The Camelot Code Read online

  Owain nods. ‘One of the men we pursued was in a brown hybrid SUV – that’s a vehicle that runs silently on electricity as well as petrol or diesel.’

  ‘As old as I am, I know what hybrid means.’ He turns his sad eyes up at Owain. ‘There is something I have not yet told you.’

  ‘Then, I suppose now is the time to tell it.’

  Myrddin is almost afraid to speak the words. ‘I have seen the child.’

  Owain looks shaken.

  ‘He is coming.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘I am. He is coming and with him, there will be a river of blood that will flow from country to country, continent to continent.’

  28

  DULLES AIRPORT, WASHINGTON DC

  The redeye from San Francisco leaves late. When it lands almost three thousand miles away, there’s no gate available. One of those nights is turning into one of those days.

  Redirected into a freed-up bay, there’s no ground crew to operate the air-bridge. By the time the passengers sleepwalk off the Airbus, it’s almost half past eight in the morning and Mitzi is already two hours behind schedule.

  ‘Thank you, have a nice day,’ says a smiling stewardess.

  Mitzi glares as she glides past. She’d been made to fly cattle-class by the FBI and hasn’t slept a wink. Her only good fortune is that she’s travelling with only a trolley bag, which means she breezes through security.

  In the arrivals hall, she finds a scruffy, middle-aged taxi driver holding a piece of cardboard with her name on it. He looks about as pissed off as she feels.

  ‘Fallon – that’s me.’ She waves a hand.

  ‘You’re late in.’

  She can’t believe his attitude. ‘Yeah, well, shit happens. Stick it on the bill. And while you’re doing that, add another ten dollars because I need some coffee before you drive me anywhere.’

  He laughs and shakes his head in disbelief that he has to wait even longer. ‘There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Green Leaf or a Guava and Java, all within a minute of here.’

  ‘Dunkin’. The other two sound expensive and I’m in no mood to talk lapsang souchong to some spotty student.’

  ‘Can I take your bag?’

  She notices that he smells of booze and looks like death. ‘I got it. Do I really look so weak that I can’t roll a trolley bag?’

  ‘No, you don’t. But you’re sure as hell snappy.’ He leads the way to the coffee shop. ‘I was just being polite.’

  ‘Yeah, well, in your case polite would be having a shower after a night on the beer.’

  ‘I worked late last night so didn’t get home to change. I’m sorry. I’m having something of a bad time at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, well, bad time is no excuse for bad smell. My bad time runs all the way back to LA via San Francisco and courtesy of enough men smelling of liquor to know the score.’ She catches that maybe she’s whipping him too hard. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Remind me when you drop me off and I’ll make it up to you with a good tip.’

  They arrive at the donut stand and join the queue. Mitzi flips open her purse. ‘You want coffee? I’m buying.’

  He looks pleased. ‘Why not? Dunkaccino Medium. Could manage a strawberry cheese Danish if you can stretch that far.’

  ‘You’re joking, right? Strawberry cheese? They really do that?’

  ‘Strawberry cheese, or apple cheese. Take your pick.’

  Mitzi goes strawberry plus a double espresso. She pays for everything and he picks up the bags and coffee from the counter.

  ‘Let’s sit a while and eat these,’ he motions to a table. ‘I don’t like to move around when I have food or drink.’

  She studies her watch. ‘Not sure I have time for batting the breeze. I should have met someone an hour ago.’

  ‘I know you should. A cop, name of Fitzgerald.’ He pulls out a chair for her. ‘You just met him. Sit down and he’ll brief you while we eat.’

  29

  GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

  The rear lawn of the mansion glistens with morning dew.

  Two figures, both dressed head-to-toe in white, tread the turf in the sharp morning light.

  They nod respectfully, then fill the dawn air with the savage swish of steel.

  Sir Owain Gwyn and Lance Beaucoup first crossed swords at the Olympics when France fought Great Britain. In battle, a great friendship was forged and Lance subsequently joined the Order.

