by Mari Carr
Eric and Hugo were sitting side by side in one of the main groupings, a laptop on the table in front of them.
“You heard everything?”
Eric nodded, rubbing his jaw pensively. “We did.”
There’d been a video camera placed in the corner of the bedroom, allowing them to record everything Alicia had said.
Sylvia started to sit down, but Hugo stood, halting her. “Come on, ma cherie. You and I are going to grab a short nap up front.” Hugo ran his fingertip under her eyes, drawing Charlie’s attention to dark circles he hadn’t noticed, given his preoccupation with Alicia and the information she’d just revealed. “It’s been a long couple of days.”
Sylvia waved her broken hand, the purple cast her brothers had made her adding a bright flash of color to the colorless beige interior of the plane. “What? Kidnapping, near drowning, shootouts, and warring secret societies are all just a day in the life of this girl,” she said, pointing her one good thumb at herself.
Charlie and Hugo chuckled. The fleet admiral appeared not to have heard her joke. Instead, he was typing on the laptop’s keyboard.
They only had another hour or so until they’d have to strap in for the descent and landing. Sleep wouldn’t hurt any of them.
“A nap sounds good,” Charlie said.
“Them, yes.” Eric pointed at Charlie. “Not you. I need to speak to you privately first.”
Hugo put an arm around Sylvia, looking back at Charlie as he led her into the other cabin. Hugo looked pointedly at the back of Eric’s head, then to Charlie, asking without words if he needed backup.
If someone had asked him a week ago if he’d want a French political science professor as backup, he would have assumed they were on drugs. Now? Now there was no one else he’d want protecting his back. He made a mental note to train Hugo on some basic disabling hand-to-hand attack moves.
Sylvia, too, though he might stick to guns with her. She was too kind—she might actually try to go for the nonlethal option when faced with danger. He’d rather she shoot first, ask questions later. That shouldn’t be that hard for her to learn. She was an American after all. One of the good ones, but still.
Charlie nodded for Hugo and Sylvia to go on without him, then claimed one of the plush leather chairs across from where the fleet admiral sat.
“Actually, we need to speak with you.” Eric turned the laptop around.
Arthur, admiral of England, was sitting on a couch. His wife, Sophia, the principessa, was beside him. Eric tapped some keys, raising the volume.
“Admiral,” Charlie said with a nod. “Principessa.” Sophia Starabba inclined her head. Her left hand rested on her husband’s forearm. Though technically it would be more correct to say it rested on his prosthetic.
Eric looked at Charlie. “I patched them into the video feed from the interrogation. They know everything we know. Well, Arthur knows more than you, and Sophia probably knows more than all of us.”
“You flatter me, Fleet Admiral,” Sophia said in her delicate Italian accent.
“Notice she doesn’t deny it. Now, down to business. We’re fucked. Less fucked than we were before because finally we have someone alive who can confirm we are fucked, and who we can torture for information.”
“I don’t like the idea of a ‘cataclysm,’” Arthur said darkly, echoing Charlie’s thoughts. His words were clipped, his accent precise and proper. If the other man hadn’t trained himself to talk like that, he would have sounded more like Charlie.
Eric leaned forward. “What the hell is big enough to be a cataclysm, considering this fuck has already shot up the admirals and blown up Rome?” The fleet admiral looked incredibly alert, completely focused, even though Charlie knew the man mustn’t have had more than a few hours’ rest in the past forty-eight hours.
“Have you checked out the name Varangian?” Charlie asked.
Eric’s eyes widened. “What a brilliant idea! Why didn’t we think of that?”
Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. If the fleet admiral wasn’t his superior’s superior’s superior he would…well, probably do nothing. The fucker was big and, according to legend, had berserker blackout rages.
Sophia cleared her throat. “There’s no one—now or ever—in the Masters’ Admiralty with that name.”
“I’ve handed it over to…some associates of ours to dig deeper,” Arthur added. “It’s not a legal name, but if there’s a significance, they’ll find it.”
