The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  Edward had no doubt what Roberto would do to him someday. But Edward would strike first, when things were right. Strangely, even though Roberto had scalded him with boiling water, that didn’t make him as angry as having pissed his pants in front of Roberto.

  He was frustrated that he’d been caught after things were going so well. Nothing had changed – he’d still figure out exactly what Juan Carlos was up to. The dark side kept assuring him they would beat this assassin, but after their encounter, Edward had lost his primary aid. TrickTracker hadn’t functioned for days. Roberto had destroyed his phone and bought a new one.

  Edward mustered courage and suppressed his fear. Roberto was far, far more than he appeared. He was a dangerous professional, but Edward forced out the negative thoughts.

  I’m dangerous too. Especially when my other side comes out. That’s the one that’ll beat Juan Carlos Sebastian. That’s the one that killed the others, and Juan Carlos will be his next victim.

  His face broke into a malicious, evil grin as the other one emerged.

  You’re right, Edward. I’m glad you realize how dangerous I am. It’s time for you to let me kill him! It’ll be really fun – more fun than the others. This time we won’t use poison. We’ll make him suffer. We’ll cut him and boil his skin. He’ll beg you for mercy. Then I’ll kill him!

  You’ll have your turn soon, I promise. It won’t be long now.

  It was almost laughable how much his bad side wanted to come out and play, Edward reflected with a smile. It really wouldn’t be long – all he needed was the right time and place.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  The clock chimed midnight. Edward lay in bed wide awake, the translations almost finished. Only a few pages remained in the last of the three ancient diaries that bore the initials G.P. on their covers. He returned to the final pages of Guinevere’s diary.

  ——

  14 November in the year of our Lord 502

  The country grieves at the news of the death of their beloved monarch this morning. No one is more saddened than I. I have lost my husband, the man for whom I was the one true love. My tears are those of regret for so many wasted moments, so many lost hours, so many times I could have loved him back but chose other men instead. My tears are for the loss of a man whose death I caused.

  I left my husband, my castle, my kingdom, to go with another. Lancelot – my husband’s best friend – took me away and I went willingly. I did not deserve the respect and love of my brave husband, but Arthur loved me anyway. He came to Wales and laid siege to Lancelot’s castle. As it ended, I returned to Camelot while my Lancelot was banished to France. But Arthur would not rest; he wanted revenge. I begged, I cried that he stay, but he went to France in search of Lancelot, in order to slay him. Instead my Arthur is gone.

  My shame at my actions is overwhelming. I fear I cannot bear it. But I must. For tomorrow I shall be crowned Queen of Britain. I will assume the throne my dear Arthur held for these many years. I am not worthy, but there are many before me who likewise were not worthy, and many shall follow after my reign is completed.

  Merlin will be my adviser as he was for my husband. I know the hatred he bears toward me. He loved Arthur more than I myself did. He hates the sadness I gave my Arthur. He despises me for the flagrant indiscretions right before the King’s face, even in the royal bedroom itself, and even the one with Lancelot that caused Arthur’s death. Merlin would much rather have me on the gallows than on the throne. But God works in His own ways. And tomorrow, God willing, I shall be Queen – this time not as the wife of a King, but in my own right.

  I pray to God that I will reign honestly, steadfastly and in the interest of our brave nation. My Arthur’s knights shall protect me and our land as long as I shall live.

  You shall be buried at Camelot, dear Arthur. Goodbye, my King. Goodbye, my darling. I truly did love you. More than I loved any other man. Not with my body as much as with my heart and soul. Sweet dreams as you rest in peace, your battles well fought, your journey complete.

  With your death and my ascension to the throne, I close my journals forever. I dedicate them to you, my husband Arthur Pendragon.

  Edward stopped. She’d written her last entry, but there were two pages left. He knew a little of what was next. Right now he had to process what he’d read so far before continuing.

