The Camelot Code Read online

Mitzi mentally lists her catalogue of clues:

  The panels of The Ghent Altarpiece.

  A Celtic cross.

  A memory stick full of code.

  A murdered antiques dealer.

  A dead crook.

  A missing art fraudster linked to a British diplomat who’s left the country.

  A man’s voice breaks her concentration. ‘Listen up.’

  ‘Hang on,’ she says to Kirstin. She looks around and sees Captain Fulo in the doorway.

  He lifts his pitch, so the cops and clerks at the back of the room can hear him, ‘People, give me your attention. I just got a call from the hospital. Lieutenant Patrick Fitzgerald died ten minutes ago.’

  There are gasps and he waits a respectful second or two.

  ‘Anyone want to talk privately, I’m in my office.’

  60

  SOHO, LONDON

  There are things that Angelo Marchetti had forgotten to tell Josep Mardrid. Things that could now get him killed.

  Sat in a run-down pub, next to a seedy strip joint, he throws back his third shot of vodka and tries not to think of the mess he’s in.

  He lied when he said he had the details of all the Knights’ Graveyards. He hasn’t. Truth is, they were on a digital file that he made on an SSOA memory stick when he was based at Caergwyn Castle in Wales. He copied them from the master computer along with scans of sacred books kept in the Arthurian Library.

  The plan was to demand money from Gwyn in return for the stick. But he lost his nerve and looked for another way of making cash without directly exposing himself to the wrath of the Order.

  His chance came when he returned to America.

  He was put in charge of the burial of a young knight killed by arms traffickers. The internment was close to Glastonbury inside the Meshomasic State Forest in Connecticut.

  After the ritual he sent his men away, telling them he needed time alone with his fallen brother. Only instead of paying his respects, he stole the man’s burial cross and those of his father and grandfather, who had been laid to rest in the same tomb.

  Marchetti had connections who could sell them for him. Men who supplied him with drugs. Gang bosses who were likely to kill him if he didn’t settle his debts soon.

  Out of financial desperation, he ended up giving one of the crosses and the original SSOA memory stick to Kyle Coll, the head of the Mara Salvatrucha family. He’d separately transcribed parts of the books on to a sheet of paper, so a dealer would be interested in the extracts, but he’d kept back the key to the code.

  What he hadn’t realized, until he checked the copy he’d made for himself, was that whenever the data was copied to non-SSOA software or hardware it corrupted. The copy he’d kept for himself became worthless.

  Despite that setback, for a short while, it looked like things were still going to work out. The gang found Goldman, who specialized in religious artefacts. He came up with a deposit and was keen on buying all three crosses. When they threw in the extracts of the books he saw big dollar signs.

  Then the old man did something stupid. He chipped his offer price at the last minute and threatened to expose them to the cops if they didn’t accept it. The bluff cost him his life.

  Things lurched from bad to worse.

  Angelo had arranged to meet Brad Deagan at the Dupont diner, but he got wasted on crack and arrived late. So late, that all he saw was George Dalton leaving the parking lot. He watched the Lincoln go, then the tow truck come for Deagan’s SUV. It was then that he knew the game was up and he had to flee the country before the Order got to him.

  Now he has another chance.

  A final one.

  He finishes his drink and prays he doesn’t blow it.

  61

  POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON DC

  There’s no way Mitzi can sit at Irish’s desk. It wouldn’t be right. Neither would hanging around while colleagues badmouth him.

  She grabs a cab and gets to thinking she could have developed a soft spot for Irish. Bad boys and broken-downs have always been her type. And he was certainly a renovation job.

  Back in her room at Silver Fall Lodge, she flips open the minibar, finds a bottle of the hard stuff and unscrews the top. ‘Here’s to you, Lieutenant Fitzgerald. I hope heaven has a free bar and a good woman to love you.’ She jolts back enough brandy to burn her throat, then grabs a dose of painkillers and lies down for a five-minute rest.

  Two hours later, she’s woken by the jangle of her phone.

