I must decide whether I’m going to kill you.
Was she serious? He touched the scratch on his throat and remembered the ice-blue eyes at the end of that long sliver of steel. That depended on what she had to gain and how much she had to lose: credits and debits judged as they would be on the corporation balance sheet. Was there more profit to be had by keeping the rather awkwardly persistent Mr James Saintclair alive, or sending him for a swim in the lake with a concrete block tied to his leg for ballast? On initial appraisal, the second option seemed more likely and he felt a little flutter of panic in his stomach. If she knew so much about him, she knew he was here for the sword. Ergo, if she wanted to keep the sword, it would be best to be rid of the inconvenient Saintclair. On the other hand, and now he felt a contrasting and unlikely stirring of what might be called hope, she had suggested he could do her a service and she had seemed quite serious about it. What that service could be, he had no idea. He recalled the figure-hugging bodysuit and one or two thoughts sprang to mind, but the chances of turning them into reality seemed slim in his current situation. All of which left him none the wiser. There’d been almost a twinkle in her eye when he’d asked that final question, and he had a feeling that, whatever the outcome of her deliberations, she wouldn’t be able to resist giving him the answer.
The question now was what to do while she made up her mind?
In the end he couldn’t pass up the ’66.
‘Mr Saintclair?’ Jamie groaned and opened his eyes, blinking at the bright light. ‘Miss Webster will see you now, sir.’
His back ached from lying on the hard floor with his jacket as a pillow, but on the plus side the early morning call didn’t have the feel of an invitation to a firing squad. He followed the guard to a large room in the west wing, with a polished wooden banqueting table – rectangular, not round – at the centre, and walls lined with bookcases that reminded him of the day Adam Steele had revealed the contents of the Excalibur codex. Jamie allowed his eyes to drift over the titles as the guard took his place by the door with one hand poised disconcertingly over the butt of one of the omnipresent Glock 9mms. They seemed to consist mainly of American literary classics, but Harold Webster’s collection also contained a few British books. There was a section on Dickens, another containing the complete works of Shakespeare, and a shelf of leather-clad titles by Sir Walter Scott. One wall was devoted to what looked like every book ever written on the Arthur legends, ranging from the eighteenth century to the latest modern works. He randomly picked one called Arthur and the Lost Kingdoms and had just opened it when Carl, the guard who had watched the fencing bout, entered the room. Curiously, the black man carried a long sword across two outstretched hands, almost as if he were taking part in some kind of solemn ceremony. Jamie felt as if an electric shock ran through him, his heart quickened and the breath caught in his throat as he realized what he was seeing. It didn’t seem possible even now, but there it was, finally, within touching distance. A broad-bladed, battle-notched iron man-killer. How well it fitted the description. Almost four feet of dull, crow-black, rust-pitted metal, the edges worn thin by relentless honing and nicked where they’d once clashed with other blades. Yet for all its utilitarian appearance it took on a curious, almost awesome beauty in his eyes. This was a sword that had been revered, for how else had it been protected and cared for, for more than a thousand years? Carl laid it carefully in the centre of the table. And yet …
‘Thank you for your patience, Mr Saintclair.’ Today she wore an immaculately cut suit of slate-grey silk over a simple turquoise blouse open at the neck and offset by a necklace of thick gold links. Another of the guards followed her, pushing Harold Webster in his chair, twisted and glaring, like a malignant land crab.
‘Does this mean you’re not going to kill me?’
Helena Webster ignored the question. ‘When I heard of your interest in Nortstein Castle, I had a choice to make. I could have tried to stop you, and believe me when I say that I would have succeeded. Or I could watch and judge the mettle of the people I faced. Fortunately for you, I chose the second option. When you found your way here, I was impressed by your perseverance and your ingenuity, but it left me with another choice. My only interest in all this is to protect the good name of my family and my company. You are patently a man of honesty and integrity.’ Jamie blinked. If the description was accurate, he was in the wrong line of business. ‘But you are also a man of great curiosity. The first I can use. The second I must eliminate.’ There it was, the shiver down the spine again. ‘I have decided that the best way to proceed is to be entirely candid with you. All I ask is your word that nothing you hear today will be repeated outside these four walls. Do you agree?’
Jamie met her stare as he considered the question. ‘You’re very trusting.’
‘No, Mr Saintclair, I am a very good judge of character. For instance, I would not make the same offer to your companion.’
‘Then I agree.’
She greeted the words with a smile and turned to Harold Webster with what might have been a look of triumph. The old man wriggled in his chair and snarled like a caged beast, his single eye glowing with suppressed rage and hatred. Helena walked to the table and laid a hand on the great sword.
‘What my grandfather learned from the man he tortured and murdered at Nortstein Castle drove him quite mad. You decoded Rolf Lauterbacher’s journal, so you are aware of what took place in the castle in nineteen forty-one?’ Jamie nodded. ‘But there was more. Much more. My grandfather’s victim was an aide to Wolfram Sievers, Himmler’s black magician. He told him every detail of the ceremony and the lineage of the five swords Reinhard Heydrich had brought together to make it happen. All the elements had been in place, he said, but the human element had proved false. They were weak men who did not believe. Sievers had his doubts from the first, but Heydrich insisted the ceremony go ahead to please Himmler. It would have worked. It still could. Harold Webster had always been interested in the occult. You’ve heard of a man called Aleister Crowley?’
