Then he looked into the car. "Hello, Boyd," he said pleasantly.
"Hello, Chief," Boyd said.
Burris blinked. "Boyd, you look like Henry VIII," he said with only the faintest trace of surprise.
"Doesn't he, though?" Her Majesty said from the rear seat. "I've noticed that resemblance myself."
Burris gave her a tiny smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, Your Majesty.
I'm—"
"Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI," the Queen finished for him. "Yes, I know. It's very nice to meet you at last. I've seen you on television, and over the video phone. You photograph badly, you know."
"I do?" Burris said pleasantly. It was obvious that he was keeping himself under very tight control.
Malone felt remotely sorry for the man—but only remotely. Burris might as well know, he thought, what they had all been going through the past several days.
Her Majesty was saying something about the honorable estate of knighthood, and the Queen's list. Malone began paying attention when she came to:"—and I hereby dub thee—" She stopped suddenly, turned and said: "Sir Kenneth, give me your weapon."
Malone hesitated for a long, long second. But Burris' eye was on him, and he could interpret the look without much trouble. There was only one thing for him to do. He pulled out his .44, ejected the cartridges in his palm (and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as he got it back), and handed the weapon to the Queen, butt foremost.