The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  Cam took a deep breath. He wished Amanda, and her sharp eye, were here; he would return with her later. A skull-and-crossbones, a Crusader’s tomb, Templar crosses on the floor, a Roslyn Chapel-like pillar. And they had only been inside for twenty minutes. Who knew what other secrets St. Nicholas Church held?

  Amanda allowed Cam to lead her and Astarte along the crowded streets of Galway, dodging street musicians and jugglers. She loved Cam’s passion and his energy, and it was never more apparent that when he was on a research quest. Home, and the smothering sadness she felt there, seemed blissfully far away.

  “Where are we going?”

  He grinned. “To church.”

  Astarte rolled her eyes. “As if.”

  “No. Seriously. There’s something you guys have to see. Then we can go to dinner.”

  Cam had ditched Brian, keeping his promise not to allow him to ruin their family vacation. But Amanda guessed they had not seen the last of him. Practically jogging, Cam led Amanda and Astarte to the Crusader’s tomb, then showed them the Templar crosses on the floor and imbedded into the pillar. “I think this corner of the church was originally a Templar church built in 1320,” he said breathlessly. “And on the outside wall there’s a skull-and-crossbones.”

  Amanda wasn’t sure why he was so excited. “Okay. But we already knew the Templars spread all over Europe after being outlawed. Maybe not the western coast of Ireland, but...” She shrugged, leaving the thought hanging.

  Cam took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m not being clear. The point isn’t that the Templars were here, in Galway. The point is that this is where Columbus came to, quote-unquote, pray.” Cam swept the space with his arm. “Was he praying, or did he come to get information? Maybe maps, charts?”

  Now she understood. “Didn’t you say earlier that he continued on, to Iceland?”

  “Yes, that was in 1477. But maybe he went beyond Iceland. Somewhere down near the harbor is a sculpture of a seabird given by the city of Genoa to Galway, dedicated to Columbus.” Cam looked at his phone to a page he had saved. “It reads, On these shores around 1477 the Genoese sailor Christoforo Colombo found sure signs of land beyond the Atlantic.”

  “Sure signs of land beyond the Atlantic, huh?” Amanda repeated.

  Cam nodded. “I thought he was following Plutarch’s directions. But maybe he was following the Templars, or more accurately, Prince Henry Sinclair. Not just to Iceland, but beyond. Like the plaque says.”

  “Seems logical.”

  “Before I met you guys,” Cam said, “I did some quick research. In his diary Columbus writes about seeing fifty-foot tides after leaving Iceland. Some historians think he went all the way to Nova Scotia.”

  “That would be the continent beyond the Atlantic,” Amanda said. “But if he knew about North America, why then did he think he found Asia in 1492?”

  Cam shook his head. “That’s a mystery. Maybe he thought if he skirted south he would bypass the continent up north. Either way, I need to look into this more. It seems like Columbus was thinking about an Atlantic crossing way back in 1477.”

  Astarte had been quiet during their conversation. She weighed in. “What about the people from Cathay? That might be why Columbus thought he could sail to India.”

  Amanda and Cam both turned. “People from Cathay?” Amanda repeated.

  “Yes. Cathay is what they used to call China.” She held up her phone. “While you guys were talking, I Googled Columbus and Galway. I found this article. Columbus made notes in a book about his time in Galway. Here’s what he wrote: People from Cathay come towards the west. We saw many remarkable things and particularly in Galway in Ireland a man and a woman on two pieces of driftwood of the most extraordinary appearance.”

  “So Columbus saw Chinese bodies washing ashore here in Galway?” Amanda asked.

  “Could be Inuit,” Cam replied. “They look Asian.”

  Astarte had the final word. “I think that’s why Columbus thought he could sail to China. Because of the bodies on the driftwood.”

  Cam had wandered off to explore the north side of the nave of St. Nicholas Church, where more grave slabs were imbedded into the church floor, while Amanda and Astarte climbed the stairs to view the gallery. He spotted the thugs from the Dublin florist truck as soon as they entered the church. Shit. Before he could hide himself, they in turn spotted him.