  Steel slashes air. Knees bend. Toes tap. The men spin and lunge and whirl, elegant figures in dazzling bright breeches and vests. Behind the foil facemasks, neither of them blink. To do so would be costly.

  Across the lawn, an electronic scoring box beeps and echoes thinly.

  First blood to the Frenchman – a fine feint followed by a lightning jab to the shoulder.

  Owain counters aggression with guile. His giant feet go light. For a second, he has the speed of a featherweight. He parries, then lunges.

  Lance dances backwards, ropes in his aggression and tries to stay patient. He counters and parries. Backs off again.

  Owain lunges.

  The Frenchman flicks away the epee blade and catches him low in the abdomen.

  Another beep. A second point to the younger man.

  They touch blades. The dance begins again. One that in ancient times would have ended in defeat, death or, worst of all, dishonour. Feet fly back and forth across the damp turf like scampering pups.

  Lance cuts low, then high.

  Owain blocks.

  Both blades slide down to the bell guards. Eyes and muscles lock.

  Owain leans in. Hurls his foe backwards. Lunges again.

  The Frenchman deflects the blade downwards, steps to one side, stabs upwards.

  A third beep.

  ‘Stop!’ Owain pulls off his mask in despair. ‘You are still too good for me.’ He sounds breathless. ‘I can’t be humiliated any more.’

  ‘Then use your right arm, mon cher ami.’

  ‘If I do, then my left will never learn to be an equal.’

  Lance lifts his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. ‘Your right is so good, your left will never need to hold steel.’

  Owain puts his arm around his friend and leads him back to the house, where breakfast is being prepared. ‘Did you hear anything further about last night’s activities in New York?’

  ‘Yes. We got intelligence around four this morning. Two captive. The Americans will interrogate them later today. One of the others, the bomb-maker and Antun escaped when CTU stormed the building.’

  ‘Antun is a good man. Is he injured?’

  ‘No, not at all and he thinks his credibility is good enough for him to stay in.’

  ‘That’s dangerous. Very dangerous.’

  ‘Isn’t everything that we do?’

  ‘Al-Qaeda is depleted in people, not in thought. Make sure he does not underestimate them.’

  ‘I will.’

  Lance raises his sword. ‘Would you like to try your luck one final time?’

  A glint comes into Owain’s eyes. ‘I would. But not with these knitting needles. I have broadswords and body armour. How about a brief session with those, before breakfast?’

  The Frenchman’s eyes twinkle. ‘I thought you would never ask.’

  They walk back, talking of their shared passion, of ancient swords and historic battles. Owain glances towards the old gatehouse. The black Jaguar has left. Myrddin has already gone.

  30

  WASHINGTON DC

  Irish briefs Mitzi over their airport breakfast.

  He tells her in detail about the two deaths, the witnesses who’ve been interviewed, what few forensic clues they have and the footage of the Cadillac Escalade hybrid and its tag-team chum, the Lincoln.

  When they’re done, he rolls her bag to the car and drops it in the Ford’s trunk.

  She climbs in the passenger side and lets out a yell. ‘Holy Christ, what a mess!’

  The footwell is filled with trash.r />
  ‘What you got down here, apart from dysentery and Ebola?’ She looks closer. ‘Old cans of soda. Screwed-up bags and wrappers from Subway and McDonald’s. A newspaper or ten.’

  ‘I like to read.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a book on hygiene.’

  ‘Not many people get in that side.’

  ‘I can see why. Where did you say we’re going first, embassy or to see the store girl?’

  ‘Embassy. It’s more important.’ He looks her way. ‘Outta interest, how did you end up in this weird FBI squad?’

  ‘I worked a case related to the Turin Shroud. You know what that is?’

  ‘Course. I was brought up Catholic. Used to be an altar boy. What d’ya reckon – is it fake or for real?’

  Mitzi laughs. ‘That’s a long story. Anyway, after dealing with a lifetime’s worth of history, religion, politics and tricky Italians we got a result. I used it for a wage hike and a ticket out of town.’

