by Sam Christer
Warman looks relieved. ‘Can you take us to their rooms?’
Dunbar seems surprised. ‘Certainly.’ Then his left eye twitches nervously. ‘You don’t think there are explosives in there, do you?’
‘Highly unlikely. If we did, we’d have the bomb squad with us.’
‘Right.’ He stands frozen to the spot.
‘Now can you take us, please?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He jumps into action. ‘I have a master key. Follow me.’
They ride the elevator to the top floor and Dunbar strides down the carpeted corridor ahead of them. ‘Rooms 602 and 604 are theirs.’ He slips a key card into both slots and pushes the doors open. ‘Do you need me to come in with you?’
‘No, that’s not necessary, sir,’ says Warman. ‘Not unless you wish to?’
‘Er, no. No thank you. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ He smiles and walks away.
Warman pulls his pistol and checks it. ‘Ten minutes, then we have to be out of here.’
Jackson nods.
‘We don’t want to give that dope long enough to think about actually calling the Yard and checking our credentials.’
87
AMERICAN EMBASSY, LONDON
To Mitzi’s dismay, there’s still no DNA profile from the water bottle she stole from George Dalton at Gwyn’s office.
There’s more than a hint of fear in Annie Linklatter’s voice as she promises, ‘I’ll have it by the end of the day.’
Mitzi gives her a parting glower and returns to the small office she and Bronty have commandeered.
The ex-priest looks up from his spread of papers and maps. ‘Any luck?’
‘Don’t freakin’ well ask. The Brits move at a pace that predates modern civilization.’
He laughs at her. ‘She’s American.’
‘No matter. It’s being over here that’s made her slow. What are you doing?’
‘Come and see.’ He flattens out a large Ordnance Survey map and places a page of A4 paper next to it. ‘I’ve been thinking about this passage of text in The Fallen: It is hereby decreed that in the homeland the place of rest will for ever be where the great Celts cross and where the bards stand alone to deliver their eulogies.’
She reads it and then confesses, ‘Aside from the Celtic cross, it means nothing to me.’
‘I don’t think it means cross as in crucifix. I think it refers to a point where Celtic clans or borders crossed, the Irish and the Welsh cross.’
‘A physical place.’
He taps the map. ‘Here. It’s a place that the Knights Templar once owned.’
She stares at a fingernail of an island off the west coast of Britain. ‘Lundy? I’ve never heard of it.’
Bronty looks animated. ‘This might well be where holy knights were buried. It’s the spot where the Celtic Sea hits the Bristol Channel.’
Mitzi studies the map. ‘The place looks tiny. It can’t be more than five miles long and maybe a mile wide?’
‘Less than that. The text refers to “…where the bards stand alone to deliver their eulogies…”, well there’s a cemetery out there and I can’t imagine a more isolated place in Europe to say kind words over the body of a fallen brother.’ He moves to the computer. ‘Now look at what I found.’ He pulls up a web page featuring the island. ‘Lundy is owned by the National Trust and leased to the Landmark Trust, to protect it from being built on or exploited.’
‘So?’
‘Look at the bottom.’
Mitzi reads aloud, ‘“British diplomat Sir Owain Gwyn is a leading contributor to both Trusts and a patron of numerous Lundy support groups.”’
‘So, if there are secrets out there,’ says Bronty, ‘then Gwyn is well positioned to protect them.’
‘You need go snoop. How far away is it from here?’
‘I feared you’d say that. It’s a good two hundred miles and a ferry boat ride.’
Mitzi smiles. ‘You better get booking your trip, then.’
88
CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES
Members of the Blood Line have come from all over Britain, France and Belgium, the old countries that produced the original knights and centuries-long allegiances that constituted the Round Table.
Each of the honoured warriors shows no documentation at the armed checkpoints. Instead, their fingers are pricked by SSOA guards at the lodge gates and blood matched on special DNA passes that both they and the security teams hold. Once ID’d by haematology, Knights of the Blood Line are given complete freedom of the castle and its grounds.
