The Camelot Code

81

It is the middle of the night when Myrddin hears Sir Owain’s helicopter land in a distant part of the grounds.

He eases his tired bones from the straw-packed mattress, stands by the window slit and watches blinking lights illuminate the dark sky. He doesn’t have to look at a clock to know it’s an hour before dawn. He’s spent countless decades telling the time by the stars, the moon and the sun.

Myrddin wraps himself up and shuffles down the spiral staircase to his rooms.

Owain always comes here first.

Even though it’s summer, the stone chambers are chilly so he stoops before the great hearth and sets light to paper, straw and kindling. He sits and watches red and orange tongues hungrily lick the dry vanilla-coloured wood logs.

There’s a polite thump on the door.

‘Come in.’

Metal locks clunk. Oak creaks. A dishevelled Sir Owain enters, a bag in each hand, his hair blown wild by the helicopter’s rotors. ‘I hoped you would be up.’ He smiles appreciatively.

‘As if it would be otherwise. Put those down and come sit by the fire with me.’

‘Do you have any water?’ He takes off his jacket and heads to one of two hard chairs set either side of the blaze.

‘I drew some from the well, last night.’ Myrddin reaches to a rough wood side table and tips a terracotta jug until crystal clear liquid fills a matching beaker.

Owain takes it and remembers he’s been drinking sweet fresh water from this ancient spring since he was a child.

Myrddin waits for him to finish. ‘Has Jennifer spoken to you of matters of the Cycle?’

‘No. She cannot bring herself to do so. But she carries the secret in her eyes. I saw it in Glastonbury and felt her pain in trying to hide it.’

‘These are tough times.’ He looks to the roaring flames. ‘The most vicious of fires forges the strongest steel.’

‘Vicious is a good description of my dilemma. My wife is pregnant with our first child, and instead of preparing for the birth of my son I must prepare for my death. And, to add insult to such fatal injury, in the white heat of this pain I must hammer out a new love for her.’

‘Such is the way of the Cycle.’

‘Then forgive me, but I wish it were not this way.’ He laughs sadly. ‘Have we picked well, Myrddin? Is Lance truly the man I hope he is, one who can protect her and my son?’

‘He will become that man. Fate decrees it and I will ensure it.’

‘Thank you.’ Owain looks at the grey light pressing the windows. ‘Enough of this now. I am stuffed to bursting with pains of the heart.’ He picks up a gnarled log and throws it on the fire then settles back in the chair. ‘Talk to me about other things. Of life and memories. Anything but our never-ending duties and what is expected of us. I shall spend the rest of the night here with you and will return to the house when a new day has broken and prepare for the meeting with the Blood Line.’

82

Jet-lagged and hungry, Mitzi sips coffee and watches dawn break, not in all its glory, but in shabby shades of nicotine and burned orange.

She’s come out on the roof garden of the hotel for fresh air, her eyes fixed south towards the Thames but her mind on events thousands of miles away. Her children: one sick and needing her, the other angry and not wanting her. Her sister: lonely and confused because her heart’s been broken. Her ex: violent and troublesome, but still the only man she ever loved. Irish: a good soul, ground down by the job, now just bones and skin waiting to be buried. Life seems to go so fast and to do such damage with its speed.

Mitzi returns to her room, makes instant coffee and tries to work out why Sophie Hudson got killed. She has a very good idea what the motive was, but needs to know all the facts before she draws conclusions.

Once her computer’s powered up she reads the full report from Kirstin, then examines JPEGs of the crime scene. Digital shots of turned-out drawers, smashed vases, and emptied containers. Coffee, sugar, chocolate, rice and cereals are spread all over the floors. Sophie’s clothes have been torn to shreds. Including those she was wearing.

Mitzi checks the ME’s report. The girl was badly beaten. Punched both sides of the face. Hit in the stomach and breasts. There are signs of bruising to oral, vaginal and anal cavities.

A rookie might write off the scene as a rape robbery. It looks for all the world like a cokehead came looking for cash and lost sexual control when he found a pretty girl home alone.

But Mitzi knows better.

Whatever swabs have been sent to the labs will come back to show nil semen and nil DNA. She hadn’t been raped, she’d been cavity searched. The bruise patterns around Sophie’s wrists and cotton traces in her mouth indicate she’d been bound, gagged and interrogated by someone ruthlessly looking for something.

Mitzi opens her laptop case and takes out the memory stick.

It has to be this.

Having seen the autopsy pictures she was in no doubt that Sophie had told her torturer that she’d given the stick to the FBI woman. She’d have spat out that particular fact soon after the first punch in the face, but the murderer would have tortured her just to check it right up to her dying breath.

Now he’ll be coming after her.

Either him, or the men who are paying him for his brutal and homicidal skills.

83

Angelo Marchetti wakes in pain.

It had been nearly four a.m. by the time nurses at St Thomas’s finished stitching him up. There’d been a couple of awkward moments. One when he’d needed to drop the triage nurse a fifty-pound note and a story about a jealous husband coming home early to stop her calling the cops. And another when he was leaving and saw an ambulance unloading two of the guys he shot.

Aside from that, he counted his blessings. The wound was only two inches deep and hadn’t hit anything except fat on his hips.

He fumbles in the little white bag the hospital pharmacist gave him and takes two painkillers with the last of the water he’d put on the bedside cabinet. For the next hour, he sleeps. Submerges himself in a soft and healing slumber, glad to be unconscious.

It’s eight o’clock when he comes round and stares at the digital clock that’s also charging his iPhone. He makes it three in the morning in DC, the place where there is one less store assistant sleeping soundly because he paid for her to be murdered.

He swings his legs out of bed and blood rushes to his head. He can almost feel the guilt too, growing inside his cranium like a tumour. He knows he mustn’t think about it. He can’t afford to let it eat away at him.

The girl’s a casualty. Collateral damage. Nothing else.

But the harder Marchetti tries to blot her out, the more her ghost haunts him.

He staggers to the bathroom and looks at the blood-soaked patch around his hip. He wishes he’d been killed last night. Wishes those punks had got their shit together and put him out of his misery.

He runs the shower and tries to face up to what he has to do.

Today is the start of another day. Another series of bold steps in the quicksand of sin. And unless he gets what he needs, at least another murder to blacken his soul.

84

Bronty knuckle-raps Mitzi’s door to walk her to breakfast.

She ushers him in with the overnight news: ‘Sophie Hudson, Goldman’s assistant, got killed in her apartment.’

‘When?’ He shuts the door behind him.

‘Yesterday. I got a call from DC Police just before I went to sleep. Tortured and neck broken. Pro job by the look of the autopsy shots. Twist and snap, it’s much harder to do than they show on TV.’

He flinches. ‘Too graphic, Mitzi. I don’t do death this side of coffee and carbs.’

‘I figure someone’s after the stick she gave me.’ She hands him two sheets of paper that she ran off in the business lounge more than an hour ago. ‘Top page is a copy of the transcript Vicks sent us last night. Underneath is a new fragment she just mailed through from the cryptologists.’

Bronty lowers the paper and sees Mitzi waiting for his opinion. ‘Without seeing much text it’s difficult to know what to make of this. I could easily jump to foolish assumptions and—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bronty! People got killed for this. Just tell me what you think without all the lawyery cop-out crap.’

‘Okay.’ He holds the paper so she can see it and slides his finger over a line. ‘Here the writer claims to be a sorcerer.’ He stabs another paragraph. ‘And here he expoundsThe Arthurian Cycle and its role in the universe. The author goes on to claim he is the sorcerer who made “the true king”. He says he cast him in the image of man. Created him like a circle of iron that has no beginning and no end.’ He pauses to see if she’s making the connections on her own. ‘Does any of this sound familiar to you?’

‘Yeah, I’m thinking about superheroes, Iron Man in particular and how cute Robert Downey Junior is.’

‘Think God instead of Hollywood.’

‘You’re going to have to explain that to me.’

‘Forget King Arthur for a minute, this is a tale of God the Father — he is the sorcerer, and Jesus Christ the true king. It is about how Jesus was created by a divine power, how he died but never died, how he rose and is still among us. How some people believe in him and others think he’s just the stuff of legend, myth and fairy tale.’

‘Shit. Really?’ Mitzi takes the paper from him. ‘You really see that?’

‘Was Christ not the King of Kings, the one true King?’

She plays devil’s advocate. ‘Not to everyone.’

‘But you get my drift?’

‘Drift a little more, so I’m certain.’

‘Well, perhaps what’s on that memory stick isn’t a stack of stories about some old king and his knights. It could be that Arthur was just another name for Jesus and what you have here, concealed in centuries of code, is an extract from an unknown gospel. Now, think how precious that would be.’

