The Intelligencer Read online

  “How was your day?” Medina asked, looking back up at her. “Anything interesting happen?”

  Kate took a tiny pastry shell stuffed with smoked trout and caviar, put it in her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “Mmm. Wow, this is really,really good.”

  “All right, Miss Secrecy,” Medina said playfully. “I get it. If you tell me what you’ve been up to, you’d have to kill me, but if we spend this idle pleasantry exchange time talking aboutmy day, I wouldn’t have to kill you, but there’s a pretty good chance you’d die of boredom.”

  “Try me.”Boring sounds pretty good to me right now.

  “Just a couple meetings. I manage a hedge fund, do a lot of short selling, some venture capital here and there…”

  “What’s been your biggest coup?”

  “Spotting that your country’s top companies were not as upstanding as they pretended to be. I shorted Enron and WorldCom at the right time. But enough about me—”

  Uh-oh, so not in the mood to talk about myself.“You’re right,” Kate cut in. “I’ve got major news for you.”

  Medina raised his eyebrows.

  “I consulted a rare-book dealer, then got started myself last night, and I’m virtually certain your manuscript is exactly what the title page suggests—a collection of secret information compiled by Thomas Phelippes.”

  “With pages taken from Walsingham’s files?”

  Kate nodded. “Many were addressed to Walsingham, and the rough dating I got for the paper correlates with the timing of the events mentioned in the reports I’ve deciphered so far. Also, where possible, I’ve compared the handwriting with samples I have from various Elizabethan spies. They’ve all matched.”

  “My goodness.”

  “Wait. It gets better. Looks like Phelippes only included really juicy stuff. I haven’t come across any humdrum intelligence. No tedious reports about the status of the Spanish naval fleet, for example. Nothing like that.”

  Kate took a sip of her drink. “I haven’t found anything yet that would affect someone today—in a serious way—but I bet I will soon.”

  “My money’s on you, too.”

  Kate smiled, and for the first time since she’d entered his suite, it was genuine. Finally her nerves were settling down. “By the way,” she said, “I called your professor but got his voice mail. I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Neither have I,” Medina said thoughtfully. “I’ll try him again tomorrow morning. But in the meantime, I’d love to hear more about what you read last night.”

  Kate’s eyes lit up. “Well, I wasn’t surprised to read about the so-called Virgin Queen’s racy sex life—who, when, where—that type of thing. But itwas cool to come across evidence that her first lover might not have pushed his wife down the stairs, as almost everyone thought.”

  “Was he arrested?”

  “No. Just mired in suspicion. People believed the rumors because they knew he desperately wanted to marry Elizabeth and become king. The report was written by a young maid who claimed to have seen his wife trip and tumble down the steps accidentally. There’s no historical record of this witness’s claims, so I’m guessing that Walsingham suppressed it.”

  “Why?”

  “Keeping Elizabeth single and available for courtship by Europe’s many princes was better for foreign policy.”

  “Makes sense. What else did you find?”

  “Intel from a classic sleeper spy.”

  “Oh?”

  “His name was Richard Baines. He was one of Walsingham’s earliest spies at Rheims, the seminary for English Catholics across the channel in France. Major hotbed of plotting against the English government. Baines enrolled in 1578 like your average wanna-be priest. His mission was to pick up information about Catholic military strategy and learn the identities of covert Catholics back in England, which he did and wrote up in this report. He was also in Rheims to promote unrest among the budding priests, so he sang the praises of sex and rich food to anyone who would listen.”

  “Good strategy.”

  “Yeah. Ultimately, though, he screwed up. Told a fellow student he was going to poison the seminary well, and the student turned him in. He ended up in the town jail for a year.”

  “What about the codes? How are you figuring them out?”

  “Tricks of the trade, my friend. Sorry.” Taking a notebook from her bag, Kate’s mock stern expression softened into a smile. She turned to a particular page and handed it to Medina. “This was originally in cipher. It was one of the easier reports to translate, but it’s senseless drivel, right?”

