The Excalibur Codex

by James Douglas

  She shook her head. ‘I meant the people you’re dealing with, idiot.’ A hint of the affection of their earlier relationship took the sting from the word. ‘The kind of people who can call on the security services of a foreign power for a favour. The people,’ she nudged the corpse with her toe, ‘who attract this kind of attention. Whatever your friend Steele is up to, it isn’t just about money or an old sword.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘My bosses are only interested in two things, Jamie. Politics and power.’

  The firing had died down and Jamie wondered what had happened to Gault and Charlotte and muttered, almost to himself, ‘I hope the good guys are winning.’

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Who are the good guys?’

  ‘Your people, I thought—’

  ‘Get this straight, Jamie. I am violating every rule in the book by being here. Our orders were to take a watching brief only.’

  ‘Then how …? Why?’

  ‘As for the how, that business card I slipped you has a tiny strip of foil in it that acts as a very basic tracking device. After your little brush with these guys on the road, I was able to keep an eye on your movements. You can sure move fast through the woods when you need to.’ He returned her grin, remembering that she’d had a fair turn of pace herself in the Harz Mountains. The smile faded and he felt a sudden rush of nausea at the thought of what would have happened if he’d kept the card in the pocket of the jacket he’d given to Charlotte, instead of his jeans. ‘And as to the why,’ she continued. ‘I wasn’t about to let an old boyfriend have his head chopped off by some lunatic Jihadi, no matter how annoying he’d been in the past.’ They came to a crossroads. ‘I go this way.’ She pointed to the right. ‘That one should lead you back to your friends.’

  ‘I haven’t said thanks.’ He took her hands and looked into her eyes. He’d forgotten how brown they were. For the first time he realized that she was no longer the mercurial, doll-like girl he had loved. The fiery streaks in the raven hair were long gone, along with the hard edge and the diamond nose stud. This was a mature, sophisticated woman who’d put her career on the line for him. Her expression softened.

  ‘No thanks required, lover boy,’ she whispered as she kissed him on the cheek.

  They parted, Jamie with something close to regret, but unable to read what the Mossad agent was thinking.

  He’d walked a dozen paces when her voice reached him. ‘And Jamie …? ’

  He turned. She was almost out of sight among the trees. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was sorry about your friend.’

  He nodded. ‘You would have liked her.’

  The next time he looked she was gone.

  Sarah Grant walked back to what looked like being an uncertain future. She had no regrets, she’d done what was right, and that was all that mattered. One thing bothered her, though. When they’d discovered the identity of the suspected Al-Qaida operative, her chiefs had passed on the information to the CIA as a matter of courtesy. They’d been surprised when all they received from the Americans was a terse acknowledgement and a … not quite an order, more a suggestion, that it would be a good idea to stay at arm’s length.

  Perhaps she should have told Jamie Saintclair that somebody was using him as the sacrificial goat tethered to attract a tiger. Or maybe – her mind pictured a bearded figure in a gloomy cavern half a world away – a lion?

  She smiled and dismissed the thought. From now on Jamie Saintclair would have to look after himself.

  Sarah Grant was still smiling when the watching figure stepped out onto the path behind her and very deliberately pumped two bullets in her back with a silenced pistol. As the Israeli agent lay with the blood filling her lungs a slim shadow loomed over her and put a third bullet in her brain.

  XXVI

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Jamie’s head felt as if it had been put through a gravel crusher and the fact that Gault was nursing a nasty gash on his cheek didn’t inspire any sympathy. The former SBS man appeared from the trees close to where they’d crashed into the gully, accompanied by the Russian who’d been at Nortstein.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ Gault grunted. ‘I got out of the car and took off expecting you to follow. What do I find? I’m on my own and there are three of the bastards up my backside yelling in Pashto. The only reason I’m still in the land of the living is because your Russki mate and his pals appeared and gave me the chance to find a bolthole.’

  Vatutin approached with a solemn look on his pale face. ‘Such a shame, eh, but when we saw you were in trouble we felt we had to help.’