  He was amazed to find that Merlin was still alive. He’d been an old man when Arthur took the throne. He was always depicted in stories as a sorcerer with a long white beard and a tall pointed hat. He must have been over ninety by then, a ripe old age for those times. Apparently he was still going strong, an advisor to royalty and a man who was never afraid to speak the truth, even to the Queen he despised.

  The single page of vellum he’d just translated would rank in this country’s history as one of its most important and significant documents. It was a handwritten account in medieval Welsh by Queen Guinevere recounting the death of her husband Arthur on November 14, 502. Once the diaries were authenticated and carbon-dated, the lives and deaths of this legendary couple would become reality once and for all. And forever linked with King Arthur’s legend would be its famous discoverer, Edward Russell!

  He glanced at the clock. 1:30 a.m. No matter. There would be no sleep tonight until this enchanting tale was finished. He turned the page. There were two more entries, each written in a different hand. Knowing who the authors were made it more exciting. On the next-to-last page he began to translate the Welsh words before him, prickles of excitement making goose bumps on his arms and scalp as he read.

  ——

  3 January 503

  It is left to me, Myrddin, to complete the dead Queen’s journals. I have read every page of her blatant sexual exploits, her thoughts and desires, her cheating, despicable actions against the man who loved her more than life itself. I disliked her before, but her diaries, her words of deceit, disgust me to my core. I cannot pity her. I harbor too much hatred to have pity. I can only be thankful her miserable life is over.

  Who shall reign next, I do not know. What matters, sadly, is that the era of Camelot has come to an end forever, thanks in no small part to the actions of the Queen.

  As usual she chose to ignore my advice. She interred her husband in the abbey below Lamorak’s sarcophagus. Even in death the brave knight will forever protect Arthur, she blithely told me. But the “brave knight” was in fact a cheater, a thief who stole the wife of his King. The people forgave Lamorak, blaming the Queen for his indiscretion. When she buried her husband next to her lover, the insolence was too much. The people considered it one more slap in the face of their beloved King Arthur and they were infuriated. But as usual Guinevere chose not to see their ever-growing hatred for her.

  Truly it matters not where one’s earthly remains lie. The people revered Arthur and even Lamorak. They detested Guinevere, but she refused to believe it. The people thought she had gone too far – she paraded her sexuality too publicly. Even a royal cannot be forgiven for breaking the heart of a good man. And she broke the beloved King Arthur’s heart not once but often. Her death is a relief to her subjects.

  The successor to the throne will not come from Camelot. Its time is finished. A man from some other place will lead our nation. Here on the isle of Avalon it is my task to dispense with the staff and close the castle. And it is left to me to bury the Queen.

  Although she does not deserve it, I will have her body laid to rest next to her husband. That is what Arthur would have wanted, and therefore it shall be.

  With this final entry the journals of Guinevere, Queen of England, are closed forever.

  Once again it was a wrap, yet a final page of writing still remained. Edward could hardly contain himself. This was exactly like the thrilling end of a good book, the climax just a page away. But tonight Edward forced himself to slow down. He paused to reflect on the words he’d just finished before turning the page and reading the last entry in the ancient volume.

  Myrddin. When he saw
it earlier, he had easily recognized the Welsh name of the author. His name in English was Merlin. The legendary sorcerer – the man whose dislike of the adulterous Queen was known to everyone, including Guinevere herself – wrote these words in his own hand.

  Edward paused, thinking about the significance of these pages. I may be looking at the only handwritten words by Merlin the Magician that exist on Earth – words that prove the mythical figure lived just like Arthur and Guinevere.

  This is one more exciting discovery to go along with all the others, Edward thought to himself. My fame will be larger than I imagined.

  He turned at last to the final words. Let’s see what the abbot of Glastonbury wrote to end the Queen’s diary.

  The last few words were in medieval English. There was no date and only two sentences.

