The Intelligencer Read online

  Kate turned to the second page and shined her flashlight toward it. This time, however, no translucent letters appeared. She looked at the page more closely. It was slightly smaller than the previous one, a darker shade of yellow at the edges, creased as if once folded several times, and appeared to be in a different person’s handwriting. Focusing on the characters themselves, she saw that they were simpler than the nullities—the decoy symbols—inked on the title page. There was one that resembled a tadpole, another that looked like the planet Saturn encircled by its ring, a number three with an extra loop, and another that resembled an eight with a pig’s curling tail on top.

  “I wonder if…” Kate’s voice trailed off as she examined the next few pages. They, too, were more battered than the first page, with simpler characters, varying styles of handwriting, and no hidden lemon-juice text.

  Scanning the fifth page, she nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure these are real Elizabethan ciphers. Some of the characters are familiar to me. This one,” she said, pointing to ano with a cross jutting out of it, “I’ve seen used to represent France. And this one, Spain,” she continued, pointing to what looked like a number four standing on a short line. “And this upward-pointing arrow, England.”

  Looking up, Kate noticed two teenagers across the room peering at her over their teacups, and an older woman at the next table glancing over in between bites of scone. Reluctantly she closed the manuscript and said softly, “This looks like a collection of sixteenth-century intelligence reports.”

  “Odd that my tutor didn’t…”

  “Espionage isn’t a common or particularly prestigious academic specialty.”

  “Hmm. Even so, I still don’t see why someone would try to steal this when so many things in my home have got to be worth far more. My car keys were out on the hall table…next to some diamond cufflinks. The thief didn’t touch them. Seems a bit daft.”

  Unless…Intent on maintaining her composure, Kate took a deep breath. “These might not be just any old intel reports. After Walsingham died in 1590, his secret files disappeared, and both Elizabethans and modern-day scholars consider Phelippes a possible suspect. The files were certainly valuable. Walsingham’s network of snoops would have put J. Edgar Hoover’s henchmen to shame. Secrets, scandals, anything suspicious—you name it, they sniffed it out. For decades. And the thing is, those files have never been found. Maybe—”

  “Hold on. Can you back up a second? Why so much spying back then?”

  “How’s your English history?”

  “Piss poor,” Medina admitted. “Iam half English but grew up in Spain…and was never really one for books.”

  “Well, Elizabeth I’s Protestant government was threatened by scheming Catholics from all sides, not to mention from within. Catholic conspiracies were constantly in the works, usually involving both domestic and foreign players. The Spanish in particular. Also the pope—he issued a bull commanding his flock to do whatever it took to get rid of Elizabeth.”

  “So a lot of people were trying to kill her.”

  “Exactly. And by the 1580s, Walsingham finally convinced her to spend money on espionage. So for the first time in English history, the Royal Treasury footed a big chunk of the intelligence bill, and Walsingham was able to really expand his operation. With Phelippes at his side, he built a vast network of informants and spies—or intelligencers, as they were known at the time. Sometimes his people used threats and intimidation for their recruitment, but mostly just the promise of money. And as a result, Walsingham was able to ferret out traitors so thoroughly it would have made Joe McCarthy’s head spin. His people had so much dirt on people, they could threaten to bury almost anyone at any time.”

  “Sounds like a charming place to be,” Medina said dryly.

  “I know. When it comes to Elizabethan England, most people think of Shakespeare and royal pageantry. But beneath the glitter, it was an ugly police state. No concept of innocent until proven guilty. If the queen’s security was at stake, suspicion was what mattered. And so the words of spies—the brokers of secrets and sins—could send you to the torture chamber like…that,” Kate finished, snapping her fingers.

  “You said Walsingham’s files have been missing since his death?”

  Kate nodded. “More than four centuries.”

