Buccaneer

Chapter 6

Morgan plucked the phone from its receiver on the first blink. Her sisters never answered immediately, thinking it a subtle way of showing they had more important things to do than to take a telephone call. She brooked no such nonsense. She was a firm believer in immediate, positive action in all things, even the smallest.

“Yes?”

“Locke is here, Ma’am. He wishes to speak with you if you will consent.”

“Of course.” She hung up the phone, closed the file folder she had been reviewing, and stared expectantly at the door, which opened a moment later. Jacob knew her philosophy on wasting time, and made a point not to do so. He appeared in the doorway, his shaved, black head gleaming in the artificial light, and his broad shoulders filling the door frame. He gave her a respectful nod and stood aside for Locke.

The two could not have been more different. Where Jacob, formerly of the Elite Royal Marines, was built like a bull, the tawny-haired Locke was lean like a puma and moved with the deadly grace of one of the big cats. Formerly of MI-6, his whiskey-colored eyes shone with intelligence. Every member of her personal staff was an asset, mentally and physically, and he was her top man.

“Ma’am,” he said without preamble, as was always her expectation, “we have a potential lead on the Kidd chests.”

She felt her entire body tense. Locke often surprised her with information, but nothing of this magnitude.

“How strong a lead?”

“We can’t be certain yet. Someone in Canada posted a query on a message board. He claims to have been tipped off by a researcher who gave him the location of one of the chests. An agent in the area is following up on it as we speak.”

“A message board? I assume the post is gone?”

“We actually took down the entire site. We’ll restore it, the post in question deleted, of course, after we’ve investigate the claim. Could be a crackpot.” He sounded doubtful.

“For three centuries we have suppressed every mention we could find of these chests. It is not something one would accidentally stumble upon.” She turned in her chair and gazed out the window. Truro lacked the size and bustle of London, and she liked it that way, but the modern world intruded here too. There was too little appreciation for the old ways, and old powers. “I want you there. Depart as soon as possible.”

“As you wish. Should I wait until after your training session?”

“Jacob can train with me today.” Morgan turned around just in time to see the ghost of a smile play across Locke’s face. Jacob hated their training sessions. He was averse to striking a woman, which was a fatal weakness Morgan exploited to its full extend. Locke had no such compunction, but this task was more important.

“There is something else.” His hesitation was so brief that none but Morgan would have noticed. “A potential complication.”

“What?” Her word cracked like a whip as suspicion sent hot prickles down her spine.

“Two others viewed the post before we eliminated it. I traced the ip addresses. One is an American from a small town in the south. A bit of a nutter who blogs about Bigfoot and aliens and the like.”

“Erase him and his internet presence.” Morgan would not accept even the tiniest risk of the legend of the chest spreading across the internet.

“Already done,” Locke said. “It was a house fire. Truly, those so-called mobile homes are veritable death traps.”

“Very good. And the second person to see the post?”

“That one is problematic. It took a great deal of doing, but I traced the source to Germany. BÜren, to be precise.”

Morgan froze. “Wewelsburg?”

“I cannot say for certain, but…” Locke shrugged.

“Herrschaft,” Morgan whispered. “We must assume they have the same information we do.” Her eyes met Locke’s. “We will get there first.”

“It will be as you say. Anything else before I go?”

“No, that will be all.”

Morgan returned to her desk as Locke saw himself out. She performed a series of calming mental exercises to slow her racing heart, opening her eyes when she was, once again, her serene, rational self.

She gazed at the family portrait on the far wall. How unlike sisters they looked — Tamsin, a raven haired beauty, Rhiannon, with her coppery tresses and emerald eyes, and Morgan, a blue-eyed blonde. They were not sisters by blood, only distant cousins, but they were bound by something deeper. How she longed to call the assembly and deliver the news that a chest had been found. Soon, perhaps, she would be able to do just that. But not until it was in her possession. To tip her hand too soon would be an unnecessary risk. Her position at the top of the order was strong, but she was not immune to the machinations of her Sisters.

She struggled to return to her work, but her duties as director of the British History Museum suddenly seemed mundane, even trivial, in light of what her people might soon uncover. Rock-hard discipline overrode any distractions, and she made quick work of her list of emails and telephone messages. She then took a half-hour to compose a carefully crafted opinion piece for The Times in which she questioned, but did not criticize, the Prime Minister’s position on a key budget item.

Since being elevated to the leadership of the Sisterhood, she had used her connections to gradually raise her public profile, carefully crafting the image of one who took great pride in her nation’s heritage and fought for its history without being perceived as backward. Though never presenting herself as having any interest in politics, her name was already being bandied about as a candidate for Parliament, even Prime Minister. Her aspirations, of course, were higher.

By the time she’d sent her submission to the editor, she could no longer curb the flow of energy that coursed through her. She buzzed Jacob.

“Close the offfice and meet me in the fitness room.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He almost managed to cover his tone of resignation. The fitness room was never fun for him.

Smiling, she tapped in a code on her telephone keypad and watched as the painting on the far wall, “Le Morte D’Arthur” by James Archer, slid to the side, revealing her private collection of weapons. Morgan’s eyes swept lovingly across the sharp, gleaming blades and angry spikes. She excelled at hand fighting and with firearms, but medieval weaponry was her true love. She selected a long sword and held it out in a two-handed grip, savoring its weight and balance. With a step and a twist, she sliced a whistling arc through the air. Yes, this was the one.

She caught sight of her distorted reflection in the blade. Like this image, the world did not yet see her for what she truly was, but they would. Oh yes, soon they would know.