The Secret of Excalibur

‘Um, Eddie? Mr Chase?’ said Chloe nervously as he moved to the hole. ‘You’ll need to be careful too. There are traps down there.’

‘Traps?’

‘Yes, apparently they were designed to catch people who took the wrong route to the trial of Nivienne—’

‘Wait, what?’ Chase spluttered. ‘The place is full of traps, there’s some kind of trial, and you haven’t heard from them for ages? Jesus! They could be dead already!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ wailed Chloe. ‘I didn’t realise, Nina just seemed to know what she was doing!’

‘Yeah, she usually does - until stuff starts exploding!’

‘I’m sorry, really,’ Chloe repeated.

Chase took a breath. ‘That’s okay, it’s not your fault.’ He shone the torch into the hole. ‘Just tell me how to catch up with them.’

Hacking in the foul air, Mitchell climbed out of the water and hauled Nina up after him. The ground was soft and muddy, squishing revoltingly.

The flashlight was still lit, having survived its submersion. The beam revealed another chamber, smaller than the one at the other end of the passage - with a huge stone face set in the rear wall.

‘Merlin,’ Nina realised.

The wrath of Merlin, which strikes only those who see his face . . .

But she had seen his face, which was curled into a mocking sneer. And so far, nothing had happened.

Still coughing, she staggered towards the carving, feet sinking inches deep into the mud. The stench of methane grew worse, gas belching out from the decomposing muck with each step.

‘Man, this smells like a sub after the mess serves beans,’ Mitchell wheezed, squelching up behind her. ‘I guess this is Merlin, huh? So where’s his wrath?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Nina used the torch to survey the chamber. At one side was a stone door, firmly closed.

And there was something on the floor, half buried in the oozing mud . . .

‘Is that a skull?’ said Mitchell, spotting the discoloured object.

‘Wait here, don’t move,’ Nina ordered. She carefully crossed the room, trying to disturb the disgusting sludge underfoot as little as possible. The object was indeed a skull, blackened with soot, all but a few lumps of charred flesh long since rotted away. Other bones poked through the mud around it.

Including a hand, clutching something. A piece of wood.

She turned back to Mitchell. ‘I know what the wrath of Merlin was. And it’s kind of ingenious, in a sadistic sort of way.’

Mitchell eyed the chamber. ‘Are we safe?’

‘We should be. But if we’d come in here a couple of centuries ago, we’d be dead by now.’ She held up the torch. ‘This whole room’s one big trap. If you don’t have a sealed electric light, any torches you’re carrying are going to go out during the swim, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘So let’s say you’re smart enough to have planned ahead, and wrapped up another torch to keep it dry. What’s the first thing you do when you come out of the water in here?’

‘You light it . . .’ said Mitchell, realising.

‘Exactly. You light it - and create a flame. In a room filled with methane gas. Whoomph!’ She threw out her hands to mimic an explosion. ‘The last thing they saw before they got toasted was Merlin’s face, just as it said on the stone at the entrance.’

‘Those cunning little monks,’ Mitchell said, almost admiringly. He went to the door and pointed at the base of one of the stone pillars framing it. A slot had been carved in it, a wooden wedge poking out. Nina checked the other pillar to find an identical arrangement. ‘Pull ’em out, you think?’

‘Just a sec. Let’s make sure Merlin doesn’t have a double helping of wrath.’ She scrutinised the wedges to make sure they hadn’t been booby-trapped with flints. ‘Okay, let’s give it a shot.’

Mitchell gripped the first wedge and pulled, straining against the weight of the door pressing down on it. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then with a sudden groan of wet wood it slid free. The door lowered slightly on that side. Nina took a deep breath, wished she hadn’t, then tugged at the second wedge. It took longer, but it too finally came loose.

The door dropped into the floor, displacing a rush of mud and turgid water. They jumped back as it washed around their legs.

A loud rumble filled the chamber. ‘Shit!’ Mitchell cried. ‘It’s gonna blow!’

‘No, wait!’ Nina aimed the torch at the hole through which they’d entered. ‘It’s draining!’ Frothing and churning, the water was indeed falling as they watched. A draught blew past them through the newly opened door. The air was still rancid with the stench of marsh gas, but not quite as strong. ‘The gas is escaping as well. Guess they decided that if you knew the secret of getting in, they might as well make it easier for you to get out again.’

Mitchell looked suspiciously through the doorway. ‘So the tomb’s just through there? Excalibur’s through there?’

‘Soon find out.’ Nina took out the camera to take a picture of the carving of Merlin.

‘Whoa, whoa!’ said Mitchell. ‘Flash, spark, remember?’

‘The camera’s waterproof, so the flash must be a sealed unit as well. It’ll be fine.’ She pressed the shutter to prove her point - although with a momentary pang of concern.

‘Wait - oh, Jesus.’ Mitchell flinched as the flash fired, but the chamber stayed free of flames. ‘Okay, how about you don’t do that again? That was a pretty damn stupid risk to take.’

‘Oh, don’t you start,’ Nina said as she stepped over the lowered door into the passage beyond. ‘You really are as bad as Eddie!’

Waiting anxiously at the entrance, Chloe looked round as a group of people approached, walking briskly along the terrace towards her cordon. Something about their appearance - their clothing, haircuts, even their complexions - instantly told her that they were foreigners. Eastern Europeans, maybe? Russians?

Wherever they were from, there were quite a lot of them. She counted nine in all: eight men, and one woman whose ragged hair was dyed a bright punkish green.

They stopped at the edge of the tape barrier. ‘Hello,’ Chloe said politely. Presumably they thought from her jacket that she was some kind of guide. ‘Can I help you?’

One of the men, the oldest, took a step forward, drawing the tape taut round his waist. His broad mouth reminded Chloe of a frog. ‘Yes, I hope you can,’ he said, his accent strong. Russian, almost certainly. ‘We are looking for Excalibur.’

Chloe felt a stab of concern. Mitchell had made it very clear that the search for Excalibur was somehow connected with national security - and therefore a secret. She put on a polite smile. ‘Oh, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. King Arthur’s tomb was supposedly found at the abbey, in the village. If Excalibur existed, it would have been there.’ She gestured in the direction of Glastonbury, out of sight on the far side of the Tor.

The man stepped forward again, the tape pulling tighter . . . and snapping. ‘No,’ he said quietly. Chloe’s concern turned to fear as she realised the man’s companions had moved to surround the cordon, blocking her in. He continued his advance, glancing at the tunnel before his cold eyes fixed on Chloe once more. ‘I am certain this is the right place.’

Nina rounded one last turn in the passage . . . and found herself at the entrance to the tomb of King Arthur.

Unlike the earth and wood of the tunnels, the walls here were stone, the ceiling vaulted to support the weight of the Tor above the rectangular chamber. The resemblance to the architecture of Glastonbury Abbey was unmistakable, a product of the same era, even the same hands. The walls were inscribed with Latin texts, a cursory reading showing her they were all dedicated to the history of Arthur, a monument to the legendary king of the Britons.

Legendary no more, she thought. Rust had been vindicated; Arthur was real.

But if this was Arthur’s tomb, then . . .

‘So where’s the man himself ?’ Mitchell wondered aloud, completing her thought. There were no coffins or grave markers, the chamber a hollow space. ‘Shit, did someone beat us to it?’

‘No,’ said Nina, moving to the centre of the room. Although it was empty, there was something on the floor. A painted shape, a circle divided into segments, coin-sized holes at the outer edge of each one. And at the centre, a coat of arms . . .

‘No way,’ said Mitchell. ‘I thought Chloe said the Round Table didn’t exist?’

There were thirteen segments in all - and the hole in the one farthest from the entrance was filled by a bronze figurine about six inches high, protruding from the floor like a peg. Nina shone the torch over it. A regal figure bearing sword and shield, text running round the base beneath its feet.

ARTURUS.

‘It’s King Arthur,’ she whispered. The purpose of the other, empty holes was revealed when she directed the torch beam into one corner of the chamber. A small alcove contained stone shelves, more figures standing on them. She went to it. Each figure was revealed as a Knight of the Round Table, familiar names at their feet. Bedivere, Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, Tristan, Bors . . . Twelve knights in all, one for each of the remaining holes in the floor.

Mitchell examined the chamber’s end wall, which closely resembled the stone door that had blocked the exit from the gas-filled chamber. ‘This looks like it might open. Maybe there’s another room through here.’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ Nina realised. She carefully lifted the figure of Lancelot from its position, finding that it too was resting in a hole: extending beneath the base was a metal shaft with a square protrusion at its end. ‘A key. I think we’re supposed to put the knights in their correct positions at the Round Table.’

‘Sounds like Chloe’s area of expertise.’

‘Maybe not.’ Nina moved to stand at the centre of the circle, trying to recall all the Arthurian background she had immersed herself in over the past days. ‘Lancelot was literally Arthur’s right-hand man; he always sat immediately to his right.’ She indicated the appropriate hole. ‘And the seat to Arthur’s left was called the Siege Perilous. It was kept empty, reserved for the knight who found the Holy Grail - which was eventually Galahad.’

‘So two down, ten to go. But what about the others?’

‘We’ll have to work them out,’ said Nina, gazing at the waiting knights.

She crossed the chamber and knelt in the circle. Though the Round Table was meant to be egalitarian, with no physical ‘head’ as found on a rectangular one, in practice Arthur himself would have fulfilled that role wherever he sat. There would also have been a pecking order amongst the knights, Bedivere and Lancelot traditionally being considered the king’s closest comrades.

But that knowledge didn’t really help her. If Lancelot were on Arthur’s immediate right, would Bedivere then sit on his right, or to the left of the Siege Perilous? And what of all the other knights? Even knowing Lancelot and Galahad’s positions, there were still - she paused to work it out, the answer coming easily - 3,628,800 possible combinations of the remaining ten. Considering her experiences with the rest of the tomb, however, she suspected she would only have one attempt to open the door.

And there was something else, the fact that Chloe had said the Round Table was merely an invention of the twelfth-century romantic writers. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the idea had been developed from a kernel of truth in earlier accounts . . . but the inconsistency gnawed at her. ‘Those who do not shall never leave,’ she whispered, remembering the words on the stone at the entrance.

‘Something wrong?’ Mitchell asked.

‘Yeah. There are over three million possible combinations, but I’m guessing we’ll only get one try.’

‘Maybe not.’ Mitchell walked into the circle, holding the figures of Lancelot and Galahad. He showed the keys to her. ‘See? I checked the others, and they’re all the same. No way a bunch of twelfth-century monks would be able to make precision locks. It won’t even matter what holes they’re in if all the keys are identical - they just need to be in them.’

Nina was dubious. ‘Sure you want to take that risk?’

‘You’re bloody one to talk about risk,’ growled a familiar voice from behind them.

‘Eddie!’ Nina cried, jumping to her feet. Chase had just entered the chamber, his jeans wet and mud-spattered.

Chase in turn eyed her clothes, particularly Mitchell’s oversized, damp shirt, before shooting a deeply suspicious glare at the bare-chested DARPA agent. ‘What’s all this?’

‘We’re trying to unlock the tomb—’

‘No, I mean why’ve you both got your kit off ? Looks like I got here just in time!’

‘For Christ’s sake, Eddie,’ Nina said, exasperated. ‘You seriously think that I’d go through trap-filled tunnels into the long-lost tomb of King Arthur just to find somewhere private to . . .’ She lowered her voice, even though there was no way Mitchell could fail to overhear. ‘To get laid? Jesus, Eddie, you know me better than that.’

‘Yeah, I know you. And I knew you’d come down here, even though I told you not to!’

Nina nodded disdainfully. ‘Uh-huh, yep. I thought that’d be what this little mood of yours was really about.’ Behind her, Mitchell examined the holes in the floor, then carefully inserted the two figures on either side of Arthur before returning to the alcove to collect the rest of the ornate keys.

Chase crossed his arms. ‘And what would that be?’

‘That you think you’re losing control of things.’

‘Oh, really?’ Chase sneered.

‘Yes, really. Eddie, I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but what happened to Mitzi was not your fault, no matter how much you try to put the blame on yourself. And overcompensating by trying to take control of everything I do isn’t the way to deal with it!’

‘I’m not trying to control you,’ Chase protested. ‘I’m trying to protect you! For fuck’s sake, you could’ve been killed getting here!’

‘But I wasn’t, was I?’ She reached out and clasped one of his hands. ‘Look, I love you, and I want to spend my life with you, I really do. But you can’t be with me every minute of every day - you’re not my bodyguard any more. I shouldn’t need to get your permission to do what I do. It doesn’t work like that. It won’t work like that.’

‘If I hadn’t been with you, you’d be dead about twenty times over,’ Chase reminded her sharply. ‘You’re not Indiana Jones, you’re not Lara Croft, you’re a real-life person who can get hurt. Or killed. And I do not want that to happen - especially not for some fucking dusty old legend!’ he concluded with a dismissive flick of the head at the chamber around them.

‘It’s not a legend,’ Nina said angrily, ‘it’s real, it’s actual history—’ She stopped abruptly, eyes widening as it struck her exactly why the discrepancy between what Chloe had told her and what the tomb itself had revealed was bothering her so much.

And she also fully registered the clink and scrape of metal against stone behind her—

She whirled. Mitchell had inserted the remaining knights into the empty holes, and was reaching for the figure of Arthur . . .

‘Don’t!’ she screamed. Mitchell froze, hand hovering over the key. Nina pushed him back and yanked the figure out of the hole.

‘Okay, what was that?’ he asked, worried yet mystified.

‘This isn’t just the entrance to the tomb,’ Nina said, waving the figurine at him. ‘It’s the last trap! Chloe was right, the Round Table didn’t exist. But it had already been incorporated into Arthurian legend by 1191 - and the monks took advantage of that! It’s the final test of your knowledge of the difference between history and myth. If the Round Table didn’t exist, then none of Arthur’s knights could have sat at it. And nor could Arthur!’ She held the bronze figure in front of his face. The key beneath the king’s feet was noticeably shorter than the others. ‘This is the key - but you have to take it out. The real lock’s somewhere else.’

Mitchell let out a worried breath. ‘So what happens if you try the fake lock?’

‘Exactly what the monks said. “Those who know the truth may find the tomb of Arthur; those who do not shall never leave.”’ She raised the torch, turning to examine the ceiling above the entrance. Set above the opening was a thick stone slab, a door primed to drop like a guillotine blade to block the way out of the chamber. ‘Screw up the puzzle, and that falls and seals you in.’

Mitchell regarded it dismissively. ‘Might have been a big problem nine hundred years back, but we’ve got jackhammers and explosives now.’

‘You got gills?’ Chase asked sarcastically. Nina turned to see him examining a section of wall. The stone was discoloured, lines of muddy brown and algae green running down it from the ceiling, where a rectangular hole revealed only blackness above. She realised as she scanned the rest of the chamber that the same stains were present on other parts of the walls.

‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You don’t just get shut in. You get shut in . . . and then the chamber floods. There must be a cistern above the ceiling - those stains are from when it’s overflowed in the past.’

Mitchell’s expression now revealed considerably more respect for the tomb’s builders. ‘So where’s the real lock?’

‘Over here.’ Nina went to the alcove, shining the light down into the holes where the figurines had been slotted. The one which had been home to Lancelot revealed a recess within - just deeper than a finger could reach, but matching the length of the Arthur key. She inserted it into the hole.

‘You sure about that?’ Chase asked warily.

She smiled at him. ‘It’s a risk . . . but a calculated one.’ With that, she gripped the key - and turned it.

There was a metallic clink from within the shelf, but nothing else happened. ‘It didn’t work,’ Mitchell said, disappointed.

‘I’m not done yet. Bring all the other knights back here - all of them except Lancelot and Galahad. Eddie, give him a hand.’

‘And she says I’m controlling,’ said Chase. But he still went to help Mitchell retrieve the figures.

‘Why not Lancelot and Galahad?’ Mitchell asked as he brought the first set back to the alcove.

‘Because all the others have at least some historical basis. But Lancelot was a fictional creation, and since Galahad was Lancelot’s son, he can’t have existed either.’

The other figures now back in place, Nina lowered the Arthur key into the hole in the shelf once more. Hoping she was at least as smart as the Glastonbury monks, she turned it again.

Another faint clink.

This time, the entire alcove trembled slightly, as if some unseen pressure had been relieved. Exchanging cautious looks with the two men, Nina warily pushed against the stone. It moved fractionally at one side. She pushed harder. It hinged open by a couple of inches, which rapidly widened as Chase and Mitchell applied their weight. The alcove ground back, revealing a doorway into another chamber.

The final chamber, Nina knew. They had passed all the tests, proved themselves worthy. This was their destination - the resting place of King Arthur.

She brought up the torch and stepped inside. Chase and Mitchell followed.

The room was small and surprisingly plain, devoid of the inscriptions adorning the chamber outside. But the objects inside were more ornate. Two large coffins of black stone stood raised above the floor on slabs, carvings of angels along their sides picked out in silver and gold. Set into the top of each coffin was a golden cross, Latin text written upon them to confirm who lay within.

Arthur, king of the Britons, and Guinevere, his queen.

They were real. And they were here, buried beneath Glastonbury Tor.

But despite that, Nina couldn’t look away from the object that sat between the two coffins. A block of solid granite, roughly hewn into a cube close to three feet high.

Protruding from it, its blade buried deep within the stone, was a sword.

They had found Excalibur.

19

‘Well, bugger me,’ said Chase. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ ‘It is,’ said Nina, amazed. Unlike the elaborately decorated Caliburn, this sword was plain, almost stark in its design, the only ornamentation being intertwined twin snakes inscribed into the hilt - just as Rust had described. Yet it was evident a great deal of time and work had been put into its creation, the metal of the blade having an almost mercury-like reflective sheen, the hilt perfectly moulded to the grip of one particular man. ‘Oh, God, poor Bernd. He spent all those years trying to work out how to find it, and he was right . . . but he couldn’t be here to see it.’

Mitchell stepped forward, brushing past Nina to stand between the two coffins. ‘The important thing is that we found it - and before the Russians.’ He knelt, waving for Nina to bring the torch closer. Slightly irked, she did so. ‘Look at the finish of the metal, how smooth it is. We were right, it’s more than just steel.’ He reached out one hand to take the hilt.

‘Ahem,’ Nina said. ‘Before you get your muddy hands over everything, can I at least document what we’ve found?’ She held up the camera.

‘Of course. Sorry.’ Mitchell backed out so Nina could photograph the room and its contents.

‘So,’ said Chase, his anger fading to be replaced by a surprising eagerness, ‘which of us gets to be the next king of England, then?’ Nina looked at him questioningly. ‘Oh, come on! It’s the sword in the bloody stone! It’s got to be done.’

‘Caliburn was the sword in the stone,’ she pointed out, ‘not Excalibur.’

‘Whatever, it’s still King Arthur’s sword. Even I know about the whole “once and future king” business.’ He stepped up to the stone. ‘At least take a picture. Come on, something to show the grandkids.’

‘Where the hell did grandkids come from? We haven’t even set a wedding date yet!’

‘Just take the picture.’ He struck a pose beside the stone, hand poised over the hilt. Nina rolled her eyes and reluctantly nodded. ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Chase with a huge grin, gripping the sword. ‘I’m the king of the world!’

Nina took a picture as he grunted and strained to pull the weapon free. ‘God, what a face.’

‘Yeah, that’s what all the lasses say,’ Chase declared, releasing the hilt. The sword hadn’t moved in the slightest. ‘Guess I’m not king material. Mind you, I kind of suspected that already.’

‘What about you, Jack?’ Nina asked. ‘Fancy taking a shot at the throne?’

‘I’m more interested in getting this thing out of here to somewhere secure,’ Mitchell told her. Nevertheless, he reached for the sword as Chase stepped aside. ‘Still, you never know . . .’ Nina took another picture as he too strained to raise the sword - with the same result. ‘Looks like we’ll have to take the stone with it.’

‘Think we’ll need some help,’ said Chase. ‘It’s what, nearly a yard to a side? Must weigh well over a ton.’ He looked at Nina. ‘You not having a go?’

‘Yeah, right. If you can’t move it, I’m hardly going to be able to.’ Nina returned the camera to her pocket and crouched by the granite block, holding the torch beside the blade. ‘You’re right about the metal though. It’s definitely not ordinary steel.’ She leaned closer, examining tiny details. ‘It’s been used as a weapon; there are scratches and chips in the blade - but they’re very small. It must be extremely strong.’ She straightened, holding Excalibur’s hilt to pull herself up—

The whole weapon lit up with an eerie blue glow. Nina jumped in shock - and pulled the sword cleanly out of the stone. She yelped, letting go. The glow instantly vanished, Excalibur clanging to the stone floor.