  “And you think…”

  “I think this manuscript may prove that Phelippes is the one who took them. That he sifted through decades of voluminous paperwork, selected the juiciest spy reports, had them bound, and—presto!—The Anatomy of Secrets.A collection of information as threatening to the Elizabethan aristocracy as the Hoover files were to U.S. politicos. As an historical artifact, it might not’ve been the most valuable thing in your home, but I’d guess the thief wasn’t concerned with its sale price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, any Renaissance scholar would love to get his hands on this. Publish an explosive paper and get famous—though most academics are pretty mild mannered and not exactly known for breaking and entering or hiring a pro…”

  Kate looked off into space for a moment. “Maybe something in here would still be threatening to someone today. Like, say, evidence that some duke’s ancestor was really a bastard, and he’d lose his family seat if that information came to light.”

  “That’d be something.”

  “You’re telling me. And since hardly anyone knows you even found this, it shouldn’t be too hard to—”

  At that moment, their waiter set down a three-tiered silver tray laden with pastries and triangular sandwiches, along with small pots of tea and china cups.

  Kate thanked him, then turned back to Medina. “Can you tell me more about last night’s break-in?”

  “It was early evening,” he said, reaching for a cream-filled pastry swan. “Police think he came in through a rear window. I’d left a few open…at my new house in Belgravia.”

  Kate knew his neighborhood well—had once spent a week there on surveillance. A stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, the area was developed by the rich for the rich in the early nineteenth century. It remained an ultrachic locale where old and new money intermingled.

  “You moved in recently?” she asked, pouring herself some tea.

  Chewing, Medina nodded. “Until a proper security system is installed, I’ve had a guard on the premises when I leave. He rang the police soon as he heard the noise. It didn’t matter that they took their time—after cracking my safe, the thief made himself comfortable. Poured a glass of cognac, if you can believe it.”

  “How did he end up dead?”

  “He was armed. When my guard opened the door and saw a pistol trained on him, he fired. Aiming to disable the fellow’s gun arm, of course, but with the angle…”

  “Have the police identified him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They’ve run his prints?”

  “This morning. No match.” Medina turned to his briefcase and retrieved a sheaf of Polaroids. “Crime scene photos, if you…”

  Kate took a look. In the first shot, the thief was slumped in an armchair, his head resting on his shoulder, his face obscured by blood and shadows. “Nicesuit. Hand tailored. Looks English. Could be a way to trace him.”

  “Good idea.”

  Continuing to leaf through the photographs, Kate marveled, “Your safe…wow, this guy was good. He did this in a couple of minutes?”

  “If that.”

  Seeing that the hardwood slats to the right of Medina’s safe were barely charred, she added, “He must’ve used a shaped charge. Not easy to get your hands on one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “A piece of metal-lined plastique—allows for a controlled, directed explosion. Looks like he used one to melt through the steel bolts holding the door in place. Remember Pan Am flight 103? The CIA was able to trace the Libyans who blew it up from a similarly rare, high-end device—the bomb’s timer—some Swiss expert only made twelve of them. Yeah, identifying him shou
ldn’t be too hard.”

  “How about motive? The detective didn’t seem too fussed. Got a little grumpy with me, as a matter of fact.”

  “I imagine I can find that in here,” Kate said, gesturing toThe Anatomy of Secrets. “The thing is, as much as it pains me to say it, a manuscript like this—sixteenth-century, one-of-a-kind—it really belongs in a museum, with proper climate control, lighting…. There might also be a law in Britain about turning such discoveries over to a particular cultural institution. I’m not sure how you want to—”

  “While I’m loath to offend the scholar in you,” Medina cut in, “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting the bureaucrats wait a few days. I’ve got the airtight box upstairs in my room, and as it’s been preserved in there for four hundred years…”

  “Sold!” Kate said, laughing. “If I scan all the pages tonight, then seal it away, my conscience will survive. Tell me, though, why do you, uh…”

  “Care?”

  “Yeah. From what you’ve said about your interests…”

  “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in quite a while. Not that it takes much to beat playing around with numbers.” He paused for a moment, then continued with his crooked smile, “Besides, who could resist the chance to play amateur sleuth with a gorgeous girl like you?”