85

Blossom blows across the courtyard as Owain makes his way from Myrddin’s quarters to the main part of the castle.

Ahead of him, lost in thought, is Lance Beaucoup. His head down as he walks, Owain is sure his mind is on Jennifer and what kind of future lies ahead for them.

‘Bonjour,’ he says when only a yard away.

Lance turns in shock. His eyes glisten with guilt. He quickly tries to recover his composure. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Good morning, when did you get back from London?’

‘Just in,’ Owain lies. ‘I wanted to make an early start because we have the Blood Line meeting this afternoon.’

Lance glances at his watch. ‘Some of the older members arrived yesterday evening. I heard them talk of going to watch the new recruits training, then a walk down to the lake.’

Owain smiles. ‘It brings back memories for them. As it will for you one day.’

He laughs and relaxes a little. ‘I want to forget my training. All those weeks out in the wild with nothing to eat or drink.’ He pulls a face. ‘Give me a five-star hotel and fine dining any day.’

‘I agree. Though I now have to take care I don’t turn too soft in my older years.’

They walk together along the foot of the castle wall and Lance makes small talk. ‘How were things in London? As chaotic as I imagine?’

‘Almost. The Cabinet is next to useless and the Prince of Wales wanted to see me twice a day for updates on the Eurostar bombing.’

Lance opens a door from the courtyard to the southern wing. ‘An over-interested patron is not always the best thing.’

Owain walks inside. ‘Interest, no matter how intense, is always better than a lack of interest.’

‘Je comprends.’

‘HRH also wants to join our Inner Circle.’

‘Figuratively?’

‘No. He really wants to take part, to get involved.’

Lance stops walking. ‘What did you tell him?’

Owain halts as well. ‘That I would put it forward for consideration.’

‘And are you in favour?’

‘I’m still deciding.’ He starts them walking again. ‘As well as his considerable wealth, which as you know is an important weapon in any war, the prince has enormous domestic and international influence.’

‘Today’s influence turns into tomorrow’s interference.’

‘You may be right.’ Owain changes the subject. ‘Were you with Jennifer last night?’ He lets the question hang until he sees his colleague tense up. ‘Only I called her mobile and she didn’t answer, and I couldn’t get through on the landline.’

Lance has to hide his anxiety. ‘Yes. I saw her for dinner. We were with Myrddin. I didn’t hear any phone call.’

‘How strange.’ He changes his tone. ‘You know that when I am not here, I really count on you looking after her. You realize that, don’t you, Lance?’

His heart thumps hard. ‘I do.’

Owain gives him a hearty shoulder punch. ‘Good man. I knew I could trust you.’

86

The hotel receptionist finishes dealing with an elderly Chinese couple, and then manages a welcoming smile for the smart-suited executive next in line. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

The dark-haired visitor looks at her name badge as he produces his ID. ‘I hope you can, Kata. I’m DCI Mark Warman from the Metropolitan Police. Can I see your manager, please?’

The young Hungarian presses a button beneath the desk. ‘I get him for you.’

‘Thanks.’ He senses a personal nervousness beyond any that his request should have prompted. Fortunately for her, he’s not interested in checking her immigration papers.

A portly man appears, dressed in a brown wool suit that looks at least a size too small. He straightens his tie and introduces himself. ‘Jonathan Dunbar, hotel manager. You asked to see me?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He edges away from queuing guests and is joined by a young woman in her thirties who’s been hanging back. He shows his credentials again. ‘DCI Warman. DS Jackson and I are from SO15, the counter-terrorism unit. We have an interest in two of your guests.’

Dunbar’s face turns pale.

‘Americans,’ adds Jackson. She produces two photographs from inside her lightweight red blazer. ‘The woman is Mitzi Fallon, a brunette in her late thirties. Her colleague is Jon Bronty, a thin man, with chestnut hair.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ he says nervously. ‘They checked in yesterday. They had FBI credentials.’

She smiles understandingly. ‘Credentials aren’t always genuine. Are they here now?’

‘I really don’t know. I’ll have to find out.’

Warman’s eyes grow intense. ‘Don’t tell them we’re here. We don’t want things to get … how shall we say… complicated.’ He opens his jacket slightly, lets Dunbar see the Met-issue pistol in its holster.

The manager scurries back behind the front desk. He talks to the receptionist, checks a computer then returns. ‘They’ve just left. No more than ten minutes ago.’

Warman looks relieved. ‘Can you take us to their rooms?’

Dunbar seems surprised. ‘Certainly.’ Then his left eye twitches nervously. ‘You don’t think there are explosives in there, do you?’

‘Highly unlikely. If we did, we’d have the bomb squad with us.’

‘Right.’ He stands frozen to the spot.

‘Now can you take us, please?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He jumps into action. ‘I have a master key. Follow me.’

They ride the elevator to the top floor and Dunbar strides down the carpeted corridor ahead of them. ‘Rooms 602 and 604 are theirs.’ He slips a key card into both slots and pushes the doors open. ‘Do you need me to come in with you?’

‘No, that’s not necessary, sir,’ says Warman. ‘Not unless you wish to?’

‘Er, no. No thank you. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ He smiles and walks away.

Warman pulls his pistol and checks it. ‘Ten minutes, then we have to be out of here.’

Jackson nods.

‘We don’t want to give that dope long enough to think about actually calling the Yard and checking our credentials.’

87

To Mitzi’s dismay, there’s still no DNA profile from the water bottle she stole from George Dalton at Gwyn’s office.

There’s more than a hint of fear in Annie Linklatter’s voice as she promises, ‘I’ll have it by the end of the day.’

Mitzi gives her a parting glower and returns to the small office she and Bronty have commandeered.

The ex-priest looks up from his spread of papers and maps. ‘Any luck?’

‘Don’t freakin’ well ask. The Brits move at a pace that predates modern civilization.’

He laughs at her. ‘She’s American.’

‘No matter. It’s being over here that’s made her slow. What are you doing?’

‘Come and see.’ He flattens out a large Ordnance Survey map and places a page of A4 paper next to it. ‘I’ve been thinking about this passage of text in The Fallen: It is hereby decreed that in the homeland the place of rest will for ever be where the great Celts cross and where the bards stand alone to deliver their eulogies.’

She reads it and then confesses, ‘Aside from the Celtic cross, it means nothing to me.’

‘I don’t think it means cross as in crucifix. I think it refers to a point where Celtic clans or borders crossed, the Irish and the Welsh cross.’

‘A physical place.’

He taps the map. ‘Here. It’s a place that the Knights Templar once owned.’

She stares at a fingernail of an island off the west coast of Britain. ‘Lundy? I’ve never heard of it.’

Bronty looks animated. ‘This might well be where holy knights were buried. It’s the spot where the Celtic Sea hits the Bristol Channel.’

Mitzi studies the map. ‘The place looks tiny. It can’t be more than five miles long and maybe a mile wide?’

‘Less than that. The text refers to “…where the bards stand alone to deliver their eulogies…”, well there’s a cemetery out there and I can’t imagine a more isolated place in Europe to say kind words over the body of a fallen brother.’ He moves to the computer. ‘Now look at what I found.’ He pulls up a web page featuring the island. ‘Lundy is owned by the National Trust and leased to the Landmark Trust, to protect it from being built on or exploited.’

‘So?’

‘Look at the bottom.’

Mitzi reads aloud, ‘“British diplomat Sir Owain Gwyn is a leading contributor to both Trusts and a patron of numerous Lundy support groups.”’

‘So, if there are secrets out there,’ says Bronty, ‘then Gwyn is well positioned to protect them.’

‘You need go snoop. How far away is it from here?’

‘I feared you’d say that. It’s a good two hundred miles and a ferry boat ride.’

Mitzi smiles. ‘You better get booking your trip, then.’

88

Members of the Blood Line have come from all over Britain, France and Belgium, the old countries that produced the original knights and centuries-long allegiances that constituted the Round Table.

Each of the honoured warriors shows no documentation at the armed checkpoints. Instead, their fingers are pricked by SSOA guards at the lodge gates and blood matched on special DNA passes that both they and the security teams hold. Once ID’d by haematology, Knights of the Blood Line are given complete freedom of the castle and its grounds.

A small group winds its way to the woods, where newly recruited knights are trained in hand-to-hand combat by former SAS commanders. Nearby, bursts of gunfire crackle inside a single-storey row of outbuildings. Every member of the Blood Line has done his or her time inside the dense labyrinth of darkened rooms where simulated hostage recovery operations are staged.

Back at the castle, Owain Gwyn enters Keep Hall and settles at the middle of one of four exceptionally long tables butted together to form not a circle but a perfect square. A hundred and fifty high-back thrones are arranged symmetrically. Each bears the individual family crest of a member.