‘What the hell was that?’ Chase demanded. The only light now coming from the sword was the reflected torch beam.

‘That glow,’ said Mitchell, cautiously raising a hand towards Excalibur as if feeling for heat, ‘almost looked like Cherenkov radiation.’

Nina backed away. ‘You mean it’s radioactive?’

‘So much for the grandkids,’ Chase muttered.

‘I don’t see how,’ said Mitchell. ‘But there was definitely some kind of high-energy reaction.’ He leaned forward to touch the sword.

‘What, are you crazy?’ Nina asked. But nothing happened.

He withdrew his hand. ‘You try.’

‘I’d really rather not!’

‘You’ll be okay. I have a theory.’ Her frown deepened, but Mitchell gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Trust me.’

Nina dubiously touched the sword with the tip of her forefinger. It lit up again as if she had switched on a light, glowing from end to end. When she flinched away, the effect immediately disappeared.

She touched it again, more firmly. The glow returned, the metal itself somehow emitting light. Examining it more closely, she realised the glow was not uniform; instead, it had an almost rippling quality, subtly yet constantly shifting. She slid her finger down the flat of the blade. ‘It’s not even warm.’

Chase stepped forward and put his fingers on the hilt. The glow didn’t alter. But when Nina drew her hand back, the light vanished once more.

She looked at Mitchell. ‘Okay, Jack. What’s this theory of yours?’ ‘We were right,’ said Mitchell, gazing at the sword. ‘It really is a superconductor, and it really can channel earth energy.’ He raised his hands, indicating the chamber’s ceiling. ‘This whole place, Glastonbury Tor - it must be a convergence point for that energy. And for some reason, when you hold the sword, you’re focusing the energy.’

‘Why? How? And, er . . . what?’ Nina pressed her fingers to her temples in pained confusion. ‘What the hell are you talking about? How can I be making it do anything?’

‘I don’t know. But there’s obviously something about you that makes it react that way. And whatever it is, King Arthur had it too. Remember the legends of Excalibur lighting up when he wielded it? Shining with the light of thirty torches, something like that?

Maybe your body has a specific kind of bioelectric field, the same as his, I don’t know. We might be able to check with Kirlian photography.’

‘Kirlian photography?’ hooted Nina. ‘Okay, now we’re getting into auras and chakras and crystals.’

He pointed at Excalibur. ‘You explain it, then.’

Nina picked up the weapon, which flashed into life again. ‘I can’t, can I? But you seem to be coming up with stuff very quickly.’ She raised it for a closer look at the blade.

‘DARPA’s been researching the potential of earth energy for some time. But this is . . . well, an unexpected development. It fits in with our theories, though.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘An earth energy generator would need a superconductor to work. Excalibur is a superconductor, it must be. But for whatever reason, when you hold it, it enhances its abilities. You’re making it channel earth energy directly, without needing an antenna array.’

‘But how? It’s just a piece of metal.’ Nina lowered the blade and clanged it against a corner of the granite block to illustrate her point . . . and the sword sliced through the stone as if it were no harder than butter. A fist-sized chunk fell heavily to the floor.

‘Aah!’ Nina jumped back. ‘What the hell?’

‘Push it back in the stone,’ Mitchell suggested. Nina did so, the weapon sliding easily several inches deep into the granite. She let go of the hilt; the glow vanished, leaving the sword sticking out of the block at an angle.

Chase tried to pull it loose. Metal crunched against stone, but he couldn’t actually remove it. ‘Okay, you just chopped through solid stone.’

‘But . . .’ Nina took hold of the hilt, and the blue glow returned. It took almost no effort for her to slip Excalibur back out of the granite.

She rounded on Mitchell as Chase knelt to take a closer look at the damage she had done to the stone. ‘Okay, if you have a new theory, I really, really want to hear it!’

‘Actually, I do - but it can wait. Give me the sword.’ Taking great care to hold the blade away from him, she passed it to Mitchell. The glow vanished when she let go. ‘This is what we came for. The rest of the site, you can get a full archaeological team to survey it, but we need to get the sword to DARPA for analysis as soon as possible.’ Mitchell carefully ran a finger along the blade, then whistled admiringly. ‘We did it. You did it, Nina. You found Excalibur. Congratulations!’

‘Thanks,’ Nina replied. She walked towards the door to the main chamber. ‘But for now, how about we get out of here and put on some dry clothes, huh?’

‘Yes, something sexy,’ said a Russian-accented voice from outside.

Nina froze. Standing in the chamber was the long-haired man Chase had thrown out of the window of Staumberg Castle, Zakhar. Beside him was a broad-shouldered, shaven-headed thug with an ugly scar running across his throat practically from ear to ear. Both were armed, the bald man with a pistol, Zakhar with a compact MP-5K sub-machine gun.

‘Hello again, sexy lady,’ said Zakhar with a crooked smile, running his free hand through his hair. ‘Come out here. And you, Jack.’ He looked past Nina, gesturing with the gun for Mitchell to follow her.

Nina risked a glance back as she left the tomb chamber. Chase had moved as soon as he heard the new arrivals, and was now crouching in the cover of Arthur’s coffin. But it wouldn’t take much for the Russians to spot him.

Fortunately, they were more interested in what Mitchell was holding. ‘Ah!’ said Zakhar. ‘Good, you have sword.’

Mitchell raised it, as if preparing to enter battle. ‘Care for a rematch, Zakhar?’

Zakhar smiled again and shook his head. ‘I do not think so. Besides, I already beat you once. Now, put down sword and move over there.’ He nodded in the direction of the back wall.

Mitchell reluctantly placed Excalibur on the floor before following Nina across the room. She looked back at the tomb again. Chase was nowhere in sight - and the two Russians apparently thought only she and Mitchell were there.

‘There’s more here than just the sword,’ she said to Zakhar, indicating the opening. ‘That room’s the tomb of King Arthur - and it’s full of treasure. If you let us go, you can have it. You can have it all.’

‘Treasure?’ said Zakhar. He looked at the door, seeming disappointed by what he saw beyond. ‘I see no treasure.’

‘It’s in the coffins. All of King Arthur’s royal gold and jewels.’

The two Russians exchanged glances. ‘Stand by wall,’ said Zakhar, directing Nina and Mitchell back with his gun. He nodded to the other man. ‘Orlovsky?’

The bald man grunted and moved to the tomb entrance, peering inside and seeing the two stone coffins. He glanced back at Zakhar, then stepped through—

Chase’s hand whipped round from the other side of the opening and smashed the chunk of cut stone into Orlovsky’s face, sending teeth showering out in a cascade of ivory. The Russian let out a gurgling scream and fell backwards, spitting blood from his ruined mouth. His gun bounced from his hand and skittered across the stone floor.

Zakhar gasped in surprise, then whirled and fired his MP-5K at the doorway as Chase lunged back into cover. In the confined space the gunfire was almost deafening. Nina yelled and pressed her hands to her ears as Mitchell dived at Zakhar. He saw him coming and brought the gun back round, still firing. Chips of stone exploded from the walls as the bullets hit. Nina ducked, the line of holes stitching just over her head.

Mitchell grabbed Zakhar’s gun hand, stopping the weapon short just before it reached his face. Zakhar snarled and fired again anyway. The muzzle flame scorched Mitchell’s temple, the American screwing up his face in pain. Zakhar wrenched the gun from his grip, taking aim at Mitchell’s head—

Nothing came from the MP-5K but a dry metal click. The magazine was empty.

Chase heard the sound and ran into the chamber, vaulting over the fallen Russian. ‘Nina, go!’

‘What about Jack?’ she cried, seeing Mitchell struggling with Zakhar. The empty gun clattered to the floor beside the protruding figures of Lancelot and Galahad.

‘Just go!’ He shoved her towards the exit, then turned to join the fight in the centre of the room.

One eye still squeezed closed, Mitchell was unable to react fast enough to block Zakhar as he twisted round and slammed his elbow into his temple. Mitchell staggered back, and Zakhar immediately took advantage, delivering a crunching kick into his stomach. Mitchell crashed against the side wall and dropped to the floor, winded.

Zahkar smiled in triumph, then turned to face Chase.

Who had snatched up the sword and was swinging it at his head, about to cleave it in two—

The Russian’s hands flashed up with shocking speed, palms clapping together to arrest the blade’s swipe just above his forehead. A drop of blood fell from the edge of the sword. For a moment, the two men stared at each other, eye to eye.

Then Zakhar moved.

Chase knew the kick was coming, but despite his best efforts wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid it as Zakhar spun and lashed out a foot, cutting his legs out from under him. Chase stumbled, landing hard in the centre of the painted Round Table. He lost his grip on Excalibur as he fell - and realised to his shock that Zakhar had kept hold of it, bloodied hands still squeezing the blade.

Zakhar flipped the sword over and caught it by the hilt, hands raised high over his head. He looked at Chase, ready to plunge it down like a stake into the Englishman’s stomach—

A bloody hole burst open in his left shoulder.

The chamber rang to the echoing boom of Orlovsky’s gun - now in Nina’s hands. Zakhar lurched round, Excalibur flying from his grip to land at the side of the room. Clutching at the wound, he staggered backward . . . and tripped over the figure of Lancelot.

The key turned.

A harsh scrape of metal came from beneath the floor as some ancient mechanism, held in check since the twelfth century, was finally released.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ muttered Chase.

Nina looked up as a rush of wind came from the nearest of the holes in the ceiling - air being driven ahead of the deluge that was about to come. But there was another, more menacing sound just behind her as the huge slab above the main entrance began its grinding descent. ‘Come on!’ she yelled. Mitchell was getting to his feet, Excalibur not far from him, Chase still on his back in the centre of the chamber . . .

Dirty brown water erupted from the holes above with punishing force, hard enough to sweep up Orlovsky and slam him against the wall. Zakhar fell, landing with a splash and a screech of pain. The chilly torrent hit Chase from all sides at once, making him splutter and choke as he tried to sit up. Only Mitchell, bracing himself against the side wall, was able to pull himself upright. He fumbled for Excalibur, pulling the dripping sword from the muddy froth.

The churning flow surged around Nina’s legs, knocking her back against the edge of the door and jarring the gun from her hand. It vanished into the flood. The slab was still dropping, five feet above the floor, less . . . She ducked under it into the passage outside. ‘Eddie! Jack!’

Mitchell kept moving around the edge of the room as the water rose. ‘Nina, get out of here!’

‘Not without Eddie!’

Battered by the plunging columns of water, half blinded by spray, Chase rolled on to all fours to raise his head above the water. But it wasn’t by much - the room was filling with frightening speed.

And it would fill much faster once the door finally closed . . .

Mitchell reached the exit. Three feet and falling. He dropped to a crouch and leapt through.

‘Eddie!’

The panic in Nina’s voice drove a surge of adrenalin through Chase’s body, punching through the numbing effects of the cold onslaught. He got his bearings, saw the gap reducing to just two feet, eighteen inches, almost touching the surface of the water . . .

Last chance—

Chase sprang upright - then immediately dived forward, landing on his stomach a few feet short of the door and being carried along by the rush of water through the rapidly shrinking gap. The bottom edge of the stone scraped against his heels as he shot through. Over the thunder of the deluge he heard a last terrified scream from Zakhar - then both sounds were abruptly cut off by a ground-shaking bang as the stone slab slammed closed.

The rush of water immediately died down to a trickle, the torrent which had already escaped the chamber sluicing away down the passage. Chase sat up, gasping for breath as filthy water streamed off him.

‘Eddie, are you okay?’ Nina asked, helping him stand.

‘Jesus!’ he spluttered, wiping his face. ‘What is it with you and places full of death traps? Nice shooting, though. He would’ve killed me if you hadn’t tapped him in the shoulder.’

‘I was aiming for his head.’

Chase raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Well . . . no,’ she admitted. ‘I just thought that would sound cool. I kind of fired in his general direction.’ He smiled and squeezed her shoulders.

Mitchell leaned against the wall, panting. ‘Damn, that was close.’ He straightened, then picked up Excalibur.

‘Thanks for your help, by the way,’ said Chase with unconcealed sarcasm.

‘This isn’t the time, Eddie,’ Nina said, moving to stand between the two men. ‘How the hell did they find us, anyway?’ That thought instantly led to another. ‘Oh, my God. Chloe. What if there’re more of them outside?’

‘We’d better get moving,’ said Chase, shaking as much water from his sodden clothes as he could and giving Mitchell another glare before they hurried back through the tunnels. Most of the water had drained from the trial of Nivienne, but the revolting stench of flammable gas from the chamber housing the carving of Merlin now permeated the entire system, spreading outwards once the tomb was open to the outside air.

They retrieved their belongings from the edge of the pool. Nina removed Mitchell’s shirt and put on her clothes, then picked up the walkie-talkie. ‘Chloe, are you there?’ Silence. ‘Chloe, can you hear me?’ Still no response. ‘Shit!’

They continued towards the entrance, Mitchell taking the lead with the sword. The smell of gas finally started to fade as they reached the foot of the slope. Daylight glared down from above. Nina peered round Mitchell in the hope of seeing Chloe, but all that was visible was sky. She was about to call out Chloe’s name, but Chase put a hand on her arm in silent warning.

‘I’ll go check it out,’ whispered Mitchell as he clambered up the incline. ‘Wait here.’

Nina and Chase watched as he dropped to a crouch, cautiously looking over the lip of the entrance. He paused, apparently seeing nothing, then advanced another step, leaning forward to check each side—

Suddenly, he was seized by a pair of huge hands and yanked out of the tunnel to be thrown to the ground. Maximov loomed over him, a white Band-Aid across the centre of his forehead. Another man stepped up beside him.

Nina knew the face from the photos Mitchell had shown them. It was Vaskovich’s right-hand man, Kruglov. ‘Jack Mitchell,’ he said with distaste, adding something in Russian. Mitchell began to reply, but Kruglov kicked him in the side, silencing him. The Russian looked down the hole. ‘Dr Wilde! I know you are down there, so show yourself.’

Nina had moved back into the darkness, pressing against Chase. ‘Shit!’ she whispered. ‘What do we do?’

‘Dr Wilde!’ Kruglov repeated impatiently. ‘Show yourself now, or I will kill your friends.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Nina, fear rising. ‘He’s got Chloe as well.’

‘Gimme your camera. Quick!’ Chase ordered. Confused, Nina pulled it from her pocket and passed it back to him. ‘Go on.’

‘What?’

He fiddled with the camera’s controls. ‘I’ll be right behind you, just buy me a few seconds. Go!’

Reluctantly, Nina stepped into the light. Kruglov’s wide mouth spread into a smug smirk. ‘Good. Thank you for finding Excalibur for us.’ He gestured for her to climb the slope.

‘Where’s Chloe?’ Nina demanded as she slowly ascended. Like Zakhar, Kruglov clearly had no idea that Chase was in the tomb.

‘She is here. Yorgi, bring her.’ Kruglov signalled to someone; a moment later, Chloe appeared, shoved into view by the man with the topknot whom Mitchell had knocked out at the castle. He stood behind her, gripping her arm.

‘Chloe,’ Nina said, stopping a few feet short of the entrance. ‘Are you okay?’ Chloe didn’t reply, only managing a terrified nod. ‘Let her go. You don’t need her any more.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Kruglov agreed. ‘Yorgi.’

Yorgi grinned - and Chloe convulsed, throwing her head back and gasping. He released her arm . . . and she dropped face first to the ground, an ugly knife protruding from her back.

‘No!’ Nina screamed. ‘No, you bastards! You didn’t have to kill her, she didn’t do anything!’

Maximov seemed to share her feelings, obviously objecting in Russian. His boss cut him off with a dismissive wave of one hand. ‘Come out of the hole,’ Kruglov ordered, taking out a gun. ‘Now!’

Nausea rose in Nina’s throat as she advanced, to see Chloe on the ground, red running down the yellow of her jacket. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered as she emerged into daylight, seeing the Russians surrounding the entrance. Maximov, Dominika, Chloe’s killer, three others she didn’t recognise. Mitchell was sprawled on the ground at Kruglov’s feet, Excalibur beside him.

No way to escape.

Unless Chase could do something.

Forcing back his shock at what had just happened outside, Chase found what he’d been looking for - a sharp stone protruding from the sloping tunnel wall. He stepped out of cover and smacked the camera against it, breaking the glass covering the flash. Kruglov heard the sound, snapping round to find its source.

Chase pushed the shutter, and tossed the camera back down the tunnel behind him. He began a mental countdown. Ten, nine . . .

‘You! Out!’ Kruglov yelled, raising his gun.

‘All right, I’m coming,’ said Chase, raising his hands and quickly climbing to the entrance. He saw Mitchell on the ground, Nina kneeling beside the unmoving Chloe - and Kruglov’s people clustered round their leader. He gave Nina a look, his eyes momentarily flicking downwards. Understanding crossed her face. ‘But do you know what goes “quack”?’

Kruglov stared at him, puzzled. ‘What?’

‘A duck!’ He dived to the ground, Nina also dropping flat.

At the bottom of the tunnel, the camera’s timer reached zero.

It clicked, the cracked flash firing . . .

And the electric spark ignited the methane in the air.

20

The concentration of gas was barely high enough for it to catch fire - but it did, within an instant the thin flame leaping through the tunnels to the much denser pockets of methane deeper inside the Tor. They erupted, a chain reaction blasting the shockwave of expanding fires back towards the entrance—

A hot wind burst from the tunnel, showering Kruglov and his thugs with dirt and sending them reeling - followed a moment later by a fireball that exploded into the open air like the breath of an enraged dragon. Kruglov managed to dive away, shielding his face, but one man fell screaming as his clothes and hair were set aflame.

Chase jumped up into the hot air of the dissipating fire, slamming a punch into Yorgi’s face and knocking him backwards down the steep hillside. Mitchell snatched up Excalibur and rolled to swing it at Dominika, smacking her gun hand with the flat of the blade and knocking the pistol into the grass. He grabbed it and sprang to his feet.

Nina was also up, seizing a shovel and swinging it like an axe into the groin of another goon. He let out a choked scream and stumbled over the edge of the terrace. She was about to brain Kruglov with the spade when Mitchell ran past and pulled her away. ‘Come on! We gotta go! Now!’ She flung the spade at another Russian, knocking him down.

Chase realised that Kruglov had dropped his gun and was about to dive for it when he saw Mitchell practically dragging Nina away along the terrace. ‘Eddie, move it!’ the American yelled.

Chase hesitated, then ran after them. ‘You have a gun!’ he shouted at Mitchell as he caught up. ‘Shoot them!’

‘There’s too many of them! We’ve got to get out of here!’

Chase didn’t agree - they had the advantage of numbers, but Kruglov’s people had been thrown into confusion, and were only now starting to recover. But since Mitchell had the gun, Chase had no choice now but to go along with his decision.

They raced along the terrace, heading towards the steep northern face of the Tor. Despite the terrain, several cows stood on the hillside ahead of them, startled by the noise. Chase looked back as they skirted the nervous animals. Kruglov was on his feet, bellowing orders. His subordinates gave chase. ‘Jack, shoot!’

‘You want to shoot the cows?’

‘No! Shoot over them, scare them!’

Mitchell pointed the gun back and fired three rapid shots into the air. The cows immediately panicked, breaking into clumsy gallops away from the noise . . .

Straight at the Russians.

Kruglov saw the approaching stampede and without hesitation leapt from the terrace, rolling down the hill. The others were slower to react, Dominika after a moment following Kruglov’s example and flinging herself down the slope. Maximov stumbled to a stop as if unable to believe his eyes, while another two men hurriedly reversed direction and ran back along the terrace.

They didn’t get far.

Not even someone of Maximov’s size and strength could stop a charging cow - though that didn’t prevent him from trying to grab the leader of the herd as it ran blindly at him. He was swept off his feet, clinging to the cow for a couple of seconds before being flung clear and hitting one of the fleeing men. They both cartwheeled downhill to end up in a dazed heap.

The cows thundered on. The other Russian looked back and had just enough time to begin a scream before two of the animals slammed into him, one on each side, crushing the life from his body.

‘They should’ve mooved,’ said Chase with a grim smile.