A small group winds its way to the woods, where newly recruited knights are trained in hand-to-hand combat by former SAS commanders. Nearby, bursts of gunfire crackle inside a single-storey row of outbuildings. Every member of the Blood Line has done his or her time inside the dense labyrinth of darkened rooms where simulated hostage recovery operations are staged.
Back at the castle, Owain Gwyn enters Keep Hall and settles at the middle of one of four exceptionally long tables butted together to form not a circle but a perfect square. A hundred and fifty high-back thrones are arranged symmetrically. Each bears the individual family crest of a member.
The one behind Owain’s head shows a white shield and on it a red cross, identical in shape to crosses laid on the bodies of fallen knights. In the top left quadrant is an open-mouthed red dragon. In the bottom right, a large brown bear. The other two are filled with three golden crowns and a round wooden table.
Owain looks up from the centuries-old, wooden-bound book that is spread open before him. Old timers are filtering in for the meeting. They’re always the first. The new Bloods will predictably breeze in, ruddy-cheeked, just in the nick of time.
The head of the SSOA leaves his seat and shakes the hands of Terry Lyons, descendant of Tristram de Lyones and Gerry Erbin, descendant of Sir Geraint. Others form an orderly queue behind them and Owain spends the next fifteen minutes personally welcoming every member of the Blood Line.
Finally, Myrddin enters, and as is his custom and right, he locks the great doors of the hall by jamming a broadsword through the hoops of two iron handles and takes his seat by the door.
Owain Gwyn looks across the vast tables to the faces of the great and the good. A hundred and fifty men and women whose ancestors lived and died for their common belief in freedom and fairness.
‘Great members of the Blood Line, I thank you for travelling long and far to come here to our home at such short notice. My dear friends and colleagues, you know I wouldn’t ask for this assembly if it wasn’t to discuss matters of a most extraordinary nature.’ He watches seriousness creep across faces, notes the tension in tightly folded arms and fidgeting hands. ‘You know from the Watch Team bulletins the growing threats our countries face. And you know, too, of how our operational knights are fighting the old enemy Mardrid as he pays organizations like al-Qaeda to sow the seeds of discontent so he may reap the rewards of a bloody harvest. As this man increases his power base in the developed world, so too does he exploit the poorest nations, where he is using thuggery to rob generations of their future.’
Mutters break out among the venerable members, many of whom are old enough to remember the atrocities Mardrid’s father and grandfather carried out in Ethiopia, Uganda and Rhodesia.
Owain waits until they grow quiet, then continues. ‘The Inner Circle asks for you to ratify their decision to send crusaders to Africa to ensure no free man, woman or child falls victim to Mardrid, his men or machinations. Two hundred of our knights are on standby to enter Togo, the scene of Mardrid-initiated rape, murder, torture and arson. A thousand more are being mustered as we speak.’
Percy del Graal, descendant of Sir Percivale, raises his hand. ‘Has NATO been informed, Sir Owain?’
‘They have been appraised. None of the treaty members is stirred enough to send its own troops. Country defence budgets are cut to the bone. We have the tacit approval of the General Secretary.’ He looks around the tables. ‘Any more q
uestions?’
Heads shake.
‘Then, great members of the Blood Line, I respectfully ask you to favour the Inner Circle’s decree in the form of the crusade I proposed. Do I have your support?’
All one hundred and fifty members clench their fists and put hands to their hearts.
‘I thank you one and all.’ Owain dips a quill into an inkpot and records the vote in the great ledger laid before him and adds the date, his name and his own seal. He carefully blots the entry, downs the ancient pen and returns his gaze to the assembled members.
