by Mari Carr
Tristan started to scrub his hands through his hair, but Sophia caught them in hers. James joined them, his big shoulders blocking out the sunlight that spilled in through the windows.
“I think this is a trap,” Tristan whispered.
“A trap?”
“The fleet admiral was killed in what is supposed to be our most secure stronghold. His death means we have to elect a new fleet admiral, which means we have to have a conclave. Our first-choice location is compromised, so we’ll go to a second location.”
“You think the Domino himself—assuming the man who died was the apprentice—is going to try to attack again?”
Tristan shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. Clearly the Domino knows enough about us to have gotten past the Spartan Guard. He may know enough to be using our own rules to manipulate us. What if he knows we have to have the conclave within three days?”
“But he had no way of knowing where the conclave would be if it’s not on the Isle of Man,” James countered.
Sophia squeezed Tristan’s hands. “But he could guess. Or maybe have one person in each territory capital.”
Tristan shook his head. “Maybe, but that would mean there were at least nine people working with the Domino.”
“There’s never been any indication of there being more than two—the Domino and the apprentice,” James said.
“Exactly. And…and I’m sure the people in charge of security have thought of this. The admirals and security chiefs from each territory will be working with the England security officers to ensure tight security for the conclave. The knights are decorative in this case.” Tristan grimaced. “I just can’t shake this feeling.”
Sophia squeezed his hands one last time and headed for the bathroom. “I will shower and then we will call my brother.”
“And pack,” Tristan called out.
Sophia’s only reply was to move a bit more quickly toward the bathroom. The playfulness of their waking, and the fight they’d had both seemed far away, as if they’d happened hours, not minutes ago. Sophia jumped into the shower. She hated to wash away the traces of their lovemaking, but she carried reminders in sensitive patches of flesh on her hips and breasts, the aching muscles of her inner thighs, and a faint beard burn on her neck from Tristan.
She was packed and ready to go in half an hour. As she secured the locks on her windows, she looked around her apartment. It had been her home, her sanctuary, for years. Massive by the standards of Rome, this space had hosted parties and lovers alike. And now she had memories of her husbands kneeling before her in the living room, touching and caressing her in the bedroom.
She took a final look around her soft, warm home, at the way the light painted the neutral-colored surfaces gold, and couldn’t shake the feeling that she would never see this place again.
That she would never again come home.
Chapter Eighteen
The British territory’s headquarters was basically hiding in plain sight, right in the midst of the Square Mile on Threadneedle Street. Like most of London, the street was lined with old, historic buildings, interspersed with new, modern ones. The city wasn’t tied to one particular style due to its turbulent history. After all, London was no stranger to rebuilding itself, first after the Great Fire of 1666 and then The Blitz during World War II.
The Masters’ Admiralty had moved its headquarters nearly a dozen times over the centuries, each time finding a place that would allow them to blend in. They’d moved into their current building near Moorgate during the early nineteen hundreds. The building was damaged during The Blitz, but not destroyed, and recent renovations had definitely moved them into the technology age, while maintaining a flair for the classical.
Tristan watched from under his hood as the admirals filed into the conclave chamber. His admiral had been the first to enter, nearly twenty minutes ago.
The arrival of the admirals and their entourage was a tightly controlled dance that had been planned and replanned many times in the past twenty-four hours.
Every precaution had been taken, from staggered arrival times to different arrival points. Not everyone came in through the front door. Some arrived through the rear service entrance, while others entered the building next door and came through the secret passage that connected the two buildings, both owned by the territory of England.
Each admiral brought one person with them in addition to their knights. Some brought their security ministers, others brought one of their security officers. Tristan recognized all of the admirals, but not all of the people who accompanied them. For security reasons, the admirals didn’t share the identity of their companion prior to the event.
Which meant that the security officers were either taking each admiral’s word that the man or woman accompanying them was who they said they were or were rushing through abbreviated identify checks on site.
Tristan had mentioned his unease with that setup to Lorelei, but she’d stopped him mid-sentence. The vice admiral of England had spoken through gritted teeth when she’d warned him not to, even obliquely, accuse one of the admirals of being part of the plot that had killed the fleet admiral. At least the admirals’ guests wouldn’t be in the main meeting room.
Tristan had a very bad feeling something was going to happen. If the look in Lorelei’s eyes had been any indication, she was uneasy too. But she’d insisted he not say anything more. She, along with the other vice admirals, would stay far away from the conclave—another rule meant to maintain security. Another rule the Domino might know about.
But he wasn’t part of the security-planning team for the conclave, so he’d kept quiet, donned his robe, and taken his place with his back against the wall of the chamber.
As the final admiral filed in, the last stretch of bare wall was occupied. Black-hooded figures completely lined the interior of the room.
Each territory had six knights. Of the fifty-four knights in the Masters’ Admiralty, twenty-seven of them were in the building—three from each territory. The remaining three knights from England were stationed at the front desk masquerading as receptionists. The normal staff, all members or from families that had been retainers of member families in the past, had been sent on vacation.