  “Appears that way.”

  Kate then gave him a sheet of paper with holes cut into it. “I made this for you.”

  “Um…thanks?”

  “It’s a Cardan Grille. Invented in the 1550s by a Milanese natural philosopher, Girolamo Cardano. Most were thicker than this, usually made of stiff board. Both a sender and recipient would have the same one.”

  Leaning toward Medina, she placed the grille across the notebook page. About twenty words and fifty individual letters were visible through the holes. “Sound familiar?”

  “ ‘The Earl of Northumberland,’ ” Medina read, “ ‘has built a secret chamber in Petworth, from which a priest conducts mass…on Whitsun Eve, he met with one Francis Throckmorton to discuss letters from their French and Spanish contacts…’ ”

  Medina looked up at her. “This is that report you just described—of covert Catholics plotting in England.”

  Nodding, Kate reached for her notebook and flipped to a page covered with columns of letters and symbols. “This is a key to another one of the reports,” she said, handing it over.

  Each vowel had five different ciphers, each consonant two. The letterb, for example, could be represented either by a cross made of two squiggly lines or a letterz positioned diagonally. The letterm could be represented by a pair of bird wings or by what looked like an upside-down tadpole.

  “My computer helped me with that one,” Kate said, watching Medina peruse the ciphered letters. “It was also common back then to convey hidden meaning in a seemingly bland letter,” she added. “To disguise information about troop movements, for example, as a merchant’s report about a shipment of inventory. You know: ‘The wine will be reaching Lisbon in a fortnight.’ Something like that.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Now, want to hear about the most infamous sadist of the time?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Richard Topcliffe. Numero uno state torturer. He had a passion for his job, loved taunting prisoners while he crippled them. He also had a passion for the queen. One of Walsingham’s prison informants reported hearing Topcliffe screaming her name while raping a female prisoner in the next cell.”

  “Sounds about as pleasant as jails do today.”

  “Yeah. Trust me, you don’t want to mess with the law.”

  “I wish you’d told me that sooner,” Medina said, slapping his palm against his forehead. “Just this morning, I was—”

  Kate laughed. “Actually, the spy who wrote the Topcliffe report was an interesting character, too. Robert Poley. Got his start posing as a Catholic jailbird and snitching to Walsingham. Not so glamorous a beginning, you might think, but word was he had a grand time. Made someserious use of the conjugal visit…with other men’s wives. Eventually he became the most effective spy in the secret service. Has been called the very genius of the Elizabethan underworld. His bosses never trusted him, but he was too good not to use.”

  “What washis biggest coup?”

  “Playing a big part in the downfall of Walsingham’s nemesis, Mary, Queen of Scots. Poley infiltrated a circle of conspirators plotting her rescue, nudged them along…”

  “Wait a minute,” Medina said. “The government spy, Poley,encouraged a plot against Elizabeth?”

  “Until Walsingham had enough evidence to execute everyone, including Mary. Today he’s also remembered for his role in—”

  A knock sounded. Someone
was rapping on Medina’s door.

  Checking his watch, Medina said, “Good. I’ve been expecting something essential. Absolutely essential.”

  “Our food’s here, the porter’s taken your luggage—what now?” Kate asked. She then noticed that he was stifling a smile. He was up to something.

  Medina stood and headed toward the suite’s hallway. “If you’llexcuse me…”

  Puzzled but mildly intrigued, Kate craned her neck, watching him.

  He turned back.“Please. Can a man have his privacy?”

  Medina returned with a large rectangular box wrapped in bright red paper and handed it to Kate. A gift? No, that would be strange, although he was a flirt. Chocolates? Did he know she had a weakness for them? No, the box was too big, and it rattled. It couldn’t be, but it sounded like…

  Still not convinced, she quickly unwrapped the box, and there it was. A board game.Clue.

  “I know your credentials are impeccable, and I’d love to continue working with you, but I have very exacting standards,” he explained. “You see, if you can’t best me at this…”

  “You’ll clobber me over the head with the candlestick?”