  Her heart hammers as she grabs it from the bedside table. ‘Hello.’

  There’s a pause before a man answers, ‘Is that Lieutenant Fallon?’

  She struggles to sit up. Pain drives a stake through the middle of her face. ‘Yeah, it is.’ She sees the number is withheld. ‘Look, if you’re another cold-calling asshole trying to sell me insurance or a car loan, then I warn you buddy, now is NOT the time.’

  ‘This is Sir Owain Gwyn, former UK ambassador to America.’

  She closes her eyes and begs for the floor to open up and swallow her.

  ‘You called me and several of my colleagues saying you needed help with regard to a homicide investigation. How can we assist you?’

  Mitzi is so not ready for this. The sleep and painkillers have left her mind all fugged. ‘My apologies. The case I’m working involves the death of two people and there’s a link to one of your staff, a Mr George Dalton. I’d like to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘What questions, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Where he was at certain times, who he was with and what he was doing. The usual kind of questions.’

  ‘He was most probably with me. He’s a senior member of my staff and I’m afraid I work him very hard. How about I have my secretary call you and you submit a list of questions for Mr Dalton? I will see that he answers them for you.’

  ‘How about I talk to him directly?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s preferable or convenient for us. There are certain protocols we have to follow.’

  Mitzi senses she’s being shut down. ‘Your consul and my homicides are linked to a religious relic, a Celtic cross; would that mean anything to you, ambassador?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘What about Code X?’

  He pauses. ‘I’m sorry; someone distracted me with a message. Can you repeat what you said, please?’

  Mitzi knows she’s struck a nerve. ‘Code X. Does that mean something to you?’

  ‘It does, Lieutenant, but I can’t speak about this on the telephone. It is somewhat complicated, and delicate. Is there a way we can talk face to face?’

  She lets out a long sigh and faces up to the inevitability of a painful flight to the UK. ‘I can be on a plane tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. My secretary will call you to make arrangements. I’ll have a driver meet you at the airport.’

  The phone goes dead.

  She slaps it down on the table and collapses on the bed. ‘Shit. Shit. Shittety-shit.’

  It rings again.

  She gives it a sideways look that could melt iron then takes the call. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mom, it’s Amber.’

  ‘Oh, hiya, honey. How are you?’

  ‘I’m sick. Aunt Ruth says I have gastro-something.’

  ‘Gastroenteritis?’

  ‘Yeah, that. I’m just living in the bathroom and Jade’s driving me crazy. When are you coming home? I really need you, Mom.’

  62

  MARYLAND

  It takes Mitzi twenty minutes and a whole lot of bribery to persuade Amber that she isn’t the mother from hell. It takes twice as long to do the same with Jade.

  Ruth is predictably cold when she’s told that the overnight stay in Washington is going to be stretched into a transatlantic trip that most likely will last another week.

  Years of being a cop tells Mitzi her younger sister is more than just pissed about being put on. She sounds depressed, angry and confused and Mitzi wishes she were there to help her work through the m
ess with Jack.

  Once the call’s done, she sinks another brandy miniature and bins the bottle. A mirror on the wall of her tiny hotel room throws back an almost unrecognizable woman with black eyes, a fire-truck-red nose and unattractive strap of white plaster. The only consolation is they straightened a crooked break delivered by her ex’s fist half a decade ago.

  Mitzi thumbs through a room-service menu and intends to order only a chicken salad and milk but somehow a side of fries and a slice of pecan pie get added.

  While waiting for the food, she calls Donovan and updates her on everything from Irish’s death to her conversation with Gwyn and the need to go to London.

  ‘Your timing’s good,’ says her boss. ‘Eleonora got a break on the satanic killing. She’s with the cops and they’ll be bringing charges within the hour.’

  ‘Lucky her. Who was it down to?’

  ‘Brother of the husband. You weren’t far off with your initial guesswork. She’ll tell you the story when you’re back. Point is, Bronty can be freed up, if you think he’d be of help to you.’