‘Dear friends, there is one other reason why I asked you here today.’ Unexpectedly, he feels emotional. He catches his heart thump and his throat dry. He looks to Myrddin and sees the old man wiping an eye. Across the tables, others are already discreetly touching their faces. Owain forces a brave smile and soldiers on. ‘I see some of you have guessed what I am about to say. The gates of Avalon are opening for me and I am readying myself for that great journey.’ There are gasps but he daren’t look up to put faces to sounds. ‘Today may be the last time I stand here with you, the last chance I have to thank you for your friendship —’
Someone shouts, ‘No! It is too soon.’
He halts the emotion with a raised hand. ‘I wish that were the case. I am afraid, the hour is always later than we think. May God bless you and protect you and your families, and may your blood lines run rich and run long.’
89
NEW YORK
Twenty-one-year-old Zachra Korshidi hears them laughing at her as she struggles out of the grocery store.
‘Excuse me, miss. May I speak with you?’
She ignores the smartly dressed man and walks on. All she can think about is how much she hates the burqa and niqab that her parents make her wear. The long sexless cloak and veil are swelteringly hot as she carries the heavy plastic bags along the sidewalk.
‘Just one minute, miss.’ The man walks behind her.
She remembers a time when they let her wear jeans and a T-shirt. When she could cover her hair with a multi-coloured scarf, a nice roosari – but all that’s changed since ‘the boy’.
That’s what her parents called him. Not Javid, or her boyfriend.
The boy.
They said the words like he was a demon. All because they didn’t choose him. Because he was an orphan, with no traditional family, raised in America and full of all the modern values and opinions that they hate.
It’s little wonder she adored him. Loved him with all of her mind, soul and body. And wasn’t afraid to admit it. Privately or publicly.
That was the problem – the final straw.
Admitting to having sex before marriage won’t draw a second glance in New York, but back in Iran, it gets you publicly flogged and possibly executed. And these days, her parents spend most of the time behaving as though they are back in the old country.
She’d have left home and run away with Javid if his younger brother Sadeq hadn’t been in the final stages of leukaemia. Instead, she stayed and her father beat her so badly that for days she was unable to walk.
It was at the same time that Javid disappeared.
He didn’t call or text. He just vanished. He’d either been scared to death or put to death. Either way, she hadn’t heard from him again.
Not seeing him was like the end of her life. She overdosed on her mother’s sleeping pills. After having her stomach pumped at hospital and being told she’d brought even more shame on her family, she was brought home and locked in her bedroom.
Imprisoned.
Then came the chance to redeem herself. To make amends and bring honour back to her family and herself. A glorious suicide instead of a pointless one. That’s how her father put it.
Not surprisingly, when the day came she was frightened. Sick with fear, remorse, regret and rage. Disgusted with the fact that innocent people were going to die along with her. People she had more in common with than her own flesh and blood.
It was a miracle someone else had volunteered.
‘Miss!’
The insistent man is in front of her now. Blocking her way.
He peers into her dark eyes. ‘I’m a friend of the man who saved your life. The man who wore the vest.’
She feels her pulse race and pushes past him.
‘How long will it be, Zachra? How long before they come to you and ask you again? How long, Zachra?’
90
HRU CRIMES UNIT, SAN FRANCISCO
The email on Vicky Cantrell’s computer is from Professor Quinn at the Smithsonian.
Dear Miss Cantrell,
I have now discussed the sketch of your relic with Professor Wilson at Oxford and he concurs with my view that it is Irish Iron Age. He does however think that the shaped endings of the cruciform make it unusual for the time and he believes the hole in the centre of the cross may have been of ceremonial significance.
Professor Wilson told me that he thought it possible that the cross was planted on high ground for prayer in such a way that sunlight might be seen through it. He also mentioned that Celtic legends have great warriors being buried with objects like this that not only showed their faith to mortals coming upon their graves, but also equipped the dead with a holy weapon to fight evil spirits in the afterlife.
I hope this proves to be of value to you.
Yours truly,
Simon Quinn.
