boys in blue were a major cause of the recent rioting. Returning from a country at war, he had been shocked to learn that London had become something of a battlefield itself in the brief period he had been away. With the soaring unemployment rate and influx of Protestant refugees from the Netherlands, France, a
nd Belgium, London’s workers had long been grumbling, but the outbreaks of violence were a more recent phenomenon. Many locals—apprentices, in particular—were consumed with rage that the government allowed the immigrants to stay.

  The city was going to hell, Poley mused. The thought added a spring to his step. Chaos was always good for business.

  Poley had been directing Robert Cecil’s espionage operations in the Low Countries for the past couple of years. He liked the power of the position but missed his early days as a projector. Posing as a Catholic in the mid-1580s, he’d infiltrated several antigovernment conspiracies, slipping into clandestine masses and secretly marrying a Catholic woman to fine-tune his cover. When Walsingham grew impatient to make arrests, Poley would urge the plotters to act swiftly and decisively, collecting evidence against them all the while.

  One such young plotter was Anthony Babington, who considered Poley a trusted friend even as the hangman’s noose tightened about his neck. Babington had given Poley a gift, a diamond that now dangled from Poley’s left ear. The glittering teardrop was an enduring reminder of his most spectacular betrayal.

  Poley had come far since his early days sweeping other students’ floors and making their beds at Cambridge. He had loathed performing menial tasks while the wealthy, fashionably dressed sort idled about. But now, in addition to being the most feared and admired man in the service, he had the lifestyle he’d always wanted: new clothes, lavish dinners, and plenty of mistresses. All of whom were married, of course. He loved to seduce other men’s wives.

  Stepping into his employer’s office, Poley saw Robert Cecil sitting behind his desk, a white parrot fidgeting in a silver cage near his head. The exotic bird from the East was much more than a beloved pet, Poley knew. Possessing such a creature proved that its owner had well-placed connections and a good deal of money. It was a subtle but effective display of power.

  Gravely ill as a child, thirty-year-old Cecil was left a stunted crookback. He was near colorless, with a weak, effeminate chin barely hidden by his neatly clipped beard. The queen referred to him as her “elf,” sometimes as her “pygmy.”

  Although he appeared insignificant, Cecil wielded tremendous power. The son of the queen’s treasurer and top adviser, he’d been knighted two years before and granted a seat on the Privy Council. Cecil was also expected to be named secretary of state sometime soon, Poley knew, though apparently the queen was still considering her young favorite, the Earl of Essex, for the post.

  “You’ve heard of the latest threatening placard?” Cecil asked.

  Sitting down, Poley shook his head.

  “Anonymous letters and poems have been appearing around town this month past, promising death to all foreign workers who do not quit the city at once. Last night the most violent yet was tacked upon the wall of the Dutch church on Broad Street. Threatened to slit their throats while they were at prayer.”

  “And the queen is—”

  “Incensed,” Cecil cut in, impatient. “What troubles me is that last night’s threat was signed ‘Tamburlaine.’ ”

  “Ah, the poor shepherd turned world conqueror who wanted to march against God in heaven. I always fancied him,” Poley mused.

  Cecil ignored the comment. “The doggerel filth makes other allusions to Marlowe’s plays. You’re better acquainted with him than I. Think he wrote it?”

  “Last I heard, he has been in the countryside for weeks, working on a new play or some such thing,” Poley replied. “I’d say he has an admirer who despises the immigrants or an enemy who wants him in trouble. Marlowe might enjoy shocking people, but he would never do something that overt, that stupid.”

  “The Council has set up a commission to investigate the placards, calling them dangerous incitements to anarchy. I’m sure they’re looking for him.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Poley studied his employer. “It’s not like you to be concerned about someone else, even if it is an innocent man. A man who has served you well over the years, I might add.”

  “Marlowe has information,” Cecil said tightly. “Something…com-promising.”

  Poley’s eyes lit up. “Ah, and if he’s tortured, he might reveal it. Well, what is it?”

  Cecil was silent.

  The bones in Cecil’s hands were sharply outlined, Poley noticed, enjoying the rare display of nerves.It’s quite a dilemma for you, isn’t it? I’m the most capable man in your network—in the entire service, in fact—but you don’t entirely trust me.

  Poley tried again. “Sir, I cannot help if you do not tell me the problem.”

  Tugging on his small pointed beard, Cecil watched his parrot peck at its food for a minute. “You recall the coining operation from last year?”