  ‘Given all the religious connections, I’m sure he would be.’

  ‘Thought so. You want him here, or do I send him UPS to London?’

  ‘London would be better. Is he going to be okay with making a trip like that with so little notice?’

  ‘About as okay as you were.’ Donovan waits a beat. There’s something she needs to make her lieutenant aware of. ‘You know that we’re going to draw heat on this. British diplomats have friends who are American diplomats who have friends in the justice system who pull strings in every puppet theatre from the grubbiest station house to the Oval Office.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine how it might play out.’

  ‘Good, then you know that I need you to be smart. I’ll keep them off your back as long as possible, but if I tell you we have to pull out, you pull out. No tantrums. No shit storms. Agreed?’

  She’s too tired to fight. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Remember you said that, because if you leave me hanging on this one, that car crash you’ve been in will feel like a day at the spa when I’m done with you.’

  63

  WASHINGTON DULLES AIRPORT

  Mitzi eases her physical and emotional pain with some retail therapy.

  By the time she settles on the Airbus to the UK, she’s assuaged herself with the purchase of several packs of Calvin underwear, a red button-up long-sleeved top and a navy-and-white striped shirt to go with a long milled wool skirt in the same colour, a pale-blue V-neck lambs’ wool jumper and a matching T-shirt to wear beneath it.

  It’s been a long time since she’s bought wool but she has no intention of freezing in those crazy British temperatures. Given the option, she’d never even visit a country that thinks seventy degrees is a good summer’s day.

  The transatlantic trip turns out to be more bearable than the internal flight was from San Francisco to Washington. No screaming kids around her. No warring families dug into the trenches of coach-class seating. By the time she’s had a deep Ibuprofen-induced sleep and watched several weepy movies, the plane is hitting the blacktop at Heathrow, or Hell Row as she heard the cabin crew calling it.

  It’s gone midnight when she clears customs and finds her way to the airport Hilton. No sooner does she set the digital clock by her bed and crash out than it’s buzzing and flashing with all the urgency of a nuclear alarm.

  It’s seven a.m.

  Mitzi can’t believe six hours vanished in a blink.

  Her shoulders and neck have stiffened post-car-crash, especially on the side where the safety belt jerked tight on impact and prevented her being thrown around the tumbling vehicle like a rag doll in a washing machine.

  She puts on the new skirt and striped shirt and finds it doesn’t really go with the lamb’s wool jumper like she hoped. Worse than that, the black rings around her eyes are now so dense and circular they look like some joker painted them on her face while she was asleep. Her nose has also swollen more and turned black across the fracture. She uses a bathroom mirror to fix a new dressing and tells herself, ‘Mitz, you’re gonna have to give up that dream of pulling a royal husband while you’re here.’

  Around eight she heads downstairs to breakfast. She has an hour in which to meet up with Bronty, brief him, check out and be in reception to meet the ambassador’s driver to take them to their meeting.

  A young woman stood by the restaurant door takes note of her room number and shows her to a table for two, which by no accident is in the far corner where she can’t frighten other guests.

  Bronty turns up soon after a young Polish waiter has left her with a pot of black coffee and a sympathetic look. The FBI man’s dressed in caramel-coloured cords and a pink Lacoste polo shirt. He has a cable-knit brown sweater draped over his shoulders.

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ says the ex-priest as he settles at the table. ‘What happened to you?’

  Mitzi puts her cup down. ‘That’s your one free cheap shot. Now, do you want coffee? Or do you want to push your luck with more questions about the face?’

  64

  GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

  The tinted windows of the armour-plated Range Rover give Lance Beaucoup and Jennifer Gwyn the sinful luxury of holding hands without worrying whether bodyguards in the following car might see them.

  They travel north along coastal roads, past Avonmouth, then west over the Second Severn Crossing, skirting Newport and into the six hundred square miles of wilderness that is the Brecon Beacons.

  The four-by-four rumbles into a rugged landscape of forests, fields, lakes and mountains. It’s a stretch of countryside that is the among the most guarded in Britain.