The one behind Owain’s head shows a white shield and on it a red cross, identical in shape to crosses laid on the bodies of fallen knights. In the top left quadrant is an open-mouthed red dragon. In the bottom right, a large brown bear. The other two are filled with three golden crowns and a round wooden table.

Owain looks up from the centuries-old, wooden-bound book that is spread open before him. Old timers are filtering in for the meeting. They’re always the first. The new Bloods will predictably breeze in, ruddy-cheeked, just in the nick of time.

The head of the SSOA leaves his seat and shakes the hands of Terry Lyons, descendant of Tristram de Lyones and Gerry Erbin, descendant of Sir Geraint. Others form an orderly queue behind them and Owain spends the next fifteen minutes personally welcoming every member of the Blood Line.

Finally, Myrddin enters, and as is his custom and right, he locks the great doors of the hall by jamming a broadsword through the hoops of two iron handles and takes his seat by the door.

Owain Gwyn looks across the vast tables to the faces of the great and the good. A hundred and fifty men and women whose ancestors lived and died for their common belief in freedom and fairness.

‘Great members of the Blood Line, I thank you for travelling long and far to come here to our home at such short notice. My dear friends and colleagues, you know I wouldn’t ask for this assembly if it wasn’t to discuss matters of a most extraordinary nature.’ He watches seriousness creep across faces, notes the tension in tightly folded arms and fidgeting hands. ‘You know from the Watch Team bulletins the growing threats our countries face. And you know, too, of how our operational knights are fighting the old enemy Mardrid as he pays organizations like al-Qaeda to sow the seeds of discontent so he may reap the rewards of a bloody harvest. As this man increases his power base in the developed world, so too does he exploit the poorest nations, where he is using thuggery to rob generations of their future.’

Mutters break out among the venerable members, many of whom are old enough to remember the atrocities Mardrid’s father and grandfather carried out in Ethiopia, Uganda and Rhodesia.

Owain waits until they grow quiet, then continues. ‘The Inner Circle asks for you to ratify their decision to send crusaders to Africa to ensure no free man, woman or child falls victim to Mardrid, his men or machinations. Two hundred of our knights are on standby to enter Togo, the scene of Mardrid-initiated rape, murder, torture and arson. A thousand more are being mustered as we speak.’

Percy del Graal, descendant of Sir Percivale, raises his hand. ‘Has NATO been informed, Sir Owain?’

‘They have been appraised. None of the treaty members is stirred enough to send its own troops. Country defence budgets are cut to the bone. We have the tacit approval of the General Secretary.’ He looks around the tables. ‘Any more questions?’

Heads shake.

‘Then, great members of the Blood Line, I respectfully ask you to favour the Inner Circle’s decree in the form of the crusade I proposed. Do I have your support?’

All one hundred and fifty members clench their fists and put hands to their hearts.

‘I thank you one and all.’ Owain dips a quill into an inkpot and records the vote in the great ledger laid before him and adds the date, his name and his own seal. He carefully blots the entry, downs the ancient pen and returns his gaze to the assembled members.

‘Dear friends, there is one other reason why I asked you here today.’ Unexpectedly, he feels emotional. He catches his heart thump and his throat dry. He looks to Myrddin and sees the old man wiping an eye. Across the tables, others are already discreetly touching their faces. Owain forces a brave smile and soldiers on. ‘I see some of you have guessed what I am about to say. The gates of Avalon are opening for me and I am readying myself for that great journey.’ There are gasps but he daren’t look up to put faces to sounds. ‘Today may be the last time I stand here with you, the last chance I have to thank you for your friendship—’

Someone shouts, ‘No! It is too soon.’

He halts the emotion with a raised hand. ‘I wish that were the case. I am afraid, the hour is always later than we think. May God bless you and protect you and your families, and may your blood lines run rich and run long.’

89

Twenty-one-year-old Zachra Korshidi hears them laughing at her as she struggles out of the grocery store.

‘Excuse me, miss. May I speak with you?’

She ignores the smartly dressed man and walks on. All she can think about is how much she hates the burqa and niqab that her parents make her wear. The long sexless cloak and veil are swelteringly hot as she carries the heavy plastic bags along the sidewalk.

‘Just one minute, miss.’ The man walks behind her.

She remembers a time when they let her wear jeans and a T-shirt. When she could cover her hair with a multi-coloured scarf, a nice roosari — but all that’s changed since ‘the boy’.

That’s what her parents called him. Not Javid, or her boyfriend.

The boy.

They said the words like he was a demon. All because they didn’t choose him. Because he was an orphan, with no traditional family, raised in America and full of all the modern values and opinions that they hate.

It’s little wonder she adored him. Loved him with all of her mind, soul and body. And wasn’t afraid to admit it. Privately or publicly.

That was the problem — the final straw.

Admitting to having sex before marriage won’t draw a second glance in New York, but back in Iran, it gets you publicly flogged and possibly executed. And these days, her parents spend most of the time behaving as though they are back in the old country.

She’d have left home and run away with Javid if his younger brother Sadeq hadn’t been in the final stages of leukaemia. Instead, she stayed and her father beat her so badly that for days she was unable to walk.

It was at the same time that Javid disappeared.

He didn’t call or text. He just vanished. He’d either been scared to death or put to death. Either way, she hadn’t heard from him again.

Not seeing him was like the end of her life. She overdosed on her mother’s sleeping pills. After having her stomach pumped at hospital and being told she’d brought even more shame on her family, she was brought home and locked in her bedroom.

Imprisoned.

Then came the chance to redeem herself. To make amends and bring honour back to her family and herself. A glorious suicide instead of a pointless one. That’s how her father put it.

Not surprisingly, when the day came she was frightened. Sick with fear, remorse, regret and rage. Disgusted with the fact that innocent people were going to die along with her. People she had more in common with than her own flesh and blood.

It was a miracle someone else had volunteered.

‘Miss!’

The insistent man is in front of her now. Blocking her way.

He peers into her dark eyes. ‘I’m a friend of the man who saved your life. The man who wore the vest.’

She feels her pulse race and pushes past him.

‘How long will it be, Zachra? How long before they come to you and ask you again? How long, Zachra?’

90

The email on Vicky Cantrell’s computer is from Professor Quinn at the Smithsonian.

Vicky prepares an email for Mitzi and attaches Quinn’s findings. Eleonora Fracci is downtown with the cops on the witchcraft case, so she’s got time to do a bit more digging into the history of Owain Gwyn, his family and company.

She starts with Caledfwlch Ethical Investments and finds the company pre-dates the start of official public records. It’s a generous contributor to more than a dozen British charities, including Natural England, a group that helps the British government manage nature reserves and areas designated as being of special scientific interest.

There are also a number of intriguing connections to the Arthurian legend. Caledfwlch, the company name, turns out to be Welsh for Excalibur and the Gwyn family has large ancestral homes in Wales and Glastonbury, one of the spots where King Arthur and his wife Guinevere were allegedly laid to rest. Glastonbury is the place that Joseph of Arimathea, a central figure in the stories of the Holy Grail, was reputed to have fled to after Jesus had risen from the dead.

Owain’s home in Wales, Caergwyn Castle, is close to the Preseli Mountains and a landmark called Cerrig Marchogion — The Knight’s Stones — another location named as the final resting place of Arthur. The mountains are known for their geology, especially a distinctive bluestone that, according to legend, Arthur’s magician Merlin used to create Stonehenge. Additionally, the ambassador has an extensive personal property portfolio that includes numerous cottages in Tintagel, a south-western town where Arthur is alleged to have been born.

From financial records, Vicky learns that Gwyn has been purchasing sizeable amounts of property and land in Cadbury in Somerset. All the acquisitions are close to the ruins of an ancient Iron Age fort, a place widely reputed to have been the site of Camelot.

Further digging into CEI reveals a span of subsidiaries, including one called ‘CEIDP’, which is run solely by Jennifer Gwyn. At first the researcher believes it’s purely a shell company, but then finds it also has extensive property, land and rights, including ‘water access, research and usage’ at Dozmary Pool in Cornwall. Back in the fifties, the area was declared a site of special scientific interest and access became limited. CEIDP records show it funded extensive research into fish projects and explorations of the pool’s Stone Age history.

Out of curiosity, Vicky searches for legends associated with Dozmary. She finds two. The first is that of Jan Tregeagle, a local lawyer/magistrate who gained money and power by making a pact with the Devil. Inevitably, the Prince of Darkness took his soul and cast his body to the bottom of the lake, from which it came back to haunt villagers.