Nina made a disgusted noise at the pun. ‘Where are we going?’

Mitchell pointed ahead as they rounded the Tor. A path led away from the hill across the field. A gate was visible at its edge, a road beyond it. A few sightseers stood in confusion on the path, unsure how to respond to the unfamiliar sound of gunfire. ‘If we can find a car, we can get clear and call for backup. I’ll make an emergency call to the embassy, and they’ll tell the Brits - we’ll have armed units, choppers, whatever we need in twenty minutes!’

They ran across the field. Nina glanced back. The remaining Russians were in pursuit again. ‘That’s if we can last twenty minutes!’

‘We’re gonna have to!’ The sword still in one hand, Mitchell used the other to vault effortlessly over the gate. Chase waited until Nina had climbed it, then scrambled over the obstacle himself.

‘Okay, a car,’ said Nina, looking round. They had emerged from the field in a lay-by at the side of a narrow country lane. A pair of identical black 7 Series BMWs were parked at one end; almost certainly the Russians’ vehicles. ‘Can you hot-wire them?’

Mitchell shook his head. ‘Not in time.’ The only other vehicle in sight was an old sky-blue Volkswagen camper van. They exchanged unimpressed looks. ‘Not what I would’ve picked . . .’

No choice. Kruglov and the others were still coming.

They ran to the van. The passenger door was open, smoke drifting lazily from within. Chase flung open the driver’s door. A young couple looked at him in marijuana-fuddled surprise. ‘Hello, hi,’ said Nina. ‘We need to borrow your van.’

‘Sorry, but you can’t have it,’ said the man languidly, his posh accent suggesting that his choice of vehicle was less out of financial necessity than as a fashion statement. ‘You see, there’s this concept known as personal property, and—’

Mitchell snapped up the gun. ‘Get outta the damn Microbus!’

The young woman shrieked and leapt from the VW, the man raising his hands and stumbling out after her. ‘Okay, take it, I don’t really like it that much, just don’t hurt me!’

‘Get rid of this shit,’ Chase growled at him, plucking a joint from the camper’s ashtray and flicking it on to the road in a flurry of burning embers. He climbed into the driving seat, finding the keys in the ignition. ‘All aboard!’

Nina hopped into the front passenger seat as Mitchell slid open the back door and climbed inside. The van’s rear was set out like a tiny apartment, with a bed, a small table and even a gas camping stove. He dropped Excalibur on the bed and readied his gun.

Chase turned the key. The starter whined for a moment before the distinctive puttering rattle of the Volkswagen’s air-cooled engine kicked in. He revved hard and slammed the long gear lever into first with a crunch, then let out the clutch. The VW didn’t so much spring away as lurch, but at least they were moving.

A glance in the mirror—

‘Down!’ he yelled, hunching in the seat as he swerved the van on to the narrow lane. Nina bent double in her seat, Mitchell dropping flat on the floor behind her as the rear window shattered. Shots cracked from the lay-by as the Russians opened fire. The rear-mounted engine took several hits, bullets clanging off the cylinder block as they ripped through the bodywork. Cushions and pillows exploded in clouds of feathers.

Still sitting low, Chase kept driving. The winding road was so narrow the van almost filled it, hedges blurring past little over a foot from each door. If anyone came the other way, they would be trapped.

The shooting stopped. Chase raised his head high enough to check the mirror. The Russians were running for the BMWs. Then the road curved, and they disappeared from view.

Nina cautiously sat up. ‘Are we okay?’

Mitchell rose to his knees behind her, brushing away feathers. ‘Yeah, but they’re gonna catch up real quick.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘In their BMWs? Ya think?’

‘I’ll call the embassy.’ He took out his phone.

‘What about you?’ Chase asked Nina. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, but . . .’ The full impact of what had just happened finally hit her. ‘Oh, my God. Chloe. They just killed her, they murdered her, right in front of us. For nothing!’

‘Kruglov’s a psychopath,’ said Mitchell, looking up from his call.

‘But he’s also a smart one - he didn’t want to leave any witnesses.’

‘Seemed like he knew you,’ Chase noted, rounding a bend to bring the van towards the outskirts of Glastonbury.

‘Our paths have crossed. Unfortunately.’ Chase was about to ask him more, but then his call continued. ‘Peach? Mitchell. We have a situation here - I need you to get on to the Brits, right now, and get us as much support as they can. Yeah, this is an emergency. We’ve taken fire and the bad guys are going to catch up fast. We’re not exactly in a muscle car here.’

‘Tell him to send the police to Glastonbury Tor as well,’ Nina said, turning in her seat. ‘There’s been a murder.’

Mitchell nodded and relayed the information, then listened to Peach for several seconds before replying. ‘Okay. We’ll just have to stay ahead of them for as long as we can. We’re in a blue VW Microbus, heading for the north end of Glastonbury village, going west.’ He listened again, then said, ‘Okay,’ and ended the call.

‘How long?’ Chase asked.

‘Depends how on the ball your guys are. Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen.’

Nina saw a flash of gleaming black metal behind them. ‘Too long!’ Both BMWs were powering along the winding lane after them.

Mitchell used his gun to knock out the broken glass in the rear windscreen, then crouched. The first 7 Series roared closer, Kruglov leaning from the front passenger window, taking aim—

Mitchell fired first - but not at Kruglov. Instead he unleashed six rapid shots at his driver. The windscreen crazed as if hit by a shotgun blast, an almost opaque white speckled with red.

The BMW swerved. Kruglov ducked back inside and grabbed the steering wheel, but too late. The car rode up on to the steep grassy verge, tearing through bushes before clipping a tree and rolling on to its roof. The other windows blew out.

Nina caught a glimpse of green hair as Dominika struggled through one of the rear windows. The second BMW braked hard to avoid a collision. The overturned car, its front end still buried in the bushes, had partially blocked the road. For a moment she thought the chase was over, but then Kruglov crawled from the wreck, angrily waving the other car on. The 7 Series mounted the opposite verge, its bumper shoving the inverted car deeper into the bushes, before dropping back on to the tarmac and pursuing again.

‘This might be a bad time,’ said Mitchell, ‘but I’ve only got two bullets left.’

Nina remembered how the Grand Cherokee’s pursuit had come to a sudden end in Bournemouth. ‘Are there any bottles back there? We could throw them in the road, blow out their tyres!’

Mitchell pulled open the little cupboards beneath the table and under the bed. ‘Plastic, plastic, metal,’ he said as he tossed items aside. ‘No glass, dammit!’ He yanked the covers from the bed, more feathers flying. ‘Nothing!’

Chase now had greater concerns. ‘Shit,’ he gasped, seeing a T-junction coming up fast. ‘Hang on!’

‘To what?’ Nina demanded. ‘This whole thing is just one big crumple zone!’

Chase had no choice but to brake, the corner too tight. The VW rolled like a ship in heavy waters as they screeched through the junction. Branches thwacked the van’s side as it skidded on to the verge before Chase managed to straighten out. Ahead, he saw a car - no, a line of cars, crawling along behind something out of sight round a long bend.

No traffic coming the other way - yet. He crashed down through the gears, foot to the floor. The camper van’s engine buzzed like furious wasps in a tin can. Forty miles an hour, fifty, the speedometer needle rising agonisingly slowly as they caught up with the dawdling traffic.

‘Here they come!’ Mitchell warned, raising his gun again. The BMW slid round the corner, tyres smoking.

The cars ahead were doing less than thirty. Chase pulled out to pass them, sounding the horn. The VW was at fifty-five, and struggling to go any faster. The 7 Series was already catching up.

The curve straightened out - to reveal an oncoming car rushing straight at them.

The BMW pulled out as well, trapping them—

Still sounding the horn, Chase desperately swerved the VW to the left, slicing into the line of traffic and side-swiping a Renault Mégane with a crunch of metal. Nina shrieked as the passenger window broke with the impact, showering her with glass. The oncoming Fiat missed by barely an inch, the force of the car’s slipstream rocking the Volkswagen.

Chase grimaced, foot still pressed hard on the accelerator as he turned back into the right-hand lane. The Mégane braked hard - and the car behind smashed into it.

The Fiat skidded as its driver panicked, blocking the road and leaving the BMW with nowhere to go except into the suddenly braking traffic.

It body-slammed another car, sending it crashing through a hedge. The Fiat clipped the 7 Series and tore off its rear bumper. The Russians spun out, coming to rest almost sideways-on to the traffic.

‘Jesus!’ Nina gasped. At the relatively low speed at which the line of cars had been travelling she doubted anyone would have been seriously hurt, but there would still be several badly shaken people.

Mitchell didn’t share her concern, however. ‘Got ’em!’ he whooped.

‘Yeah, but for how long?’ Chase asked. Unless the BMW had been crippled by the collisions, its driver would be able to restart and straighten out in ten seconds, twenty at most.

He looked ahead. The front of the line was coming up fast, the cars held up behind a trundling Vauxhall Vectra, its elderly driver hunched over the wheel resolutely denying the existence of anything beyond his narrow cone of vision. Despite not wanting to involve innocent bystanders, Chase still swept the van back into the left-hand lane just inches in front of the Vauxhall, hoping to shock the old man into checking his mirrors once in a while.

The road ahead was clear and straight - and had no exits, being hemmed in by fences and trees on both sides.

The camper van was still stuck at fifty-five. The BMW was moving again and gaining rapidly, a black panther about to pounce. The man who had been burned at the Tor leaned out, aiming—

Mitchell fired a shot. The bullet hit the BMW’s windscreen, cracking the glass, but missing the men inside. The Russian returned fire. Mitchell dropped flat on the bed as more holes ripped through the van.

The firing stopped. Chase checked the mirror. The gunman withdrew into the 7 Series, reloading.

And the car itself grew larger, leaping forward to ram them—

The VW’s occupants were jolted by the impact. The van swerved towards a fence, Chase barely managing to straighten out before being hit again - the 7 Series was pushing them from behind.

The speedometer needle whipped past sixty, rapidly heading into unknown territory as the snarl of the BMW’s engine filled the cabin. The steering wheel shuddered in Chase’s hands, the vehicle starting to snake. He fought to keep it in line. If he lost control, the van would flip over.

He looked ahead - and saw the end of the road approaching rapidly, the brick wall of a farm building on the other side of a T-junction directly ahead. ‘Shit!’

Only the roof of the 7 Series was now visible in the mirror, the driver still barging them along like a locomotive—

‘Jack!’ Nina yelled. ‘Do something!’

‘I’ve only got one bullet left!’ Mitchell protested. But he still got to his knees, and was about to shoot at the driver when a burst of gunfire from the other Russian forced him back down. ‘Dammit!’

They were running out of road. Nina glanced back and saw the camping stove lying on its side. ‘The stove, throw the stove!’

Mitchell was lost. ‘What?’

‘Throw it - and shoot it!’

Realisation flashed across Mitchell’s face. He snatched up the fallen stove and hurled it through the rear window.

The gunman was about to shoot him when the gas cylinder slammed into the bullet-damaged windscreen, hanging partway through the cracked glass like a fat blue fly in a spider’s web. His eyes instinctively flicked towards it—

Mitchell fired.

The last bullet punched through one side of the cylinder and out of the other as it drove the cylinder through the windscreen, hot lead igniting the gas in its wake.

It exploded directly between the two men, shrapnel ripping their flesh like a shotgun blast before they were incinerated. The car swerved sharply before hitting a tree and flipping over, bowling along the narrow lane in a shower of flaming debris.

Chase slammed on the brakes. The tyres screamed, as did the occupants of the Volkswagen as it hurtled towards the farm wall, smoke belching from its wheels—

They hit.

But at barely five miles per hour. There was a muffled crunch as the camper van’s bowed nose was flattened against the unyielding brickwork, then it rolled backwards and came to a stop.

Chase found himself bent over the steering wheel, one foot still jammed on the brake. He looked across to see Nina blinking at him from the passenger footwell. ‘So . . . we are still alive, right?’

Mitchell was flattened against the back of Nina’s seat. ‘More or less,’ he said, coughing as acrid tyre smoke wafted through the broken windows. He sat upright and looked back. The burning hulk of the 7 Series lay on its side about fifty feet away, blocking the road. ‘Don’t think they are, though.’

‘Great.’ The engine had stalled, but to Chase’s surprise it restarted when he turned the key. ‘Okay, now what?’

Mitchell searched for his phone. ‘First thing, clear the area, in case Kruglov’s found another car. I’ll call the embassy again, guide a chopper to us.’ He located his phone, but kept looking round, growing worried. ‘Shit! Where’s the sword?’

‘Here,’ said Nina, pulling herself back on to her seat. Excalibur had slid under it into the footwell. She picked it up. ‘Hey, it’s not glowing any more.’

‘Maybe we’re not on a ley line here,’ Mitchell suggested as he pushed the redial button. ‘Earth energy seems to follow natural lines of flux; we might be too far away from one to channel any.’

‘Well, whatever,’ said Nina, too exhausted by the chase to care about his theories. ‘We got it.’

Chase put the Volkswagen into reverse. The legendary sword of King Arthur in Nina’s hands, they drove away down the country lane.

21

‘Well,’ said Mitchell, ‘you did it.’

‘We did it,’ Nina corrected.

Excalibur lay on a velvet cloth, carefully cleaned of dirt and gleaming under the lights in the office at the US embassy. The pieces of Caliburn sat beside it in their open metal case; a similar container had been prepared for the intact sword.

‘Yeah, we did,’ said Chase curtly. He stood away from the other two, leaning against a wall. ‘Cost us enough, though.’

‘It would have cost a lot more if Vaskovich had gotten his hands on it,’ said Mitchell. Ignoring Chase’s dark expression, he leaned closer to examine the blade, then gave Nina an admiring look. ‘You stuck this thing right through stone.’

‘Yeah, what was the deal with that?’ Nina asked, wanting to avert another dispute between the two men. ‘You said you had a theory - what is it?’

Mitchell almost reverently lifted Excalibur from the cloth. ‘It’s something else DARPA’s been working on - but I didn’t expect to see it here.’

‘So DARPA’s building lightsabers, are they?’

Mitchell smiled. ‘Not quite - but we are making monomolecular blades. Or at least trying to.’ Seeing her questioning expression, he continued, ‘If you can create a cutting edge that’s made up of one long, single molecule, then in theory it should be able to cut through almost anything. We’ve had some success by using carbon nanotubes, but only on a micro scale. Nothing with practical applications yet. But this . . .’ He eyed the sword. ‘Remember what I told you about Wootz steel, how it incorporated carbon nanotubes to give it incredible sharpness in 500 BC? So does this - but somehow, whatever it is about your body’s bioelectric field that’s causing the sword to channel earth energy is also aligning the nanotubes into a monomolecular edge. As soon as you let go, they lose their charge and go back to their original alignment - which is why I couldn’t pull the sword from the stone. But you could.’

Nina’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s a hell of a theory.’

‘I know. But it fits the facts.’

‘So if the right person was holding it, they could cut through anything?’

‘Maybe not anything, but definitely a lot of things. No wonder Arthur was unstoppable in battle.’

‘So why me? How come I could make it glow and you couldn’t?’

‘You got me there,’ said Mitchell, handing the sword to her. ‘Who knows, maybe you’re descended from King Arthur!’ He laughed, but Nina did not. He crossed the room and switched off the lights; the metal gave off a faint shimmering glow against the twilight beyond the embassy windows.

Chase raised an eyebrow. ‘Christ, you’re a Jedi.’

‘Try it with Caliburn,’ Mitchell suggested. Nina returned Excalibur to the cloth and picked up the piece of broken blade. It seemed to remain completely inert until she lowered it into the shadows below the table, whereupon the slightest glimmer of blue became discernible. ‘Looks like it reacts to you too, just not so much,’ he said as he turned the lights back on. ‘I guess Merlin must’ve needed another try to get the formula right.’

‘I guess so,’ she said, ‘but I still don’t understand how. And why’s it lighting up here? We’re in the middle of a city!’ She put the piece of Caliburn back in its case.

Mitchell looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe all the highways leading through the countryside and converging on London disrupt the lines of earth energy, even redirect them. We know we can use an antenna array to gather earth energy, so there could be other ways to affect it as well. But that’s something we can figure out now that we’ve got it.’ He carefully folded the velvet around Excalibur, then placed it in its case and closed it.

‘So what happens now?’ asked Chase.

‘Now? Both the swords go to DARPA for analysis. Then after we’re done, Excalibur comes back to England and I’d guess takes pride of place in the British Museum or Buckingham Palace or wherever. And meanwhile, Vaskovich gets jack shit.’ Mitchell smiled. ‘Which suits me just fine.’

‘And what about us?’ said Nina.

‘You go back to the IHA with yet another string to your bow. Atlantis, the Tomb of Hercules, and now King Arthur and Excalibur - that’s a pretty goddamn impressive résumé! You should be proud.’ He picked up the two cases. ‘As for me, well, back to the States with these babies so we can figure out how the hell Merlin made them in the first place. Once we do, we can create our own superconductors - and Uncle Sam gets the world’s first fully functioning earth energy generator.’

Nina nodded. ‘I’m going to have to be more open-minded in future, I guess. I thought this whole thing about earth energy was just pseudoscientific nonsense, but Bernd was right about that too. I bet he never imagined that I’d actually be physically able to prove it, though.’

‘But you did,’ Mitchell said. He paused, then put down one of the cases. ‘I owe you a hell of a lot. We would never have found the swords without you, Nina . . . and you, Eddie.’ He kissed Nina on the cheek, then extended his hand to Chase. ‘Seriously, man - you did a great job.’

‘You weren’t too shabby yourself,’ said Chase flatly. After a moment, he shook Mitchell’s hand.

‘Okay, then,’ said Mitchell, picking up the aluminium case again, ‘I guess this is it for now. You’re still booked into the hotel for tonight, compliments of DARPA so you’ll finally be able to put on some clean clothes. And enjoy the rest of your vacation - sorry it got interrupted.’

‘Actually, I didn’t mind that part so much,’ Chase muttered. Mitchell smiled, then left the room, taking the cases with him.

Nina waited until the door closed before speaking. ‘I think I do know why the sword reacted to me and nobody else,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t want to bring it up in front of Jack - I don’t know how much he knows about the Atlantean genome. After we discovered Atlantis, Kristian Frost told me his research found that about one per cent of the world’s population possessed the same genome as the ancient Atlanteans - that they were directly descended from them. I’m one of that one per cent. Some of the more fanciful Atlantis legends said the Atlanteans had unusual powers; I never believed them because they sounded like pure fantasy, but who knows?’ She looked at her hands. ‘Causing a sword to light up just by touching it would definitely qualify as unusual. Maybe the Atlanteans knew how to make a superconducting metal, even if they had no idea what that meant. Merlin might just have been trying to recreate the same thing.’

She waited for a response from Chase. Nothing seemed forthcoming. ‘Eddie? Did you hear me?’

‘Course I heard you, I’m not deaf,’ he replied, frowning. ‘I just didn’t care.’ He stepped towards her. ‘For fuck’s sake, Nina! I told you not to go, and look what happened! You almost got killed. And I don’t know what . . .’ He took a breath. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.’

‘To Jack?’ Nina exclaimed, incredulous.

‘What?’ Chase was briefly confused before realising she had completely misunderstood him. ‘No, that’s not what I—’

‘For God’s sake!’ Nina snapped. ‘I cannot believe you are actually jealous of Jack! What, you think that first he took your job and now he’s going to take your woman?’

‘What do you mean, my job?’

‘You think your job is to look after me, don’t you?’ said Nina. ‘I just run around getting into trouble so that you can save me. But Jack comes along and can do the same thing, and he’s an American, like me, and he’s a PhD, like me, and you feel threatened!’

Chase crossed his arms angrily. ‘That’s the most fucking ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Is it?’ She turned away to look out across Grosvenor Square, its trees and buildings silhouetted against the dusk sky. On the street below, she saw Mitchell descend the steps outside the embassy’s front entrance and climb into a waiting black cab. For some reason, he was only carrying one of the two cases. ‘You’re the one who’s being paranoid about Jack and behaving like a . . .’ She tailed off.

A taxi . . .

‘It’s got nothing to do with Jack!’ Chase protested behind her - but Nina was no longer listening.

She stared at the taxi in growing horror, colour draining from her face as realisation hit. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, my God!’ she repeated, whirling to face him. ‘It’s Jack - he’s not taking Excalibur to the States. He’s taking it to Vaskovich!’ She ran to the door. ‘Come on!’