“And we have to consider that he’s not technically, or currently, a member,” Sophia said. “I have no doubt that Mrs. Rutherford believes the man she calls Varangian is a member, but he’s able to manipulate people. We have to consider that any information Mrs. Rutherford has to be false, even if she doesn’t know that.”
“Don’t ruin this for me,” Eric bitched. “We finally caught someone.”
“It’s better than we had before,” Sophia conceded.
Charlie wondered if Arthur had told his wife about the attempted kidnapping.
“We should make one of those serial killer boards, with all the string and shit, to keep track of everything,” Eric said.
“I’m sure the Spartan Guard will enjoy that,” Arthur mused.
“Or,” Eric went on, “we get a bunch of those dolls. I’m sort of pissed off I didn’t come up with that goddamned Russian doll metaphor myself.”
“It feels more accurate than the way we were thinking about it previously,” Sophia said. “It’s not just about individuals, and perhaps that’s where we’ve been wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
“We have not only individuals, such as Mrs. Rutherford, but groups, which could be considered their own separate identities. Take, for example, the Domino. When we decoded the clue, the natural assumption was that meant there were two people—the Domino and their apprentice. If we had instead thought of the Domino not as two people, but as an idea—an old foe of the Masters’ Admiralty—would we have noticed, and acted on, signs that indicated there were far more apprentices than the traditional single person?”
“Um, what?” Charlie asked.
On screen, Sophia rose, returning a moment later holding a wooden box about the size of a shoebox, but not so deep. “I do not have a set of nesting dolls, but imagine this box is the Domino. We identified it, and we knew its parts. There were two things inside. The Domino and the apprentice.”
She opened the hinged lid, turning it to the camera. It was an expensive desk set. Inside was a pencil, pen, letter opener, magnifying glass and a few other smaller boxes.
“More than two things,” Sophia said. “So instead, this box is the mastermind.”
“And Alicia is the pen, her husband the pencil, etcetera?” Eric asked.
“Yes, and no.”
Eric put his head in his hands.
“The box is our foe. The mastermind. We are, perhaps, doing ourselves a disservice because it might be more than one person.”
“Jaysus,” Charlie muttered.
“What I’m saying is that we must acknowledge we don’t know how many dolls are nested within one another.” She closed the box, pointed at it. “This is the mastermind or minds.” She opened it and selected one of the smaller boxes from inside. “This is the Domino. How many things are inside?”
“More than two,” Eric said.
She opened the smaller box and tipped it. Paperclips clattered onto the table in front of her. “Yes, more than two. The point is, we don’t assume we know how many.”
Now Arthur shook his head. “What you’re saying is we can’t make assumptions, and shouldn’t underestimate him. I think we’ve learned that lesson.”
“I know you have,” Sophia said softly, touching his shoulder. “But not everyone has. My family is paying a steep price for that.” Lines of grief marked her face.
Charlie looked at Eric, whispering, “The admiral of Rome?”
“No change. Still in a coma. Doesn’t look good,” came his q
uiet reply.
On screen, Arthur and Sophia were also talking quietly.
Eric cleared his throat. “Then what we need to know is what the big pieces are. Maybe we don’t need individual names, though that would fucking help. I want to go back to the dolls. Doll number one is his collection of pet serial killers. Doll number two is the Domino, and inside was a million people who thought they were the Domino’s apprentice. Alicia is in there. Number three is the Bellator Dei, which has at least one bomber inside that nesting doll of horror.”
“According to Alicia, the center of at least one of those dolls is this cataclysm,” Arthur said.
That assessment was grim, and they sat in silence.
“Alicia will need to be questioned again,” Sophia said.
Eric frowned. “Alicia is a strong personality. She’s used to manipulating people. It will be hard to get her to talk.”