The second legend is more interesting. Dozmary Pool is claimed to be the home of the Lady of the Lake, the place where King Arthur rowed out and received Excalibur. It’s also the spot where the knight Bedivere returned the sword, after the battle of Camlann where Arthur lay dying.

Head spinning with history and legends, she takes a break and heads to the canteen for lunch. She’s also hoping a certain young man called James Watkins will happen to be there.

A little older than her and built like a linebacker, he’s new to the bureau and drives a desk in IT. Yesterday, they ate side by side and she got goose bumps and hot flushes all at the same time.

She orders tuna salad and takes an eternity eating it, hoping with every mouthful that he might show.

He doesn’t.

After another soda, she’s still sat alone. Dejectedly, she packs her tray in the rack by the door and returns to her work.

Her mood brightens as she searches the background of Lady Gwyn. Boy, does the woman know how to look good. Vicky savours the shots of her in sumptuous ball gowns at charity dinners, sparkling cocktail dresses at VIP parties and even in waterproofs and life vest on a racing yacht.

Her ladyship seems quite the fashionista. A celebrity in her own right. Daughter of Leo Degrance, a rich and influential business tycoon, she went to all the right public schools, became part of the British Equestrian Team, a medal-winning horsewoman and patron of almost a dozen charities.

For fun, Vicky Googles the name Jennifer and is amused to find that it has Cornish and Welsh connections — Jenny the Fair, Gwenhwyfar and Guinevere.

She does the same with the name Owain and, given that’s another roll of the dice in the game of coincidences that she’s playing, expects it to come up as Arthur or King.

It doesn’t.

But in Welsh, the name Owain does mean Young Warrior, which is rewarding enough for her to continue tapping in his name and trawling the net.

Her perseverance is rewarded with a couple of news reports and legal articles that disclose that the British Knight is highly litigious and has taken legal action against innumerable companies and individuals who in his mind have threatened his privacy.

Top of the list is a notoriously eccentric Welsh historian called Rhys Mallory, who had written an unauthorized biography about him. Gwyn also obtained a series of injunctions to prevent Mallory from ‘…in any way conveying any information about the Gwyn family that is not already in the public domain to any individual, group of individuals or data distribution system that can be privately or publicly read, seen, heard or in the instance of braille, felt.’

While Vicky is no detective, she’s smart enough to realize the historian has some sensitive story to tell that the ambassador really doesn’t want anyone to hear. She finds contact details and adds them to the summary paper that she types up and sends to Mitzi and Bronty.

Job done, she decides her hard work is worth a small bar of peppermint cream chocolate. She’s just about to claim her prize when her desk phone rings. ‘Cantrell.’

‘Vicky?’ The voice is the linebacker’s.

Her heart misses a beat. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, it’s James. How you doing?’

She thinks of his easy smile and soft brown eyes and instantly makes herself nervous. ‘I’m… I’m… good.’

‘Listen, I’m sorry I missed lunch. I’m out in the field, helping rig a computer surveillance system. How are you fixed for dinner tonight?’

‘Dinner?’ She really hadn’t been expecting this. ‘You mean as in dinner date dinner, or just dinner as in food?’ She can’t believe she said all that. ‘Oh God, I sound stupid now, don’t I?’

‘No, you don’t. Yes, I mean dinner as in dinner date dinner.’

‘Then yes. I like you very much — I mean, I’d like to very much.’

He laughs. ‘That’s good, because I like you very much too. Say eight?’

91

Behind the privacy of the limo’s tinted windows, Zachra Korshidi removes the niqab from her face. She straightens her hair and stares at the driver and the man she’s sat in the back with. ‘Who are you? Police? CIA?’

‘Neither,’ replies Gareth Madoc. ‘Though I can get both here within minutes if you’d prefer to talk to them?’

‘No.’ Her voice is sharp with tension. She’s taken enormous risks getting into the vehicle. Her father has friends everywhere in the neighbourhood. ‘Who, then?’

‘Let’s say I work for a philanthropically minded organization that would like to help you.’

She looks at him cynically. ‘Why?’

‘Because in stopping young women like you becoming suicide bombers it saves American lives.’

Now she feels so ashamed that she can’t look at him. ‘You said you could help me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Does that mean if I wanted to get far away from here and never be found, you could do that?’

‘If you cooperate with me, I can fix for you to live anywhere you like, with a new identity, a little money, maybe a job and somewhere to live.’

She stares at the black robe on her lap and knows all it stands for. But what the man with the English accent wants is for her to betray her family and everything they stand for.

Gareth dips inside the jacket of his blue suit and pulls out a pack of small photographs. ‘You need to see these. They’re not pleasant, but you should look.’

Hesitantly, she takes them from him. The first picture is a wide shot of a big, round dumpster on thick, black roller wheels. It’s at the back of a fried-chicken joint and the kitchen door is open, a fryer and long grill are visible. The second is of a pile of semi-tied, semi-ripped black garbage bags dumped in the yard. In the third, the bags are being opened by uniformed cops. The fourth shows the contents. Severed limbs. Hands. Feet. Arms.

Zachra’s heart makes the connection before she sees the fifth.

Javid’s head.

The face of her lover stares up at her. His skull has been severed from his body and his eyes are milky-white and pitted with flies. The hair she once loved to hold as she kissed him is matted in blood and food slops.

It takes almost a minute for her to get her breath back. For her to survive a hurricane of emotions. Finally, she finds her voice. And the words that she knows will change her life. ‘I can help you. There are things that I know.’

92

Kirstin Collins runs nail-bitten fingers through her spiky hair and stares at the painting in front of her.

The small, crappy old oil was recovered from Bradley Deagan’s small, crappy old apartment. She’s really not sure it’s going to be of any interest to Mitzi but she promised to keep her up to speed on developments, so that’s what she’s doing.

The young detective puts it face down on the big scanner in the squad room, makes a JPEG, attaches it to an email and calls Mitzi’s number.

‘Fallon.’

‘Lieutenant, it’s Kirstin Collins. You near a computer?’

‘Too near. I’m going stir-crazy in an office smaller than my kids’ bathroom. What’ve you got?’

She hits send. ‘I just mailed you a copy of a painting uniforms recovered from Deagan’s apartment. It was wrapped in cloth and hidden beneath boards.’

Mitzi checks her mailbox. ‘Not here yet. Any sign of Deagan — dead or alive?’

‘Nope. He and his vehicle have just vanished. Mail was stacked up at his place. No one has seen or heard of him since he was at the Dupont diner.’

‘This painting, is it the one he tried to stage the con with?’

Kirstin stares as it. ‘I don’t know. I’ve not had time to check. There was no picture on the case papers.’

‘Does it look religious?’

‘Not really. But it’s very old and seems the right shape and size. Way I figure it, if it was a fraud the court would have let him keep it, right?’

‘Sure. It’d be his property. Your mail’s just come. Hang on while I open it.’

Kirstin doodles and waits. She draws flowers. Big sprays of them. It’s the only thing she can sketch.

Mitzi watches the image shutter its way from top to bottom of the frame. ‘How’re things, Kirstin? How you holding up?’

She finishes the head of a rose. ‘Okay, I miss Irish and can’t believe he’s not about to walk through the door. The funeral’s in a couple of days. Probably won’t be many people there. Hell, it might just be me and the priest. Will you come?’

Mitzi squirms. ‘Like to, but to be honest, I can’t afford the flights or the time. I’ve got two kids waiting for me back in California, my sister’s breaking up with her husband and my ass is stuck in London. I’m sorry. Why don’t you mail me the details and I’ll send flowers.’

Kirstin scrubs over the roses she’s drawn. ‘You know what — he’s got no use for flowers. Send me a bottle of whisky and I’ll drink it in his memory and have one for you too.’

‘You got it.’ The full painting is now on her screen. ‘Download is okay, Kirstin — I got it now.’

‘Is it the one you mentioned?’

‘Don’t know, but I know a man who will. Thanks for thinking of me.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Hey, you need something — you need to talk about anything — you call me, right?’

‘Thanks.’

Kirstin Collins hangs up. She puts the painting back in the cloth it was wrapped in and ties string back around it.

Then she goes to Irish’s desk and sits there. Just squats in his tatty old chair and swings it left and right, left and right. And she keeps on swinging until she feels a tiny bit better.

93

Bronty breaks from booking his Lundy trip and stands behind Mitzi to examine the digital copy of the painting. ‘This is of knights,’ he says disappointedly. ‘The Ghent Altarpiece shows several groups of people coming together to pay adoration to Christ. The missing panel is of judges, not knights.’

‘Meaning this is, like, the worst forgery ever?’

He leans closer to the monitor and peers at the edges of the oil. ‘I’m not an expert, but do you see this colouring here, around the edges? It’s not right. These dark shades are out of character with the rest of the painting.’