Chase stared at her, anger turning to bewilderment. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘He’s stealing it, he’s stealing my goddamn sword! Come on!’

She ran for the stairs, Chase following in confusion. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because he just got into a taxi!’

Sarcasm filled his voice. ‘Oh no, a taxi! That proves he’s evil! Now who’s being paranoid?’

They clattered down the stairs, a couple of embassy workers jumping out of their way. ‘Since when does Jack use taxis? Every time he’s gone anywhere, he’s had an official US government vehicle - car, plane, whatever! But now he’s carrying something incredibly valuable - and he decides to take it to the airport in a cab?’

They reached the lobby. Nina spotted Peach talking to a tall, granite-faced man with a close-cropped brush of pure white hair - who was holding the other metal case. ‘Mr Peach! Hey!’

Peach looked round in surprise. ‘Dr Wilde! What’s the matter?’

She jabbed a finger at the case. ‘Did Jack Mitchell just give you that?’ she asked the white-haired man.

Peach spoke for him. ‘Yes. We’re putting it into secure storage until it can be transferred to DARPA.’

‘Uh-huh. And what about the other case?’

‘What other case?’

‘The case he’s about to give to the Russians! Eddie, come on!’ Nina rushed for the exit, Chase shrugging helplessly at Peach before following her. One of the Marines stationed at the metal detectors inside the doors moved to block them, but Peach shouted for him to let them through. They ran down the steps and into Grosvenor Square.

Nina hunted for the taxi. ‘Where’d he go? Where’d he go?’

‘Over there.’ Chase pointed to the left; the road round the square was a one-way system, circulating clockwise. The traffic was light, the only cab in sight heading east along the long side of the gardens towards the heart of London.

Nina spotted a black cab outside the Marriott hotel to their right. They ran to it, the driver looking up expectantly. ‘Follow that cab!’

‘Are you taking the piss?’ the driver hooted.

‘No, no! That cab, over there!’ She pointed to the opposite corner of the park. ‘We need to be wherever he’s going, fast!’

The driver regarded her as if she were an escaped mental patient. Chase sighed and took out several banknotes. ‘Fifty quid do you?’

‘That’s the ticket,’ said the driver with a broad smile. ‘Hop in!’

The taxi set off with a determined diesel rasp. Nina peered ahead as they drove past the embassy and turned to head east. ‘There! There he is!’

The driver accelerated. ‘Saw you both come out of the embassy,’ he said. ‘So this geezer we’re after - terrorist, is he? Spy?’

‘A thief,’ Nina told him. The driver didn’t seem impressed, but continued the pursuit regardless.

‘You think,’ said Chase.

Nina addressed the driver. ‘If you were going to Heathrow from the embassy, would you go the way he’s going?’

‘God, no!’ the driver said, laughing. ‘Completely the other direction, miss.’

‘Told you,’ she said to Chase. ‘That’s why he didn’t take an official vehicle - he doesn’t want anyone from the embassy to know where he’s going.’

‘I still don’t get what you’re thinking,’ he complained. ‘If he was going to give the sword to Vaskovich anyway, why didn’t he just hand it over at Glastonbury?’

‘Maybe he didn’t want to blow his cover. Not in front of us.’

‘Okay, so if he’s really working for Vaskovich, he could have had Kruglov kill us and then make up whatever story he wanted. Why would he care about keeping us alive once he’s got the sword?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nina, shaking her head. ‘But Jack knew Kruglov and the rest . . . and they knew him.’

‘If they’re so matey, why were they trying to kill him?’

Nina didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, she sat back and watched as they caught up with Mitchell’s taxi, their driver keeping a couple of cars between the two black cabs. They turned south, eventually emerging on Regent Street and passing through the neon blaze of Piccadilly Circus before heading east again.

‘Looks like he’s going to Leicester Square,’ the cabbie said. Traffic had slowed considerably even by London’s sluggish standards, people crowding the pavements ahead.

‘What’s going on?’ Nina asked.

‘Film premiere at the Empire, miss. I dropped some girls off there earlier - they wanted to see that American bloke starring in it, wossname, that guy with teeth. Grant Thorn, that’s the one. My missus likes him, but I reckon he’s just another one of those plastic Americans. No offence, miss.’

‘Uh-huh. Hey, he’s stopping,’ Nina said, seeing the other taxi pull over.

‘Stop here,’ Chase told the driver. The taxi squealed to a halt a few car-lengths behind its quarry as Mitchell climbed out. Chase paid the driver. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ the driver replied. Nina opened the door as Mitchell headed into the crowd. ‘Hope you catch your thief !’

‘Do you know your way around here?’ she asked Chase as they hurried after Mitchell, battling to keep sight of him through the throng.

‘More or less. I lived in London when I was with Sophia.’

‘You did? Huh. You never told me.’

‘Can we not fucking start all that again?’ They followed Mitchell into Leicester Square itself. Its northern end had been cordoned off to form a roadway leading to the Empire cinema, flanked by a crush of onlookers. Cameras flashed and people yelled in excitement as a limo pulled up at the red carpet, only for their enthusiasm to disappear as its occupants emerged, apparently not famous enough to earn a cheer.

Nina glanced at the cinema. A huge billboard proclaimed the movie as Gale Force, the face of Hollywood flavour-of-the-moment Grant Thorn dominating an image of stormy seas, an exploding helicopter and a voluptuous young woman in a bikini. ‘Looks like your kind of movie,’ she quipped. The crowd then caught her attention: more specifically, the number of yellow-jacketed police officers and security personnel in and around the cordon.

Chase had the same thought. ‘If he really is going to give the sword to Vaskovich’s people, he’s picked a good place to do it. Lot of people around, lots of cops - less chance of them just killing him and taking it.’

Mitchell was now heading south down the side of the garden at the square’s centre. Though much less crowded than the area in front of the Empire, it was still busy, Leicester Square being home to several other cinemas as well as restaurants and bars. He reached the southwestern corner of the garden, stopping beside a bust of Sir Isaac Newton at its entrance.

‘Shit,’ Chase muttered. ‘We can’t keep going this way, he’ll see us. Go back, go into the park.’

‘What if we lose him?’

‘Doesn’t look like he’s planning on moving. Come on.’

They doubled back, entering the gate at the garden’s north-western corner and hurrying down the diagonal path towards its centre, passing a Union Jack-emblazoned stall selling Londonthemed tourist tat. To Nina’s relief she quickly sighted Mitchell again, still waiting by the statue. Then she froze, grabbing Chase’s arm as she recognised someone else. ‘Eddie, Eddie!’

‘Whoa, shit,’ said Chase, making a rapid half-turn away from Maximov, who was crossing the square not far ahead. ‘Did he see us?’

Nina cautiously peered round him. ‘No, he’s still heading for Jack. Oh, God, that punk bitch is there too.’

Chase followed her gaze and saw Dominika emerge from behind the ticket office at the garden’s south end, her green hair standing out like a flare under the streetlights. She too was making for Mitchell. He realised they were dangerously exposed - if any of the Russians took their eyes off Mitchell . . . ‘Come on, get behind that tree.’

They moved into the limited cover of a tree at the edge of the grass and hunched behind it, less than twenty feet from Mitchell as the two Russians slowly closed in on him. Mitchell had seen Dominika and Maximov approaching, but stood his ground.

‘Can you see any more of ’em?’ Chase asked.

He suddenly felt Nina tense behind him. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said nervously. ‘Eddie, kiss me! Now!’

Chase turned - and Nina locked her lips against his, quickly spinning him round. Kruglov was barely five feet away, on the other side of the garden’s perimeter railings. He strode past, eyes flicking to her - and continued towards Mitchell, having seen only the back of Chase’s head in the evening light.

Nina turned Chase all the way round before releasing him. ‘You’re a good kisser when you’re scared,’ he said quietly. She batted his arm before they both returned their attention to the Russians.

‘Hello, Jack,’ said Kruglov as he stepped round the corner to stand before Mitchell. Dominika and Maximov waited nearby, eyes fixed coldly upon the American.

‘Aleksey,’ Mitchell replied. ‘You mind telling me what the hell you were doing today?’

‘I could ask you the same.’ Kruglov slowly circled Mitchell, glancing at the case in his hand. ‘After what happened in Austria, I had my doubts about your loyalty. So I decided to take charge personally.’

‘I told Leonid I’d bring him the sword,’ Mitchell snapped. ‘He trusted me - why couldn’t you?’

‘Jesus,’ a shocked Nina whispered to Chase, her fears confirmed.

‘Because it’s my job not to trust people,’ said Kruglov. ‘Especially people who are trying to . . . what is the phrase? Take us for a ride.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘We had the German’s notes; you could have just given us the broken sword in Austria. We would have found Excalibur ourselves, and the IHA woman would have nothing. Instead, you kept it, and now some of my people are dead. We even lost a helicopter! They are not cheap.’

‘I had to keep my cover,’ Mitchell insisted. ‘I would have given your guy the sword right there at the castle if he hadn’t been completely incompetent and let Chase take him out.’

‘You should have let us kill Chase and the woman,’ Dominika said angrily. A passing couple gave her odd looks.

Kruglov spoke in Russian, a command to keep her voice down. ‘But she has a point,’ he went on to Mitchell. ‘Once you had Excalibur, there was no need to keep Wilde alive.’

‘Like I said,’ Mitchell began, exasperated, ‘I had to maintain my cover. I’d be no use to Leonid if DARPA even suspected I was feeding him information. They’d cut me off, put me under a full investigation. But doing everything I could to keep her alive puts me above suspicion.’

Kruglov frowned, considering his argument. Eventually, he nodded. ‘And what now?’ he asked, regarding the case again. ‘Are you prepared to give us the sword?’

‘That’s why I’m here. As far as DARPA’s concerned, they’re going to take delivery of a sword - but not the one they think. I’ve taken care of all the paperwork. Officially, this sword,’ he held up the case, ‘no longer exists. So I’m ready to take it to Leonid.’

‘What’re we gonna do?’ Nina hissed. ‘We can’t let them take it!’ Chase glanced back to where they had entered the garden. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘What? Where’re you - Eddie!’ She watched in disbelief as he hurried away, then turned back to the scene playing out before her.

Kruglov’s wide mouth twisted into an expression suggesting he had just sucked dry an entire lemon. ‘You want to take it to Leonid?’

‘That was the deal,’ Mitchell insisted. ‘I said I would personally take it to Leonid, and he agreed.’

‘I don’t trust you.’

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you do or not. The point is, Leonid trusts me. I told him I’d bring him Excalibur. Well, I’ve got Excalibur right here, and I’m ready to take it to him. He’s waiting for it, Aleksey. And you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

A cheer rose from the other end of Leicester Square; somebody famous on the red carpet. Nina looked round to see Chase hurrying back, crouched low to stay hidden from the Russians behind the tree. He had something in one hand. ‘Er, what?’

‘Big Ben was the best I could manage,’ said Chase, holding up a rather poor gilded miniature of the world-famous clock tower, bought from the nearby stall. ‘Wait here.’

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Nina, just stay back here. Please, don’t argue,’ he added as she began to protest. ‘I’ll handle this.’

Lowering his head, he stepped out from behind the tree, casually walking through the other people on the path towards the group. Kruglov’s back was to him, while Dominika and Maximov were both focusing their attention on Mitchell.

Kruglov finally nodded. ‘Okay. We will bring Leonid the sword . . . together.’

‘I can live with that,’ said Mitchell. He smiled. ‘So, let’s—’

Chase stepped up behind Kruglov and thrust the ornament into his back, hoping its shape and hardness would convince the Russian he had a gun. ‘Ay up. How’s things?’

‘Eddie!’ Mitchell exclaimed.

‘Planning a trip, were you? Keep still,’ he warned Dominika as she reached into her coat. ‘Try anything and Toadface here has a nine-millimetre heart attack.’ She lowered her hand.

‘You would shoot me in the back?’ said Kruglov calmly. ‘With all these policemen around?’

‘I’d shoot you in the fucking face for what happened to Mitzi,’ Chase growled. ‘Jack, put down the case. I can’t fucking believe that after everything we went through, you were working for these bastards all along.’

Mitchell put the long metal case on the ground. ‘Eddie, if you’ve got any of the sense you finally convinced me you had, you’d walk away right now.’

Chase pushed Kruglov forward. ‘Guess you were wrong. Okay, everyone back up.’ Still advancing, he watched as Mitchell, Maximov and Dominika warily retreated. He prodded Kruglov in the back with his ‘gun’. ‘All right, shithead. Pick up the case. Very slowly.’

‘So, you are Chase?’ Kruglov asked, voice still not betraying the slightest concern, as he bent and took the case by its handle. ‘You’re as brave - and as stupid - as I’d heard.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not the one with a gun in my back, am I?’

‘No, but Nina is,’ said Mitchell.

Chase grinned mirthlessly. ‘Nice try.’

But the look of malevolent pleasure spreading across Dominika’s face warned him Mitchell might not be bluffing. He risked a brief glance over his shoulder—

And saw the last of Kruglov’s henchmen, the man with the topknot, standing behind the terrified Nina.

It wasn’t a gun he was holding to her back. It was a knife - the one he had used to kill Chloe Lamb.

22

Nobody moved, the group forming a strange tableau amidst the bustle of Leicester Square. Nina was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t see him coming.’

‘Put down the gun, Chase,’ said Kruglov. ‘Or she dies.’

Chase jammed the point of the ornament into his back. Kruglov grunted. ‘If he even twitches, I’ll kill you.’

‘He won’t do it, Aleksey,’ said Mitchell. ‘He loves her too much.’

‘You shut up, you fucking two-faced—’

‘He already blames himself for the death of a friend,’ Mitchell continued. ‘He won’t let anything happen to Nina as well. Even if that means letting you go. Eddie, I’m giving you both a chance here. Just walk away.’

Chase angrily jolted the case with his knee. ‘People have died for this fucking thing. You seriously think I’m going to let you hand it over to this bunch of twats?’

‘You don’t have a choice,’ Kruglov said. ‘Yorgi, when I count to three, kill her. One.’

‘Eddie, he’ll do it!’ Mitchell said. ‘Just -’

‘Two.’

‘- walk away, right now!’

Chase stepped back and dropped the metal souvenir, which clanged to the ground between Kruglov’s feet.

The Russian looked at it and chuckled, then turned to face Chase, smiling his frog-like smile. ‘Three.’

‘No!’ Chase screamed. Behind Nina, Yorgi moved, about to thrust the knife into her back—

His face blew apart.

Mitchell had whipped out a silenced handgun and fired it almost directly at Nina, the bullet passing so close to her face that it singed her hair. The dead Russian fell backwards, chunks of ragged flesh flapping from the shattered bones of his skull.

‘Get out of here!’ Mitchell shouted—

Maximov slammed him back against the bust of Newton. The gun flew from his hand. Chase spun to face Kruglov, but the Russian smashed the case into his stomach, knocking him to the ground. Kruglov yelled an order, then sprinted into the garden.

A bystander saw the mangled corpse and screamed, panic quickly spreading across the square.

Nina snapped out of her shock as Kruglov ran past her, the case in his hand. She saw Chase struggle to his knees, winded but unharmed. She paused, caught between conflicting impulses . . . then ran after the Russian. If he got away with Excalibur, everything she had been through, all the deaths she had witnessed, would have been for nothing.

Chase stood, and realised Nina was no longer there. ‘Shit!’ He was about to follow her when a metallic sound reached him, clear as a musical note even through the yells of the crowd. Dominika had drawn and cocked her gun, aiming it at him—

Shouting from his right: two policemen running towards them. Dominika’s eyes flicked towards the noise, then she looked back and fired - but Chase had already rolled away, the bullet chipping the pavement. She turned and ran.

The policemen went after her - and were sent flying back as Maximov swung Mitchell at them like a human baseball bat. The three men tumbled to the ground as the Russian bellowed in triumph before lumbering away across Leicester Square, swiping pedestrians out of his path.

Chase was about to run after Nina when another gunshot made him whirl. Somebody had tried to be a hero and attempted to tackle Dominika - and had received a bullet in the gut. The green-haired assassin was sprinting south out of the square. More screams erupted in her wake. Chase snatched up Mitchell’s gun. He wanted to find Nina and Kruglov - but Dominika was the more immediately dangerous target. She had to be stopped before she hurt anyone else.

There was another thought in his mind. He had a score to settle with Dominika.

Kruglov reached the north side of the garden, barging people aside. Nina was gaining, the Russian slowed by the awkward case. Another cheer rose from the crowd outside the Empire, cameras flashing as a limo disgorged its celebrity cargo.

Nina saw Kruglov looking for an escape route. The cordon ran the full width of Leicester Square, completely cutting off the northern end, and all the other streets leading away were jammed with people. He glanced back, to see her running after him. His free hand moved inside his coat, emerging with—

‘Gun!’ Nina screamed, hoping the police - and the pedestrians in the line of fire - would hear and respond. ‘He’s got a gun!’

Kruglov fired at her. Nina dived on to the grass behind a bench, bystanders scattering like frightened pigeons.

The crowd outside the cinema was still cheering, oblivious of the events behind it. Kruglov saw police officers closing from both sides and charged into the crush, battering people with the case and his gun as he clawed his way towards the barrier. Nina jumped up and raced after him.

Dominika ran down a road out of the square. Chase followed, a momentary glance at a sign telling him he was on St Martin’s Street. He knew he was heading in the general direction of Trafalgar Square, but there was no direct route, Dominika’s path blocked by buildings.

Fewer people here. He raised the gun, a silenced Ruger SR9, and risked a shot at the fleeing woman’s legs. It missed, cracking off the road surface just past her. Dominika returned fire over her shoulder. She had almost no chance of hitting him, but the two shots still forced Chase to duck and swerve, slowing him.

She reached a crossroads and went left. Chase pounded round the corner after her, seeing her heading for the glass doors at the rear of the large building to the south.

The National Gallery.

Dominika fired another shot just before she reached the doors, preventing Chase from taking aim as she went through. Not that he would have: he could see people inside, a group of children - she had just entered the gallery’s Education Centre. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to take them hostage, but when he reached the doors he saw her haring up a flight of stairs.

He kicked the doors open and pointed his gun after her, but she had already rounded a corner. Some of the children had seen Dominika’s gun, and his arrival only made matters worse. ‘Everyone get down!’ Chase yelled over the high-pitched screams as he ran to the stairs. He looked up. Dominika was aiming at him—

Chase threw himself backwards as three shots echoed through the room, blasting craters in the wall beside him. He landed flat on his back, sending four rapid shots back at Dominika. She dived for cover as the banister splintered, then scrambled to her feet and ran to the top of the stairs.

‘Clear the building!’ Chase yelled at the gallery staff as they tried to help the terrified children. ‘Get everyone out!’ He raced up the stairs, gun at the ready. As he reached the top he saw Dominika dart down a corridor to the left.

What the hell was she doing? She seemed to be fleeing at random, in a panic - but Chase couldn’t believe Kruglov and his people would have agreed to meet Mitchell in a crowded public place without having an escape plan.

Something was wrong.

He rounded the corner and followed her into the galleries.

Kruglov reached the edge of the cordon, thrashing at the crowd with increasing fury. An enraged man tried to grab him; he smashed the butt of the gun into his face, breaking his jaw. As the man fell back, spitting blood, Kruglov flung himself over the barrier. A nearby security guard saw the commotion and ran to deal with the intruder—

Kruglov shot him. A hole burst open in his chest, showering the crowd with blood. People screamed, the fun turning to fear. All order broke down as they trampled each other in their desperation to get away. Nina threw up her arms to shield her face as she ran into the mob, flailing elbows and feet swiping at her from all directions.

Another gunshot. Through the chaos she saw a yellow-jacketed figure tumble to the ground: a policeman shot in the shoulder.

Nina fought her way forward, and suddenly burst free of the retreating crowd, crashing against the railing. Kruglov was running for the nearest limo, gun raised. Despite the threat cameras were still flashing, paparazzi and public alike capturing the deadly spectacle, a real-life action scene playing out at the premiere of a Hollywood version. The Russian lowered his head in a futile attempt to avoid being photographed as he pointed his gun at the limo driver, screaming at him. The driver didn’t need to know any Russian to understand his orders, and scrambled frantically from his vehicle.

Nina jumped over the railing and ran for the limousine. Kruglov kicked the driver away and leapt into the limo, tossing the case and the gun on to the passenger seat. He rammed the car into drive, looking up as he stepped on the accelerator—

He saw Nina running towards him.