‘The crazy mystic with the Scottish castle? Of course.’
‘Black magician and occultist. Some people considered him the Antichrist, others the potential saviour of the world. My grandfather fell into the second category. He was in correspondence with Crowley before the war and until his death in nineteen forty-seven.’
‘So all this was like the Holy Grail to him?’
‘An interesting analogy,’ she admitted. ‘But probably an apt one. He would always say that a great force had led him to Nortstein Castle and the treasures it contained. The swords were only part of it. The German showed him occult texts dating back to Ancient Egyptian times giving details of ceremonies to draw on the powers of the Dark Gods and containing words of power to bring death and disaster to the enemies of those who uttered them. He believed he was bartering the information for his life. He was wrong.’
Jamie studied the hunched figure in the chair. What was he thinking, trapped in that broken, useless body? Did he ever wonder if it was retribution for the men he’d killed? ‘So,’ he challenged, ‘Harold Webster – your grandfather – has just made the most important discovery of his life. What does he do now? He can’t take the swords and the manuscripts back to the partisan camp, because they’ll probably be stolen from him. Once he’s killed his men, he could strap the swords to a pony and try to ride west, towards the Allies, but the chances of him making it would be very slim.’
Helena nodded gravely. ‘He can’t take them, so he decides to hide them, along with most of the Nazi paraphernalia you saw yesterday. The castle was full of potential hiding places, but none offered guaranteed security. Eventually, he chose somewhere, probably a small cellar, found a local man who had the skills to brick it up, and, when he was satisfied, he got rid of the evidence – all the evidence – and does as you suggest. He rides west. He kept to the woods and the marshes, avoided contact with anyone who looked threatening, stole what he needed from the weak and the fearful
…’ Her eyes hardened. ‘He was very good at that by now. By good fortune he had chosen a route between two Soviet army groups, but eventually events forced him onto a main highway where he joined a column of refugees being screened by the Russians. When they questioned him, he revealed his true identity and was placed with a group of former prisoners of war. They repatriated him to the United States a month later.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ Jamie’s voice reflected his confusion, ‘is why it took him so long to retrieve the swords. If he was so obsessed, surely there was a way he could have gone back for them earlier, and without bringing the whole castle with him?’
She produced an unexpected smile. ‘You don’t know my grandfather, Mr Saintclair. He’d already formed his plan by the time he returned to the States. The ritual had to be carried out in perfect conditions, in its original form and its original setting. At first he planned to return just after the war, but within a few years Poland had become a Soviet satellite state and pretty much closed to westerners. There was also the small matter of certain crimes committed against the Polish population by the Byelorussian partisans, who could be very cruel to the people they lived amongst.’
She paused to allow the reality behind those words to sink in. Carl stood behind Harold Webster’s wheelchair, but the black man might have been deaf for all the interest his face displayed. By contrast, the mobile part of the old man’s face was a mirror of his emotions; a twitching arena of fear and anticipation. A dribble of saliva escaped his drooping lip as Helena Webster resumed her story in a flat, almost uninterested voice. ‘My grandfather could never be certain his part in those crimes wasn’t known. Circumstances forced him to bide his time, and he used the interval to begin gathering the essential commodity he needed to make it happen: money. Before the war he had been an electrical engineer. When he returned, he foresaw the growth of the automotive industry and focused his attentions on components shared by all automobiles. He eventually settled on the battery. Relatively simple, cheap and easy to make. The fortune he made in the following ten years allowed him to invest in television technology, and later computers. The Webster Corporation is now one of the largest providers of security software in the world. Along the way he created the Bialystok Foundation, and began building relationships in Poland. When the time was right he used the foundation to employ the services of a rather brash young man called Marmaduke Porter. Porter paved the way for the purchase of the castle, its dismantling and export to the United States. My grandfather had already identified this site and greased whatever palms were required, and here we are. For ten years he attempted to replicate the ritual that took place in Nortstein in April nineteen forty-one,’ her lips wrinkled with distaste, ‘recruiting like-minded people to take the place of the twelve Nazis. If one combination didn’t work, he would try another. When he had harnessed the power of the swords he planned to run for president. Harold Webster would create a new America that would wipe away the shame of Korea and Vietnam. He had already decided Russia was not the United States’ greatest enemy. Once in the White House he planned to focus all this country’s energy on defeating Communist China, first economically, but if that did not work he was prepared to use every means at his disposal.’ The words tumbled free, her breathing quickened and the pain she patently experienced was almost enough to make Jamie feel sorry for her. But he knew Helena Webster wouldn’t thank him for his sympathy. As he watched, something curious happened. The expression on her face didn’t change, but the effect of it altered, as if some classical Medusa was lurking behind the beautiful mask. ‘My grandfather’s obsession killed my father and robbed me of my childhood. The day I received the call telling me he had had a stroke was probably the happiest of my life.’ She went to the old man and stroked his hair. The gesture might have been affectionate, but the atmosphere seemed to take on a new chill and Jamie saw fear in the single bright eye. ‘I can feel his hatred and his loathing. What I am about to do will destroy him still further, but not, I hope, kill him.’ She returned to the table and picked up the sword. Harold Webster groaned and struggled in his chair so much he might have tipped it if the guard Carl hadn’t pushed him back. ‘That is the service I ask of you. I want you to return this to the person it was stolen from.’
