Page 4 of The Last Kingdom

Easy to see how that was possible.

Even the incandescent light being tossed off seemed a pyrotechnic display of flashing white and prismatic color.

Almost hypnotizing.

He was always amused at how Ludwig was described as either a tyrant, a lunatic, or an incompetent. But none of those labels were correct. Today he might have been characterized as bipolar, or a manic-depressive, and treated with medication, living a long and productive life. But no such assistance had been available in the nineteenth century. His father, Maximilian II, had been stiff and pedantic, keeping his distance, dying far too soon. His mother had been someone who never understood him. One observer at the time noted that hisdark eyes swirled with dreams and enthusiasm, his fine forehead, elegant address, and dignified presence winning him instant admiration.But his faults came from a bit of megalomania, a debilitating indecision, and a love of change that seemed common to his age. Eventually, the world fell upon him, with political infighting and his own insatiable desires compounding his troubles. Ever so slowly he lost a grip on reality, withdrawing into himself, his castles, and the night where he became a king from a fairy tale, a mythical figure of poets, this grand hall proof positive of that obsession.

Photography was not allowed inside the palace, though two of the four Chinese toted cameras around their necks. Expensive looking, too, with high-intensity flash attachments. Cotton made a mental assessment of the possibilities ahead and decided one of those cameras might come in handy.

The tour group left the Hall of Mirrors and headed toward the north wing, inching ever closer to the king’s study. When they finally entered that space he noted the time.

4:05P.M.

The room was a perfect square with a doorway in on one side and another out, opposite, on the other, consistent with the French style of rooms-to-rooms with no hallways. The walls were white-paneled with more gilt carvings. A large portrait of Louis XIV dominated the wall behind an ornate writing desk. Two astronomical clocks sat on console tables to each side. He knew about the large rolltop desk from the pamphlet. Made in Paris, 1884. Inspired by the one in the Louvre that had belonged to Louis XV. It had been delivered after Ludwig II died in 1886 and had remained here, inside the palace, since around 1920. The guide told the group about the room and the desk, repeating some of what he already knew.

Time was short. He needed a plan.

And one came to him.

He was good at improvising. Which, more than anything else, accounted for the fact that he was still alive, considering the risks he’d once taken on a daily basis and still liked to take on occasion.

Everyone headed for the next room, led by the guide. He drifted toward the rear of the pack. Slender and Sinewy lingered even more. The next space was oval-shaped and had served as Ludwig’s dining room. The guide began pointing out the fireplace, the Meissen porcelain, and the Wishing Table that could be lowered down below, set with food, then winched back up so the king could always dine alone without attendants.

“The whole thing was impractical, as the table was so laden with supports that the king’s legs could not fit beneath and his knees were cut by lots of sharp edges. Still, he dined here. But not entirely alone. Three other places were always set for his imaginary guests. Usually Louis XIV and some of his court. Ludwig would talk to them and drink toasts in their honor.”

The guide seemed focused on her spiel and did not notice that she was missing two members. Slender and Sinewy had remained in the study and he needed to give them a few moments of privacy. He stood just beyond the doorway that allowed access between the two rooms, far enough inside the dining room that the guide was happy and the two behind him were not disturbed.

He figured the couple of minutes he’d allowed them were more than enough, so he stepped over to one of the Chinese and smiled as he pointed to his camera and said, “Excuse me, might I borrow this?”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped the strap from around the man’s neck. Shock filled the older man’s face but the suddenness of the unexpected violation and his smile bought enough time for the theft to be completed. He hoped the camera was on standby, ready to be used, and he immediately retreated to the doorway.

As predicted, Slender and Sinewy were busy with the rolltop desk.

He aimed the lens at them and said, “Smile.”

The two looked his way and he snapped off three flashes, the camera clicking away. Pictures weren’t the point. But the bright lights were. Both Slender and Sinewy raised an arm to shield their eyes. Behind him he heard the guide saying in a loud voice that photographs were not allowed.

He snapped two more.

Across the study, in the doorway leading out, a third man appeared, his blond hair more mowed than cut, the bright face clean-shaven and glowing with good health and outdoor life. He wore a dark pullover shirt and jeans, matted to a muscular frame, his waist-length, fleece-collared bomber jacket open in the front, a black scarf around his neck.

He knew him well.

Luke Daniels.

United States Justice Department.

Who leveled a pistol straight at Cotton.

And fired.

Chapter 2

LUKE WAS PLEASED THAT EVERYTHING HAD PLAYED OUT ACCORDING TOplan. He’d called Malone three days ago and asked for a favor.

“I’ve got three months of work on this,” hetold Malone. “Finally, I’m on the inside. But I need a little help.”

“Which I’m sure it pains you to ask.”

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