The stretch limo surged forward, ripping up a section of the red carpet and smashing a photographer aside with its open door as Kruglov swerved the three-ton vehicle straight at her.

No way to dodge—

Nina dived forward, landing on the limo’s long bonnet on her stomach and sliding to hit the windscreen as the car accelerated. It clipped the barrier, scything one of the metal sections into the crowd, before Kruglov regained control.

She grabbed one of the windscreen wipers and looked into the limo, to see Kruglov glaring back at her. He fumbled for his gun as she leapt to her feet—

Bullets blew out chunks of the windscreen beneath Nina as she hurled herself on to the limo’s roof. Slithering across the slick surface, she flung out one hand, just catching the chrome trim along one side of the roof before she fell off the other.

Lying flat, she tried to get a grip with her other hand—

Holes exploded between her outstretched arms, flecks of paint spraying into her face as Kruglov fired through the roof. Each new eruption of jagged steel was closer to her head, closer . . .

The firing stopped. The Russian was out of ammo. Nina could smell the smoke from the last hole, barely a hand’s width from her face.

The limo picked up speed, charging towards the end of the cordon. A movable barrier had been placed across it to let vehicles exit while keeping pedestrians out.

But nobody was going to move it aside this time, everybody throwing themselves out of the limo’s path—

Nina’s free hand closed round the other side of the roof just as the vehicle smashed through the barrier and skidded into Charing Cross Road. Traffic had already been stopped by people fleeing into the street, but the limo’s front wing still clipped a car as Kruglov swerved hard to the right, turning south towards Trafalgar Square.

Nina swung across the roof, legs dangling over the side as she fought to keep her grip. The limo wallowed, a hubcap flying off and clanging across the pavement. The chrome strip began to tear loose beneath her fingertips . . .

With a squeal from the tyres, the limo lurched and straightened out. Nina was jolted back across the roof. The engine surged, and she felt her hair whipping in the wind as Kruglov accelerated through the streets of London.

Paintings lined the high rooms, but Chase couldn’t spare so much as a moment to look at the treasures of the National Gallery as Dominika weaved through the interconnected chambers and corridors ahead of him. Startled visitors jumped out of their path, evening viewings unexpectedly disrupted.

Fire bells burst to clamorous life, the staff in the Education Centre having finally raised the alarm. At least that would get the tourists out of the way. But he still had to deal with Dominika - and whatever she was planning. She was definitely heading for somewhere specific.

She reached another junction, rounding a corner and throwing down a litter bin in his path. Chase hurdled it, barely breaking stride. He didn’t want to use the gun if there were any civilians nearby, but all he needed was a clear line of fire . . .

He saw a large banner ahead, and realised where she was going.

The gallery was holding an exhibition of works by Rembrandt. Art was hardly Chase’s field, but even he had heard of the Dutch painter, knew his works were worth millions . . . and Dominika was about to run through the exhibition with a gun in her hand.

She wasn’t going to hold people to ransom to bargain for her escape. She was going to hold national treasures to ransom.

Chase felt a moment of cold triumph. Dominika’s plan might have worked with Nina, but he was still a self-declared Philistine despite his fiancée’s best efforts. If Mitzi’s killer thought threatening to put a bullet hole in some priceless work of art would save her, she was dead wrong.

Emphasis on the dead.

The Russian ran through the exhibition gallery’s arched entrance, people scattering as they saw her gun. Chase rushed after her. ‘Get down!’ he yelled.

Dominika stopped near the archway at the far side of the gallery. She snapped up her gun to aim at one of the paintings, a scene of the crucifixion. Chase didn’t care. He lined up his own weapon on her—

She fired. But not at the painting.

Instead, she hit its frame. The ornately carved wood splintered, the whole painting shaking.

A siren screamed over the fire bells, alerting everyone in the building that somebody was tampering with one of the most valuable artworks. The piercing screech, intended to disorient would-be thieves, hit Chase hard enough to make him flinch, distracting him for the merest fraction of a second . . .

That was all Dominika needed to escape.

She dived through the archway as a security gate dropped down with the speed of a guillotine blade. The portcullis-like barrier clashed against the floor just behind her.

Chase recovered and fired, but his shot clanged uselessly against the gate. Dominika threw herself into cover. He ran to the exit; the barrier was a heavier-duty version of the kind used to protect shopfronts, horizontal slats linked by chains. He tried to lift it, but it was locked in place. More barriers had already rolled down to block the other exits.

‘Fuck!’ He peered through the gaps between the slats, but Dominika was no longer there.

She’d had an escape plan all along. And he’d fallen for it, ending up trapped while she got away.

He turned, seeing the gallery visitors also locked in the room regarding him with faces of absolute terror. He grinned sheepishly. ‘She’s . . . a modern artist, you can tell by the hair. Really doesn’t like old-fashioned paintings.’

His attempt at levity didn’t change any expressions. Sighing, Chase slumped against the archway, hoping Nina was all right.

She was anything but.

‘Oh, shit!’ she screamed as the limo accelerated towards a crawling double-decker bus, swerving at the last moment to squeeze between it and the cars going the other way.

Sparks sprayed up as the limo’s left side screeched against the bus. Nina lost her grip, the thin chrome strip snapping in her hand. Kruglov hauled the limo back round the bus. She swung helplessly across the roof, about to slide off into oncoming traffic . . .

Her forefinger hooked into one of the bullet holes.

Gasping as the torn metal cut into her flesh, Nina pulled herself back on to the roof.

Sirens ahead. She saw flashing lights at the edge of Trafalgar Square, a police car followed by a van moving to block the road ahead. The limousine had already passed the only side street, to the left—

Kruglov went right, throwing the limo into a skidding turn on to the paved plaza in front of the National Gallery. People dived out of its way, a couple of luckless tourists sent flying with bone-breaking cracks.

Nina clung to the roof, appalled by the carnage but unable to stop it. All she could do was hang on and hope the police intercepted Kruglov at the other side of the square.

The Russian swerved again - and sent the limo hurtling down a broad flight of marble steps into Trafalgar Square itself.

The car was airborne for a moment before crunching down nose first, the chassis buckling. Nina was thrown loose and tumbled on to the bonnet. The engine roared, Kruglov keeping the pedal to the floor. She saw one of the square’s fountains rushing at her—

The limo slammed into the fountain’s thick basin, catapulting Nina forward. She landed in the pool, the water only partly cushioning the impact as she hit the bottom and bounced across it in a stinging spray. The far wall arrived all too quickly; she thumped against it shoulder first, head cracking against the stone rim.

Dazed, pained, she lay unmoving, completely soaked by the cold water. The spotlit pillar of Nelson’s column loomed above her, a spear jabbing into the dark sky. Someone grabbed her arm and she looked round in fear, thinking it was Kruglov coming to finish her off. But it was just a bystander trying to help.

Kruglov—

Nina struggled upright, legs wobbling as water streamed from her clothes. The limo was crumpled against the other side of the fountain, the driver’s door open.

No sign of the Russian. Or the metal case.

He had Excalibur.

‘Where’d he go?’ she slurred, staggering out of the pool. The man helping her looked bewildered, as if she were speaking in tongues. She pushed him away, groggily searching for Kruglov, and spotted a running figure shoving through the crowd, a flash of aluminium in his hand.

She tried to run after him, but dropped to her knees as her legs refused to co-operate. Pain overcame the brief numbing effect of the cold water, flooding in from all over her body. ‘Okay,’ she said, plaintively, ‘guess I’m not going anywhere.’

Shouting from behind her. She turned to see several policemen running at her.

‘Bad guy went that way,’ she tried to tell them, pointing after Kruglov - only to be thrown face first to the ground and rapidly handcuffed. One of the policemen shouted something, but the throbbing pain in her head reduced it to an incoherent garble. She was roughly hauled to her feet.

‘Oh, jeez, not again,’ she muttered as she was carried away.

‘Well, this isn’t entirely unexpected,’ said Peter Alderley, barely able to suppress his laughter. ‘You ending up in jail. Again!’

‘What the hell are you doing here, Alderley?’ Chase growled as the policeman brought him out of his cell. After being arrested, he had been taken first to Agar Street police station a quarter of a mile away, before later in the night being transferred to New Scotland Yard. Having only had a couple of hours’ sleep he was already irritable, and Alderley’s smugness did nothing to improve his mood. ‘I called Mac, not some tosser from MI6.’

‘There’s gratitude for you,’ Alderley replied, a smirk visible beneath his drooping moustache. ‘I’m here as a favour for Mac. C wanted him for a little chat about why someone he vouched for keeps ending up in the nick.’

‘It wouldn’t be a problem if the bloody woodentops ever arrested the right people,’ snapped Chase, shooting the policeman an annoyed look. ‘For fuck’s sake, how hard is it to spot a woman with green hair?’

‘Well, you’re out now. Personally, I would have left you there, but that would have been unfair to Nina, since you seem to come as a pair.’

‘Where is she?’ Chase demanded. ‘Is she all right?’

‘She’s fine. A bit bruised, I think, but nothing too bad.’

Alderley led him to a reception area. Chase saw Nina waiting on a bench and hurried to her, doing a double take when he got a proper look.

‘Don’t even start,’ she said, raising a warning finger. Her hair had been left unwashed overnight, and had dried into a crinkled frizz. Her clothes were also stained from the strong chemicals in the fountain.

‘I’m just glad you’re okay,’ Chase said, embracing her. He sniffed her hair. ‘Been swimming?’

‘I told you not to start!’

‘Well, this is all very romantic,’ said Alderley with a disparaging sigh, ‘but you have an appointment at the American embassy. Whatever this absolute balls-up is about, the Yanks want to talk to you about it.’

‘Yeah, well, I want to talk to them,’ said Chase. ‘About the fact that the bloke they put in charge of the operation was a fucking traitor!’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Nina said, shaking her head. ‘He was working for Vaskovich the whole time? How did DARPA miss that?’

‘He’d just better hope that they find him before I do,’ Chase rumbled, clenching his fists. ‘Because I want to have words . . .’

Alderley took them to the embassy, driving through the building’s side gate to be met by Peach. ‘Well, so long,’ said the MI6 agent cheerily. ‘If you need SIS to do anything else for you in future, please . . . don’t. By the way, have you set a wedding date, Nina? I’m still waiting for my invitation.’

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ said Nina firmly, climbing out of the car. ‘Mr Peach, hi.’

‘Good morning, Dr Wilde.’ Peach looked more flustered than ever. ‘Mr Chase. I’m glad you’re both okay.’

‘Yeah, us too. What’s going on?’

‘Please, follow me.’

They headed through the embassy to the office overlooking Grosvenor Square. Nina’s heart sank: the first thing she saw after Peach opened the door was a line of newspapers on the table. ‘Not again!’ For the second time in a week she was front-page news, in one picture jumping on to the limo’s hood, in another clinging to the roof as it surged away from the Empire.

Several suited men were waiting for them, Hector Amoros stepping forward to greet her. ‘Nina! God, I’m glad you’re all right. You too, Eddie.’

‘I thought you’d gone back to the States?’ said Nina, surprised to see him.

‘I did. And then I came right back - I’ve been called to appear before a parliamentary committee to answer questions about everything that happened yesterday. Which could take some time. This operation didn’t turn out quite as we’d hoped.’

‘Understatement of the year,’ Nina said - then froze when she saw who was standing amongst the group of men.

Mitchell.

Face bruised, a bandage on his cheek . . . but not a prisoner.

‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ she shouted.

Chase’s reaction was more physical. He charged at Mitchell. It took three of the men to hold him back. ‘Oi! Twat! I’ll fucking kill you!’

‘Yeah, I kinda thought you’d react that way,’ said Mitchell irritably. ‘Hector?’

Amoros cleared his throat. ‘Nina, Eddie, there’s something you need to know. Eddie, cut that out.’ A commanding military tone entered his normally pleasant voice. Chase reluctantly stopped struggling and shrugged himself free of the men. ‘Yes, Jack was going to give Excalibur to Vaskovich . . . but DARPA knew all about it.’

‘DARPA approved it,’ Mitchell added. ‘Vaskovich thought I was a double agent. I’m not. I’m a triple agent - I was working for DARPA the whole time. Who did you think the “reliable source” inside Vaskovich’s organisation was? It was me!’

‘You mean this whole thing was a set-up?’ Nina gasped.

‘Yes. My mission was to put Vaskovich’s weapon out of commission. I would’ve taken Excalibur to Russia, used that as proof of my loyalty so he’d take me to his earth energy facility, and boom.’ He glanced at the newspapers. ‘Only now, you two have screwed everything up in about the most public way possible - Vaskovich has Excalibur, and I had to blow my cover to keep you alive!’

Nina’s own anger began to rise. ‘And why the hell didn’t you tell us this in the first place? People have died because of this plan of yours!’

‘If you’d known, there was a risk you would have given me away. Not that it made any goddamn difference, as it turned out!’

‘So why didn’t you just let them find the sword on their own?’ Chase demanded. ‘Nobody would have got hurt.’

‘You sure about that? They killed a priest in Sicily to get the first piece of Caliburn, they killed Bernd Rust, they would probably have killed Staumberg and his butler in Austria as well. These people aren’t boy scouts. And I had to be involved, because Kruglov didn’t trust me - if I didn’t personally give Excalibur to Vaskovich, there’s no way he would have taken me to the facility. Which meant I had to involve Nina so I could find it first.’ He gave Chase a hard look. ‘I’m sorry. But it had to be done - we couldn’t let the Russians find Excalibur on their own.’

‘If you’d told us what was really going on, I’d never have got Mitzi involved,’ Chase said bitterly.

‘If Vaskovich thought you were going to give the sword to him,’ asked Nina, ‘why the hell were Kruglov and the others after it too?’

‘Like I said, Kruglov didn’t trust me.’

‘So now what?’ said Chase. He pointed at the newspapers. ‘Kruglov’s all over the front pages; it’s not like he can deny any of this. Christ, one of the coppers told me he killed some poor bastard in front of about five hundred witnesses.’

‘You seriously think the Russians would hand him over?’

Mitchell asked. ‘The way relations are right now, with this polar territory dispute? He’s the right-hand man of one of the most powerful men in the entire country, who also happens to be a personal friend of the Russian president. They’d never give him up, no matter how much diplomatic pressure was put on them.’

‘So he just gets away with it?’ Chase said in disbelief. ‘He murders people, then gets to hide out in Russia laughing at us?’

‘He’s not even hiding. Mr Callum?’ Mitchell turned to one of the other people in the room, the white-haired man whom Nina and Chase had met at the embassy the previous evening, and took a photograph from him. It was taken with a telephoto lens, showing Kruglov in the back seat of an SUV as it entered a gate set into a high wall. The figure beside him was only visible in silhouette, but it appeared to be Dominika.

‘This was taken a couple of hours ago,’ Mitchell said. ‘It’s Vaskovich’s mansion, southwest of Moscow. We had our intelligence sources in Russia looking for Kruglov as soon as we realised he’d left England.’

‘How the hell did he get out of the country?’ Nina asked.

‘The guy used to be a spook. He knows all the tricks - and he’s got Vaskovich’s billions backing him up. If you’ve got money, border controls don’t mean shit.’

‘So your spooks knew where he was going, but couldn’t bag him before he got there?’ said Chase. ‘Christ, and I thought MI6 were useless.’

‘There wasn’t time to arrange a snatch team,’ Mitchell said defensively. ‘Also, the CIA weren’t happy about us running our own intelligence operation behind their backs.’

Chase made a disgusted noise. ‘And now Vaskovich’s got the sword? He’s probably going to his base to blow up the world already!’

‘He’s not going anywhere,’ said Mitchell. ‘At least, not until tomorrow.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Nina.

‘He’s holding a party tonight, at his mansion. And not the kind he’d be willing to blow off, either,’ he continued, forestalling the obvious questions. ‘It’s been planned for months, it’s a way for him to consolidate his influence - all of the new Russian elite are going to be there.’

‘You sure about this?’ Chase said. Nina looked at him; she could tell he was formulating a plan.

‘I was actually invited,’ Mitchell told him. ‘Although somehow I doubt I’m still on the guest list. But there’s no way he’ll cancel it, even now he’s got Excalibur. In fact, knowing Leonid, he’ll probably want to show it off.’

‘So you know where he’ll be tonight, and you know where the sword’ll be tonight?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

Chase shot him a humourless grin. ‘’Cause if he’s having a party . . . I think we should crash it.’

23

Moscow

Although only a few degrees further north than London, the Russian capital was noticeably colder. Even the brief time Nina spent moving between the State Department jet and a waiting Lincoln Navigator left her feeling chilled.

‘Should be here in winter,’ Chase said as they were driven to the city. ‘You think New York’s nippy? It’s like Bermuda in comparison.’

‘You’ve been here before?’

‘Couple of times, yeah. On business.’

‘Is that how you met your friend, the one you called from the plane?’

Chase snorted. ‘He’s not my friend. He’s a perverted scum-sucking little parasite who deserves a good kicking.’

‘Oh, he’s a he?’ said Nina, raising an eyebrow in amusement. ‘You mean there’s actually a country where you don’t have an attractive young woman on call?’ She remembered the moment she spoke that there was indeed now such a country - Switzerland - and was about to apologise for her lack of tact, but a single, somewhat sad look from Chase told her she had been forgiven.

‘Actually, I do know someone in Russia,’ he said after the unspoken moment had passed, ‘but she wouldn’t be right for the job. This bloke is, though.’

‘So who is this guy?’ Mitchell asked. ‘Sounds like you don’t even trust him.’

‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and last time I saw him he was such a fat bastard I’d have a job even lifting him. But as long as there’s money at the end of it, he’s more or less reliable. So I hope you brought your wad. He’s a cash-only sort of bloke.’

‘What’s he called?’ Nina asked. ‘And what does he do?’

‘His name’s Pavel Prikovsky, and trust me, he really is a total prickovsky,’ said Chase. ‘Used to be an officer in the GRU, Russian military intelligence. Ran into him a couple of times when we were on opposite sides before he went freelance to specialise in “executive protection”.’

‘Like you did,’ said Mitchell.

‘Not even fucking close,’ Chase replied, offended. ‘I looked after people. He took care of people, if you get what I mean. But that’s how he got started, only he branched out into other stuff when he realised he could make a lot more money from the same clients without risking getting his head blown off. Now he arranges entertainment for rich guys’ parties.’

Nina pursed her lips. ‘By entertainment, I’m guessing you don’t mean funny hats and balloon animals.’

He smiled sardonically. ‘Not exactly.’

They drove down the highway, the traffic increasing as they approached central Moscow. Nina had never been to Russia before, and watched the city pass with interest. Most of it looked exactly how she’d imagined a communist-built metropolis, grey and blocky and joyless, huge concrete apartment buildings dominating the landscape.

But there were surprises amongst the uniformity: churches with ornate spires and traditional onion-shaped domes of gold and oxidised green copper; giant Soviet bureaucratic monoliths designed to cow onlookers into insignificance beside the power of the state; and their modern equivalents, gleaming corporate sky-scrapers and towering apartment complexes for the new Russian millionaires and billionaires. Moscow had leapt from relative poverty to become one of the world’s most expensive cities within just a few years, yet it was clear that the vast majority of that wealth was concentrated in the hands of an elite few. Nina imagined Lenin would be spinning in his tomb so furiously that a generator connected to him could power half the capital.

They reached the heart of the city, the high walls of the Kremlin sweeping past before they crossed a bridge over the Moskva river and headed south. To her disappointment, she was only able to catch a glimpse of the colourful cupolas of St Basil’s cathedral in the distance before it was lost to sight.

But she wasn’t here for sightseeing. They continued south, eventually stopping outside a warehouse, its small yard surrounded by high fences topped with razor wire. Security cameras stared down conspicuously, covering every angle of approach.

‘This is it,’ said Chase. ‘Wait here.’

He got out and went to the gate, looking up into the blank eyes of the cameras. Prikovsky was expecting him, but would undoubtedly make him wait, a crude attempt to show who was in charge. An intercom was mounted on a steel post beside the entrance; he pushed the button. Eventually, a woman answered in Russian.

‘It’s Eddie Chase,’ he said impatiently. ‘I know you’re there, Pavel, so stop pissing about and let me in.’

Another pause, then a buzzer sounded. Chase pushed open the gate and waved the SUV inside, then headed for the warehouse door.