  ‘You like the new job?’

  ‘Too early to say. So far, it beats the hell out of chasing gangs across Compton and Linwood.’ She checks her watch. ‘I’ve got a researcher showing a picture of your cross to history professors and theologians this morning. Give her another hour or so and I’ll call in.’

  ‘I pray she strikes lucky.’

  ‘You not picked up any more?’

  ‘Only that it was worth a lot of money. Amir, the old man I told you about, was scraping together every dime he had and borrowing more to buy it.’

  ‘Looks like your bosses made the smart move calling us in then.’

  ‘Ha.’ He shakes his head despondently.

  ‘Ha? What does “ha” mean?’

  ‘Means my bosses don’t really approve of you being here. I made the request without asking them.’

  Mitzi raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you like having your ass kicked?’

  ‘It’s a tough old ass and it’s been kicked so much I don’t feel the pain no more.’

  They pull up at the main entrance of the British Embassy. Both cops clock the plethora of surveillance cameras and heavy-duty guards with machine-guns and sniffer dogs.

  Irish winds down the window and dangles his ID for a gate guard. ‘We’re investigating a major crime and need to speak to the ambassador, or one of his representatives.’

  The security man lifts the road barrier. ‘Park over there and we’ll do some checks, then I’ll take you round to the rear entrance. One of the consular officials will come and speak to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Irish drives through and parks in a visitor space.

  Mitzi gets out and takes in the red brick and ivy, the grand windows and pristine gardens. ‘Not bad. I guess at a push I could live here.’

  31

  THE BRONX, NEW YORK

  Nabil Tabrizi has been a cell commander for only eighteen months. The bomb factory was his first big responsibility. One he screwed up.

  He knows the CIA didn’t simply get lucky. His operation was taken out two days before they were ready to blow up Wall Street. Someone acted on top-quality information. Possibly from the inside.

  Brought up in The Bronx, he is outwardly as much a New Yorker as most. But his heart has been with al-Qaeda ever since he was bullied at school for being Muslim. Long before his cousin was beaten to death by rednecks because he bore the same name as Khalid Sheik Mohammed, one of the masterminds of the World Trade Center attacks.

  Nabil meets his contact in a back room of a lawyer’s office near Stan’s Sports bar, a ball’s throw from the Yankee Stadium. The thin, black-eyed man sits in the shadows.

  ‘You have been compromised from within, Nabil.’ The words hang in the musty air. ‘You do realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Imam.’ He knows he must be both contrite and focused if he is to survive. ‘I am very sorry this has happened.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who it might be?’

  ‘Not Abbas or Samir. They were both taken by the authorities. And not Tamir; he was killed.’

  ‘Who does that leave?’

  ‘Halem and Malek are the only others. Malek was the bomb-maker, so I don’t think it was him.’

  ‘Then it may be Halem. But who is least known to you?’

  He has to think for a moment. ‘Samir and Halem.’

  ‘This Halem, has he run?’

  ‘No. He is still around, which is why I think it may not be him.’

  The Imam scratches at his beard. ‘It is not impossible that the Americans have arrested one of their own, in order to make him look guilty. They could always release him later and say they had to because of judicial problems.’

  ‘You think it might be one of them?’

  ‘I think nothing, Nabil. These are your men – it is you who must think. Think and act decisively. Does the holy book not tell us “fight the unbelievers around you, and let them find harshness in you?”’

  ‘Yes, Imam, it does.’

  ‘Then that is what you must do.’

  Nabil feels relieved. He is going to be given a second chance. ‘When I look into their faces, I will know who betrayed me.’

  The Iman raises his arm and knocks twice on the wall behind him. The shadowy space he’s sitting in is broken by yellow light from an opening door. A large, olive-skinned man enters, dressed in baggy white trousers and a white vest that showcases gym-pumped arms. His head has been shaved and his angular face is framed in a beard shadow as dark as his eyes.