  ‘Yes?’ Jamie didn’t hide his suspicion.

  ‘Sure.’ The Russian shrugged. ‘My client would be upset if I mislaid you. Don’t worry about this,’ he gestured to where his men were loading bodies into the back of a white van. ‘We make it all go away.’ He grinned. ‘It is what we do.’

  Jamie had a feeling that the proper thing to do would probably be to call the authorities, but Vatutin was very certain and since he couldn’t hear the sound of sirens it was probably for the best. He could still feel the knife blade at his throat. ‘There are another two, possibly three, back there in the trees,’ he said.

  The Russian nodded and called something to one of the men. He turned and his face changed as he looked over Jamie’s shoulder. ‘I think maybe you have a problem.’

  Jamie followed his gaze as Charlotte staggered from the trees close by. She was still bleeding heavily from her forehead and when he caught her in his arms, her body went limp.

  ‘They killed him,’ she sobbed. ‘They killed Hermann.’

  Jamie closed his eyes.

  ‘What is it you English say? It never rain but it pours.’ Vatutin’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Just remember, Mr Saintclair. You owe Kaliningrad a favour, yes?’

  More than a thousand miles west of the Wolf’s Lair, the chairman of the Committee for a Greater Britain raised his eyes from the papers on his desk. Beyond the windows of the London mansion the first fresh buds of spring were making an appearance and sunlight streamed into the room, but the three men were indifferent to the pleasures of their environment. ‘How is the planning proceeding for the detention centres?’

  ‘My people have identified suitable sites in the ten districts we’ll create, each with first-class road or rail access to a port. As you suggested, we used the Polish models as our starting point, but with some added refinements to increase security. It helps that the adult males will be separated from the families.’

  The chairman nodded. Keeping the families apart would allow the new authority to use them as carrot and stick against each other. Any threat of trouble from the most likely source, what might be called those of military age, and they would be denied contact of any kind with their families, with the implied threat that those families might suffer further hardship. On the other hand, good conduct and cooperation would be met by promises that they would be reunited at some unspecified point in the future. Whether that promise was ever met only time would tell.

  ‘And the guards?’

  The bland features altered into a grim smile and the chairman mused that it was like watching candle wax set. Still, he was the type who would always get the job done. Every new regime needed someone like that. ‘I doubt we’ll have any trouble recruiting them given the climate that will undoubtedly prevail. We already have lists of suitable candidates from our friends in the Met and elsewhere. We’ll need more, of course, so we’ll target former army NCOs and police officers, plus certain members of the lower classes, who tend to be ideal for this type of work – pre-brutalized, if you like.’ The smile turned into a smirk. ‘We’ve created a security company that is already screening applications, identifying possible NCO material and admin types.’

  ‘Thank you, that is most satisfactory.’ The chairman turned to the tall man in the dark suit. ‘Are we satisfied with the military aspect of the operation?’ He’d been tempted to recruit the gener
al on to the central committee, and the old soldier had seemed keen, but some instinct had made the chairman decide otherwise. The larger the committee, the greater the chance of a leak, and they couldn’t risk that now. But there was something else. Not a squeamishness, quite, but a suppressed sense of tainted honour in the military man that made him hesitate. With the decision made, he was happy to leave the liaison to the tall man, himself a former soldier with an SAS background. Well placed, with the best of access and contacts, and entirely without scruples, like the earlier speaker he could be trusted to do what was right, whatever the cost.

  ‘The general assures me everything will be in place. Four regiments based in London and commanded by officers sympathetic to our cause, another regiment in the Midlands and a further two in the north, each fully armed and equipped with heavy weapons. As far as the junior officers and rank and file are concerned, it will be just another realistic anti-terror exercise. When the code word is issued they will take control of key transport links, TV and radio stations and other communications hubs, they’ll also guard power stations and refineries. All mobile phone signals and Internet links will be severed, apart from a shadow service that will be operated and utilized by our people. In effect, we will control any and all information the country will receive. When everything is in place the Duke will solemnly inform the nation what has occurred via selected television channels. At the completion of the broadcast he will summon the emergency committee. Once the scale and enormity of the atrocity becomes clear we envisage that the country will immediately rally to our cause and back the new regime.’