The driver remained in the Navigator, but Nina and Mitchell, the latter carrying a large briefcase, hurried across to Chase as he banged a fist on the door. It opened, a neckless man with a perpetual frown opening it. To Nina’s alarm he was holding a small machine pistol. ‘All right, put it away,’ Chase told him, unimpressed. ‘Just take us to the gaffer.’

The man sneered, then stepped back to let them in. Nina took in the contents of the warehouse as he led them through it. Rank upon rank of boxes and crates displaying high-end Western brand names: big-screen TVs, computers, designer clothing, whisky, cigars, watches . . . an emporium of riches.

‘And I bet he doesn’t have a receipt for a single one of them,’ Chase said disapprovingly as they reached an office at one side of the packed space.

Waiting for them was Pavel Prikovsky, flanked by a pair of stunningly beautiful blonde women in short, tight dresses less than suited to the chilly environs. Slightly shorter than Chase, he was considerably broader, most of it round his waist. His figure wasn’t flattered by the bulky fur coat draped over his shoulders. A fat Cuban cigar was jammed between his grinning lips, and the amount of gold jewellery he sported couldn’t help but make Nina think of Mr T.

‘Eddie Chase!’ he boomed. ‘Come here, let me kiss you!’

‘Let’s just make do with a handshake, eh?’ Chase replied. Prikovsky cackled, then stuck out a hand so hairy it blended with the coat’s cuff. Chase shook it with rather less enthusiasm than the Russian was showing.

‘So, can I get you anything?’ Prikovsky said. ‘Cigar? Cognac?’ He leered at one of the women. ‘Companionship?’

Chase put an arm round Nina’s shoulders. ‘No thanks. I’m sorted.’

‘No, you never did have any trouble with the women, hmm? No money, that face - how do you do it?’ He cackled again. ‘And a celebrity, too! Dr Nina Wilde, I believe? Welcome to Moscow! I’ve heard all about your discoveries, Atlantis and Hercules. But you made a mistake.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Nina suspiciously. Despite the Russian’s seeming friendliness, everything about him made her want to cringe away.

‘Yes, you went and told the US government rather than keeping the secret for yourself. Just think how much money you could have made from selling all that treasure!’

‘It wasn’t about money,’ she said icily.

‘Everything is about money, in the end.’ He took out the cigar and jabbed it at Mitchell’s briefcase. ‘Like how much your friend here is willing to pay me to help you. So, what are you? CIA? DIA?’

‘DARPA, actually,’ Mitchell told him.

Prikovsky’s face twisted into a gargoyle-like expression of disbelief. ‘Really? I would have put money on you being in intelligence. I can usually spot my own kind.’

‘Your kind live under slimy rocks, Pavel,’ said Chase. Prikovsky didn’t seem offended; if anything, he appeared amused. ‘You want to do business, or what?’

‘Oh, I always want to do business.’ He clicked his fingers and said a single word in Russian, at which the two blondes turned on their high heels and left the room, closing the door behind them. ‘You said you wanted to talk about Leonid Vaskovich.’

‘That’s right. He’s having a party tonight, at his mansion. I want to be there.’

‘And you think I can get you an audience with one of Russia’s richest men?’ Prikovsky asked in exaggerated surprise. Chase just stared at him. ‘Ha, of course I can!’ he boasted after a moment. ‘My girls, they will be there tonight, and plenty of others too. When anyone in Moscow wants to party - anyone who matters, anyway - they come to me. Pavel Prikovsky always has whatever they need! I can get you an invitation, no problem.’

‘I don’t mean as a guest,’ Chase said. ‘I want to get in without anyone knowing about it.’

Prikovsky instantly became wary. ‘Okay, now that is not so easy.’

‘I know the layout of the building and the security system,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’ve been there. All we need is for someone to shut down the cameras long enough for Eddie to cross the grounds. Thirty seconds, tops.’

‘My girls are not spies,’ Prikovsky protested.

‘I can tell them what to do through an earpiece—’

‘No, no! Do you have any idea what would happen to them if they were caught? Vaskovich is a hard enough man, but his lieutenant, Kruglov, is a psychopath! He would kill them!’

‘Yeah, we’ve met Kruglov,’ said Chase. ‘And I wouldn’t mind meeting him again. One on one.’

‘Then go to the front gate and ask for him! But I won’t put my girls at risk. It’s too dangerous - and not just for them. Do you know what would happen to me if they found out I had helped you?’

Chase gave him a cold smile. ‘Nothing you don’t deserve.’

This time, Prikovsky was not amused. ‘I agreed to see you out of, shall we say, professional courtesy, Chase. But this is not something I will help you with, however much money your friend has.’

‘Then send me,’ said Nina.

Chase wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. ‘What?’

‘I’ll go,’ she said, Mitchell and Prikovsky regarding her with surprise. ‘This whole thing’s my fault - if I hadn’t been suspicious of Jack in London, we wouldn’t even be here.’

‘No,’ said Chase firmly. ‘No fucking way.’

‘Eddie, I don’t want to do it, but it’s the only way to get you inside. Unless Jack knows another way to shut down the security system?’ Mitchell shook his head. ‘I could go in with Pavel’s other . . . girls, pretend to be one of them. Once I’m inside, Jack can guide me to where I need to go, and then I’ll just hide until he’s ready to pick us up in the chopper.’

‘You are using a helicopter?’ Prikovsky exclaimed. ‘Expensive, dangerous, a high risk of disaster - I can tell this is an American operation!’

Chase ignored him. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m not gonna let you do it.’

‘We don’t have any choice,’ Nina insisted. ‘If there isn’t somebody on the inside, you won’t be able to get in without being seen - and you’ll be killed.’

‘Better me than you.’

‘No. No, Eddie, it’s not. You don’t want to see me get hurt? Well, I don’t want to see you get hurt.’ She took his hands in hers, looking into his eyes. ‘Eddie, we’re getting married, we’re going to be doing everything together - which means we share the risks. Either we both do this, or neither of us do. And if we don’t do it, Vaskovich wins, and all the people who’ve died trying to stop him will have died for nothing. I know you won’t let that happen. Well, I won’t either.’

She could tell he was angry - but also that he was considering her words. Mitchell seemed about to add something, but she gave him an almost imperceptible shake of the head. This was a decision only Chase could make.

Finally, he looked at Prikovsky. ‘If we did this - if we did it - could you get her in?’

‘Yes, I can get her in,’ said the Russian. ‘It is getting her out that will be hard!’

‘What about you, Jack? Can you get her to where she needs to go?’ Mitchell nodded. ‘And then get her out again?’

This time, his head remained still. ‘I can’t give you any guarantees, Eddie. But Nina’s right - it’s the only way to get -’ he glanced at Prikovsky - ‘the item back before Vaskovich takes it to his facility.’

‘And there’s no way we could get it back from there?’

‘No. It’s an old submarine base - but it’s still in a closed military zone, and Vaskovich has very good connections with the Russian military. The only option would be to send in a SEAL team by submarine, and if they got caught, the state relations are between the US and Russia at the moment . . .’

‘Shit,’ muttered Chase. He looked at Nina. ‘I don’t want you to do this.’

‘I don’t either, but I’m going to have to. Because there’s nobody else who can.’

‘Then I’m going to have to let you, aren’t I?’ He let out a long, unhappy sigh. ‘Buggeration and fuckery.’

‘I know,’ said Nina, squeezing his hands.

‘If she is caught, I will tell Vaskovich that I knew nothing of this,’ Prikovsky said quickly. ‘Or that you held me at gunpoint and threatened to kill me. He would believe that, I’m sure. And by the way,’ he added to Mitchell, ‘I would like my money up front. All of it.’

‘How much do you want?’ Mitchell asked.

‘I just told you - all of it! Everything you have brought - in your case and in your truck. In fact, I will have the truck as well! Tell your driver to take a taxi.’

Mitchell appeared surprisingly unconcerned about Prikovsky’s demands, placing the briefcase on his desk and opening it to reveal crisp wads of hundred-dollar bills. The quick glance Nina got before Prikovsky turned the case round to riffle through its contents suggested there was probably the better part of half a million dollars within.

Half a million dollars - of American taxpayers’ money. Being given to a man who seemed little more than a glorified pimp. Then there were all the other resources the mission had so far consumed . . . and the lives it had taken. ‘It better be worth it,’ she said quietly, only Chase hearing her.

Prikovsky snapped the case closed, his smile suggesting he was more than satisfied with its contents. ‘Well, then. We still have a few hours before the girls go to the party, so there is time to get you ready, Dr Wilde.’

‘Get me ready?’ she echoed.

‘You do not seriously think you would be able to get in looking like that, do you?’ He looked disdainfully at her heavy coat, jeans and Reeboks. ‘My girls all look amazing, like models - like supermodels! You will have to look the same.’

‘Oh,’ Nina said. ‘Y’know, that might be a problem. I’m not really the supermodel type.’

Prikovsky grinned - or leered, though it was hard to tell with the cigar clenched between his teeth. ‘No need to worry. Some makeup, the right clothes . . . Mario is incredible.’

‘Mario?’ hooted Chase. ‘There’s a proper Russian name.’

‘He styles all my girls,’ Prikovsky told him as he put the briefcase into a safe. ‘We’ll go and see him now.’ He grinned again. ‘In my shiny new truck!’

‘Shut up,’ said Nina, before Chase even had a chance to open his mouth.

It opened anyway - mostly in amazement. ‘Bloody hell,’ he finally managed to say. ‘You look . . . whoa. Pavel was right - Mario really is incredible!’

Nina had spent the better part of two hours in an opulent salon, her hair being washed and styled, makeup applied to her face. She was not the only woman there - over a dozen others were also lined up before the huge illuminated mirrors, being worked upon and fussed over by two women apiece. Mario - who despite his name was about as Italian as Joseph Stalin - scurried back and forth along the line, brushing and plucking and tweezing and glossing, fixing every last detail of each makeover.

And though the overall look was a long way removed from anything Nina would have chosen herself, she was forced to admit it was indeed one hell of a makeover. She had spent a good portion of the time in a reclined position; when she finally sat upright, she experienced a bizarre moment of disassociation, as though someone else was looking back at her from the mirror. Someone who happened to be a model . . . though she wasn’t prepared to go as far as supermodel. Mario wasn’t that good.

It wasn’t the heavy, smoky-eyed makeup or scarlet false nails or ultra-moussed hairstyle that aroused her ire, though. It was the outfit Prikovsky had provided for her - which, as she’d expected, provoked a wide-eyed response when she was presented to Chase and the other men.

‘I look like a goddamn hooker,’ she moaned. The sleeveless black rubber minidress was, she’d been assured, the product of some extremely expensive and exclusive designer in London - but that didn’t alter the fact that it was also extremely tight and revealing. She had the horrible feeling that if she moved her knees more than a fraction of an inch apart, the entire skirt would twang up over her hips like an overstretched elastic band.

‘You’re supposed to be a hooker,’ Chase pointed out.

‘Hey!’ said Prikovsky. ‘My girls are not hookers. They are . . .’ He thought about it. ‘Escorts? No, courtesans. The courtesans of Pavel Prikovsky, that sounds better. Like the title of a great Russian novel.’

‘Or that crappy American novel, The Immodesty of Nina Wilde,’ Nina grumbled. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘No, no,’ said Chase, smirking, ‘I’m all for it now. You are going to dress like that after we’re married, right?’

‘That’s it, I’m outta here.’ Nina turned and tried to teeter back into the salon on her high heels, but found her way blocked by Mario, who clapped approvingly and ushered her into the lounge once more. He reached up, trying to remove her pendant, but she forcefully shook her head. He tutted, then spoke in Russian to Prikovsky, who laughed. Mario then bowed and returned to the salon.

‘What did he say?’ Nina demanded.

‘He thinks your necklace looks cheap,’ said Prikovsky. Nina shot an offended look after the stylist. ‘But he is very pleased with how you turned out, considering how little time he had to work with you. Oh, and also considering your age.’

‘My age?’ she shrieked. ‘I’m only thirty!’

Prikovsky shrugged. ‘Most of my girls are only twenty-two, twenty-three! You should be proud. You look . . . unrecognisable.’

‘And that’s a good thing?’

‘In this case, yeah,’ said Mitchell, who had been watching with quiet amusement. ‘Honestly, if I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have recognised you when you stepped out of there. So hopefully no one else will either.’ He stood, taking a box from a pocket. ‘Okay, time to mike you up.’

‘What’s that?’ Nina asked, eyeing the object in the box. It looked like a small golden bullet.

‘Earpiece. You ever watch that show, 24? Just like Jack Bauer uses. It’s two-way - you’ll be able to hear me and Eddie, and we’ll be able to hear you and what’s going on around you. All you have to do is whisper.’

Chase stood for a closer look as Mitchell carefully slipped the bug into Nina’s left ear. ‘What’s the range?’

‘Only about two hundred metres. But that doesn’t matter because you’ll have the relay so I can hear, and once you get to the outer wall you’ll be in range.’ The device in place, he stepped back, quickly running an admiring eye over Nina’s glossy curves.

‘I saw that!’ she snapped.

‘Get used to it,’ Prikovsky told her. ‘You will get a lot more attention than that tonight.’ He frowned as a thought struck him. ‘Do you speak Russian?’

‘Nyet.’

‘Hmm. Still, not a problem. The girls are not there for conversation.’ Nina could barely suppress a disgusted shudder. ‘Okay, you’re an American student here to learn Russian - and you’re doing this because you need money to buy a dictionary. Ha!’ He drew back a hand as if about to slap her on the butt, but stopped short on seeing Chase’s stony glare.

‘All right,’ said Mitchell, adopting a commanding tone. ‘I’ll be waiting in the helo. It’ll take me four minutes to reach the mansion from my takeoff point, so once you secure the item, that’s how long you’ll have to get to the extraction point. There’s a balcony on the west side - it’s not big enough to land on, but there’s enough clearance for me to hover next to it so you can climb aboard. If you don’t raise the alarm, we should be able to get clear before anyone realises what’s going on.’

‘And if we do raise the alarm?’ asked Nina.

Chase reached into his leather jacket and drew out a massive silver handgun. ‘Jack had a little present delivered while you were getting your cuticles done,’ he said with definite glee. ‘Desert Eagle, .50-cal Action Express. Would have preferred a Wildey, but I’m not complaining.’

Mitchell shook his head. ‘Big, heavy, limited load, huge recoil . . .’

‘Works for me. Anyone gets hit by this, they’re done.’ His smile disappeared. ‘And if I see Kruglov . . .’

‘Let’s hope you don’t need it,’ Nina told him, gently pushing the raised weapon back down.

‘Okay,’ said Mitchell. ‘Let’s party.’

24

The girls left the salon in a small convoy of minivans driven by Prikovsky’s men. Nina was in the last vehicle with three other young women, as carefully made-up and provocatively dressed as she was; none spoke English, but all seemed excited - in a somewhat calculating way - about the evening.

Excited wasn’t the word Nina would have used to describe her feelings, however. Tense would have been closer. Or nauseous.

A voice in her left ear. Chase.

‘Nina, if you can hear me, clear your throat.’ She did. ‘Okay, I’m not far behind you.’ She glanced back, seeing headlights in the distance. ‘I’ll call you again soon as I get to the entry point.’

The lights dropped away. There was a faint crackle as if he had opened the line to speak again, but then it faded to nothing. Out of range.

She was on her own.

The minivan came to a stop at a gate with a high wall to each side - the same wall she had seen in the background of the spy photo of Kruglov.

Vaskovich’s mansion. The dragon’s lair.

Security guards opened the doors and shone bright flashlights into the faces of each of the van’s occupants in turn. Nina was the last to be checked. A chill swept over her, not solely from the night air. What if they recognised her, if she wasn’t on the guest list, if Prikovsky had betrayed her . . .

The light swept down to her legs, paused for a moment - and flicked off. The guard leered, then shut the door. The minivan drove on.

Vaskovich’s mansion lay directly ahead, at the end of a long drive surrounded by lawns. Nina leaned forward for a better look, impressed despite herself by the brightly lit edifice. It was as huge as she had imagined, but elegant where she had expected nouveau-riche vulgarity, a perfectly restored neo-classical building of the early nineteenth century, tall arched windows blazing with light.

The vehicles lined up outside more closely matched her preconceptions, however. Expensive, showy and mostly vulgar, a procession of stretch limousines and supercars. Valets drove them round the corner of the mansion after the occupants emerged. Nina imagined that a scratch on any of the vehicles would cost the careless perpetrator more than a docked pay packet.

The vans pulled up. More security guards in heavy coats lined the front steps, watching them. The girls got out, to be met by a man in a white tuxedo. He quickly spoke to each in turn before pointing to the doors above, reaching Nina last.

‘Uh, I . . . I don’t speak very good Russian,’ she said in response to his instructions.

He frowned. ‘You don’t speak Russian? Oy! Pavel is getting lazy; I should send you home. What are you, American?’ Nina nodded. He chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Well, there are some Yankees in there. Easy to find - they’re the ones who can’t hold their drink. Stay with them. What’s your name?’

‘Nina.’

‘Nina, okay. I’m Dmitri; if you need a private room, find me. The top floor is off-limits. Okay, shoo, shoo!’

Even with a coat over her outfit Nina was still freezing, and she was about to hurry gratefully inside when a blast of noise halted her mid-step. She looked up to see a helicopter sweeping over the mansion, swinging round to land on the lawn. But it was no ordinary helicopter; clearly military, black as the night sky and with two sets of rotor blades mounted one above the other on a single shaft, it was one of the most bizarre - and menacing - machines she had ever seen.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Dmitri looked annoyed. ‘That is the new Deputy Defence Minister Felix Mishkin, showing off and ruining the grass! Go in, go, I will greet him.’ He turned to watch the helicopter power down.

Nina clacked up the stairs on her heels, entering to have her coat taken by another man in a white tux. A few groups of people were talking in the marble lobby, all men - and all taking the time out from their conversations to watch her strut past in her tight, shiny dress. Feeling horribly self-conscious as well as scared, she nevertheless remembered her role and smiled politely at them before going through the double doors into the next room.

Whether it was a ballroom or just a very large hall she didn’t know, but it was clearly the hub of Vaskovich’s party. A DJ on a platform in one corner pumped out thudding techno, but even this was overpowered by the hubbub of hundreds of voices all talking at once.

The air was thick with smoke, and everybody seemed to have a glass in their hand. The men were in tuxedos or more playboyesque designer suits; the older women were formally dressed, the younger women showy trophy attachments to wealthy husbands . . . or ‘entertainment’, Prikovsky’s girls having already spread out amongst the crowd.

Nina had barely taken five steps before a red-faced man in a straining tuxedo budded off from his group and blocked her path, treating her to a glassy-eyed smile as he spoke in slurred Russian. ‘Hi,’ she replied, her own smile fixed and fake as a pungent reek of aftershave assaulted her nostrils. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak much Russian. Er . . . nyet Russki? American.’

‘Ah, American!’ the fat man boomed. ‘Pamela Anderson, da?’ He cupped his hands in front of his chest as if holding a pair of beachballs, and laughed.

‘Yeah,’ said Nina, less than impressed. ‘By the way, congratulations on your breasts - they’re nearly as big as hers. Excuse me. Oh!’ She flinched as a hand slid over her right buttock and squeezed it. She turned, expecting to see another drunken man, and was taken aback to find instead a drunken woman.

‘So, you are American?’ the woman said. She appeared to be in her late fifties, hard-faced and thin, but from her hairstyle and clothing apparently still thought she could pass herself off as two or three decades younger. ‘How are you finding our country?’

‘Just went through Poland and, ha, there it was!’

The woman let out a high-pitched, tinkling laugh. Her bony hand encircled Nina’s wrist like a handcuff, and she pulled her into the crowd. ‘Come, come, you must meet my friends.’

‘I’m, er, supposed to go and see Mr Vaskovich,’ Nina said desperately.

The woman laughed again. ‘Then you are in luck - he is one of my friends!’

‘Oh, he is? Oh. Shit,’ she added in a whisper.

The woman led her through the room. Nina looked round, trying to get a feel for the mansion’s layout. She spotted a staircase at the rear of the hall, polished marble and red carpet. Dmitri had said the top floor was out of bounds; that was presumably where Excalibur was being kept.

She heard a buzz in her left ear. ‘—an you hear me? Nina?’ Chase’s voice was distorted by interference, at the very limit of the earpiece’s range.