  I, John of Taunton, abbot of Glastonbury, do attest that I have arranged the movement of the sarcophagus of the knight Lamorak from the abbey to the Church of St. Mary Axe in the City of London. The others rest with him.

  The others! Arthur and Guinevere! Their burials were tied to Lamorak’s all along. It had to be them. The final pieces were falling into place!

  It was time to use one more resource, something that had lain unattended for years. Edward had another way to verify the information he’d learned from the diaries. He had no idea what it contained, but now was the time to find out. He’d go to the bank tomorrow morning.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Roberto spent most of the flight to Moscow thinking about what to do about Edward. This was far more complicated than the wet-ops work to which he was accustomed. Like some other things he’d let slip recently, he admitted he’d underestimated his partner. There was no way to know how much Edward had learned through TrickTracker. At the very least the man had followed him to Moscow and knew Roberto was back there again today. He’d considered changing his plan, but this entire job was tied to the theater performance. It had to come off tomorrow – everything was set. This time there would be no mistakes. He’d keep his eyes wide open for his psychotic partner.

  The truth was that the crypt was the most exciting thing Roberto had ever experienced. He’d bought amazing rarities from places all over the world. But this was completely different. There was a story – a legend – accompanying this discovery. There were relics – some from Roman times but others that he now believed would confirm the existence of the legendary King and Queen of Avalon. These relics had surrounded a King – not just any King, but Arthur himself. These were things no man could have ever expected to own.

  Edward was an integral part of all this, and Roberto couldn’t do it without him. The man was a paranoid, schizophrenic maniac. He had discovered parts of Roberto’s background, and he had to be dealt with eventually. For now Roberto had to be realistic. The man owned the St. Mary Axe crypt, he’d translated almost all of the three diaries, and he possessed the other fifty-plus books found in the chamber. Who knew what new secrets they might reveal? Moreover, the man was a history scholar and a translator. He had to have Edward’s skills until they understood it all.

  Shortly Roberto would eliminate Edward. For now he had to keep the man under control.

  ——

  Edward swallowed his pride. Like Roberto, he was amazed and astounded by the things that lay in the crypt below their adjoining buildings. Until now his entire existence had been dull and drab, the few exceptions being when his alter ego popped out and did an exciting, scary deed or two. For his entire adult life he had been just two things. First he was a student; then he became the proprietor of an occult bookstore. For the first time things were really exciting. The bodies had been moved so now they could bring in archaeologists. His time for fame was approaching quickly and he was enthralled.

  He needed Roberto. It was an unfortunate fact of life that he couldn’t do all this without him. Roberto owned the ancient Roman burial passageway next door; it was a key part of the archaeological discovery they intended to disclose to the public. He also knew Edward’s secrets; Edward knew his too, of course, but Roberto was a professional killer. If Edward told anyone about Juan Carlos, he’d be a dead man.

  Edward would deal with Roberto soon. Once the discoveries were public and the artifacts dealt with, he’d surprise Roberto Maas one day.

  I can beat him at his own game. He laughed to himself.

  That’s exactly right, Edward. We’ll kill him!

  Roberto was on a plane to Moscow this afternoon. Edward had a ticket for the same flight tomorrow. He placed a phone call, assuming Roberto’s new cell phone had the same number. He didn’t know if Roberto would answer, but Edward had to tell him what he knew. As much as part of him hated his partner, this news was just too exciting to keep to himself.

  When he heard the familiar greeting, he left a message.

  I’ve confirmed our two royal friends are in the crypt with Lamorak. Call me if you want to talk about it.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The house lights dimmed precisely at eight p.m. Juan Carlos sat in the packed first balcony of the Bolshoi. An hour later act two of Pushkin’s Boris Godunov ended and the curtain went down for a brief intermission. The assassin applauded enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.

  Sami Terzi and his date had arrived early, ready to enjoy the half-price bottle of champagne he’d been offered by the theater. Sami was angry that no one knew anything about it, but he didn’t want to appear cheap in front of his girlfriend, so he paid full price for a bottle. He wrote off the experience as just like everything else in Russia – a bureaucratic mess with lots of talk and no results.

