The Excalibur Codex

by James Douglas

  Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been skinny-dipping.’

  ‘Not that,’ he laughed. ‘No matter how appealing the idea is. We relax and enjoy the view, which is, you’ll acknowledge, spectacular.’ He walked to the balcony and looked over, his head spinning for a moment as it took in the vertiginous six-hundred-foot drop. The coast stretched away to north and south, a saw-toothed barrier between mountain and sea, between a medley of nameless blues and a mottled patchwork of grey and green. ‘I could do with a rest after Dortmund and Madrid …’

  ‘And Poland.’

  ‘Especially after Poland.’

  He felt her hands around his waist and her head on his shoulder.

  ‘But not too much of a rest.’

  He grinned. ‘No, I think I’ll have made a dramatic recovery by tonight.’

  They walked across to the sun loungers by the mirrored surface of the infinity pool.

  ‘So, we don’t search the place while they’re doing … whatever it is they’re doing?’

  ‘There’s no point. If there was anything to find Marmaduke Porter wouldn’t have given us the run of his house.’

  She lay back on one of the loungers and unbuttoned her blouse to the waist, revealing a flat, tanned stomach. ‘What do you think of him?’

  Jamie tried to ignore the golden flesh and the curves emphasized by her black silk bra. ‘Arrogant, intelligent, sophisticated. An unscrupulous rogue, though that doesn’t make him any worse than the bankers who’ve put the world in its present spot.’

  ‘I quite like him.’ She smiled. ‘I’d been prepared for some greasy fast-talking little spiv. Marmaduke Porter has a certain charm. I may not approve of his lifestyle – Spiros can’t be any older than eighteen and he must be well past fifty – but for someone who deals in the type of business he does, he seems refreshingly honest. A man who is very comfortable in his own skin, given that there’s so much of it.’

  Jamie looked over the villa, pondering what David had told him and suspecting the luxurious retreat might not be the product of years of refreshing honesty. ‘Of course, it could all be a front, and Marmaduke could be in there plotting to take us to the cleaners or sell us down the river, rather than doing whatever it is we think he’s doing.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll find out when they’re finished.’

  XXVIII

  ‘We’d like to know what happened to Nortstein Castle,’ Jamie said when Marmaduke Porter reappeared on the terrace dressed in a silk kimono designed for one of the Japanese sumo wrestlers he so resembled. The big man frowned as he took his seat, his eyes almost disappearing into the folds of his face. He noticed Charlotte taking a moleskin notebook from her bag and raised a plump hand. ‘No notes, please.’

  ‘Don’t you want to search us for recording equipment?’ Jamie suggested playfully.

  ‘I can assure you I would already know, Mr Saintclair, unless the equipment was so sophisticated my machines could not trace it, in which case I’d be unlikely to find it on your person. I prefer to trust to your honesty.’ He laughed at the unlikely thought. ‘You understand that my reputation, such as it is, has been built on a penchant for discretion as much as my ability to bring people together and make things happen in difficult and unlikely circumstances. My clients trust me to keep their secrets. However, sometimes certain facts can be disclosed without abusing their trust, and your earlier generosity deserves some reward. The question is where to start and what to tell?’

  ‘I always find it simpler to start at the beginning.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The fat man stared out to sea for a few moments, apparently mesmerized by what he saw there. ‘I bought this place for the view, you know, and of course the privacy, but I have never been near the balcony, partially because I suffer from vertigo, but also because I am not a man who takes risks. You must bear that in mind as we continue. Information is not dead material. It is a living thing that changes shape and value depending on who has it and who wants it. It can have a positive influence, or a negative. It can be beneficial to whoever has it, yet in other circumstances it may be fatal.’

  ‘Are you threatening us, Mr Porter?’ Jamie asked mildly.

