The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)
Steve Berry
Acknowledgments
Again, my sincere thanks to John Sargent, head of Macmillan; Sally Richardson, who captains St. Martin’s; and my publisher at Minotaur, Andrew Martin. Also, a huge debt of gratitude continues for Hector DeJean in Publicity; Jeff Dodes and every-one in Marketing and Sales, especially Paul Hochman; Jen Enderlin, the sage of all -things paperback; David Rotstein, who produced the cover; Steven Seighman for the interior design work; and Mary Beth Roche and her innovative folks in Audio.
As always, a bow to Simon Lipskar, my agent and friend. And to my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her assistant, Maggie Callan, both of whom are wonderful.
A few extra mentions: Meryl Moss and her extraordinary publicity team (especially Deb Zipf and JeriAnn Geller); Jessica Johns and Esther Garver, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises -running smoothly; Glenn Simpson, superintendent of the Dry Tortugas National Park, for showing me an extraordinary national trea-sure; Dan Veddern and Glenn Cox, who, over dinner in a French chateau, helped me work through the plot (it’s not exactly what we discussed, but it’s close); Melisse Shapiro and Doug Scofield for introducing me to Palm Beach; Wanda Smith, who made a -great case for the inclusion of Starke and Micanopy, Florida; and Grant Blackwood, novelist extraordinaire, for helping unstick me.
My wife, Elizabeth, once again was -there -every step of the way, pushing me along with this first incursion into the world of first person.
This book deals with courage and fortitude, so it’s only fitting that it be dedicated to a friend of ours who is currently -going through a tough strug-gle with cancer. It was something that sprang up out of nowhere, with no warning whatsoever. But instead of feeling sorry for herself or wallowing in pity, our friend has accepted the strug-gle and bravely faced the challenge head-on. Thankfully, she has a loving husband and four wonderful sons, all of whom are with her -every step of the way.
Elizabeth and I have no doubt she -will win the war.
In the meantime, this one’s for you, PJ.
They said one to another, behold here cometh the dreamer, let
us slay him and we shall see what will become of his dreams.
—Genesis 37:19–20
Prologue
Present day
How ironic, I think, that this all started with a murder, and now it appears it might end with another.
I’ve been summoned to a famous address, 501 Auburn Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia. The house is a two-story Queen Anne with a porch, scroll-cut trim, porthole windows, and a gabled roof. Part of a neighborhood with a famous name. Sweet Auburn. Once the home of hardworking, middle-class, urban families, sixty years ago the neighborhood became the epicenter for a movement that ultimately changed the country. The African American couple who’d lived in this house had not wanted any of their children born in a segregated hospital, so all three arrived into the world right here. The first, a girl, Christine, came early, before a crib had even been found. So she spent the first few nights of her life in a chifforobe drawer. The youngest, Alfred Daniel, found the world on a hot July day. The middle child, a boy, born ironically in the middle room upstairs, appeared on January 15, 1929. They called him Michael, for his father. But five years later, after a trip to Berlin, the father changed both his and the son’s name to Martin Luther King, one senior, the other junior.
I’m standing in a quiet downstairs foyer. The invitation had arrived a week ago at my Copenhagen bookshop by regular mail, inside an envelope hand-addressed to me—Cotton Malone—and contained a note that simply read:
Fifty years have passed.
Bring them.
And then:
April 3. King house at MLK Center. 11:00 p.m.
With no signature.
But I knew who had sent it.
A few night-lights burn here and there in the darkened ground-floor rooms. Years ago, when I’d lived in Atlanta working for the Magellan Billet, I’d visited here one Sunday afternoon with Pam and Gary, a rare family outing of mother, father, and son. We’d taken a tour of the house, then walked the entire King Center, trying to impress upon Gary the importance of racial equality. Both Pam and I prided ourselves on not having a prejudiced bone in our bodies, and we wanted our son to grow up the same way.
I glance into the front parlor with its famous piano and Victrola. The guide that day had told us how King himself had taken music lessons on that keyboard. Not one of the middle child’s fondest childhood memories, if I remember correctly.
We’d also learned a few other things about Martin Luther King Jr.
He’d attended elementary and high school nearby, and college across town at Morehouse. In 1954 the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, called him to be its pastor. But in 1955 when Rosa Parks was denied a seat in the front of the bus, for 381 days he led the Montgomery transit boycott. In 1957 he became president of the fledging Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Three years later he moved back to Atlanta and shared the pastor’s pulpit with his father at the Ebenezer Baptist Church, which still stands just down the street.
From there he evolved into the heart and soul of a great movement.
So many memorable speeches. Two massive legislative successes with the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts. A Nobel Peace Prize. Thirty arrests for the cause. All leading to Memphis and April 4, 1968, when an assassin’s bullet ended his life.
He’d been but thirty-nine years old.
I stare at the man standing in the shadows at the end of the ground-floor hall. He’s definitely aged, but his face seems to have only become stronger with the years. His hair is grayer, the frame thinner, but the same air of gentle intellectualism remains, as does the stooped gait and short shuffle to each step as he approaches.
“Tomorrow will be a big day here,” he says in the low voice I recall. “Fifty years since King died.” He pauses. “Nearly twenty years since you and I last talked. I still feel the pain every day.”
A cryptic comment, but I expect no less. “Out of curiosity, how did we get in here tonight? This is a national historic site.”
“I have connections.”
Of that I have no doubt. It was the same years ago when all of this started.
“Did you bring them?” he asks.
I reach into my back pocket and display what he’d asked for. “Right here.”
“You’ve kept them all these years, along with the secret. Quite an accomplishment.”
“My career was the protecting of secrets.”
“I kept up with you. You worked for the Justice Department what, ten years?”
“Twelve.”
“An agent with the Magellan Billet. Now you live in Denmark and own an old bookshop. Quite a change.”
There’s a gun tucked at his waist. I point. “Is that necessary?”
“We both knew, at some point, it would come to this.”
Probably so.
“You managed to move on,” he says. “Everything that happened only pushed you forward to greater things. That’s been impossible for me. I’m amazed I’ve lasted this long.”
It’s true. My life has been altered in ways I could have never then imagined. But what happened also taught me a valuable lesson.
“I came, tonight, for you,” I tell him.
“Lay everything on that side table, please.”
No point arguing, so I do as asked.
“The King family lived in this house a long time,” he says. “They raised three children under this roof, one of whom grew up and changed the world.”
“We both know it took more than just him to make that happen. You were a big part.”
“That’s kind of you to say. But it’s no conciliation.”
Only a handful ever knew what really happened, most of whom are now dead.