  Cam made a split-second decision: He pushed through the side exit into a narrow alley and ran, hoping to lure the men away from Amanda and Astarte.

  His mind raced. Both men had been smoking in the florist van. How much stamina would they have for a long run? And the burly guy with the club hardly looked like a distance runner. Cam sprinted along the church wall onto a main street running along the River Corrib, roiling with rapids. To his left, the city bustled. Crowds, traffic, congestion. He cut right instead, onto a wooden pedestrian walkway on the near bank of the river. The Riverside path. He had planned to run along it in the morning, in fact. Heavy footsteps thundered behind him. Apparently he was going to get his workout in tonight instead.

  He paused for a second, straining to hear. Clap, clap, thud, thud. Good. Two pair of footsteps rather than one. At least Amanda and Astarte were safe. He tore ahead, searching for an escape route or weapon or some kind of plan. Though it was not yet six o’clock, the well-lit path was largely abandoned in the winter twilight.

  After a few hundred yards, the pathway turned to dirt. At least he would not be announcing his location with every footstep. A number of private homes lined the Riverside walkway, and Cam briefly considered exiting the walkway down some narrow alley and losing himself in the labyrinth of the city streets. But many of the exits from the walkway were blocked by locked gates, and he couldn’t risk running into a dead end. He glanced back. The driver was keeping pace at a hundred yards. Perhaps gaining a bit, his wide shoulders straining at his shirt as he ran. His burly cohort was nowhere to be seen. Better odds, at least.

  Cam considered the situation. From what he remembered of the tourist map, the Riverside walkway ended abruptly ahead, at a peninsula extending into the river where the waterway widened and pooled. Would Cam then be trapped, his pursuer on one side and water on the other? Cam had been in a few tussles over the years, but he didn’t like his chances one-on-one with the broad-shouldered ruffian. Cam needed something to even the odds. Like the element of surprise.

  He angled around a bend and spotted a large bush ahead, hanging partway over the path. Using the bend to stay out of sight, Cam darted behind the shrub and crouched, fighting to quiet his breathing. A few yards away a lifesaving ring hung on a yellow pole near some river rapids. A sign on the pole read, A Stolen Ringbuoy—A Stolen Life. Cam snared the ring, lifted his arms, and dropped it over his head. He might end up in the teeming river, and that life not stolen might be his.

  A few more seconds passed, and his pursuer appeared twenty yards away, his stride strong and confident, his powerful arms pumping in rhythm with his legs. Cam didn’t like the idea of those arms squeezing the life from his body. The thug was now only a few strides away. Staying low, Cam exploded from the brush. He drove forward, his shoulder aimed at the runner’s midsection like a football tackler. The man saw Cam too late to turn away. The two combatants hit the ground and rolled, locked in an embrace. Immediately Cam noticed the man’s strength and sensed his confidence, apparently pleased that the engagement had careened from pursuit to conflict. As they rolled, Cam made a split-second decision.

  Grasping his assailant tight to him, Cam flipped his hips and continued their roll, this final rotation plunging them over the edge of the walkway and down a steep embankment into the roiling river. Cam opened his mouth to fill his lungs just before their bodies crashed into the frigid river. Bracing for the cold, Cam clenched his mouth closed so as not to gasp and inhale water. Limbs still intertwined, they began to sink, until suddenly the life ring propelled them upward. They surfaced together, their faces inches apart, the river washing them
back toward the old city. The thug sputtered even as his strong hands closed on Cam’s throat, collapsing his windpipe like a soft tomato. Cam thrashed, clawing, poking at eyes, trying to free himself from the vice-like grip. But the thug buried his face against Cam’s shoulder, his massive thumbs pressed at Cam’s jugular as the life ring kept them both afloat. Was the man actually trying to kill him? Until now Cam figured they were just trying to scare him off, or get information about the swagger sword and treasure. Perhaps choke him into unconsciousness and drag him somewhere for questioning. But maybe he had misread things. The grip on his neck showed no signs of loosening. He felt his world darken, his body begin to slump. No. Not like this. There was too much left undone, too much life still to live.