  ‘You misunderstand me, Mr Saintclair. I am a creator, not a destroyer.’ He paused and the odd little face creased in concentration. ‘It began, if memory serves me, in the summer of nineteen eighty-seven. I was a young man and ambitious. I’d had dealings with the Polish government for a few years, mainly in the area of asset sales likely to accrue foreign currency, which they badly needed at the time.’ Porter nodded sagely, reflecting on a job well done. ‘You must remember that the so-called iron grip the Communists had on the country was never really much more than a weak man’s grip on the collar of a large and frisky dog. It was always on the verge of breaking free. In nineteen eighty-seven they were under pressure on several fronts. Pope John Paul the Second’s visit had emboldened the Catholic majority and galvanized the priesthood to become involved socially and politically. Walesa’s Solidarity movement had been forced underground, but was threatening to break out into the open rather in the manner of an erupting volcano. General Jaruzelski’s grip on power was weakening—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jamie interrupted. ‘But we didn’t come here for a history lesson.’

  ‘Of course,’ Porter acknowledged airily with a smile towards Charlotte, who sat back with her legs crossed, sipping at a glass of iced water. ‘I am merely setting the scene in the manner of the gentleman who introduces one of Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe. You are offering a great deal of money, you deserve a little entertainment. So, in nineteen eighty-seven the men who ran Poland and Poland’s administrative regions were nervous and already looking to the future; a Communist-free future. In the August of that year I was approached by a certain party by way of another certain party. The certain party was a foundation, endowed with considerable means, which had an interest in Polish culture and heritage. Its benefactors feared for the well-being of certain aspects of that heritage under the current, and possibly future, Polish regime and wished to purchase for shipment to its home country an example that could be protected and studied at leisure.’

  ‘A castle?’

  ‘Indeed. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr Saintclair, that I am a man who is often asked to provide unusual items and unusual services, but even I was surprised at this request. More so when I was told that they wished to purchase a specific castle, and, dare I say rather fortunately, an insignificant one. The export permit was surprisingly easy to arrange. Not many people in Warsaw were interested in a small German castle up near the Kaliningrad border where they have castles to spare. The good citizens of the Olzstyn region were another matter. German or not, the castle was part of their heritage.’ A rumble heralded the departure of a jet from Corfu Town and it crossed the mountains behind the house with its afterburners straining. Jamie looked up to see the white underbelly etched against a sky of pristine blue and as Marmaduke Porter waited for silence, Spiros appeared with a third – or possibly fourth – bottle of the Meursault. The consultant took a long drink before continuing his story.

  ‘Fortunately for me, the party chairman of the administrative region was a man of the old school, a dictator in all but name. He was also one of those preparing for their future I mentioned earlier. I was able to ensure he could look forward to a long and happy retirement with regular holidays in Switzerland, where most of his money is now held. As for the good burgers of Olzstyn, thanks to a hefty injection of zlotys to build a new school and a hospital in Ketrzyn, they discovered their feelings for the castle were not quite as passionate as they thought. The goodwill this bought also allowed me to use a local labour force, which might not have been possible had there been significant community opposition.’ He sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile and a soft burp. ‘We trucked the entire castle, right down to the curtains and hangings, to Gdansk and shipped it in containers to its eventual destination.’

  ‘And th
at destination was?’

  ‘Client confidentiality.’

  ‘And the client’s name?’

  Porter didn’t even deign to answer the question and in the silence that followed Jamie pondered what he’d been told, and the implications it raised.

  ‘The client must have given you very specific instructions if you were paying attention to the curtains and wall hangings of a six-hundred-year-old castle – the window glass and wood panelling too, I’m sure – that must have been looted when the Russians over-ran East Prussia?’

  For the first time a defensive note crept into Marmaduke Porter’s voice. ‘I think your question answers itself.’

  ‘All I’m trying to elicit from you is the level of detail involved.’ Jamie smiled. ‘For instance, I believe the hangings may have included certain items related to a former occupier of the building from the time of the Teutonic Knights? You were aware of the association with the Teutonic Knights?’

  ‘I’m not a student of the history of the Baltic regions, Mr Saintclair,’ Porter said dismissively. ‘And now I think we must bring this interview to a close. I may have said more than I intended.’ He sniffed. ‘I’m aware that your client is unlikely to be satisfied with what I have been able to divulge, but I believe I have given enough quite specific information to have earned, let us say, half of the agreed amount?’