  Poley nodded. They’d sent Marlowe to the Netherlands to infiltrate a group of exiled English Catholics plotting against Queen Elizabeth. Marlowe and a highly skilled goldsmith had begun counterfeiting coins. Coining was considered to be treason under English law, so simply committing the crime enhanced Marlowe’s antigovernment pose. But in addition, Marlowe was going to offer the conspirators a collection of counterfeit shillings as proof of his loyalty. They would have been easily tempted; the plotters were desperately short of money.

  The plan would surely have worked if a meddling spy from Essex’s network, a man named Richard Baines, hadn’t discovered the illicit coining and gotten Marlowe arrested.

  Ever discreet, Marlowe told the local governor that he had coined out of curiosity, that he wanted to see what the goldsmith could do, nothing more. Luckily the governor chose to deport Marlowe and his partner instead of incarcerating them, sending them straight into the hands of England’s treasurer, who was Robert Cecil’s father. Marlowe was quietly released without his cover being compromised, and the bungled operation was never exposed.

  So Poley did not understand why Cecil was worried. “He might admit that the coining was part of an operation we had planned, an operation that failed miserably—it would be a minor embarrassment, but hardly a cause for major concern.”

  Cecil pressed his lips together. “There’s more to it than you think. I was quite low on funds at the time, and…” His voice trailed off.

  “Ah, well done, sir!” Poley exclaimed. “You told Marlowe to quietly fashion a set of coins foryourself. Now that just crosses the line, doesn’t it? England’s next secretary of state dabbling in treason. How exciting! I’m impressed.”

  “You do realize this puts us in a sticky position,” Cecil said, his teeth clenched.

  “Us?”Poley loved to goad the little crookback, to throw verbal darts at his legendary self-control.

  “Of courseus,” Cecil hissed.

  A further jibe tickled his lips, but Poley bit it back. There was no need to alienate his employer too much. Though without question, if Cecil did start to sink at court, Poley would be the first to jump ship.

  “Sir, our charming playmaker will never divulge your secret,” Poley said with exaggerated nonchalance. “He could have sold the information to Essex for a fortune, if he were so inclined. But he never would. You see, Marlowe has got something you would not recognize. It might be a touch warped, but the man’s got a sense of honor.”

  “That and a penny might get me to London Bridge,” Cecil said, his calm demeanor intact once more. “But do you really think some lowly spy’s honor code is going to help me sleep at night?”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  Cecil cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes.

  “You’re not asking me to kill him, are you?” Poley shook his head slowly. “I despise killing. Makes me feel like a cheat, as if I have to sneak a piece off the board in order to win.”

  “Murder is messy. Could lead back to us. So, on the contrary, I want you to watch out for him. Let us hope the commission will show some sense and leave Marlowe alone, but if not, you will protect him at all costs, and so will I. If he ends up on the rack, we—and I do meanwe —will have trouble.”

  “Guardian an
gel is not a role I ever envisioned for myself,” Poley mused, then shrugged. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes.” Cecil’s tone sharpened to a hard, authoritative edge. “If you fail, I will take away everything you enjoy.”

  Poley’s expression remained nonchalant.

  Cecil wasn’t finished. “And when you beg me to reconsider, I will toss you in the Tower and tell Topcliffe you seduced his wife.”

  RICHMOND, ENGLAND—DUSK

  A pair of shiny black geldings trotted along a country lane, drawing a sleek lavender coach. On a thick velvet cushion inside, Her Majesty’s rack-master, Richard Topcliffe, sat alone, sipping his best Scotch from a silver flask.

  Forty minutes earlier, a messenger had appeared on the doorstep of his country home with a letter from the Privy Council summoning him back to London. A major investigation was under way. Apparently the first arrest had just been made.

  Topcliffe ordered his coachman to pick up the pace.

  11

  NEWYORKCITY—5:32P.M., THE PRESENT DAY

  Kate reached for her dirty martini.

  Medina watched her hand with dismay. “Is something wrong? You’re shaking.”

  “Oh, I lifted too much weight at the gym earlier,” Kate lied. Plastering on a smile, she added, “Clearlyyou know how that is.”

  “I’m glad you noticed.”

  Good thing you’re so easy to distract.Kate surreptitiously tucked her shaking hand beneath her thigh. The chilling message she’d received hours earlier and the confused, fragmented thoughts spinning off from it were hurtling through her brain, bouncing off the edges like bumper cars.

  She and Medina were sitting on plush armchairs in the living room of his suite at the Pierre, having a brief meeting over cocktails before he left the city to catch his flight back to London. While Medina examined the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table between them, Kate slipped her right hand from under her leg, flexed it a few times, then held it still. Good, she thought. The shaking had stopped.