  The chairman suppressed a shiver as he reflected the power such control of events would give him. To the two other men in the room, he seemed to grow in stature, his hands flat on the oak table in front of him as he raised himself to his feet. He might have been about to make a speech and his eyes had a distant look as he considered the steps he had set in motion. Strong leadership could only be provided by those with the power to enforce it. The army would ensure a peaceful change of leadership in the capital, secure the centre of the country and provide an unassailable show of force in the north, where most opposition was expected. Initially, only carefully selected information would be released. First, they would parade the bodies of the terrorists who had planned and carried out the attack. Then they would provide evidence of links to key individuals who would be detained in the first hours of the changeover and create a wave of revulsion against those they represented and those who had given them succour. As the noose tightened on the non-indigenous community, a few more minor atrocities would no doubt occur to generate doubt in the minds of those most likely to protest against the crackdown. Mass arrests of individuals deemed a threat, while the misguided liberals would be held incommunicado for their own safety. Secret internment camps in remote parts of the country would already be in place to house the most dangerous detainees under a regime that would be correspondingly severe, and any dissent punished by lethal force. Detention centres to hold the majority of the male population until they could be repatriated. In the meantime, the regime would have introduced a rigidly enforced identity card system. The holder’s card would allow access to certain categories of food and levels of employment. Naturally, that access would be controlled by the new government and dependent on the cooperation of the holder. Non-indigenous subjects would no longer be allowed to own factories or run shops that could provide support and logistics for the terrorists. Their property rights would be restricted. As they could no longer work they would be forced to turn to the state for support, which would be provided in the form of government-allocated housing and food from state-controlled stores. Accommodation and supplies would only be available in designated areas and, once established, these areas would be subject to restricted access, successfully completing Phase One of the operation: containing the threat from the suspect population.

  Phase Two would follow when he was ready.

  Strong, decisive leadership. Clarity of thought allied to purity of purpose. The first step to a Greater Britain.

  But before that faltering step could be taken the way must be cleared.

  The tall man interrupted his thoughts. ‘Our man reports that the Duke was drunk yesterday. Drunk and talkative.’

  An involuntary sigh escaped the chairman’s lips. ‘Did he say anything indiscreet?’

  ‘It seems he is on the cusp of a change of circumstances. A change that makes him nervous, but for one thing—’

  ‘He didn’t name it?’

  ‘No.’ A moment of hesitation. ‘You said there had been a setback?’

  ‘It was not something we could have predicted. Our international connection should have prevented the attack. I remonstrated with them, but they weren’t in the mood for discussion. It seems they lost someone.’

  The former SAS man raised an eyebrow. ‘You should have let me arrange the security.’

  ‘Perhaps, Gerald, but, as you’re aware, that would have created its own problems.’

  ‘Should we be concerned about the Russians?’

  ‘They appear to be an unfortunate relic of Saintclair’s past and they did us a favour in cleaning up the mess.’

  ‘I would feel better if I knew who they represent.’

  ‘Very well, see what you can do.’

  ‘We have less than a month.’

  The chairman stared hard. ‘I don’t need reminding, thank you. A new avenue of investigation has opened up. Our people are on it now. I want you to check it out and be ready to exploit any opportunities it provides.’

  ‘His name is Marmaduke Porter.’ Charlotte’s lips twisted to avoid smirking as she read the name from her notes. Thin Warsaw sunlight highlighted the flesh-toned plaster and carefully applied make-up that disguised the injury to her forehead. ‘He’s English and what used to be called a fixer, but now prefers to be known as an international communications consultant.’

  ‘Bully for him.’