  ‘This is Aasif,’ he explains. ‘My most trusted enforcer. For now, he is your new recruit. He will help protect you and get to the truth.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nabil bows his head in gratitude.

  Aasif steps out of the shadows and stands intimidatingly close to his new colleague.

  ‘I have a test for you and your men.’ He looks up to the giant at his side. ‘Take him in the back room, Aasif and show him our “lie detector”.’

  Through the shadows, Nabil sees a glint of teeth, the hint of a rare smile.

  ‘Go. It will help you determine who your traitor is – and teach the Americans a lesson into the bargain.’

  32

  GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND

  Breakfast is served in the Gwyns’ ornate Edwardian conservatory. The golden light of what is becoming a beautiful morning rests on white linen tables and sparkles on china plates and silver cutlery.

  Owain is distracted. Myrddin’s prophecies and the long conversation of last night are playing on his mind. That and Mardrid’s mafia-like movements in the third world. Gradually, he becomes conscious of a white-coated waiter who’s appeared at the table. ‘Some Ceylon tea, fresh berries and a croissant, please.’

  The young waiter looks to Lance Beaucoup, who is settling into a chair.

  ‘Just coffee and a croissant. Merci.’

  The waiter drifts off to his duties.

  Lance nods to the third place set at the table. ‘Is Lady Gwyn joining us?’

  ‘No, she’s already out. Apparently, while we were having our extra fencing session she decided to go and ride the new horse that threw her the other day.’

  He looks concerned. ‘Was she hurt?’

  ‘Just her pride. It’s a Welsh Cob stallion, a giant white that really doesn’t want to be tamed.’

  ‘That is part of the Welsh character, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’ He looks amused. ‘I feel for the horse. Eventually, Jenny will win. She always does.’

  ‘This is why I never married.’ He laughs.

  ‘I hope one day you’ll feel differently.’

  The waiter returns with breakfast on a large silver tray. He holds it while a young waitress in a dark uniform pours the tea and coffee and serves the food.

  Owain waits until they’ve walked away before he strikes up a new conversation. ‘Has the Knight’s Cross been returned to the burial ground?’

  ‘It has. Gawain and Danforth did it last night.’

  ‘Good. I am still shocked and sickened that Angelo would commit such sacri
lege. Robbing the grave of a fallen brother; it turns my stomach.’

  ‘Grave-s. Remember he took three crosses.’

  ‘Indeed. We have three fallen brothers who’ve been foully stripped of their honour. Is security now what it should be?’

  ‘It is. And we are reviewing procedures in other countries as well.’ Lance hesitates before voicing a more delicate question. ‘Would you like me to ask George to review the British resting grounds, or would you rather tell him yourself? They and the French ones are after all the oldest and most significant.’

  ‘You tell him.’ He’s pleased that Lance is pushing the boundaries of his authority, developing into a natural leader. ‘I’m done here; I need to get to work.’ He wipes his hands on his napkin and gets to his feet.

  Lance follows suit. ‘I will join you. If I stay here I will only fall asleep or drink too much coffee.’

  They leave the conservatory and head into the main part of the house. A long corridor takes them to a set of stairs that drop another landing.

  The two men use retinal and fingertip identification to pass into a short, wood-panelled cul-de-sac of three doors. The one to the left is filled by members of the Watch Team. To the right, Sir Owain’s private office.

  Straight ahead is the SSOA command centre. The heartbeat of their Order.

  33

  BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON DC

  After security checks have been completed, Mitzi and Irish are left in a high-ceilinged, dusty waiting room full of echoes and framed photographs of generations of British monarchs.

  Half an hour ticks by.

  Mitzi’s gossamer-thin patience is starting to shred when a blue-suited blond man strides in.

  ‘Hello, I’m Richard Stevens – how might I help you?’

  Irish badges him and spills several balled up tissues in the process. ‘Lieutenant Fitzgerald from DC Police and this is Mitzi Fallon, from the FBI.’ He pauses while she produces her credentials.