  Jennifer runs a finger gently over the ridges of Lance’s scarred knuckles as he grips the steering wheel. ‘What are these? Evidence of a misspent youth?’

  ‘Fights won and lost. Childhood scuffles and adult battles. I remember each and every wound.’

  She puts him to the test. ‘This?’

  He glances at a shiny white bridge spanning the first and second knuckles of his left hand. ‘A brawl in a Parisian bar. My best friend’s twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘And this?’

  He looks at a sliver crease the length of his little finger. ‘Ah, that was a fall from my girlfriend’s Vespa.’ There’s a hint of nostalgia in his voice. ‘I was seventeen and she nineteen.’

  ‘And pretty?’

  ‘Very. We hit a patch of oil and I came down hard on my hand. Fractured my collarbone as well. It hurt a lot, but not as much as when she left me for a married man.’

  ‘C’est la vie,’ says Jennifer. ‘Love sometimes ends in people being hurt.’

  He takes a beat, looks at the road ahead and then asks, ‘Will you hurt me one day?’

  She grips his hand tightly and smiles sadly. ‘You know I will. Ours is a love that will break both our hearts.’

  65

  LONDON

  Bronty excitedly tugs Mitzi’s arm as she checks them out at the reception desk. ‘They’ve sent a Rolls-Royce for us.’ He virtually scampers out of the hotel towards the waiting vehicle.

  She gets her credit card receipt and follows him outside. ‘Looks older than Joan Rivers,’ she says eyeing the vintage vehicle.

  ‘It is,’ says the driver, a former soldier called Harold, now in his fifties. ‘Considerably older. This is a Phantom IV, ma’am. Hand-crafted by the same team that created the first Rolls for the queen.’ He opens the rear door for them. ‘If you please.’

  Mitzi slips inside, followed awkwardly by Bronty, who is pulling an antiseptic wipe from a travel-pack he’s clutching.

  The door shuts without a sound and the driver continues his story as he settles into the front seat and glides the car away from the hotel. ‘You are sitting in the most exclusive Rolls-Royce ever made.’ He eyes Bronty wiping the armrests. ‘It is also valeted every day, sir.’

  The FBI man embarrassingly balls his tissue and slips it into a pocket.<
br />
  ‘This model is one of eighteen built in the early fifties and they were only made for royalty and heads of state.’

  Mitzi looks at him in the rear-view as she responds, ‘So, did Sir Owain buy it from a royal or a state official?’

  ‘I have no idea, ma’am. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’

  Bronty notices the traditional flying lady statue over the front grille has been replaced by a different symbol. ‘What’s that figure on the hood, the one where the usual Rolls statue goes?’

  Harold takes delight in explaining. ‘Ah, well, sir, just as the queen’s original Rolls had a special mascot of St George slaying a dragon, Sir Owain’s has an individual sculpture on the bonnet. We call them bonnets, not hoods, sir. The statue is of an unknown knight, atop the crest of a hill where a famous battle was fought. It’s part of the family’s heraldic crest. Honour in Anonymity.’

  ‘That’s a motto that wouldn’t work in Hollywood,’ says Mitzi. She accidently presses a button on her armrest and a glass screen slides up behind the driver.

  His voice crackles from recessed speakers. ‘That’s for privacy, ma’am. Should you wish to speak to me, there’s a microphone button next to the one you just pressed. When the green light is on I can both hear you and speak to you. Otherwise, I will leave you in peace for the rest of our journey, which will take approximately fifty minutes.’

  Mitzi says, ‘Thanks,’ but she’s not sure if he’s heard her or not. She turns to Bronty. ‘Did you get a message from Vicks to call me about the cross?’

  He covers his face with his hands. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Eleonora had me working so hard on her case, I just didn’t get round to it.’

  ‘Great. At least I know where I stand in the food chain.’

  ‘You’re now at the very front.’ He smiles as genuinely as he can manage. ‘What do you want to know?’