Tristan stood directly behind his admiral, who sat at the large, imposing conference table in the middle of the room.
Admiral Winston Hammond was in his sixties and looked like an aging barrister, which was exactly what he was. He was bald on top, and what remained of his graying hair was carefully cut and combed. Small round glasses were positioned halfway down his nose. They were reading glasses, but rather than take them on and off, Winston preferred to look at people over the top of the glasses. It could be either intimidating or jovial, depending on the circumstance.
Gawain and Percy, the other knights in the room with him, were as anonymous as he was in their enveloping black robes and hoods. Each knight wore a sword, and those were the only weapons allowed in the large chamber.
Tristan looked at each knight, studying not the anonymous hooded figures, but the swords they held. There were cage-style handles of rapiers, black-wrapped handles of katanas, and a few other simple cross-like hilts similar to what he and the other knights of England carried.
The room was an interior space with no exterior windows. There were two doorways, one in each of the short walls. Security officers were positioned outside each door. The only furniture was the conference table and nine chairs—one for each admiral. Cases of bottled water were set on the floor by one of the doors.
The admirals’ guests were being kept sequestered in a chamber one floor down. If, for whatever reason, an admiral had to step out of the conclave, even just to use the bathroom, their guest would be brought up, and the admiral would give their vote to their guest, who could speak on the admiral’s behalf until his or her return. It was meant to prevent there ever being an even number of votes.
When the last admiral took his seat, Percy walked over to the ca
se of water by the wall and ripped open the plastic. He took out a single bottle, opened it, and took a sip. Everyone watched him, waiting.
Sixty painfully long seconds ticked by before Percy screwed the cap back onto the bottle and handed it to the admiral of England. One by one, other knights repeated the action, each sipping and waiting before handing it over.
Tristan wanted to tell them that it had taken nearly half an hour for the poison to start to affect the fleet admiral. He doubted that would have helped to ease the tension level in the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” The admiral of Hungary held up the bottle. “We are prisoners given only water?”
“The fleet admiral was poisoned. There are things more important than eating and drinking.” The rebuke came from the Ottoman admiral. She was both the youngest and the newest admiral. In her mid-thirties, she had rich brown hair, golden skin, and dark eyes. Tristan knew that in reality she must have dark-brown irises, but they looked black, as if her pupils had dilated all the way. No, that would make her seem frightened, and Hande Demiratar was anything but frightened. It took a moment, but he came up with a better analogy. She looked like a bird of prey, her large dark eyes taking everything in.
Tristan was sure he wasn’t the only one looking at her, but she turned her head with a quick, bird-like motion and for a moment focused on him.
Tristan tensed, right hand sliding across his body toward the hilt of his sword.
“No,” Percy snapped in a whisper.
Tristan let his hand fall back to his side.
Beside Hande was Cezary Lis, the admiral of Bohemia. He looked like a Hollywood typecasting of an Eastern European villain. He had a round moon-like face, with slightly protruding ears. His hair was receding along the sides, though he was only in his mid-forties. His nose was large and round, his eyes small. He looked like he would be cruel or stupid, but he was neither. He chuckled lightly at Hande’s words.
On Cezary’s other side, Petro Sirko, the admiral of Hungary—the man who’d first spoken—leaned forward slightly, glaring at Hande and Cezary. The territory of Hungary lay to the north of Ottoman, and south of Bohemia. Petro didn’t seem pleased that his two closest neighbors, who just so happened to hem him in, were friendly toward one another.
Petro wore his silver hair close-cropped on the sides, and just long enough on top to be combed stylishly to one side. He wore a cream dress shirt and a cashmere scarf. The expensive clothing did little to hide the admiral’s stocky build. Though he dressed like an investment banker, he had the body of a brawler.
“Enough,” Giovanni barked. All the other admirals looked to him.
Tristan stared at his father-in-law and reminded himself that he needed to be calm and watchful. He couldn’t let himself be distracted or influenced by the fact that Giovanni had objected so strongly to their marriage. Or that he’d acted like Sophia was property that had been stolen from him.
Giovanni picked up the bottle of water, and there was silence while he took a sip. He set the bottle down, and then took a phone from his pocket. He tapped a button and set it down on the table.
Tristan looked to his fellow knights, who looked tense but didn’t object.
“Admirals, are you there?” Mateo’s voice came from the phone. All the admirals leaned in to listen.
“Yes, Mateo,” Giovanni said. He looked around the table. “Before we discuss anything, we will hear from the head of the Spartan Guard, Mateo Bernard.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Mateo said.
“What do we know?” Petro asked.
“The fleet admiral was poisoned,” Mateo said.
“We know that. How?” Hande demanded.
“He was taking prescription medication. We’ve tested the pills still in the bottle. There was a small amount of Tetrodotoxin found in each pill.”
“They were tampered with?”
“Yes. There was an autopsy. Over the course of several years, the poison built up in his system.”
“He was shot with a dart gun mounted on a drone,” Winston said. “One of my knights was there. Are you telling me whatever was in the dart wasn’t what killed him?” There was a wealth of skepticism in the admiral’s voice, and he was glaring at the phone over the top of his spectacles. Sadly, Mateo couldn’t see it, so the effect was lost.