  “No. I’d have the colonel do it,” Medina said, his eyes sparkling wickedly. “He’s in the conservatory as we speak, plotting the perfect murder.”

  ROME—12:09A.M.

  Just off the Tiber in the heart of old Rome, a wide straight street slices through a thicket of crooked medieval alleys. Designed by Donato Bramante for Pope Julius II, the cobbled Via Giulia is lined with Renaissance palazzos, one of which—a russet-colored structure with elaborate carvings on the façade—was owned by Luca de Tolomei.

  In his bedroom on the top floor, de Tolomei was sitting in a leather armchair speaking on the telephone. “Anything from the Kate Morgan tap?” he asked his assistant.

  “One call, sir. About an hour ago, she spoke with a friend, a young woman in London, about attending the Sotheby’s auction there tomorrow night.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Ah, yes it is, sir.” De Tolomei’s assistant hesitated, then added, “It would seem she uses her mobile primarily.”

  “Indeed,” de Tolomei murmured, his irritation evident. “Any progress in that regard?”

  “Not exactly. The mobile’s encryption system is unlike anything we’ve seen before. The algorithms are—”

  “Just let me know when you hear anything new.”

  “Right, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “Have the Gulfstream ready for a short flight tomorrow morning.”

  “Certainly. Good night.”

  Hanging up, de Tolomei stood and retrieved a small black suitcase from his closet. Laying it on his bed, he began collecting the few items he would need for a brief trip to London.

  NEWYORKCITY—7:34P.M.

  Kate’s flight to Heathrow was taking off in a few hours. Holding an open toiletry bag, she was scanning the shelves in her bathroom, searching for anything she might have forgotten. “You’re not exactly going into the jungle,” she mumbled to herself. “They do sell this stuff over there.”

  Zipping the bag shut, she hurried back to her bedroom to double-check the contents of the suitcase lying on her bed. She was meeting Max at the Upper East Side helipad in less than an hour, and there was someone she needed to see beforehand. Picking up the phone by her bed, she dialed a very familiar number.

  Five rings later, her best friend, Jack O’Mara, answered with a scratchy croak. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” Kate said, realizing he’d been sleeping. He was a writer and kept unusual hours. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

  His response was somewhere between a groan and a purr.

  “Bye, Jack. I’ll call you later.”

  “No, no,” he said, more lucid. “You sound funny—something’s wrong. Wanna come over?”

  “Um, yeah. If that’s okay.”

  “I’ll meet you. I have to be up soon anyway. Bring me a double latte, will you?”

  “Sure…thanks, Jack.”

  Since elementary school, Jack had been like family to her—the sibling she never had, the only person she leaned on emotionally. Like Kate, he was an only child who lost a parent at a young age and grew up quiet and serious, with a vague sense of guilt and sadness that was rarely out of reach. Fear, too—Jack’s father, a police officer, was killed on the job, and as Kate’s father rose through the ranks of the U.S. Attorney’s office, prosecuting increasingly dangerous felons, death threats and bodyguards were not uncommon. Both she and Jack had been vaguely uncomfortable in social situations as children and had gravitated to each other shortly after meeting.

  Ten minutes later, with Jack’s coffee in hand, she headed up Second Avenue rolling her suitcase behind her. The wind was strong. Tree branches shook angrily, and Kate’s hair flew before her face, obscuring her vision. The sky was an odd grayish lilac color with an orange glow, and dark clouds were jockeying for position overhead. Another spring shower was on its way.

  On Kate’s left, a quaint brownstone restaurant row—backed by neck-strain-high skycrapers—gave way to a number of bars, popular during the week with the midtown working crowd. Black-clad yuppies on cell phones hovered out front, concentrating deeply as they solved the world’s problems.

  “She was wearingwhat? ” one heavily made-up Prada drone shouted into her phone.

  Kate tried not to roll her eyes as she continued up the avenue.