Mitzi shifts her head and looks at it from different angles. ‘Isn’t that some kind of border?’

‘It might be. Or, it could be evidence that there was once another painting over the top of it. One that’s been stripped away.’

‘The judges, you mean?’

‘There have been rumours in the past about the panels. During restoration work, it was suggested there was a painting underneath at least one of them. Certainly, that would fit with the way the folding canvases show different scenes when the altarpiece is opened and closed. And remember this is the work of two men, firstly Hubert van Eyck, then his brother Jan.’

Mitzi has to trawl her memory. ‘You know this crook Deagan showed the painting to Christie’s — to a bunch of art experts — and they said it was a fake. They must have looked at the same things you’re staring at and dismissed them as baloney.’

Bronty’s still focused on the image, studying every brush stroke. ‘Maybe at that time the painting hadn’t been stripped back.’

‘I can ask Kirstin to check in the files.’

He pulls up a chair and sits alongside her. ‘The altarpiece is a really important piece of work. Which is why everyone from Napoleon to Hitler tried to steal it. The triptych is regarded by many as the first major painting of the Renaissance, the forerunner of realism and certainly the greatest oil of its time. So to put these knights in there, to give them credibility, to immortalize them as a major presence in the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb was hugely significant at the time.’

Mitzi’s almost afraid to ask the question. ‘Why? They’re just knights.’

‘No, they’re not. Like I said, van Eyck had already painted a panel of knights fitting that description. This is different. Look more closely.’

‘That one in the middle isn’t — you know who?’

Bronty nods. ‘It might well be. And if it is, those knights gathered around and behind him are of the Round Table.’ He pokes the monitor with his fingertip. ‘Look here and you can see a circular emblem on their shields and three golden crowns on the flag behind Arthur.’

Mitzi’s not looking. Her eyes are on something else. ‘Holy shit, have you seen this?’ She taps the screen.

Bronty studies a background figure of a priest, shown on horseback, carrying a bible and a cross. The crucifix is identical to the one they have a sketch of. The one Amir Goldman was killed for.

A knock on the office door turns their heads.

It opens and Annie Linklatter stands there, timidly, holding an envelope. ‘This is the DNA profile you’ve been waiting for, ma’am.’

94

It’s been an unusual day for Angelo Marchetti.

No alcohol. No coke. No gambling.

The Italian has stayed clean for almost twenty-four hours and has spent the time getting his head together. Devising a way to stay alive and start a new and untroubled life. The key to it all is recovering the original memory stick. He can use this to leverage Gwyn into a situation that will make him vulnerable to Mardrid. Without it, he’s a dead man.

Sophie Hudson said a lot before she died. She named the cops investigating the Goldman shooting and gave up the fact that she handed the memory stick to a woman from the FBI.

Mitzi Fallon.

Marchetti is staring at a head and shoulders squad shot of the lieutenant as he works from his hotel room. She’s in full LAPD blues and looks too momsy to press his buttons. He prefers slimmer, younger women with bigger breasts and longer hair. That said, she’s clearly an exceptional investigator, with the emphasis on ex.

Ex robbery squad. Ex homicide with an ex-husband.

The briefing note he’s got shows her life almost has as many screw-ups in it as his. She’s short of money and has two young daughters to look after.

Those are all the facts he needs to know.

For now.

95

The single glossy sheet looks like a weird heart-monitor graph with uneven columns rising and falling. Certain parts of the readout show dark pairs of numbered codes.

Mitzi’s seen hundreds of genetic fingerprints, but Bronty hasn’t.

‘What am I looking at?’ he asks. ‘I know it’s Dalton’s DNA, taken from the water bottle you stole—’

‘Appropriated.’

‘I stand corrected — that you appropriated from Gwyn’s office. But how do you make any sense of this?’

‘You don’t,’ says Mitzi, taking the print off him. ‘You just find a match for it. Juries love DNA. They don’t understand it either, but they know it’s the blueprint of a human being, they know we’re all different and they trust that genetic fingerprinting is accurate. That’s all that matters.’

Bronty is still intrigued. ‘I get all that, but can you explain the science?’

‘Kind of. I saw it ten years ago before automation, now it all happens in a machine but the process is similar. The lab pulls DNA out of a single cell they’ve swabbed — in our case that would be Dalton’s from the water bottle. Enzymes are used to isolate the critical sections. Those parts are zapped with electricity. This separates them into unique pairs and patterns, then the whole thing is transferred onto a physical print.’

‘That’s really all it is?’

‘Essentially, yeah. But like I say, it’s all done by machines now. You ask some professor and he’ll tie your mind up in knots with dioxy-this and ribonucleic-that and stories about hyper-variable satellite somethingorothers, but in the end, yeah, it’s the way I said.’ She goes back to the desk and taps on her computer. ‘What I’m gonna do now is use our case file database to compare Dalton’s DNA profile with the profile we got from the blood in the diner at Dupont Circle.’

‘And if they match, then Dalton is Deagan’s killer?’

‘That’s a jump too far. We still can’t prove Deagan’s dead — for the moment, he’s down as a “missing-presumed”. One thing for sure, though, it would irrefutably put Dalton at the place Deagan was seen alive.’

They watch the database churn through its records and wait.

‘I worked out once that I spend sixty minutes a week just waiting for computers to process stuff,’ says Mitzi. ‘Four hours a month, forty-eight hours a year. That’s a whole damned working week a year just waiting.’

There’s a ping and the screen freezes.

Two separate sets of columns are displayed. One is superimposed over the other.

The word MATCH punches the middle of the frame.

‘Well, looky here,’ says Mitzi. ‘Seems like I get to go see our new British friends again while you’re off on your sea trip to Spooky Hollow.’

96

CNN plays on one of the screens in Owain’s private office; Sky News and Bloomberg are turned low on two others. All are running post-bombing interviews with government ministers and defence experts.

Owain mutes them all as a call from Gareth Madoc comes in on an encrypted line.

‘Gareth, how are you?’

‘Better, and so will you be. I have some good news.’

‘Nabil?’

‘No. He’s still lying low. But we got to the girl.’

‘And from your tone, it sounds as though she’s cooperating.’

‘She is. Zachra Korshidi’s father Khalid is the principal fundraiser and trustee of the local mosque, and it’s one of the biggest in the States.’

Owain is momentarily distracted by a bottom-of-screen caption on Bloomberg saying the price of Mardrid stock has fallen two per cent after he bought a company in Colombia alleged to have links to Farc, the left-wing rebels. He makes a note on a yellow jotter, then apologizes. ‘I’m sorry; I just had to write something down. Is this girl’s father only a financial player, or is he operationally active as well?’

‘If not operational, then certainly influential. Khalid Korshidi is chairman of New York’s Sharia Council and is known as a hard line fundamentalist. Zachra says he’s too controlling and egotistical to take a back seat to anyone on anything. She’s sure he knows everything that’s going on.’

‘And there’s no love lost between them?’

‘None at all. She hates him. Wants to get as far away as possible.’

‘Then we need to help her, but do you really think this is going to lead us to Nabil and who he reports to?’

‘Our girl says she knows Nabil. I showed her a photograph and she instantly ID’d him as someone who had come regularly to her house over the past year, usually alone or with one other man. Her mother served tea while he talked with her father in the front room. Usually, when they’d finished, they’d say they were going to the mosque and drive off together.’

Owain pieces things together. ‘That means Khalid has Nabil’s trust. Time is against us, Gareth; we can’t afford to simply tail the father and hope we hit the jackpot.’

‘I know. I’ve asked her to copy his cell phone directory. I’ve given her a reader. And she’s going to put a tracker tack into a heel of his shoe. If he sees it, he’ll think he just stood on a bit of metal. Apparently, he only ever wears an old black pair, so we should be on him easy enough.’

‘Can we get eyes and ears in the house, preferably in this front room?’

‘She’s nervous about that, but I’ll push her again once we’ve got the tracker in play and we start working his phone.’

‘Do it within the next twenty-four hours, Gareth. Myrddin is in a sweat and you know what that means.’

‘Visions?’

‘Bad ones. The worst I’ve known him have.’

97

Mitzi takes a black cab over to the CEI offices, while Bronty heads for a train from London to Ilfracombe and then, if he’s lucky, the last ferry out to Lundy.

Mitzi hates boats. She gets seasick just lying in a bubble bath. Nic Karakandez, her ex-partner in the LAPD, had a boat and regularly took the girls out on it, but she always declined and went grocery shopping or holed up in the harbour coffee shop with a book. Karakandez was a great cop and a more-than-decent guy. Handsome enough for her to have a serious crush on him. Had she not hung on to the remnants of her tattered marriage, life might have been different and he might not have spent all his money on that old tug of his, jacked in his job and set off to sail the seven seas.