Vicky prepares an email for Mitzi and attaches Quinn’s findings. Eleonora Fracci is downtown with the cops on the witchcraft case, so she’s got time to do a bit more digging into the history of Owain Gwyn, his family and company.
She starts with Caledfwlch Ethical Investments and finds the company pre-dates the start of official public records. It’s a generous contributor to more than a dozen British charities, including Natural England, a group that helps the British government manage nature reserves and areas designated as being of special scientific interest.
There are also a number of intriguing connections to the Arthurian legend. Caledfwlch, the company name, turns out to be Welsh for Excalibur and the Gwyn family has large ancestral homes in Wales and Glastonbury, one of the spots where King Arthur and his wife Guinevere were allegedly laid to rest. Glastonbury is the place that Joseph of Arimathea, a central figure in the stories of the Holy Grail, was reputed to have fled to after Jesus had risen from the dead.
Owain’s home in Wales, Caergwyn Castle, is close to the Preseli Mountains and a landmark called Cerrig Marchogion – The Knight’s Stones – another location named as the final resting place of Arthur. The mountains are known for their geology, especially a distinctive bluestone that, according to legend, Arthur’s magician Merlin used to create Stonehenge. Additionally, the ambassador has an extensive personal property portfolio that includes numerous cottages in Tintagel, a south-western town where Arthur is alleged to have been born.
From financial records, Vicky learns that Gwyn has been purchasing sizeable amounts of property and land in Cadbury in Somerset. All the acquisitions are close to the ruins of an ancient Iron Age fort, a place widely reputed to have been the site of Camelot.
Further digging into CEI reveals a span of subsidiaries, including one called ‘CEIDP’, which is run solely by Jennifer Gwyn. At first the researcher believes it’s purely a shell company, but then finds it also has extensive property, land and rights, including ‘water access, research and usage’ at Dozmary Pool in Cornwall. Back in the fifties, the area was declared a site of special scientific interest and access became limited. CEIDP records show it funded extensive research into fish projects and explorations of the pool’s Stone Age history.
Out of curiosity, Vicky searches for legends associated with Dozmary. She finds two. The first is that of Jan Tregeagle, a local lawyer/magistrate who gained money and power by making a pact with the Devil. Inevitably, the Prince of Darkness took his soul and cast his body to the bottom of the lake, from which it came back to haunt villagers.
The second legend is m
ore interesting. Dozmary Pool is claimed to be the home of the Lady of the Lake, the place where King Arthur rowed out and received Excalibur. It’s also the spot where the knight Bedivere returned the sword, after the battle of Camlann where Arthur lay dying.
Head spinning with history and legends, she takes a break and heads to the canteen for lunch. She’s also hoping a certain young man called James Watkins will happen to be there.
A little older than her and built like a linebacker, he’s new to the bureau and drives a desk in IT. Yesterday, they ate side by side and she got goose bumps and hot flushes all at the same time.
She orders tuna salad and takes an eternity eating it, hoping with every mouthful that he might show.
He doesn’t.
After another soda, she’s still sat alone. Dejectedly, she packs her tray in the rack by the door and returns to her work.
Her mood brightens as she searches the background of Lady Gwyn. Boy, does the woman know how to look good. Vicky savours the shots of her in sumptuous ball gowns at charity dinners, sparkling cocktail dresses at VIP parties and even in waterproofs and life vest on a racing yacht.
Her ladyship seems quite the fashionista. A celebrity in her own right. Daughter of Leo Degrance, a rich and influential business tycoon, she went to all the right public schools, became part of the British Equestrian Team, a medal-winning horsewoman and patron of almost a dozen charities.
For fun, Vicky Googles the name Jennifer and is amused to find that it has Cornish and Welsh connections – Jenny the Fair, Gwenhwyfar and Guinevere.
She does the same with the name Owain and, given that’s another roll of the dice in the game of coincidences that she’s playing, expects it to come up as Arthur or King.