  With a desperate surge of energy, Cam grabbed a handful of hair, yanked the man’s head back, and swung his elbow into the thug’s face, catching him flush on the nose. Blood spurted. The ruffian coughed, water entering his lungs as he sucked for air in the churning river. His dark eyes narrowed in anger and he brought his own right arm back to return the blow. It was just what Cam hoped for. Cam turned his chin and bit down on the man’s left hand, which remained grasped around Cam’s throat. The hand withdrew reflexively, and the thug, now disengaged from Cam’s buoyancy, began to sink. Panicking and still gasping, he lowered both arms into a dog paddle in an effort to stay afloat. Cam took the opportunity to kick at his assailant, thrusting himself further away. The whirling river did the rest, twisting Cam in one direction and his pursuer in another.

  Cam gasped for air, his legs working to angle himself toward the riverbank. The ruffian had turned onto his stomach and, with a strong crawl, began to make for the far shore. After a few strokes he stopped, turned, and eyed Cam, apparently considering reinitiating his pursuit. But the angry rapids between them made it a futile venture. Instead he lifted a middle finger to Cam. “This isn’t over,” he shouted.

  Cam didn’t doubt it. Nor did he doubt the man had been after the sword. Someone wanted it, or at least the secrets it revealed. He swam hard for the near bank and found a boat ramp to drag himself up to land. Amanda would be panicked, knowing he wasn’t the type just to disappear like that, especially in light of the Dublin attack. And Brian was probably in danger also. Cam fished his phone out of his pocket. Dead. He allowed himself a couple of deep breaths before rolling to his feet. Sloshing along, he began to jog, his neck throbbing, the neon lights of a drug store on the next block serving as his beacon.

  Cam slogged along, the drug store outside the old city walls beckoning half a block away. Fortunately he had not lost his wallet. The temperature was near fifty, but the river water felt at least ten degrees colder. Cam shivered. He needed dry clothes and a new cell phone. And a plan.

  He froze as a figure rounded the corner. The burly thug from the florist van. Cam ducked into a conveniently-located doorway just before the man turned. Close call. Cam had read once that heroes were never lucky, only good. Well, he was no hero, and he was happy for some good fortune on what was turning out to be a bad day.

  He peered out, his neck barking in pain as he whipped it around too quickly. A dark pickup truck idled at the corner, facing away from Cam. Had the burly man climbed into the passenger seat? Cam couldn’t see, nor could he see the face of the driver. But before he could edge closer, the truck drove off.

  Inside the drug store he found a rack with souvenir sweatshirts, t-shirts and hats. And also a few kilts—apparently the Irish wore kilts similar to their Scottish neighbors. Nearby, some rubber rain galoshes were stacked in a bin. A few aisles away he found a burner cell phone. Sheepishly he approached the counter. “I stumbled into the river, I’m afraid,” his voice little more than a rasp. He dropped his credit card onto the counter along with a twenty Euro note. “Any chance you have a place I could change?”

  Five minutes later, looking ridiculous in a lime-green sweatshirt, red-and-blue plaid kilt and black galoshes, he exited the store and phoned Amanda. Quickly he explained what had happened. “So I jumped into the river to get away. Call hotel security and ask them to guard the room. And of course lock your door.” He paused. “And pack up.”

  “To go where?”

  “I don’t know. But they seem to have tracked us. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I think we need to keep moving. Oh, and give me Brian’s number. I got away, but he may not have been so lucky.”

  Three cabs slowed but passed him by, probably figuring he was drunk. But the fourth stopped when he jumped in front of it. He held up his hand. “I know I look like a fool. But this is an emergency.”

  He gave the name of their hotel and slid into the back. He phoned Brian, who answered on the third ring. “You okay?” Cam asked.

  “What, I can barely hear you?”

  Cam spoke directly into the microphone. “I said, you okay?”

  “Yeah. Other than, you know, dying. Why?”

  Cam told him about the chase. “Nobody came looking for the sword?”

  “No. I just checked it an hour ago. It’s still in my golf bag.”