She thinks about him and the whole world of might-have-been as she waits in the vast CEI reception full of expensive wood, antique leather and people talking English with accents she’s only ever heard on TV.

A glass-fronted lift slides into view and gradually reveals Melissa Sachs’s elegant black shoes, suntanned legs, fashionable orange skirt, white frilly-cuffed shirt and finally a head of perfectly cut shoulder-length dark hair.

By comparison, Mitzi feels like a beaten up bag lady as she heads her way.

‘Lieutenant Fallon, I’m most surprised to see you here.’ The PA flashes a friendly smile but her eyes are full of questions. ‘We don’t have any meetings with you in the diary, so how can I help?’

‘I need to speak to your boss and to George Dalton.’

‘I’ve no idea where Mr Dalton is. I understand you have some numbers for him so you could try those, or go through the embassy.’

‘It’s easier to communicate with the dead than get an answer from an embassy. What about Sir Owain?’

‘Not here, I’m afraid. He’s gone to his home in Wales and will be working from there for a few days. Would you like me to give him a message?’

‘Yeah, tell him I’m coming to see him.’ Mitzi starts to head to the exit.

‘That’s not a good idea.’ Melissa follows her. ‘He has a strict policy on not mixing his personal and professional lives. I’ll call him and ask him to get back to you with a time that you can meet in his office. That will be more convenient for everyone.’

‘Listen, lady; your boss and his boy George are up to their very British stiff upper lips in a homicide. Now, I guess if that was made public, it wouldn’t do either of their reputations any damned good.’ She opens her arms and turns slowly in a circle. ‘To say nothing of what it would do to the value of this fine company.’

‘Lieutenant, I suggest—’

‘Don’t! Suggesting is a really bad thing for you to do.’ She glares at her. ‘Call your boss and tell him I’m mad as hell. So mad I’m gonna trek to the middle of freakin’ nowhere to see him, and when I arrive I expect decent black coffee and honest answers.’

Mitzi doesn’t wait for a reply.

Outside, the noise of London hits her like a slap. She’s had enough of this case now. She wants to go home and nurse her sick daughter, wants to make peace with Jade, wants to hold her sister’s hand, pour a glass of wine and help her sort her marriage out.

What she does not want is to be going to some country named after a mammal to get jerked around by Sir Lah-De-dah.

‘Taxi!’ She walks in the road with her hand held high.

A cab pulls over and a window slides down revealing a bald-headed old Londoner in a Chelsea shirt. ‘Where do you want to go to, Mrs?’

‘San Francisco.’ Mitzi pulls open the door. ‘But take me to Dean Street, and hey, buddy, just ’cause you hear an American accent, don’t think you can go the long way round and make a mug outta me.’

98

Tess and Chris Wilkins appear to be your typical childless couple. Married for twelve of their fifteen years together, they’ve put on a little too much weight and grown lazy with age. Their money comes from a modest business that involves collecting, refilling and reselling ink-jet cartridges and it’s successful enough to afford a semi-decent four-bed in a semi-decent LA suburb.

San Francisco is a place they know and love. In the past, they’ve done all the touristy things from driving the Bay Bridge to sailing out to Alcatraz and watching the sun go down while eating the world’s best shrimp gumbo on a deck at Fisherman’s Wharf.

Chris has dark, hippy biker hair and a big curly beard. He’s thirty-nine years old, stands six-two and crushes the scales by three hundred pounds. Tess is three years younger, five inches smaller and a hundred pounds lighter. She was once a cheerleading blonde who could do the splits, but those days have long gone. Her hair is now a frumpy charcoal colour, needs layering and a good four inches cutting off. She tells friends she’d do it but Chris is a bit of a caveman and likes her to keep it ‘long ’n’ natural.’

Taylor Swift plays on the radio of the six-berth RV they rented at the airport. They’ve brought a lot of stuff with them: snacks, drinks, a whole closet of clothes. The twenty-seven-footer is just about right for their many needs.

Chris pops another couple of pieces of gum as the six-litre V10 roars up a long San Franciscan hill. ‘We anywhere near, yet?’

His wife screws the cap back on the bottle of Coke she’s been swigging and checks the sat-nav stuck to the windshield. ‘Another mile or two before you turn off, then about the same again.’ She pulls at the top of her pink T-shirt and fans air down into her cleavage. ‘You think the air-con is working in this thing?’

‘I put it on hot, so you’d have to take your top off.’

She laughs at him and rolls it up just below her breasts. ‘I take this off while you’re drivin’ we’re gonna end up in a ditch.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ He wobbles the wheel playfully.

‘Dead I mean.’

‘Now that don’t sound so good.’

‘Seriously, can you get any more chill out of those vents?’

Chris thumbs the fan button but it’s as high as it’ll go. ‘There’s somethin’ wrong with it. May as well wind down the window and let the wind blow back that fine hair of yours.’

She gives him her sexiest smile, lowers the passenger door glass and leans back against the headrest.

Chris enjoys a glance at her long locks being wind whipped off her pretty little cheeks. He wants to pull over and jump her right here, right now, with the big RV blocking the highway and everyone honking their horns in a ten-mile tailback.

‘Eyes on the road, darlin’,’ she says from behind big black shades. ‘Drive nicely and as soon as we get parked up, I’ll sort out that little pecker problem you have there.’

99

Mitzi tips the doorman. She worked hotels in her teens and remembers all too well how much she depended upon the generosity of guests to beat the minimum wage.

She enters the coolness of the hotel and walks past the front desk to the lifts. Her mind is on making arrangements to get over to Wales as quickly as possible. As soon as that’s done, she’s going to wrap things up and head home.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Fallon,’ says a fat-faced man in a smart suit. ‘I am the hotel manager, Jonathan Dunbar.’ He hands her a business card as the elevator announces its arrival with a ding. ‘Please, after you.’ He gestures for her to enter the box of polished steel and mirrors. ‘Let me accompany you to your room.’

She steps in and studies him suspiciously. ‘I’ve been here over twenty-four hours, I know where my room is.’

‘Of course you do.’ He presses the button. ‘I would just like a discreet word with you, if possible.’

The elevator jerks its way up. ‘I don’t do discreet,’ says Mitzi. ‘Discreet can be translated in all languages to mean cover up, fuck up or shut up. It’s my least favourite word in the whole world. Except maybe “overdue”, that’s probably a full shade shittier than discreet.’

Dunbar sees his own face in the mirrored walls and it’s full of apprehension. This woman is going to be trouble when he tells her what he has to tell her.

The lift pings. Doors slide open. He puts a hand through the gap and smiles. ‘Here we are.’

‘Is that an affliction that you’ve got?’ She steps past him.

‘Pardon?’

‘Your habit of stating the freakin’ obvious. Is it some kind of disease you’ve picked up?’ She jams a keycard into her door slot and pushes it open. ‘Look, here we are, again.’

‘May I come in for a moment?’

She sees he’s genuinely worried about something. ‘Sure. But don’t even think about giving me some crap about charging a higher room rate, or say my credit card’s been declined.’

‘It isn’t that. Not at all.’ He shuts the door behind him. ‘I’m afraid the mistake is entirely ours. Mine, to be more precise.’

‘Really?’

‘Earlier today we were visited by two police officers who asked to search your room and Mr Bronty’s. They were from the terrorist unit — I mean the counter-terrorist unit — the police obviously don’t have a unit of terrorists. Only they weren’t.’

Mitzi looks confused. ‘They weren’t what? They weren’t cops, or they weren’t anti-terror cops?’

‘They weren’t cops. Police, I mean.’

‘So what were they, and why did you let them into our rooms?’ She glances around to see if anything has been stolen.

‘The real police say they must have been confidence tricksters of some kind. Very professional ones because they had official-looking ID.’

‘Jeez, that must have taken them all of twenty minutes to download from the internet.’ Her mind is on the memory stick sitting safely in her purse, but she checks her trolley bag to see if anything else has been taken. ‘If stuff’s missing, your face is going to end up a bigger mess than mine.’

He shifts nervously and watches her search the small bag.

Mitzi squashes clothes down and refastens it. ‘You got lucky; what little I have is still there.’ She looks at him like she does when one of the girls has pulled a brainless stunt and the other has snitched on her. ‘Didn’t you think of calling the station house and checking things out before you let them in here?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t. Not until afterwards.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘For the record, Dumbo—’

He corrects her, ‘Dunbar, not Dumbo.’

She smiles, ‘No, I think I was right first time. For the record, Dumbo, checking only ever works as a precautionary measure. That means before something happens.’