  Crossing Fifty-ninth Street, she climbed the awning-covered stairs to the Roosevelt Island tram, passed through the turnstile, and entered the small red cable car. Staring out the windows at the Queensboro Bridge, which runs parallel to the tram’s cable system, she watched the hundreds of red taillights moving away from her. Rain began coming down. Large droplets pelted the roof. The last passengers dashed aboard, and within moments the tram operator shuffled in and her short ride over the East River began.

  The car passed over Second, First, and York Avenues as it headed to the river. Kate gripped the railing tightly, mesmerized by the city lights gleaming through the pouring rain.

  The brightly lit swordfish snout of the Chrysler building whipped out of sight, and then they were over the river. Turning around, Kate looked out the opposite set of windows to search for Jack, who lived in an apartment building on the northern end of the island. The boardwalk skirting the western shore was empty, but the tree-lined path connecting it to the tram station was not; she saw a lone silhouette walking its course. The car swooped along the cable down to its home, and Kate waited impatiently for the doors to open.

  Jack’s worn navy sweater and jeans were plastered to him, and rain dripped from his nose. With plain features set in a hard pale face, dark hair as closely clipped as the stubble on his chin, and the solid body of a triathlete, he was unremarkable-looking, but his blue eyes shone brightly—beautifully—against the evening’s drab backdrop. Kate went up to him. He hugged her tightly, and melting into the comfort of his familiar—if not soft—embrace, she burst into tears.

  Entering a well-tended park, they walked toward the boardwalk hand in hand and stood at the railing facing the Upper East Side, the swiftly moving river sparkling before them, the warm spring rain drenching them. With Jack’s arm around her, Kate rested her head in the crook of his shoulder.

  “What happened?” he asked softly. “I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”

  She pulled a small card from her pocket. “This came today. With a bouquet of lilies. Casablanca lilies, the same ones Rhys used to send me.”

  Angling the card toward a street lamp, Jack read softly, “ ‘Tick, tock, tick, tock, boom. Limbs fly, love dies, doom. Tell me, how does it feel to hold a melted hand?’ ”

  Stunned, he turned to face her. “Holy shit.”

  The memory of what Kate had found in Rhys’s casket, an image she was able to block from her conscious mind, had haunted her every night for more than a year after his death. Following the funeral, a closed-casket ce
remony, Kate had remained in the room alone. Against the warnings of Rhys’s brother—who’d been nearby when the grenade that had killed Rhys exploded—she’d opened the casket, desperate to say good-bye, no matter what state he was in. It was a mistake. What she saw was far worse than she’d ever imagined. There was nothing but a burned arm, with bone protruding where his shoulder should have been. The blue fabric of his shirtsleeve had melted into his split, blackened flesh, and the gold ring she’d designed for him dangled from the bones of a shriveled finger.

  Jack put his hands on her shoulders. “Who the hell—”

  “I have no idea who could hate me so much and know those…details.”

  “Your company wasn’t able to trace it?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “Could it involve something you’re working on now, someone who might want to unbalance you, get you off your game?”

  “I’ve got two new cases, but one of the targets doesn’t even know I exist yet,” Kate said, thinking of de Tolomei. “And the other case involves a guy who wants something I’ve got—an old manuscript—but I don’t see why he’d get this personal with me. Send a gumshoe to jump me in the street and steal my bag, yes, but play mind games? I’m just a random obstacle for him to bypass. That note seems too vindictive, too personal for someone like him.” Kate shook her head, puzzled.

  “You must have made some enemies in the past few years,” said Jack, “someone who could want to get back at you.”

  “I guess so, I…” Kate paused to check the number on her ringing cell phone. “It’s my father. You mind?”

  “Of course not,” Jack said, smoothing her hair back from her face while she took the call.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I’m in town. Had an unexpected meeting earlier, and I thought, if you were free, that we might get together.”

  “I’m actually on my way to the airport in a few minutes.”

  “Where to?”

  “London. A couple new cases came up.”

  “Oh, that sounds great. You’ll be seeing, ah…”

  “Adriana, my old roommate? Yeah. Is everything all right?”