  Odd. They must know about it, and about Brian. So why continue to focus on Cam? “Okay. I have to go.” He didn’t want to give specific information over the phone. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to give any information to Brian—Cam had learned twenty-five years ago not to trust him. But he wanted to keep the lines of communication open, at least until he had a chance to study the symbols on the back side of the sword. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up before Brian could ask for more details.

  Too impatient to wait for the hotel elevator, Cam kicked off the galoshes and took the stairs two at a time. At every switchback of the stairs, he slowed and peered around the corner, half-expecting to see the pair of ruffians. But the hotel seemed secure. He jogged down the hall to their room. “Amanda, it’s me. Open up.”

  She greeted him with a tight embrace and whispered in his ear. “Thank goodness you’re okay. I told Astarte we’re leaving because the heating system broke. And she thinks you were off chasing a pickpocket.”

  “Good thinking. Things quiet here?”

  “Yes.” She stepped back into the room and smirked. “Astarte, did you lend Dad a skirt?”

  “Very funny.” For Astarte’s benefit, he said, “I saw someone grab a woman’s purse in the church. I chased him, but I slipped and ended up in the canal. Drank some skanky water, which caused me to lose my voice.” He did a little pirouette as Amanda locked the door behind him. “These were the only dry clothes I could find.”

  Astarte rolled her eyes. “Nice look.”

  Cam wasn’t sure she was buying their lies. But she went along. For now. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you borrow the kilt.”

  “Only you have the legs for it, Dad.” She ducked into the bathroom.

  “I’ve already checked out by phone,” Amanda said. Their packed bags were stacked by the door. “And they’re bringing the car around for us. But where to?”

  “Good question.” He lowered his voice. “For now, I think we just need to move.”

  “I looked for flights. Nothing back to Boston until the morning.”

  Cam nodded as he threw on a pair of jeans and his boots. “But we could fly to, say, London. Just to get out of Ireland.”

  “And whoever is tracking us could have new operatives waiting for us when we land.” She shrugged. “At least you recognize these Irish blokes.”

  “Okay. First things first. Let’s get out of here.”

  “And I think we need to tell Astarte … something. She’s not an idiot. And she needs to know to be on guard.”

  “Agreed. When we get in the car, we’ll tell her the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  He rubbed his face. “Some guys are chasing us, and we don’t know why, and we don’t know who they are, but we think it has to do with a sword and a Templar treasure in the Catskills.”

  Amanda sniffed and grabbed her suitcase. “That just about bloody covers it.”

  Aman
da drove as they snaked their way through the streets of Galway, her hands clenching the wheel so tightly that her fingers had turned white. Cam navigated in a hoarse voice through swollen vocal cords while Astarte peered out the back window, trying to ascertain if anyone was following. Traffic was light now that the evening rush had passed, making Astarte’s job easier.

  “There’s nobody behind us at all,” she said. “Now would be a good time to turn.” She had taken the news that they were in danger seriously but matter-of-factly; her five years living with Amanda and Cam had been marked by a half-dozen similar episodes.

  Cruising slowly through a residential neighborhood near the coastline, Amanda made a random turn and reversed direction in a cul-de-sac. Presumably anyone following would be approaching from the opposite direction. Nothing. “I think we’re okay,” Amanda said. She took a deep breath. So much for a relaxing holiday.

  “What if they put a tracking device on the car?” Astarte asked. “I saw it once in a movie.”

  Cam nodded. “She’s right.” Every word seemed like an effort. “Let’s ditch the car at that shopping mall up there and catch a taxi.”

  The cab dropped them at a nearby Travelodge where they paid cash for a room with an extra cot. “I think I fancy the Meyrick better,” Amanda said, bouncing on the soft mattress.

  “Yeah, but nobody’s trying to throw me in the river here,” Cam whispered. Cam pulled the policewoman’s business card from his still-wet wallet and turned it over. “Good thing she wrote this in pencil.” Using the bathroom for privacy, he dialed the number of her brother, the Galway cop, or Garda as the Irish called them.