He feels himself redden. ‘I know. I’m very sorry. To make up for your inconvenience I’d like to have some champagne sent to your room—’

Her mind is locked on the incident. ‘These so-called cops, they have names?’

‘Yes, they were DCI Mark Warman and DS Penny Jackson.’

She scribbles the names on a pad by the bed.

‘There really are officers with those names at Scotland Yard, but they weren’t in your room.’

‘You’re doing that thing again.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He smiles thinly. ‘Obviously they weren’t in the room.’ A thought hits him. ‘Did you have anything in the wall safe?’ He looks towards the open door above the mini-bar.

She nods solemnly. ‘Cartier bracelet. Rolex watch. Some diamond earrings I bought at the Elizabeth Taylor auction. Not much.’

Dunbar’s face is white.

‘Relax. I had nothing in the safe.’ She checks in the bathroom. Her toothbrush, paste, cleanser and pads are all still there. She shouts out to him, ‘You said they searched my colleague’s room — have you told him?’

The manager looks embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid he checked out while I was out of the hotel and we don’t have a forwarding number for him. Perhaps you could have him call me?’

‘I’ll talk to him later. Now, if it’s all the same with you, I’d like you to leave. I’ve gotta make some calls, then I’m checking out.’

‘I understand. I’m very sorry.’

‘You think you can keep strangers out of my room for the next hour?’

‘I’m sure we can.’

‘And you mentioned champagne.’

He relaxes a little. ‘I did.’

‘Make it whisky. The best you have and send cake with it, the most sinful and fattening your chef has baked.’

‘It will be our pleasure.’ He heads for the door, feeling relieved. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

‘Oh, I’m still a long way from understanding, so tell the front desk that when I check out, I expect a discount. The kind that will make me feel discreet all the way back to California.’

100

For several minutes, Zachra Korshidi stands in silence and watches her father sleep in the back room of their Bronx row house.

His rickety chair is positioned near the dirt-streaked sash window that overlooks the small yard where her mother tries to grow olives. It seems that the warm afternoon sun and the large meal he’s just eaten have conspired to send him into a deep slumber.

Zachra looks at the food splatter in his grey beard and on his white dishdasha and hates every inch of him, right down to the cheap rubber-soled shoes he has left in the hallway near the front door.

She has been sent to collect her father’s dirty plate and take it to the kitchen for washing. But her mind has turned to more important matters. In her pocket, she touches the tiny tracker tack. All she has to do is jam it into the heel of his shoe.

She listens closely to the rattle of her father’s snores and feels her heart tighten with anxiety as she leaves the room and heads over to the footwear. Her mother is running water in the kitchen, plates clatter on the metal drainer. She puts her father’s tray down and moves quickly. The tack is less than the length of her small fingernail and she almost drops it. One end is needle sharp, the other rounded.

The rubber heel on the brogues is rock-hard. Try as she might, she can’t force it in.

The floor of the hallway is made of old boards so she puts her foot in the shoe and uses her weight to press the tack into the rubber. The pin sinks in but the heel clacks noisily against the wooden board. Zachra takes off the shoe and looks at it. The tack is in.

‘What are you doing?’

Her father’s voice spins her round. He is in the doorway staring at her.

She picks up the other shoe and the tray. ‘I came to collect the dishes and on the way back saw your shoes were dirty.’

He moves towards her, his eyes full of questions.

Zachra studies his hands. Fists so familiar to her. ‘Please don’t hit me. You told me it is sunnah to keep one’s clothes and footwear clean. I was going to polish them for you.’

He knocks them from her hand. ‘Take the tray to your mother. Never touch anything of mine unless I tell you.’ He watches her move past him and then slaps her hard across the side of the head.

The blow makes her ear explode with pain and leaves it buzzing but she doesn’t cry. She won’t give him the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever again. Zachra hopes the Americans catch him. Catch him and kill him for what he did to Javid and what he would have let happen to her.

101

Coyote Point is a big spread of park and woodland, barely ten miles from the city airport, jutting proudly into San Francisco Bay.

Chris and Tess Wilkins set the RV down on an approved site. They turn on the radio, shut curtains and make their big old bus rock and roll for a full hour and a half.

Afterwards, they shower and while Chris barbecues steaks under the veranda, Tess clears a batch of paperwork and makes calls. They eat outside on a fold-up table and chairs saying hi to people drifting by, then they share a few beers with a couple of old-timers to the left of them, seniors from Wyoming who’ve been coming to Coyote for twenty years.

After dinner they walk through a grove of eucalyptus trees down to the edge of the water where otters and bobcats scuttle in and out of their habitats.

‘We get time, we should go see the zoo,’ says Tess. ‘The leaflet I picked up says they’ve got a big aviary there as well.’

‘You seen one zoo, you’ve seen them all. Besides, you know how I feel about cages.’

‘You shouldn’t. Bars are in your mind. Think you’re free and you are free.’

‘You ain’t never done time, little Miss Philosopher, so that’s easy for you to say.’

‘Well, you ain’t never doin’ time again, so you better learn how to start sayin’ it.’

‘Let’s start by not even talkin’ about this shit.’

‘That’s fine by me.’ She squeezes his hand. ‘I love you, baby.’

‘Love you too, sweetcheeks.’

‘You think we’ve been out long enough?’ She swings his hand up and down like a pendulum.

He sees a cheeky smile on her face. ‘More than.’ He unfolds his fingers from hers and grabs her ass. ‘Let’s make that bus rock some more.’

102

SSOA operatives Bradley Sullivan and Jessica Lanza are parked in separate cars at opposite ends of the street where Khalid Korshidi lives.

They’re both equipped with tracker monitors, following the movement of the target tack that Zachra inserted into her father’s shoe.

Sullivan is mid-twenties and dressed in denim jacket and jeans, Big Bang T-shirt and Jesus sandals. Lanza has shoulder-length dark hair and could pass as his mother. She’s in dark slacks, beige top and a long cardigan that hides her Glock.

Six hours pass before they get to communicate.

‘Eyeball one. I have target on the move and in my line of sight.’ Sullivan starts the engine of his old Buick Encore.

‘Eyeball two. Gotcha and ready to go.’ Lanza guns up her Toyota Avensis and puts her coffee carton back in the cup-holder on the dash.

Korshidi heads across the road to where he parked his battered Transit and within a minute is in the traffic heading south.

Lanza and Sullivan follow him out to the I-95 then down as far as Jerome Avenue, where they expect him to turn left onto East 161st and then head towards the Yankee Stadium, the area where Antun had been meeting Nabil.

He doesn’t. He hangs a right on 176th then dumps the vehicle in a corner lot and walks a few hundred yards to the metro station.

Sullivan gets caught in traffic but Lanza reads it better. She pulls over and by the time Korshidi is disappearing down the steps into the station, she’s only twenty yards behind him.

He heads straight for the Four train. As he steps into the carriage he glances back to make sure he’s not being followed.

Lanza pretends to adjust what looks like an iPhone in her hands but is actually a highly advanced tracker monitor. The carriage is packed and broiling. They ride for almost half an hour before he gets off at Utica Avenue.

Out on the street, Korshidi walks north. After a block Lanza’s pleased to see Sullivan’s Buick pass her and stop near the junction with Beverley Road. By the time she gets there, her partner’s out on the street and she’s able to slip into the unlocked car and take the weight off. More than anything, it’s a relief to turn on the air-con.

Sullivan’s foot follow goes on all the way past Tiden and down to Snyder, where Korshidi turns left and crosses the road. The whole area is populated by low rent stores. Everything is here, from second-hand clothing to stolen tools, phone unlocking and dope dealers.

Korshidi heads down some basement stairs near a barber’s shop and Sullivan hangs back to avoid being spotted by whoever might open a door for him.

Lanza passes him in the Buick and pulls up twenty yards away on the other side of the street. There they both vanish into the shadows.

The waiting game has begun.

103

It takes Mitzi two thick slices of chef’s cheesecake to forgive Dumbo and stop freaking out about having her room tossed while she was at the embassy. Even after using a hand scanner to check for electronic bugs and deciding it’s clean she’s still nervous.

The bottle of thirty-year-old single malt whisky the manager sent up is now being shipped to Kirstin Collins to crack open at Irish’s wake. She’ll make sure she calls on the day and checks on the kid.

Mitzi licks the last of the cake from the fork and finishes reading Vicky’s report on the Gwyns. The girl done good. All the stuff about King Arthur is weird but maybe Gwyn is some kind of enthusiast or collector. Collectors are always crazy. And rich crazies will often kill if things don’t go their way.

She calls Donovan and updates her on the events of the last twelve hours then asks to be bounced to Vicky, who picks up after the second ring. ‘HRU, how can I help you?’