  ‘I’ll have to discuss that with my client.’

  The fat man’s face relaxed. ‘Of course, but I’m sure he will see my point of view.’ He sat with the smile fixed on his fleshy features, waiting for them to rise from their seats. Jamie didn’t move and Charlotte, though she wasn’t certain she understood the undercurrents of what was happening, took her lead from him.

  ‘I have one further question about the castle.’ Jamie broke the silence. ‘Were you given specific instructions about the safeguarding of certain artefacts that may not have been in their natural position in the castle, but were nevertheless part of its fabric, or that of its out-buildings?’

  He had to admire Marmaduke Porter. His expression didn’t alter. Only the slightest flicker of panic in the deep-set eyes signalled that the next words he would say were going to be a lie.

  ‘No. Now I really must insist, Spi—’

  Jamie raised a hand. ‘That really wouldn’t be wise, Marmaduke, not for a man who doesn’t take risks.’

  Porter heaved himself out of his chair, his whole body quivering with outraged dignity. ‘I will not be threatened in my own house. I really must ask—’

  ‘A shipment of canned goods left Volgograd on 24 May 2008,’ Jamie quoted. ‘It was destined for the port of Baku in Azerbaijan, but it made an unscheduled detour in the Caspian Sea, which took it further south. Some friends of mine wish, among other things, to know the final destination of this shipment.’

  The blood drained from the big man’s face and he slumped back in the chair, his features a mask of dismay. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do, Marmaduke. And I have to insist that you answer my questions. What was the destination of the castle and who was your client?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that. My reputation would be destroyed.’

  ‘The only people who will ever know are the people at this table.’

  ‘And my client.’

  ‘Your client is a foundation – a faceless entity carrying out an act of laudable cultural preservation. The people who run it would have no incentive to broadcast who had provided us with its name.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Porter choked. ‘It is more than my life is worth to tell you.’

  He was pleading now and Jamie had to suppress a twinge of compassion that wasn’t helped by the glare of disappointment Charlotte directed at him. He took a deep breath and twisted the knife.

  ‘My friend said to ask you how the facilitation of the Volgograd shipment would be seen by your former business partners in the light of certain information channelled through the CIA Head of Station in Kuwait City?’

  Marmaduke Porter groaned and began to shake as if he was having a seizure. ‘No, Christ, no. You can’t, they’ll—’

  ‘Give me the name, Marmaduke. The name and the destination and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Please, no.’

  ‘Do you want to know what else my friend said?’

  A few mumbled words spilled from the fleshy lips. Jamie signalled Charlotte to get her notebook ready. ‘Could you repeat that please?’

  Charlotte scribbled the name and darted a puzzled look at Jamie.

  Jamie rose to his feet. ‘I know you won’t believe it, Marmaduke, but I’m truly sorry it had to be like this. If it’s any consolation, fifty thousand pounds in Swiss francs will be couriered to you in the next few days.’

  It appeared the money didn’t mean much to Marmaduke Porter, because he didn’t even look up as they left. Jamie hesitated at the door and looked back with a pang of regret at the broken man sitting with his head cradled in his big hands. ‘Er, there’s just one more thing, old chum. Your new partners will be in touch soon. Do you understand that, Marmaduke? Your new partners will be in touch soon. I’d be a bit more forthcoming with them.’

  They left the room to the sound of frantic, chest-tearing sobbing.