Jamie took the sword in his hands, the ancient iron rough and cool against his flesh, instantly feeling the power that emanated from the battle-scarred blade and the life force of the kings who had wielded it. The grip was bone, worked smooth by countless generations of use, and only the pommel, a two-headed dragon worked in gold, gave any indication of its lineage. What had Adam Steele said? A sword is the child of earth, air and fire. Look closely at this blade and you can see the ghosts of the tree roots that bind the earth to the Otherworld. And he was right; the dark metal still retained the magic of the smith who had created it, the jealously guarded secrets of its manufacture and the shadow of the eight glowing bars of specially selected metal that had been used in its forging. Excalibur.
‘You understand …? ’ Her voice faltered.
Jamie met her gaze. ‘Yes.’
‘I told him, but he would never listen. So you will return it?’
‘I will try, where …? ’
She smiled. ‘You’re a clever guy, Jamie Saintclair. You’ll work it out.’
XXXIV
‘We have the sword.’ A rumble of congratulations greeted the news and Adam Steele saw the thrill of excitement run through the five members of the inner committee.
‘Then we can proceed?’
Steele nodded. ‘Initiate the countdown. Everything must be in place for the State Opening of Parliament in two weeks.’
When they were gone he stared out of the window, surprised at how calm he felt and how easy it had been to issue the final, irrevocable order. This had always been part of the plan, but he’d hoped that the M25 massacre and the inevitable upsurge of anger against the Muslim population would make it unnecessary. The people of this country – the real people – should have taken to the streets in their hundreds of thousands and forced on the Government the kind of changes the committee had been demanding. The rest, a quiet, non-violent shift of power, would have followed inevitably. A few had acted as he had forecast, but the masses had stayed in front of their televisions and their computer screens, had lounged at the bars of their smelly pubs and kept attending their silly football matches – and done nothing.
He felt his rage grow at the decision they had forced on him. It was all for them. All this risk and sacrifice. Didn’t they realize the cancer that was spreading among them? Tribal enclaves, transplanted from their foreign homelands, growing and pulsing in every city, taking over whole streets, then whole districts, driving out the native species by their very numbers and their insidious financial strength. He shuddered at the thought of the alien culture and barbaric religion taking over his beloved Great Britain. The black and brown and yellow faces that tormented him every time he left the sanctuary of his home. The babel of unnatural languages that assaulted his ears. No, they had to be stopped. Dead. There was only one way to remove an alien breed, and that was to cut it out at the roots. But he couldn’t do it alone. So Adam Steele had made the first tentative approaches and was surprised at how many of his class had similar concerns.
It had begun quietly. They didn’t advertise their presence, but used their collective influence to try to make the changes that were so obviously needed. But those in power hadn’t listened. It had taken many months before he understood that the political system he believed was ruining the country was nothing but a sham. A cowardly, neo-Liberal conspiracy with a shadowy all-party core that ensured the status quo at all costs. After that, the way ahead had been clear. There could be no change without sweeping away the existing order.
After 9/11 and 7/7 another great atrocity was only a matter of time. The people who had died in the M25 massacre were the price that had to be paid for bringing the country to its senses. They had died for Britain, and it did
n’t matter who had killed them, as long as the right people were blamed. But it hadn’t been enough, and now one more great blow must be struck to ensure the backlash that was needed to sweep away the old regime, create a new Britain, and at the same time ensure a speedy and efficient change of power. It would happen on the only day Parliament was sure to be packed with politicians of all persuasions. The Queen’s Speech brought all but the most sedentary out to cram the velvet benches and show their over-fed faces for the TV news cameras.
They would all be there, the ambitious and the slothful, the greedy and the God-fearing, the thieves and the liars, Franklin among them, unaware that he was no longer required. A pity about Her Majesty, but she had done her job and now it was time to move on. Not her fault that she had ruled such a cabal of spineless failures. And since this was a special year, she would be conveniently accompanied by her entire brood. All but the Duke, who would be laid out by a last-minute indisposition.
The Duke would be as shocked as the nation when it transpired that Al-Qaida, in an outrage unheard of even in terrorist warfare, had somehow managed to conceal a container of hydrogen cyanide in the Commons chamber. He had gone along with the lesser conspiracy in good faith, flattered to believe that he could be Britain’s saviour. When the doors shut behind the royal entourage, a high-pressure stream of lethal gas would fill the great hall, killing everyone inside in less than a minute. Despite his grief, the Duke would be persuaded to step forward to head a committee of national solidarity, and, by the time it met, the army and police would already be in control of all communications, transport and security.
The Excalibur Codex Page 27