  To Medina’s delight, Kate shrugged, palms in the air. Mentally, however, she rolled her eyes.Gorgeous was not a word she’d ever use to describe herself. In Kate’s opinion, her looks were good enough to be useful now and then but not so good that they were ever a liability; she could blend into a crowd if need be, easily.

  Getting back to business, she pulled a notepad from her bag. “Your professor, Dr. Andrew Rutherford—I need to call him.” She checked her watch. In England, it was after ten o’clock. “First thing in the morning, I guess. I’d like to find out who he showed the manuscript to—start to generate a list of everyone who knows about your discovery. Can you give me his number? And can I hold on to these?” she asked, holding up the photographs.

  “Yes, and yes.” Copying the number from his cell phone, he added, “You know, I was impressed with you before we met. And now, well, even more so. It’s clear to me you’re very capable. But I have a concern, and it’s a grave one.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t help but wonder if I should trust you. Let’s face it. Wily female spy types can be dangerous. I mean, if I think about some of your more illustrious predecessors—Delilah, Mata Hari…”

  Picking up her spoon, Kate pretended it was a microphone. “Memo to self: Client is well versed in history of double-dealing trollops. Has promptly mistaken me for same.”

  Medina raised his teacup with a twinkle in his eye. “Here’s hoping your fate is not quite so grim.”

  Delilah, Kate knew, had been crushed alive in a collapsing temple, but Mata Hari?Oh, that’s right. Firing squad.

  Leaning back in her chair, Kate folded her arms across her chest. “And this from a man who claims his command of history is slim.”

  “Oh, I know my trollops.”

  “Cidro, I’m sure you do.”

  Heading back down Fifth Avenue, on her way to catch the E train to visit the shop of a rare-book dealer she knew, Kate tried to stifle the smile that stubbornly refused to leave her face. As soon as she’d said good-bye to Medina, it seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

  If her theory was correct, Thomas Phelippes—a man she felt she almost knew—had actually created a bound version of Walsingham’s most delicious secrets. And it could have been buried since the Renaissance, she thought with excitement. Phelippes had lived near Leadenhall Market, the area in the City where Medina’s new office was being restored. Secret compartments were more than commonplace back then. Some, known as “priests’ holes,” were constructed to hide the illicit black-garbed men wealthy Catholics couldn’t bear to do without. When most of London burned to the ground in the Great Fire of 1666, the compartment could have been lost in the rubble and ash. Until now.

  Kate clutched her bag closer. She felt like a conspiracy buff who’d just stumbled across Lee Harvey Oswald’s diary. The keys to dozens of mysteries could be concealed in the ciphered pages: Did Queen Elizabeth’s first love really toss his wife down the stairs? Did she take as many lovers as everyone thought? Was Mary, Queen of Scots behind the murder of her first husband and the plotting of Elizabeth’s assassination? What about proof that Shakespeare did, in fact, write the plays attributed to him?

  As a grad student, Kate had never dreamed of being the one to decipher something like Phelippes’sAnatomy of Secrets, or that such a thing would ever be discovered. And she’d certainly never expected her love for Renaissance history and literature to play a role in her career. She could not have been more thrilled. So why had a vague nervousness just killed her mood?

  A sharp knock threw her right shoulder forward. Holding her bag with both hands, she stared at the person who was shoving past, then relaxed. It was a typical midtown blonde in a hurry, with an immaculate pedicure, a self-important expression no actress could fake, and irritated thoughts as predictable as the color of her roots. A moment later, the woman’s rapid strides were reduced to an impatient shuffle—she was trapped behind a pair of stooped old ladies meandering along arm in arm. Kate listened to the blonde’s muffled curses with amusement; no doubt she was one of the many New Yorkers who considered slow walking at rush hour to be a cardinal sin.

  But Kate’s heart was still racing, and it wasn’t from thoughts of the manuscript. She paused to talk to Blake, the dashing young security guard standing outside of Harry Winston. Though usually surrounded by fawning female tourists, he was alone.

  “See anyone I should worry about?”