Charlie knew what his next assignment was going to be. He glanced toward the door where Sylvia and Hugo left and lowered his voice. “I’ve broken stronger people than her. I’ll get more out of her once we arrive at the Isle of Man. It’s going to take time, extended deprivation techniques.” He wished he wasn’t dreading what was coming. Somewhere during his time in America, he’d lost his edge. He hoped returning to England, being home and Charlie Allerton twenty-four-seven again, would help him find his footing. Part of him knew that wasn’t going to happen now that Hugo and Sylvia were in his life. For them, he would always want to be Lancelot.
Eric shook his head. “Knights don’t torture people for information.”
Charlie frowned. “I had assumed my time as a pretend knight was coming to an end, now that the mission is over.”
Eric pursed his lips. “You might want to talk to your admiral.”
Charlie studied the fleet admiral’s face, then looked at the laptop screen.
“Lorelei told us you weren’t thrilled by having to be a knight,” Arthur said coolly.
“She also said you didn’t like my husband when he was Tristan,” Sophia said.
“Uhh.” Charlie cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.”
“And you chose the name Lancelot because he was Arthur’s foe,” the admiral said.
Charlie straightened, going cold. “Fook, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re just a bit of a prick. No offense.”
“Even I know that was a shit apology,” Eric said.
Charlie resisted the urge to punch the fleet admiral. He ground his teeth, then spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. “I am loyal to England and the Masters’ Admiralty. I have served, and will continue to serve, the territory faithfully and well as a security officer—”
“No. You won’t,” Arthur said.
Charlie’s stomach dropped. He was being stripped of his title as security officer. He felt cold, a little panicky. Minutes ago he’d been thinking how he didn’t want to be a security officer.
But failing the Masters’ Admiralty came with a steep punishment.
Those who failed, be they a knight, security officer, or finance officer, weren’t simply demoted from their position because that wasn’t a punishment. Options for punishment were limited. No one was ever kicked out of the society because they would know too much. For those who broke their laws, or betrayed the society, death was the consequence. But if you were just a person who fucked up badly enough to be stripped of rank, there was a different punishment.
Offenders were denied the trinity marriage.
Charlie’s whole body went cold. He’d have to watch as everyone else he knew was placed in their arranged marriages. He would be the outcast in their society of trinity marriages, a man bound to serve the organization, but without the hope of a family.
Charlie bowed his head, not wanting to let anyone see the panic he felt. He’d just found them, and now he was about to lose Hugo and Sylvia. He would never get to live out the fantasy he’d had this morning—hot, rough sex with his husband and wife in a sunny parlor. Maybe with the drapes open. Would Sylvia be into that?
“Admiral, please.” His voice was hoarse. He’d beg. He’d do anything. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I will protect you. I protected your wife when someone tried to—”
Arthur cut into his heartfelt, desperate plea. “Once you’re married, bring your new husband and wife to the London headquarters to pick up your sword, Lancelot.” Arthur’s tone held a note of satisfaction.
It was the voice of a man who’d had the last laugh. And he’d called Charlie Lancelot.
Wait, what? “Sword?”
“Every knight has one,” Arthur said almost cheerfully.
Charlie wanted to collapse in relief. He wasn’t being demoted and denied the trinity marriage. He took a moment to bask in the relief.
Eric and Arthur were both looking at him and grinning like morons. Oh, a joke? Turnabout was fair play. Calling himself Lancelot had been a joke on Arthur.
“I’ll get the information from Alicia, and then—”
“No, you won’t,” Arthur said again.
Charlie frowned. “Of the security officers, I’m the best at extended interrogation—”
Eric interrupted him. “A security officer wouldn’t have dived into that ocean to save a woman, rather than capture the criminal. That’s some knight shit.”
Charlie couldn’t decide if Eric’s tone was one of rebuke or respect. “Her hands were tied and she was unconscious. She would have drowned.”
“Saving Sylvia wasn’t your mission. Your mission was capturing Alicia. Yet you ignored your objective in favor of saving the damsel in distress.”
“It was stupid, I’m well aware that—”
“It wasn’t stupid. It was chivalrous. Knightly.”