  XXIX

  ‘Why would something called the Bialystok Foundation transport a demolished Polish castle to New York?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jamie admitted. Back in the hotel he still felt guilty about what he’d done to Marmaduke Porter. Maybe he could justify it by telling himself that if he hadn’t passed on the message, the Israelis would have got someone else to do it, but he knew that was lily-livered hogwash. On the one hand he wished he’d never got involved with Adam Steele, but on the other was the tantalizing possibility that it was true. That Excalibur existed and he, Jamie Saintclair, hitherto purveyor of other people’s second-rate daubs, was the man who might discover it. He thrust the thought from his head and tried to concentrate. ‘I’m certain the five swords were part of the shipment, but there are easier and less expensive ways to smuggle them to the States. Maybe this isn’t about the swords at all. The answer could be something to do with the castle itself. Remember that the Teutonic Knights based themselves on the Templars. When the Order was disbanded and Philip of France had their leader Jacques de Molay burned at the stake, they were said to have gathered a great treasure that later vanished. Who’s to say they didn’t hand it over to their brother knights in the East for safe keeping? Perhaps Nortstein Castle was the repository of that treasure? I think we need to go back to London to talk to Adam.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘I’ll let him know once I’ve checked out the foundation.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll call him now.’ Jamie reached for the sat-phone, but she laid her hand on his.

  ‘Leave it until we reach the airport. We have better things to do with our time.’

  David Van Buren III closed his eyes as he lay back in the Jacuzzi on the after deck of the MV Diana, a beautiful classic motor yacht, the loan of which was the three-week gift of a grateful Italian industrialist to the United States ambassador to NATO. A satisfied smile wreathed his face as the squeals of his children drifted up from the bathing platform where they played at the port side. He knew he needn’t worry about their safety because the au pair and one of his five bodyguards would be with them. His ever-beautiful wife, Maryanne, was reading as usual up on the sun deck.

  Christ, he’d needed this break, and the offer of the yacht had come just at the right time. Things had gone quiet in Afghanistan, or as quiet as they ever did in that benighted country, after a start to the year that had stretched him to the limit with multiple IED casualties, helicopter crashes and the usual European pissing contests and threats to pull out their military contingents. He’d managed to calm things, but it had worn him down to the point where he felt fifty going on ninety. Later in the year there’d be the running sore of Kosovo to consider and the negotiations ov
er missile defence. But, for now, he could relax, even if his cell phone was never more than two feet away.

  They’d flown down from Brussels to Venice and boarded the yacht after two wonderful nights at the Cipriani. MV Diana could carry up to twenty-six passengers in complete luxury, but her crew of twenty-four were having it easy with only eleven on board. She sure was a beauty, a real Sophia Loren of the seas, all sophistication and sleek lines, with the polished brass and glowing mahogany that came with her pedigree. She’d been launched way back in the twenties, before the Crash had given her kind of extravagance a bad name, but she’d been refitted in the last decade and kitted out with the kind of modern amenities no self-respecting super-yacht would be without: the pool, the cinema, the sauna and the gym. Two hundred and sixty feet long, with a beam of thirty-nine and a top speed of ten knots from her quadruple steam engines, she was a floating home from home, with the added benefit that the sun was guaranteed to shine every day. Not that they’d only spent their time sunbathing. On the way south they’d marvelled at the opulence of the Roman Emperor Diocletian’s Palace in Split, walked the walls of ancient Dubrovnik and only yesterday they’d wandered the narrow streets of Corfu Town, visiting the New Fortress while the Diana was resupplying. To cap a perfect day, the kids had been able to watch a crazy cricket match in the park from a restaurant on the Liston Arcade.

  Later, there’d be reports to read – you couldn’t totally escape the job. But for now he was happy to enjoy the tranquillity of Agni Bay after a lunch enlivened by the proximity at the next table of the crew of the Russian oligarch’s yacht moored about two hundred yards off the starboard bow. The way they’d eyed up his security detail reminded him of stags at the beginning of a rut, but a round of drinks and a few toasts had ended that particular Cold War.

  He was still smiling at the memory when he noticed a curious phenomenon. The world turned first red, then blue and he seemed to be spinning above what had once been the yacht, but was now a spreading ball of fire. A dream, surely? The reality only became clear when gravity regained its grip on the body of David Van Buren III, minus both legs and one arm, and he plunged back into the flaming wreck of the Diana with a scream that the waiters at the Taverna Agni would have nightmares about for a very long time.