‘Mm-hmm?’ she said through closed lips, as loudly as she dared.

‘I guess you can’t talk, then. But I’m in position. Was that a chopper landing in the garden?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘Some rich bugger’s always got to show off, don’t they? All right, soon as you get a chance, find somewhere quiet so Jack can tell you what to do next.’

‘O-ay,’ she mumbled.

The woman glanced back at her. ‘What?’

‘Just, ah, clearing my throat. I’m a little thirsty.’

‘I’ll tell a waiter to bring you a drink. Come on, just over here.’ She guided Nina around a knot of people—

And Nina found herself looking straight at Aleksey Kruglov.

He walked towards her, grimly purposeful. Three steps away, two, eyes flicking at her . . .

And gone. He passed so close that his sleeve brushed Nina’s arm. But he hadn’t recognised her, hadn’t made the connection between the briefly glimpsed, seductively dressed escort and the dirty, scared archaeologist he’d seen in England. But she couldn’t help glancing nervously back in case some suspicious synapse fired in his mind, finding common features of the two redheads and making him return for a closer look . . .

He kept going, disappearing into the throng. She gasped in relief.

The woman stopped, Nina almost bumping into her. She spoke in Russian to a slender, unassuming man in rectangular wire-framed glasses - who Nina realised with a chill was Leonid Vaskovich.

The man behind the entire plot. The man responsible for the murders of Bernd Rust, Mitzi Fontana, Chloe Lamb, and others whose names she didn’t even know, collateral damage of his quest to gain the power of Excalibur. He was within arm’s reach, unsuspecting, defenceless.

But there was nothing she could do. Her skin-tight latex dress had no room to conceal a weapon, even had she been able to pull the trigger. Chase could have - but he wasn’t here. All she could do was paste on a smile to cover her fear.

Vaskovich responded to her companion with polite feigned interest, nodding before looking at Nina. He took in her sultry makeup, her fetishistic outfit, her bare legs and high heels - then turned back to the woman, uninterested.

Nina felt oddly offended, before realising that Vaskovich wasn’t dismissing her specifically; he would have responded the same way to any of Prikovsky’s girls. It was a seen-it-all-before look, the boredom of a billionaire who had long since indulged all his wildest fantasies. Despite being the host of the party, he seemed unenthusiastic about being there.

He spoke to the woman; she replied, then smiled at Nina. ‘You said you wanted to meet Leonid Vaskovich? Here he is!’

‘Vaskovich?’ Chase said through the earpiece. ‘Jesus, he’s right there? Can you stab him with anything?’

Vaskovich regarded Nina again. ‘Rozalina says you do not speak much Russian,’ he said. His English, in contrast, was excellent. ‘That is a shame. I hope you learn quickly . . .’ He looked at her questioningly, waiting for her name.

‘Don’t tell him your real—’ Chase began.

‘Nina,’ she replied automatically.

‘D’oh!’

‘Good to meet you . . . Nina,’ Vaskovich said. He gave her a slightly puzzled look, as if struggling to remember a previous encounter.

‘Likewise, Mr Vaskovich.’ There was an awkward pause.

To Nina’s surprise, Vaskovich then smiled, a flicker of genuine amusement twitching up one corner of his goatee beard. ‘Well, I can tell you are not like most of the other young women I meet.’

‘Really?’ Nina asked, unsure where he was leading.

‘Yes. By now they would be trying to get into my bed - or my wallet. But there is something different about you, I can tell. You are not a shark. It is a nice change.’ For a brief moment, he seemed almost melancholy. ‘Beautiful women always want me, but only for what I have, never who I am. And that long ago stopped being fun.’ He sighed, then shrugged. ‘Still. I hope you enjoy the evening. ’ He said something else to Rozalina before spotting somebody behind Nina. For the first time, his face actually revealed some enthusiasm. ‘Ah, Felix Mishkin!’

Nina looked round - only to hurriedly turn away again as she saw Kruglov returning. With him was a man in his mid-thirties, hair slicked back, clad in a dark blue Italian suit. She remembered the name - he was the man who had arrived in the military helicopter.

Apparently Rozalina knew him too, as she kissed him on both cheeks. Nina was left to stand there, feeling exposed and isolated. But just as it struck her this could be her chance to slip away, she realised she was a topic of conversation, ‘American’ leaping out from Vaskovich’s words.

‘American?’ said Mishkin. He looked at Nina, then said in a heavily accented mock whisper, ‘Perhaps she is a spy, here to sleep with me to learn all my secrets!’ He laughed at his own joke, Rozalina joining in.

Vaskovich managed a polite chuckle. ‘Somehow, I don’t think that is why she is here.’ He continued in Russian, now almost excited about his subject.

‘Nina,’ Mitchell unexpectedly said via the earpiece, his voice even more distorted than Chase’s. ‘He’s talking about his new “acquisition”. He’s got to mean Excalibur. I think he’s going to show it to him, which means the sword is definitely in the building. Ditch the bitch and find somewhere we can talk - you’ve got to reach the security system so Eddie can get in.’

‘’Kay,’ Nina said, disguising the word as a cough. Keeping her face averted from Kruglov, she spotted a waiter bearing a tray of champagne glasses through the crowd. ‘Would you like me to get you a drink?’ she asked Rozalina. The older woman seemed caught between staying with her catch and keeping in with her powerful companions, finally deciding on the latter. With relief, Nina moved away, heading for the waiter until she was out of sight and then making a beeline for the relatively empty area to one side of the stairs.

‘How’re you holding up?’ Chase asked.

‘I’m surviving,’ she whispered. ‘Although I nearly had a heart attack when I saw Kruglov. Oh, and I have a handprint on my ass.’

‘Whose? If it’s Vaskovich’s, I’m going to have to revive the bastard after I kill him so I can kill him again.’

‘No, it was that woman.’

‘Really?’ Chase sounded intrigued. ‘A threesome, huh?’

Nina found herself smiling despite the situation. ‘I don’t think she’s your type, Eddie. She definitely wasn’t mine.’

‘Can we stay on mission here?’ Mitchell said impatiently. ‘Nina, where are you now?’

‘By the stairs in the main hall.’ Looking up, she saw guards standing at the bottom of the next flight. She explained what Dmitri had said about the off-limits parts of the mansion. ‘Crap, Vaskovich is coming.’

She crouched, pretending to tighten the strap on one shoe. Vaskovich, Kruglov and Mishkin ascended, the guards moving aside to let them through.

‘If they’re going to the top floor,’ Mitchell said when Nina told him, ‘I’ve got a fairly good idea where he’s keeping Excalibur. Okay, Nina, you need to get to the back of the house. Are there any doors out of the hall that aren’t guarded?’

She checked. ‘In the middle of the west wall. Double doors.’ ‘They’ll do. Go through them.’

Nina picked her way through the hall, trying not to attract any attention - which her outfit made a futile task. She didn’t need to know any Russian to tell she was drawing lecherous comments. But she was almost at the door . . .

A hand suddenly clapped against her butt and squeezed it, sweaty flesh squeaking over latex. Nina choked back an obscenity-laden tirade and turned to see the fat man she had encountered earlier, two champagne glasses clutched clumsily in his free hand and an expectant grin on his florid face.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘You again.’

‘Hello, Pamela!’ he said drunkenly, before dropping back into Russian as his groping hand slowly clambered round from her backside towards her chest. He tried to push one of the glasses into her hand.

She reluctantly accepted it, realising that if he tipped it any further the contents would end up in her cleavage. ‘Thank you. Hey! Easy, tiger,’ she added, batting his wandering hand back down.

‘What’s going on?’ Chase asked, in a voice that suggested punches would have been thrown by now had he been there in person.

‘Nothing, just a very, very friendly man . . .’ It occurred to her that she might be able to make use of the inebriated oaf. She clinked her glass against his, then indicated the doors. ‘Do you want to go somewhere private?’ He stared blearily at her. ‘Private? God damn it. Shhh,’ she said, putting a theatrical finger to her lips and glancing at the doors again. The message finally sank in, and he gave her a pop-eyed smirk, hooking a pudgy arm round hers and leading her into the next room.

The main hall had been standing room only; this was a lounge, guests chilling out on modern leather armchairs around glass tables. Nina saw the remains of a white line of cocaine on one. If anything, the sickly swirl of cigar smoke was even thicker. Trying not to cough, she peered through the haze, seeing a door at the rear of the room. A waiter bearing a tray of empty glasses hurried through. She nudged her companion towards it.

A brightly lit hallway was beyond - as was another tuxedoed guard, who with an expression of forced politeness moved to block their path. The fat man huffed and began what was almost certainly an outburst along the lines of ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

Nina shushed him. ‘Dmitri said okay,’ she told the guard, hoping he would understand two out of the three words. ‘We get champagne?’ She mimed holding a bottle and then flicking off the cork. ‘Pop!’ The guard regarded her dubiously. ‘Dmitri said okay,’ she repeated.

The guard finally stepped aside, saying something to the drunken man, who responded with a dismissive, ‘Da, da.’ Apparently only the top floor was strictly off-limits. Nina saw another waiter coming back with a full tray. She tugged at the fat man’s arm, leading him in that direction.

The scent of food replaced smoke. They were now in the mansion’s kitchen and service areas, opulence toned down to mere elegance. A side room turned out to be for cold storage, walls lined with glass-fronted refrigerators filled with hundreds of bottles of champagne, more crates of vintage Dom Perignon and Krug waiting to be chilled. There was another door at the back of the room; it was ajar, darkness beyond.

Nina slipped free of the man and entered the storeroom, taking a bottle from one of the fridges and sliding a suggestive hand up and down its neck. The man chortled, downing the contents of his glass in one swig. She indicated the darkened room. He waddled to the door and shoved it open. Nina followed him inside—

There was a flat dunk as the champagne bottle came down on the back of his head. The Russian pitched forward and collapsed on some cardboard boxes. Nina hurriedly checked his pulse, finding it steady, then put the bottle down next to him. ‘The pleasure was all yours,’ she told him as she left. ‘Okay, Jack, I’m alone. Finally. Where do I go?’

His voice crackled in her ear. ‘Find the kitchen entrance, but don’t go in - go past it. There’ll be a door on your left when you reach a right turn.’

‘Got it.’ She strode through the hallways, waiters checking her out as they passed but doing nothing to stop her. Swinging double doors and the sizzle of cooking meat marked the kitchen entrance; she continued onwards until she reached the promised right turn. ‘Okay, I’m at the door.’

‘Go inside.’ She did, finding herself in a small and chilly room with a heavy wooden exterior door opposite. A metal cabinet on one wall hummed ominously. ‘There should be a junction box.’

‘Got it. Won’t it be locked, though?’

‘Why?’ Chase asked. ‘It’s the guy’s own house.’

She tried the handle, and the cabinet indeed opened without any trouble. ‘Huh. Okay, I see loads of complicated electrical stuff.’

‘You need to find the switch that controls the security cameras,’ said Mitchell. ‘Don’t worry about the labels being in Cyrillic, just look for one with the number 201. Don’t push it yet.’

‘How do you know all this stuff ?’ Nina asked as she scanned the ranks of switches and fuses.

‘The company that installed the system emailed the plans to a subcontractor. We snagged them on the way. DARPA created the Internet, remember.’

‘I’d better be more careful about what sites I look at while Nina’s out, then,’ said Chase. Nina wasn’t entirely sure he was joking, but forgot about it when she found the right switch.

‘Two-zero-one, got it,’ she said. ‘Now what?’

‘Okay, here’s what’ll happen,’ Mitchell told her. ‘Pushing that switch will cut off power to part of the security grid. But the system’s not stupid - if there’s a fault, it runs a diagnostic and tries to reboot the affected sections. If they’re not back up after thirty seconds, it goes into alert mode. So Eddie has twenty-nine seconds to get over the wall, cross the grounds and get inside the mansion - without being seen by any of the guards - before you push the switch back.’

‘Two hundred metres in twenty-nine seconds?’ said Chase. ‘Piece of piss.’

Nina wasn’t so certain. ‘Eddie, are you sure you can do it?’

‘I’ve got to, don’t I?’ he replied, more serious. ‘I’m not leaving you alone in there.’

‘Do you know the routes of the guards in the grounds?’ Mitchell asked.

‘What do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten minutes? I’m not watching films on my iPod here. I’m freezing my bollocks off in a tree!’

‘Well, get ready to warm them up. Eddie, soon as you’re clear to go, count down from three. Nina, when he reaches zero, throw the switch. I’ll count down the seconds. Up to you, Eddie.’

Nina nervously raised her finger to the switch as Chase spoke. ‘I can see the door, and the nearest guy’s about to go round the corner.’ She heard a rustling noise as he changed position. ‘Okay, get ready. Three, two, one . . . go!’

She pushed the switch.

Chase sprang from the branch. The wall was topped by razor wire; his leading foot landed not on the brickwork but one of the metal supports for the bladed coils. It bent under his weight, the wires hissing metallically, but by then he had already jumped, flying through the air with his legs kicking.

He hit the ground—

And stumbled.

The earth was uneven, impossible to see in the low light. Momentum carried him forward, about to pitch him on to his face . . .

He threw out his hands. His fingertips hit cold ground, pain crackling through every joint as they took his weight for an instant. Then he launched himself forward like a sprinter at the starting line, still staggering but no longer falling. Two strides, and he regained his balance. How much time had he lost?

‘Twenty-four. Twenty-three . . .’

Mitchell’s voice in his headset pushed him onwards like an explosion. Over a hundred and eighty metres to go, no margin for error.

He was sprinting now, arms pumping like pistons. Nina had opened the back door for him, a dim rectangle of light. The lawn rolled past beneath his feet. Look to the right. No guard. Left—

Shit!

A figure at the corner of the building. Looking away from him - but for how long?

‘Fifteen. Fourteen . . .’

Not even halfway. A hundred metres in twelve seconds. Could he do it?

In theory, yes, but this wasn’t a running track—

The guard was still facing the front lawn. Despite the cold, Chase now felt heat racing through his entire body, exertion and adrenalin and fear.

‘Seven . . .’

Fifty metres, forty, the ground just a blur. He pushed harder, harder, lungs burning.

‘Three . . .’

Left. The guard was turning, about to walk down the side of the mansion.

Towards him—

‘One—’

No time to slow. Instead Chase dived through the door, landing hard on the tiled floor at the instant Nina closed the switch. He skidded across the room and slammed against the far wall.

‘Zero,’ said Mitchell. ‘Did you make it? Eddie, Nina - answer me, dammit!’

‘He’s here, he’s here!’ Nina gasped. ‘Eddie, are you okay?’

‘Shut the door,’ he panted, weakly waving a hand. Nina closed it. ‘Bloody hell, I must be getting out of shape. Two hundred metres never used to take me that long.’

‘Did anyone see you?’ she asked, dropping to her knees to help him sit up. His heart was racing; she could feel it pounding even through his layers of clothing.

‘Give it five seconds, we’ll know.’ He took out his Desert Eagle, hand shaking as he pointed it at the door.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Nothing happened.

He let out a long, relieved breath. ‘Guess we’re okay. Jesus.’ He pushed himself to his feet, Nina assisting.

She kissed him. ‘God, I’m so glad to see you.’

‘Glad to be here. Oh, you’ve . . .’ He indicated her red lips. ‘You’re smudged it a bit. Still, suits your cover - like you just gave someone a blow job.’

Nina decided not to tell him that he now had on almost as much lipstick as she did. ‘I think Eddie’s fine, Jack,’ she said testily. ‘What now?’

‘For you, the best bet is to hide in plain sight - go back to the party. Eddie, I’ll guide you up to the top floor.’

Nina peered out into the hallway. Nobody was in sight. ‘Okay, it’s clear.’ She looked back at Chase. ‘Good luck.’

Chase stroked her arm as he passed. ‘See you soon.’

25

Mitchell’s directions led Chase to a small staircase at the back of the house. He quickly climbed it. If the mansion’s uppermost floor were off limits, there would be a guard. The question was, how would he respond to an unexpected visitor? The party was after all being attended by Russia’s most rich and powerful people; being threatened by a goon wouldn’t be appreciated.

If the guards were under orders to be polite but firm, that would give him an advantage. They wouldn’t be expecting gate-crashers . . .

‘Okay, I’m about to go in. I’ll call you back in a minute,’ he whispered into his headset before removing it and shoving it into his jacket. Earphones and a mike would raise the suspicions of even the most half-witted security guard.

He took a breath, then opened the door.

As he’d expected, there was a guard in the hallway, who hurriedly jumped up from a chair. Chase gave him a bleary look, pretending to be drunk and lost. The guard approached - then unexpectedly smirked.

Chase tensed, not knowing what had brought on the response.

Had the guard somehow recognised him? Then the man touched a finger to his lips. Chase did the same, and found a smear of sticky red lipstick on his fingertip. No wonder the guard had been so amused. He looked like a geisha.

He smiled back - then punched the man in the stomach. The guard doubled over, wheezing. Chase whipped out his Desert Eagle and clubbed him on the back of the neck. He collapsed face first on to his chair with such force that his head ripped right through the rattan seat. He fell to the floor, the chair round his neck like some strange angular horse collar.

Chase dragged the unconscious man to the top of the stairs, closing the door behind him, then put his headset back on. ‘I’m in.’

‘Was there a guard?’ Mitchell asked.

‘Yeah, but he’s sitting it out. So now where?’

‘On the security plans, there was a room with extra systems, probably for a safe.’

‘Wait, I’m supposed to crack a safe?’

‘Not if Vaskovich’s already opened it. Head for the front of the mansion.’

Chase got his bearings, then proceeded down the hallway. ‘Eddie,’ Nina’s voice hissed through his headphones, ‘that bitch who killed Bernd and Mitzi is here. So’s the big guy, Bulldozer.’

‘Do they know you’re there?’

‘I hope not! I’m staying as far from them as I can.’

‘Any sign of Vaskovich?’ Mitchell asked.

‘No, but I’m kind of keeping my head down.’

‘He could still be upstairs, then,’ said Mitchell, sounding hopeful. ‘Which means you’ve got a chance of catching him, Eddie.’ The American issued more directions, Chase following them and arriving at a turn in the hallway.

He cautiously looked round it. A set of double doors a few metres away were half open, another guard standing outside them. His attention was more on the voices coming from within than on the corridor, curiosity having got the better of him.

Chase marched round the corner, gun aimed at the guard’s head. The man took a moment too long to react, first caught by surprise and then involuntarily freezing in fear at the sight of the huge weapon pointing at his face. By the time he overcame his paralysis, two kilograms of hard steel had cracked against his skull, dropping him to the carpet as effectively as one of the Desert Eagle’s bullets.

Barely breaking stride, Chase stepped over the fallen guard and kicked open the doors.

Standing before him were three startled men: Kruglov, Vaskovich and a third he didn’t recognise. There was no mistaking what lay on the table between them, however.

Excalibur.

‘Ay up,’ said Chase, his gun locked on to Kruglov. ‘Remember me?’

‘Chase!’ hissed Kruglov. His eyes narrowed. ‘That bastard Mitchell. He got you in here, didn’t he?’

‘He’s around. The sword’s here,’ he told Mitchell, before flicking the gun towards Vaskovich. ‘Hi there. You don’t know me, but I know you. You killed someone I cared about, and a lot of other people besides.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ said Vaskovich, eyes flinty behind his glasses.

‘You didn’t pull the trigger, but they’d all be alive if you hadn’t told fuck-face here to get you this sword. Now me?’ He thumbed back the Desert Eagle’s hammer for emphasis. ‘I pull my own trigger. If I’m going to kill someone, at least I’ve got the balls to take the responsibility myself.’

As he’d expected, Kruglov didn’t react at all to the purely psychological effect of the hammer-click. Vaskovich flinched, but otherwise remained composed. The third man, however, gasped in fright before overcompensating with bluster. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you threaten me! I am Felix Mishkin, Deputy Defence Minister of the Russian Federation!’

‘I don’t care if you’re Yuri fucking Gagarin!’ Chase told him. He aimed the gun at him; Mishkin instantly cringed back. ‘Sit down and shut the fuck up.’

‘I’m airborne,’ said Mitchell over the headset, the whine of a helicopter engine partially obscuring his words. ‘I’ll be there in four minutes.’

‘So how is Nina?’ asked Kruglov. Chase whipped the gun back round at him. Vaskovich’s eyes betrayed a flash of comprehension at the name, but Chase, his attention focused on the former KGB man, didn’t notice.