Charlie’s eye twitched. Hugo had said the same thing at the time, but Charlie had rejected the idea, considering his actions tantamount to failure. Not that he regretted them. At all.
He’d tie his own hands and throw himself into the ocean if it meant Sylvia would live.
Arthur continued, “You were a young man, new to the SAS when you were recruited. Security officer was a natural fit. You’re nearly thirty now. A man’s perspective, his ideals, change with age.”
“A man must constantly exceed his level,” Eric added. “According to that very wise philosopher, Bruce Lee.”
“What are you saying?” Charlie asked. Stupid is as stupid does crossed his mind.
“You’re no longer a security officer. You are now a knight of England,” Sophia said.
Charlie looked between Eric and the laptop screen. “You’re serious?”
“Very,” Arthur assured him.
“But, I’m good at my job.” Charlie wasn’t even sure why he was arguing about it. He’d just been thinking he didn’t want to be a security officer anymore.
But he’d spent too many years feeling like the man who got the job done no matter the cost, while the knights pranced around being noble and snooty. He had blood on his hands, while the knights made sure their hands stayed clean by using a sword.
He wasn’t a knight. He just…wasn’t.
But he had been, with Sylvia and Hugo. For Sylvia, he’d ignored the mission objective in favor of saving the girl.
Eric leaned forward. “You were a damn good security officer. This isn’t a demotion. You’re not being punished. This is an honor.”
“Knights don’t—”
Eric pointed at him. “Think long and hard about the next words out of your mouth. I was a knight. Your admiral was a knight.”
“I’m shite with a sword.”
Arthur sat back, the king on his throne. “Learn. Quickly.”
“Congratulations, Lancelot.” Eric reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Wait! Can I pick a different name?”
“Nope,” Arthur said. “But if you come within ten feet of my wife, I’ll—”
Sophia cleared her throat.
“—let her handle it herself, because she is more than capable o
f doing so.”
“And she’s Italian,” Eric added. “Italian women will fuck you up. They’re crazy. The crazy ones are always good in bed, though.”
Sophia stared coldly out from the screen. Arthur looked at her askance, then nodded his agreement. Sophia’s lips twitched, as if she were fighting to hold on to the displeased expression.
He was a knight. A knight. “Do the knights get to use drones?” Charlie asked, recalling Langston’s cool toy.
Lancelot. He would have to go back to thinking of himself as Lancelot.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “If you can get that purchase request by Lorelei, more power to you.”
Lancelot grinned. Becoming a knight was an honor. More than that, it lifted a weight he hadn’t realized was there until it was gone. Now he wouldn’t have to come home to Hugo and Sylvia with blood on his hands and bruises on his soul. He could truly be a man worthy of their love.
The PA system dinged, and the flight attendant announced they would begin their descent soon.
Lancelot looked at his admiral. “May I be excused?”
“Go tell your people,” Arthur said. “And congratulations on your marriage. I’m going to go have an argument with Victoire Dubois. She will be pissed that she’s losing Hugo.”
Lancelot winced. “We hadn’t really discussed where we would live. Sylvia wants to see Paris.”
“She can see it when you help Hugo move.” That was an order. “You are a knight. Your trinity must live in your territory.”
“If Victoire gives you trouble,” Eric said to Arthur, “handle it yourself, I have enough shit to do.”
Sophia sighed. Arthur laughed. Eric closed the laptop and looked at Lancelot.
“Go tell your people you’re changing your name. Again. I will still need your help getting Alicia safely off the plane. We’ve got you, me, Marie, and Nikolas. Four people for one drugged woman is plenty, but I’m paranoid. Once we pass her off to the Spartan Guard who are meeting us with an ambulance for transport, your only job is to take care of Sylvia. You and Hugo make sure she’ll say yes when I marry you three tomorrow.”
“She’ll say yes,” Lancelot assured him.
“Good. Then go. You three can strap in up there and have a moment.” Eric’s smile dimmed. “Just because you’re a knight doesn’t mean you’re out of the fight. It just means you’re changing battlefields.”