  The actors were masterfully performing the dark play about a tormented czar in the early 1600s. Juan Carlos loved it – obviously Sami and his girlfriend were enjoying it too – Juan Carlos watched her give him a peck on the cheek. Like many young Russian women, she was strikingly attractive. Her white sweater accented her shoulder-length jet-black hair.

  When Juan Carlos broke into Sami’s flat, he had seen the tickets and noted the seat numbers. He reserved a seat two rows behind the couple. He was so close he could touch them. Everything was in place for the murder of this terrorist financier, but he’d promised himself he’d watch the entire play first.

  The final curtain went down at 10:30. The cast received a standing ovation that went on for five minutes. Bows and curtsies were followed by a bottle of champagne for the famous Russian who’d played the lead role. Soon the attendees began to file out, pushing and shoving as Russians do.

  Juan Carlos timed things perfectly. He moved slowly towards the aisle and stepped out directly behind Sami Terzi, who carried a peacoat while guiding his girlfriend up the stairs ahead of him. The aisle was packed with exiting patrons, so no one noticed a thing when Juan Carlos plunged a tiny needle into Sami’s leg. There was just a prick; in all the shoving and bustle even Sami didn’t notice.

  At the top of the stairs Sami hesitated, teetering uncertainly as Juan Carlos and a dozen Russians pushed past him. The assassin glanced back and saw Sami fall into one of the empty seats, his girlfriend looking concerned while patrons hustled past without a glance or an offer of help. By the time Juan Carlos was outside, the man would be comatose, and before help could arrive, he’d be dead.

  The National Hotel was a ten-minute walk from the theater. Juan Carlos enjoyed the crisp twenty-degree weather as he strolled, thinking how much he’d enjoyed seeing the play once again. The man he’d just murdered never entered his mind. He casually glanced around him but saw nothing out of the ordinary. There was no one watching him.

  The Bad Man didn’t know what was going down tonight, and he couldn’t risk going into the theater for fear Juan Carlos might see him. He waited near the Bolshoi. Once Juan Carlos arrived, the Bad Man had dinner in a restaurant directly across the street. He’d picked it out earlier – heavy curtains shielded patrons who sat in front window tables, but he could pull them back and see the doors of the Bolshoi forty feet across the broad
avenue. He stretched his dinner to nearly two hours – an easy feat in Moscow, where fine dining was an event. Precisely at nine the theater’s doors opened and dozens of Russians in greatcoats poured out to the sidewalk for a smoke. Intermission came and went with no Juan Carlos. After the second act began, the man killed another hour with coffee and a brandy, then paid his check and walked outside to wait. The play would be over shortly.

  When the crowd finally streamed out, the Bad Man was in the shadows across the street. Cabs and ostentatious limousines crowded the avenue; it was hard to see faces especially with everyone’s coats and hats. At last he saw Juan Carlos Sebastian exit, turn left and begin walking. It was clear the man was on alert – he glanced from side to side, then behind him, as he walked. The Bad Man stayed far out of the way since he was virtually certain where Juan Carlos was going. Large groups of people were heading to the same place – they wanted a nightcap. He watched his quarry go inside the National Hotel, waited five minutes to ensure he didn’t leave again, and walked back to the Bolshoi Theatre.

  The Bad Man heard sirens. That wasn’t unusual – they blared constantly in this enormous city. Back at the Bolshoi the crowd of patrons was gone. Now several police cars and an ambulance blocked the street in front of the theater. He moved closer and stopped an officer who was directing traffic with one gloved hand while holding a cigarette in the other.

  “English?”

  “Some,” the cop replied.

  “What happened?”

  “A man had a heart attack after the play. I guess Boris Godunov was too much for him!” He laughed and turned away, diverting cars from the blocked street.