  She ignored Gault’s interjection. ‘They wouldn’t have found the name if it wasn’t for a letter from the Friends of the Teutonic Knights, would you believe, to one of the English-language newspapers in Warsaw. Outraged of Elblag wrote demanding an investigation into the loss of Nortstein Castle. The letter mentioned a development company that may or may not have paid kickbacks to the Communist state governor of the time. Adam’s people tracked down the company to somewhere in Jersey and with the application of a little financial force majeure a name was forthcoming.’

  ‘Do we have an address?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘We do.’ She looked triumphantly at Gault. ‘He lives on the sun-kissed Greek Island of Corfu. Adam is arranging for the charter of a private jet to fly us direct from Warsaw. By us, I mean Jamie and me. While we are topping up our suntans, Mr Gault is to return to England to give Adam a briefing.’

  The former soldier grimaced. ‘I’ll call him. He needs to know that you two lovebirds shouldn’t be let out on your own.’

  ‘You weren’t much help at the Wolf’s Lair,’ she pointed out tartly.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Whatever Adam decides is fine with me,’ Jamie interrupted. ‘We’d better get packed. If Steele is sending us a private jet, he must be getting impatient.’ He threw his satellite phone on the bed beside Gault. ‘Use this, it’ll save time.’

  ‘I prefer to use my own – in private.’ The SBS man got up and stalked from the room.

  ‘What was that about?’ Charlotte demanded.

  ‘I don’t think he appreciated being reminded that he hung us out to dry.’

  ‘Well, bugger him,’ she sniffed. ‘He’ll do what he’s told like the rest of us. The whole point of having him along was to prevent something like that happening. Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that he walked away more or less without a scratch?’

  ‘So did I,’ Jamie pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but you saved my life and you were lucky. Maybe there was more than luck to Gault’s great escape?’


  He wondered what she was implying, but decided that for the moment it didn’t matter now that they were parting company with the former SBS man. Something to worry about later.

  They left Gault in the international departure lounge at Warsaw Chopin while a guide escorted them to the airport’s general aviation terminal where the Beechcraft private jet waited. Two hours later they were approaching Corfu airport at a height so low they seemed to be skimming the sun-dappled wave tops and when they landed people were looking from their hotel balconies down onto the plane. A waiting limousine carried them to the hotel, an elegant wedding-cake-shaped edifice overlooking the anchored yachts in Garitsa Bay. Charlotte dealt with reception and returned with an arch look and a single key. ‘After what happened in Poland, I thought it would be more secure if we shared a room. You’re not shy, are you?’

  ‘Secure?’ He turned away to hide his confusion. What could he say? No was the first thing that came to mind, but that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. It implied that she was … Anyway, he was too tired to argue. Of course he was attracted to her, but that didn’t mean anything would happen. He tried to laugh it off with a lame joke. ‘I always sleep on the left.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas.’ She grinned. ‘It’s a twin room. We’re here on business.’

  In the room on the third floor there was the usual awkward moment after their luggage arrived deciding whose clothes went where. Charlotte took the chance to freshen up while Jamie opened the curtains to the balcony. He’d been vaguely aware of the view as they’d arrived, but now, from his elevated position, it was truly spectacular. The bay curved in a shallow crescent, from a magnificent towering castle on the left to a tree-shrouded headland a mile distant on the right. In front of him a band of aquamarine a hundred yards wide hugged the shore, before gradually turning to a deeper, more intense cobalt scattered with shiny floating gin palaces that must have cost a million apiece and more. In the far distance, softened by a slight haze, lay the coast of Greece – or possibly Albania? He formed a map of the island in his head. According to Adam Steele’s sources, Marmaduke Porter lived on the west coast in a villa close to the tourist resort of Paleokastritsa. The ‘consultant’ would undoubtedly have the information they needed, but, given his profession, was unlikely to be willing to give it up freely. As an incentive, Jamie had Steele’s authorization to draw a substantial sum from a bank in Corfu Town. If that didn’t work he’d need to find his own way to get the information.