‘Better than you’ll be in a couple of minutes,’ Chase snarled.

A very small, calculating smile crept on to Kruglov’s lips. ‘What are you waiting for, Chase? Why not just kill me now?’

‘You in a rush?’

‘No, but you have us, you have Excalibur. There is no reason for you to wait . . . unless your escape route is not yet ready,’ he concluded, the smile broadening. ‘Go ahead and shoot.’ Mishkin gabbled disbelievingly in Russian. ‘He won’t fire,’ Kruglov told him, still speaking in English for Chase’s benefit. ‘Everyone in the building will hear the shot. He will never get out of the mansion, never mind the grounds.’

‘You keep telling yourself that. In the meantime . . .’ Chase stepped up to the table, gesturing for Vaskovich and Kruglov to back towards the open safe set in one wall. ‘I’ll be having this.’ He picked up Excalibur.

‘You are making a mistake,’ said Vaskovich. ‘Whatever Jack has told you about why I need the sword, it is a lie.’

‘Well, it’s funny, but after the experiences I’ve had with billionaires in the past, I don’t believe a fucking word they say any more.’ Chase stepped back, starting to feel vulnerable. Mitchell was still over three minutes away - and as long as he was holding the sword, he would be forced to fire the heavy Desert Eagle with one hand, reducing his accuracy. He would also have to drop the sword if he needed to reload with the spare magazine attached to his holster strap.

And there was something else, a growing feeling of wrongness. While Mishkin, now sitting, was trembling in fear, both Vaskovich and Kruglov were almost visibly growing in confidence as he watched. He glanced at the doors. Nobody there but the downed guard, no sounds of movement. But—

‘Jack,’ he said, voice taking on urgency. ‘Those extra security systems in here - were they just for alarms? Or was there anything else?’

‘I’m not sure,’ came the reply over the helicopter noise. ‘There might have been some data lines.’

‘Data? Like to a computer?’ He looked more closely at the yawning safe. ‘Or from a camera?’ There was a small circular hole in the top of the frame, only exposed when the door was opened.

He was being watched.

The men in the mansion’s security centre had seen the whole thing - and to protect their boss would have ordered others to the room without raising a general alarm . . .

Chase looked through the doors. There was a very slight shadow being cast on the unconscious guard, someone pressed against the wall outside—

He snapped the Desert Eagle round and fired at a point two feet to the door’s side. The noise was almost deafening, the recoil kicking his whole arm up and back as a hole exploded in the wall - followed by a pounding thump as the lurking man was blasted across the hallway into the opposite wall.

He wouldn’t be alone . . .

Chase fired at the other side of the door. Somebody tumbled to the floor, blood spraying across the hall carpet.

Movement in his peripheral vision—

He spun back to face the Russians by the safe - and saw Kruglov dive at his boss and throw him down behind Mishkin’s chair. The minister screeched, flinging up his arms in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from Chase’s bullets.

Chase didn’t fire. He couldn’t blow away the Russian Deputy Minister of Defence to kill Kruglov, or even to stop Vaskovich’s plans. Instead he ran for the doors, hearing movement outside. Gun in one hand, he swung Excalibur with the other—

Even without its weird glow, the sword was still sharp, hacking deep into the wrist of the guard who had been just about to shoot him. Before the man even had time to scream, Chase pistol-whipped him with the Desert Eagle and knocked him to the floor.

Nobody else was in the hallway, but others would be on their way. Nina and Mitchell were both speaking at once, the latter’s shouts drowning out the former’s frantic whispers. ‘Eddie! What happened, what’s going on?’

‘If you can cut three minutes off your flight time, that’d be great!’ Chase answered. ‘How do I get out?’

‘Back the way you came, but carry on past the stairs, then go left.’

Chase was already running. ‘Shit - how’s Nina going to get to the chopper now?’

The background noise from the hall had changed, party conversation turning to confusion at the gunfire. ‘Eddie, Eddie!’ Nina said as loudly as she dared. ‘Dominika just ran upstairs! What do I do?’

‘Nina,’ said Mitchell, ‘in about two minutes that whole place is going to be in total panic. You’ll have to get out then - either meet up with Prikovsky’s other girls, or just steal a car and head for the US embassy.’

‘I don’t know where it is!’ Nina protested.

Chase was almost at the stairwell. ‘I’m going back for her!’

‘No!’ Mitchell’s transmission crackled as the shout briefly overpowered his microphone. ‘If you go back you’ll die, and Vaskovich will get Excalibur again!’

Chase reached the stairs, slowed fractionally - then continued past them. ‘Shit!’ Reluctant as he was to admit it, Mitchell was right. He arrived at the turn and went left. ‘Nina, get close to the front door - soon as people start running, you go out with them!’

He heard a door crash open behind him. He twisted and fired at the guard who ran round the corner. The shot missed, blowing a hole in the wall, but it had the intended effect - the man jumped back into cover.

Mitchell directed him towards the balcony. Chase kicked open a door, firing another shot back down the hallway as he went through. The pursuing guard fell to the floor. Behind him was Dominika, wearing a black cocktail dress, hair now an acidic yellow.

Chase took aim. She saw him and dived, the .50-calibre bullet burning over her as she landed and grabbed the guard’s gun. Before Chase had a chance to recover from the recoil she loosed off four rapid shots. He jumped backwards as the door frame splintered.

The room was a library. It was unlit, but enough illumination came through the arched French windows from the lights outside for him to see the balcony beyond. Mitchell had been right about there being enough clearance for a helicopter to hover beside it, but it would be tight.

No time to fiddle with the windows. Instead, he flung Excalibur at them as hard as he could. The sword smashed through, clanging down outside amidst the shattered glass and broken wood. Chase shielded his face and jumped at the broken hole. Jagged glass sliced against one side of his head, but his leather jacket took most of the damage. He shook off the fragments, then snatched up the sword and pointed the Desert Eagle back at the library’s door.

No sign of the chopper. He glanced over the balcony’s side. Dozens of expensive cars were parked below. On the front lawn, mostly hidden behind the mansion, was the glossy black tail of a helicopter.

A shadow in the doorway. Chase fired as another of Vaskovich’s guards rushed through. The bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him like a top.

Dominika jumped through the door behind him, gun blazing. The remaining windows burst apart. Chase dropped into a clumsy roll as bullets chipped the stonework of the balcony wall behind him. He fired a wild shot. The Russian woman rolled too, far more gracefully, dropping her now empty pistol and taking the wounded guard’s weapon in a single smooth movement.

Only two bullets left in the Desert Eagle. Maybe Mitchell had a point about his choice of weapon after all . . .

The helicopter suddenly roared into view overhead. A gale scattered glass fragments across the balcony as it swept past, nose tipping up sharply in a hard braking manoeuvre. It wheeled round, turning side-on to the mansion and slipping back towards it.

Chase had lost sight of Dominika in the darkened library. But she was there somewhere, waiting to strike.

The helicopter, a small MD 500 with a rounded, almost egg-shaped fuselage, moved closer. Its strobing navigation lights lit up the balcony like silent explosions. He could see Mitchell in the pilot’s seat, eyes flicking between him and the yellow-painted tips of the rotor blades, judging the distance to the mansion wall. Fifteen feet, ten, the blades perilously close to the wall . . .

Movement: acid-blond hair streaking past the broken windows—

Chase blasted off his penultimate shot as Dominika ran across the library, muzzle flashes searing a dotted line across his vision.

But she wasn’t aiming at him.

The helicopter’s aluminium skin bucked as bullets cratered the thin metal, the Plexiglas windows cracking. The aircraft lurched. Chase thought Mitchell had been hit, but he recovered, only startled. The American mouthed words at him, voice drowned out by the engine noise. Come on!

Chase looked back at the library. Dominika was in cover past the windows. He only had one bullet left. And she had a much bigger target to aim at.

The MD 500 swayed drunkenly, buffeted by its own backwash from the building as well as whatever damage Dominika had inflicted. It drifted away from the balcony despite its pilot’s attempts to hold it.

Running out of time . . .

Chase vaulted on to the stone balustrade - and jumped.

Excalibur clutched in his left hand, he slammed against the helicopter’s port landing skid, hooking his right arm over it. The Desert Eagle dropped away, spinning down to smash like a hammer through the windscreen of a Lamborghini parked below. The whole chopper was shaking from the impact, Mitchell battling to compensate for the extra weight swinging from one side.

Dominika sprang out of the library and emptied her clip into the helicopter’s cabin.

A bullet slashed across the top of Mitchell’s thigh. He yelled, reflexively jerking his leg against the anti-torque pedal. The MD 500 spun round anticlockwise, the cockpit for a moment head-on to the balcony, presenting him as a perfect target—

But the gun’s slide had locked back. Dominika was out of ammo. The little helicopter kept turning before Mitchell fought past the pain and regained control of the tail rotor, countering the spin with the other pedal. The chopper had made almost a half-turn, its starboard side facing the balcony, hovering less than ten feet from the edge.

Chase hung from the port skid. He saw Dominika looking back at him. She dropped the useless gun, tensed . . . and leapt from the balcony.

She caught the starboard skid with both hands, swinging from it like a gymnast - and kicked Chase in the chest.

Air whooshed from his lungs as he was knocked back, the crook of his elbow slipping off the skid. He dropped, just managing to clamp his hand round the metal tube. His headset jolted loose, following his gun down to earth. Gasping, he swung helplessly, the sword a dead weight in his other hand.

Dominika pulled herself up, wrapping her legs around the skid as the MD 500 finally steadied and began to climb.

Gunfire crackled from below. Not pistols, but automatic weapons. A couple of shots hit the chopper’s belly before the firing stopped - someone had spotted Dominika. Chase risked a look down. Guards were running round the corner of the mansion; he saw Kruglov amongst them, pointing up at him.

The helicopter kept rising, wheeling about to fly back over the building. Chase saw the lights of Moscow in the distance as it straightened out. He fought against the blasting rotor downwash as he tried to pull himself up, glancing across at Dominika - who reached between her legs, under the hem of her dress, and pulled out a glinting knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh.

Nina stood in the lobby, a couple of dozen people crowding around her. A few seconds earlier, the noise of the helicopter coming through the earpiece had abruptly stopped, followed by gunfire from outside.

Had Chase been hit? She had no way of knowing. Vaskovich, Kruglov and Maximov had pushed through the nervous crowd shortly before, the host apparently telling everyone to remain in the building and stay calm. The guests had obeyed at first, but now some of them wanted to get the hell out of the place as quickly as possible. Several men near the exit came to a rapid agreement and threw open the doors.

It was as if a plug had been pulled from a bathtub: everyone surged for the exit, crushing together in the entrance before spilling outside. Nina fought to stay on her feet as she was jostled from all sides. Cold air hit her face, blowing away the fug of smoke. She was through the door—

A hand locked round her arm and pulled her fiercely aside. Maximov glared at her, a frown creasing the bandage covering his forehead. He dragged her across the steps as the fleeing guests hurried down them.

Vaskovich was waiting for her, flanked by a pair of armed guards. ‘Hello again, Nina,’ he said coldly. ‘Nina Wilde. I thought there was something familiar about you - but you look very different tonight from your Time magazine cover.’

Kruglov ran up the steps. He glanced at Nina, eyebrows flicking up as he finally recognised her, then spoke to Vaskovich. ‘Chase has the sword - he jumped on to the helicopter. I’m sure it was Mitchell flying it. And Leonid - Dominika went after him! She’s hanging on the skid.’

Vaskovich looked across the lawn, seeing the military helicopter waiting on the grass. ‘Where the hell is that idiot Mishkin? Get him here, now!’

Kruglov shouted orders, and barely fifteen seconds later Mishkin was escorted to the group by more guards. Nina saw that his once-slick hair was now dishevelled, and that he had a large damp patch running from his crotch down both legs. He stared wide-eyed and sweating at Vaskovich.

‘That English bastard has just been picked up by a helicopter!’ Vaskovich told him. ‘I must have the sword back. Whatever it takes.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ Mishkin asked, flustered. Vaskovich rolled his eyes, then pointed at his helicopter. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Is it armed?’

‘I - I suppose—’

‘Then tell your pilot to get the damn thing into the air! Now!’ Mishkin turned and started for the chopper; he looked back as Vaskovich shouted after him. ‘Don’t shoot it down unless you have to - I don’t want to risk losing the sword, and one of my people is aboard. But if anything happens to her . . .’ He left the command unspoken. ‘Just tell your man that recovering the sword is more important than anything else. Go!’

Mishkin nodded and ran across the lawn. The pilot was already in his seat, having sprinted for the helicopter at the first sound of gunfire, ready to respond. He listened to Mishkin’s shouted orders, gave him a thumbs-up and closed the cockpit canopy, running through the emergency start-up sequence. The aircraft came to life, the stacked rotor blades starting to move.

They turned in opposite directions, their counter-rotation eliminating the need for a tail rotor and making the helicopter faster, more manoeuvrable. More deadly. It was no mere transport, but a gunship, a high-tech Kamov Ka-52 ‘Alligator’ designed to hunt down and destroy whatever targets were offered it.

Including other helicopters.

Nina watched in horror as the war machine left the ground, hanging malevolently like a glittering black locust before turning and powering away after the other helicopter.

After Chase.

26

The MD 500 roared over the outskirts of Moscow. Glowing night-time streets swept past below, apartment blocks glinting like jewellery boxes in the dark. Chase would have found the view impressive - if it hadn’t been unrolling beneath his dangling feet.

The helicopter wasn’t holding a steady course, jinking as it flew. He didn’t know if it was because of damage to the machine or its pilot. Without the headset he had no way to communicate with Mitchell short of climbing up and banging on a window.

And Dominika wasn’t going to allow that.

She was wrapped almost cat-like round the starboard skid, the knife in one hand. The skids were about six feet apart, putting him just out of reach of her blade.

For now.

He hung by his weakening right hand, the sword in his left, pounded by the rotor blast from above and the slipstream as the chopper raced across the city. To get back up he would need to swing and hook a leg over the skid - and when he did, he would be within range of Dominika at full stretch. All she had to do was stab an artery, slash a tendon, and he would fall.

But he had no choice. Much longer, and he would fall anyway . . .

He kicked, swinging Excalibur at the same time for extra momentum. His foot swiped out, well short of the skid, then fell back. He tried again, this time swinging higher, but still not high enough.

Dominika watched him, shifting position. Ready to attack.

Chase kicked again. His hand slipped slightly on the skid. This time the side of his foot banged against it - only to drop away again. He fell back down, palm slick with sweat against the cold metal. Another slip, further. He tried to tighten his grip, but he had nothing to push against.

And he saw a new danger, closing fast from behind. Another helicopter. Even against the dark sky he could see it had twin rotors, the ghostly circles of the blades pulsing with each flash of the navigation lights.

The only people who flew co-axial helicopters, he knew, were the Russian military. They’d sent a fucking gunship after him!

After the sword. The Kamov wasn’t trying to stop them - it was tracking them. Wherever the sword went, it would pursue.

And the wounded MD 500 couldn’t fly for ever.

His hand slipped again. If he didn’t get a better hold on the skid in the next few seconds, he never would.

Swinging again, metal slithering through his fingers—

His right heel hooked over the skid. With the last of his strength, Chase yelled and pulled up his other leg. He just managed to sweep it over the landing gear as his grip finally gave way.

Moscow rolled inverted beneath him as he hung by his legs, leather jacket flapping violently around his shoulders. The empty holster and heavy spare magazine batted against his chest. Straining, he swung both arms and bent at the waist to pull his body up.

The sword clanged against the skid. He twisted his left wrist to hook the cross-guard round the landing gear. With a firmer hold, he was able to haul himself up, right hand clamping once more round the metal. He let out a breath of relief—

The tip of Dominika’s knife stabbed into his forearm.

Chase lost his grip, injured right arm flailing in the wind. He looked across at Dominika. She was gripping the support connecting her skid to the fuselage with one hand, stretching out across the gap to jab at him again.

He pulled his bloodied arm away across his chest, the knife tearing another slash in the leather just below his shoulder. Another stab, falling mere millimetres short.

She switched her attention to the sword. With the cross-guard taking Chase’s weight, he didn’t dare move it until he could regain his grip with his right hand. Which he couldn’t do as long as she had the knife.

And Dominika knew it. Her sour face for the first time displayed what was almost a smile beneath her wind-whipped yellow hair. She swung her blade at the sword, metal clashing against metal, jarring Chase’s left hand.

Clang. Another hit. And another. The hilt began to slide through his grasp, a little more with each blow.

If the sword dropped, the gunship would go after it. If she caught it, Vaskovich had his prize. Either way, Chase would fall.

Clang. Clang. The sword jolted in his hand. His little finger reached the end of the hilt and clutched around nothing. Dominika stretched out further, loosening the grip of her legs to extend her reach. Clang. He felt his ring finger slip over the rounded end of the handle.

The Russian drew back her arm for a final swing—

And Chase tore the spare magazine from his holster strap and hurled it into her face.

Even though it only contained seven bullets, the .50-calibre magazine was still over half a pound of hard-edged steel and copper and lead cracking against the bridge of her nose.

Blood gushing from her nostrils, Dominika convulsed in pain, and her legs slipped off the landing skid. She screamed, her left hand wrenched from the support as she dropped - to catch the skid by her fingertips. Lighter than Chase, she was hit harder by the wind as she dangled precariously from the helicopter. The knife fell away as she tried to reach up with her right hand, but safety was just beyond her reach.

Chase stretched out his right arm, scrabbling for grip, finding it. He pulled himself back up and finally managed to hook an arm round the skid. Painfully dragging himself over the top, he looked across at Dominika.

She hung by one hand, desperately clawing with the other . . . Clang.

Excalibur’s gleaming edge was just an inch from her fingers.

Dominika turned her head towards Chase. He was now leaning across the gap just as she had done . . . but his blade was much longer than hers. Her eyes filled with terror as she realised what he was about to do. ‘Nyet! NYET!’

He stared coldly back, no mercy in his gaze as he slowly swung Excalibur away from her, the flat of the sword grating along the skid. He leaned closer so she could hear him.

‘This is for Mitzi.’

The sword sliced back.

Dominika’s severed fingers flashed through the beam of the helicopter’s navigation light, then were gone, falling with the screaming assassin as she plunged hundreds of feet to burst on the unforgiving streets below.

But Chase’s problems weren’t over.

A laser-like streak of fire burned past, a harsh chainsaw rasp coming from behind. The Kamov was letting rip with its 30mm cannon. With Dominika gone, there was nothing to restrain the pilot.

But he wasn’t trying to shoot down the MD 500. If he had, it would have been destroyed already. He was aiming specifically at Chase.

‘Shit!’ Chase gasped. Only his helicopter’s twitchy flightpath had saved him, the cannon shells passing less than a foot below as the MD 500 bobbed. But if even a single shell struck him, whatever body part it hit would instantly be reduced to a red mist - and Excalibur would fall.

The helicopter banked hard, almost throwing Chase from the skid. Mitchell had seen the tracer fire and was taking evasive action, rolling into a rapid descent.

The Kamov pursued. The MD 500 was nimble - but the much larger Alligator could match it move for move.

Chase knew what Mitchell was doing: if he dropped down close to street level, he could fly between the apartment buildings and use them for cover. Unless the Kamov’s pilot was a psychopath, it would keep his finger off the trigger.

But they had to reach them first . . .

Another brief burst of fire lashed past, the shells arcing away into the distance. The helicopter continued its twisting descent. Chase struggled to keep hold, wrapping his arms round the connecting strut. He realised he was just below the cockpit door, the handle tantalisingly close.

The MD 500 levelled out, G-forces squashing Chase against the skid. An apartment block whipped past, its roof above him. Mitchell was flying down a street, barely clearing the streetlights and telephone cables as he weaved from side to side to make himself a harder target. The Kamov was still behind them, but flying higher, waiting to pounce.

Chase pulled himself up, peering over the bottom of the large window in the oval door. Mitchell was on the opposite side of the cockpit, a smear of blood on his thigh, eyes fixed on the view ahead.

The Alligator’s pilot had been deterred from firing, but he would still follow them wherever they went. And if they tried to land so Chase could flee on foot, he would have them.

Mitchell turned sharply, sweeping the helicopter round into another street. The movement banged Chase’s head against the door. Mitchell glanced round at the unexpected noise, eyes widening in surprise as he saw him. The Kamov pursued, not fooled by its target’s sudden change of course.