  He let his eyes wander for a moment, looking over her shoulder, then answered, “Mmm, middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair—at least what’s left of it—hovering over a newspaper bin across the street. He just glanced up. And, well, a guy who walked by looked you up and down, as did his girlfriend, but I don’t think that means much. Coupla folks just ducked into stores.”

  Kate had not seen anyone herself but sensed that someone was following her. She’d been trained to spot watchers, but if they were good, more often than not she just felt them.

  Pretending to peruse the Winston display case, she listened as Blake finished, “My money’s on Salt ’n’ Pepper. You want to walk through?” There was a hidden exit off one of Harry Winston’s storage rooms that led to an abandoned network of construction tunnels. On a prior case, Kate and one of her colleagues had exposed a Winston employee’s string of embezzlements, and the grateful store manager had given her carte blanche to pass through at any time. It was a kind of a midtown trapdoor for her.

  “Thanks, but not today. I’d like to know what he wants.”

  “You’ve got a little glow about you. Meet someone new?”

  “Nah, just a client. Really easy on the eyes, but he’s so not my type—bored rich guy with that I-know-everyone-wants-me look in his eye.”

  “That look gets me every time,” Blake sighed. “He plays foryour team, huh?”

  “I think I saw our jersey in his locker, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  Continuing to walk south, Kate paused here and there, allowing her pursuer to keep her in sight. Looking up at the lighted trees on the sloping tiers of the Trump Tower, she wondered if she were merely being paranoid.Well, there’s an easy way to find that out. A blue and white Manhattan bus had just come to a stop beside her, and Kate took a step toward it, as if she were about to board, then threw a quick glance behind her. The man Blake had described was trying to hail a cab.

  So hewas following her.Hmm. Kate checked her watch as she began walking again, pretending to have changed plans. A few blocks down, she turned into the Banana Republic in Rockefeller Center. Eyeing the reflective storefront for a moment confirmed that her shadower was right where she wanted him.

  In the dressing room Kate took off her suit
, rolled it up, and put it in her bag, then took out a wig and a short Lycra skirt. She rarely left home without the makings of a simple disguise. The chin-length wig was straight and blond. Her own father had once failed to recognize her in it. She tucked her hair beneath it, then slid into the skimpy skirt—a far cry from the conservative knee-length pinstripe she’d been wearing earlier.

  After replacing her dark lipstick with a shade of frosty pink, Kate went up to a customer at the cashier’s desk and told him she’d give him a twenty if he escorted her out. With his arm around her shoulders, they left the store and melted into the rush-hour crowd. He refused the cash.

  The man with the salt-and-pepper hair and the beginnings of a beer gut stood watching the entrance to Banana Republic from across the street, partially concealed by the tourists hovering outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral.If that girl’s anything like my wife, she’ll be in there for hours. He looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had gone by. All the same, he should get ready for her exit. This was the perfect place to make his move—the most densely crowded spot around.

  With his eyes still trained on the clothing store, he reached into his jacket pocket to get hold of his razor blade, then panicked. The blade was gone. And so was his wallet. He’d spent twenty-five years in New York, fifteen in the PD, ten as a gumshoe. Caught hundreds of thieves but hadn’t ever been robbed himself.Damn.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” a timid voice said. “Could you tell me where is the…the…?”

  What’s that accent, Italian?He turned around. Ah, some hot tourist lost in the city—map in hand, an imploring look on her face. Oh, he could show her a thing or two. But he was working. “Sorry, miss. Can’t help you right now.”

  “Actually, I think you can.”

  He took a step back, confused. Her features were suddenly hard, words commanding and smooth, the accent gone. She handed him his missing wallet. He bit his lip in alarm. In spite of the new hair, clothes, and makeup, he recognized her: his target.

  “Bill Mazur,” Kate said, having glanced at his driver’s license minutes before. “Thrown off the force because you got a little too friendly with the local dealers.” Before confronting him, she’d phoned his name into her office for a few quick background details. “Who hired you?”