Several people glanced behind the admiral of England, as if trying to guess which of the three knights standing in the room had been on Man and seen the fleet admiral die. Tristan held very still.
“The dart was filled with an activating agent. When it combined with the toxin already in his body, it created a fast-acting neurotoxin similar to snake venom. The specific cause of death was exsanguination.”
Tristan remembered the blood. Blood everywhere.
“Why?” Petro asked. “Why not shoot him with a gun?”
Cezary grunted and shot the other admiral a disgusted look. “He was making a statement.”
Petro rolled his eyes. “Of course he was, killing the fleet—”
Cezary grunted and cut the other man off. “He poisoned the fleet admiral for years, and we didn’t know. He has access to sophisticated poisons we don’t have the antidotes for. An assassination would have been simple. This was more than that. It was a statement of strength.”
Tristan’s skin prickled, and he looked around. Maybe it was just Cezary’s words that made him feel as if they were being watched.
“Why didn’t we know Kacper was taking a medication? What was it for?”
Tristan lost track of who was speaking as he looked around, trying to identify the source of his unease.
The doors were both closed. There was a small heating vent on the floor near them, but it was barely the width and length of a loaf of bread. There was no way for an assassin to hide in there. The building had a closed heating system, accessed only from the inside, so there was no way to introduce a gas into the room.
They were secure. They were safe.
His instincts continued to scream at him. Tristan looked around again. He hadn’t been part of the team to check over the building, but the other knights had, and the English security officers, most of whom were former MI5 or SAS, had done sweeps. Tristan respected and trusted those men and women. Plus, this was their building. It had excellent security, even when it wasn’t being used for something as important as the conclave.
Maybe it was PTSD from seeing the fleet admiral spitting and crying blood that was making him twitchy.
Thinking back to that moment made him think about James and Sophia. They were safe in a hotel only a mile from there.
He’d taken them to the hotel when they’d arrived in London yesterday, and had been able to dodge questions about why they were going to a hotel and not his house. His flat was nothing like Sophia’s elegant place in Rome. It wasn’t even a proper flat. He rented a bedsit near Waterloo station. It had a bed, TV, and kettle. He didn’t even have a sofa, and every time it rained, the roof leaked. The ceiling tiles, nasty things installed in the seventies, were stained and smelled. James had offered to let them stay at his place, but it was outside the city, in Walton-on-Thames. It was an easy enough commute from there to the museum via the Waterloo line, but it was too far out to be a reasonable place to stay for the conclave.
As he’d been thinking about his flat’s rather disgusting ceiling, he’d looked up at the ceiling of the room. It was made of elegant—and expensive—Chakte Viga, like the walls. The wood was installed in this room because of its acoustic and subtly iridescent qualities. The light fixtures hung down on short gold chains, and the glossy wood of the ceiling reflected the light back into the room.
All except for one spot.
Tristan stared at the small rectangular area on the ceiling. It was almost in the dead center of the room, and thereby the table. It was the same brown as the ceiling itself, but it wasn’t glossy. It was matte. As if someone had stripped the polish from a small, perfectly rectangular area of ceiling.
Tristan could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“What the fuck is that?” he muttered.
Percy turned just enough to glare at him. “Shut up.”
“Look. On the ceiling.”
Percy stiffened at Tristan’s tone and turned to look.
The matte patch was about eighteen inches long, six inches wide. It wasn’t entirely flush with the ceiling, meaning it wasn’t just an area of damaged finish.
“What? The bad patch in the ceiling?” Percy muttered, “Calm yourself, Tristan.”
He wished Sophia and James were there. Even as the thought popped into his head, he realized how stupid it was. If there was danger, the last thing he wanted was the two of them in the middle of it.
No, he wanted them here because they would believe him. After the things they’d seen and been through in their brief, five-day acquaintance, they had learned to trust one another.
The admirals were still talking, though at some point the phone call with Mateo had ended.
What was that thing?
Tristan’s fingers were practically shaking, there was so much adrenaline surging through him. He couldn’t just keep standing here. He was going to get up on that table and figure out what the hell that thing on the ceiling was. He was about to make an ass of himself in front of the admirals. All the admirals.
At least if they revoke your knighthood, you can move to Rome with Sophia. That will make her happy.
Tristan stepped forward.
Around the wall, the knights all came to attention. He could feel the weight of their gazes on him as he bent to whisper in his admiral’s ear.
“Sir, there’s something on the ceiling I need to look at.”
“Now, Tristan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Winston frowned, but nodded. He scooted to the side, making space between himself and the admiral of Castile.
Tristan hiked up his robe, planted one foot on the conference table and stepped up onto it. The ceiling was ten feet high, so standing on the table, Tristan had a fairly good view of the matte rectangle. Planting his hands on the ceiling on either side of it, Tristan hoped he was wrong and it was just a weird flaw in the ceiling paneling. That would mean the end of his knighthood, but his admiral would be safe.