‘Hiya hon, it’s Mitzi.’

‘Hi, Lieutenant. How are you?’

‘Feeling about as raw as newly cut beef. Hey, I just called to say you did a great job on those profiles.’

‘Thanks. I found it all fascinating. It’s like Sir Owain and Lady Gwyn are a modern-day Arthur and Guinevere.’

Mitzi laughs. ‘Don’t get carried away. I think all English lords and ladies live privileged lives like that and I ain’t so sure he’s a knight in shining armour.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean morally, it’s just with all the historic connections.’

‘Yeah, that’s a bit strange, don’t you think? And what about the guy he took legal action against?’

‘Mallory — I put his numbers on the briefing I sent you and I spoke to him. He says he knows things that would make your hair curl.’

‘That’s not a look you want to see. What’s he know?’

‘He wouldn’t say. Not in person. I think it’s because of the injunctions.’

‘I’m heading out to Wales tonight, so I’ll look him up. Can you get Travel to find me somewhere near Gwyn’s estate?’

‘Sure.’

‘And send me a proper address for Caergwyn Castle. I just searched for it on Google and couldn’t find the place.’

‘Will do. I looked on our standard satellite maps and it doesn’t show up there either.’

‘How can that be?’

‘I checked with intel and they say it’s probably because there’s a no-fly zone there.’

‘Military restrictions?’

‘Seems that way. The SAS use the countryside for manoeuvres. This castle appears to be in the middle of their training grounds.’

Mitzi thinks out loud. ‘A knight conveniently surrounded by an army.’

‘Kings, castles and legends,’ says Vicky, almost too excitedly. ‘I wish I was there to see it all.’

‘I’d gladly swap places. Mail me the details soon as you can. I’m gonna check out and hire a car.’

‘Back to you ASAP, Lieutenant.’

Mitzi hangs up and looks long and hard at the memory stick containing the Arthurian data.

It brings back all the nervousness about having her room snooped. This is what Warman and Jackson, or whoever they are, tossed her room for. What cost Sophie Hudson her life. And what’s certain to cause more bloodshed. She knows she has to do something with it. Something more secure than just put it back in her purse

104

Gareth Madoc sits behind a glass desk in a secure penthouse office on Sixth Avenue.

He’s listening to Jessica Lanza on a comms feed. ‘About an hour ago, Khalid Korshidi ditched his car, caught a train out to East Flatbush and entered what looks like a safe house.’ She can’t help but sound optimistic. ‘Now get this: he’s just been joined by Nabil Tabrizi.’

‘Have we got a listen in?’

‘Not yet. The building is in a position we can’t hit with a parabolic.’ She looks out of the windshield of the Buick and down the street to where Sullivan is crossing over. ‘Sully has gone to play the jacked-up druggie looking for a quiet place to shoot up. He’ll drop a syringe down the steps to the basement entrance. With any luck he’ll get a recorder on the glass, then we have to pray the technology works.’

‘It usually does.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll stop sweating when “usually” becomes “always”. I gotta go. Back to you soon.’

‘Stay safe.’

‘You too.’

There’s a click and she’s gone.

Madoc turns his thoughts to Zachra. The fact she tagged her father means she’s onside. Now is the make or break moment. She has to get listening devices into that back room where her father hangs out. If she does, he’s ready to write that ticket she wants for a new life.

He dips into his jacket pocket, takes out an untraceable cell phone and sends a text message: Goin shopz tomoz, wannacum? Shrn.

It’s code to have Zachra call him straight away. If her parents saw it, she’d be able to explain it as being from her friend Sharron.

Across the room is a video wall with feeds to more than fifty domestic and international outposts. Behind him is an electronic wallboard, upon which is mapped key operations and the deployment of manpower and resources.

The burner beeps and he grabs it.

The return message says: Calluin5.

He takes the phone and walks to the window while he waits. The seconds weigh heavy. People forty floors below move like ants on the sidewalks.

His burner rings.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve only got a minute.’ Zachra sounds nervous.

Gareth gets to the point. ‘Those mini-cams I gave you. You have to put them in place. Right this minute, while your father is out. Do you understand?’

‘When can you get me out of here?’ She sounds desperate.

‘As soon as we record your father saying something we can act on.’

She pauses for a minute. Her mother is in there cleaning the house, no doubt looking for her. ‘I have to go.’

‘You must do this, Zachra. For your own sake, you have to do it and you need to do it right now.’

105

Chris Wilkins is out on a long, meandering daytrip on his own, in a Toyota sedan he rented first thing this morning. The RV would have been no good for what he has in mind. He takes the 101 to Interstate-80, cruises San Bruno, Brisbane and Bayview before hitting South Beach, Oakland Bridge, Emeryville and Walnut Creek.

Around midday he grabs a third-rate hamburger and a cold beer in a place buzzing with flies and bar bums. After freshening up, he rolls on and off the 680, through Danville and San Ramon before cutting into Castro Valley and then over the Bay via the San Mateo Bridge.

By the time he hits the freeway back to Coyote Point, he’s close to exhausted. But it’s been worth it. He’s found the surprise he’s been looking for.

He cracks a wide smile when he pulls up outside the RV and finds Tess stretched out on a striped fabric fold-up chair with a book across her suntanned legs.

She tips her shades as he approaches. ‘Tough day at the office, baby?’

‘Somethin’ like that. My back is killing me. Seats in that rental are so bad they’d give a ghost spinal problems.’

‘Come inside, I got something that will take the pain away.’

She takes his hand and leads him up into the RV. She clunks the door behind them, wraps her hands around the back of his grizzly-bear neck and kisses some life into him.

He lets his fingers wander and she gently eases him away. ‘That’s not what I invited you in here for.’

‘It’s not?’

‘No.’ She points to the open laptop on the galley table. ‘Feast your eyes over there.’

Chris taps the spacebar to clear the screensaver and studies the Facebook page and its new postings. His eyes light up. ‘You’re the best, sweetcheeks. Simply the best.’

106

A glance at the digital clock on the dash of Mitzi’s blue Ford rental tells her she’s been on the road for three hours and still has a quarter of her hundred and seventy-five miles to go.

Vicky had added a helpful footnote to her briefing, mentioning that Wales has more castles than any other country in the world but so far, Mitzi hasn’t seen any, let alone the one she wants to find.

‘Goddamned British drivers!’ She rides her horn at a giant yellow tractor crawling behind a road full of sheep.

A ruddy-faced old farmer in a green Barbour gilet and flat cap turns on his high seat and glowers back.

It’s another fifty minutes before she gets past and the sat-nav chirpily announces, ‘Turn left and you have reached your destination.’

‘About freakin’ time.’

She takes the unmarked turning and finds herself driving a rutted dead-end of a dirt track.

‘In fifty metres you will have reached your destination.’

‘Where?’ Mitzi peers in anger through the windshield. ‘You crazy piece of crap, where’s my castle?’

A black and white chequered flag pops up on the sat-nav screen and waves jubilantly as the Ford bumps in and out of potholes and stops at a hedge and fence.

‘You have reached your destination.’

Mitzi pulls the handbrake on. ‘Jee-zus! You stupid, stupid machine!’

‘You have reached your destination,’ repeats the voice defiantly, then offers a new screen and the chance to gamble on a fresh destination.

She gets out of the car so that she doesn’t pull the damned thing off and beat it against the dashboard.

Skylarks flap from surrounding birch trees and the air is fresh with scents of long grass and wild flowers. It’s nice to be out of the car. Far across the fields, there’s a dense forest around a hill. She’s willing to bet a first-class flight home that Caergwyn Castle is hidden in the thick of it.

Mitzi returns to the car and checks the address and details that Vicky gave her.

She’s entered all the strangely spelt names correctly and the postcode is right. Ideally, she wanted to see Gwyn tonight and force a face-to-face with George Dalton. But right now she doesn’t fancy driving around like a lost tourist for another hour. Vicky’s notes show that Rhys Mallory, the man Sir Owain took legal steps to silence, lives just two miles from where she is.

She enters his address in the navigation system and presses the touchscreen.

‘Make a U-turn when possible and take the next right.’

‘You’d better be right.’ Mitzi scorches the screen with a glare as she starts the car and follows the instructions.

Ten minutes later, she’s bouncing down a farm track towards a solitary detached stone cottage. She parks behind a beat-up Land Rover Defender that looks like it’s never been washed and gets out. As she flaps the door shut, a dog barks out of view.

A scruffy, silver-haired man in filthy brown overalls appears, with a black and white collie at his heels.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice is coated in a thick Welsh accent.

‘Professor Mallory?’

He looks her over. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a lieutenant with an FBI unit that specializes in religious, historical and unexplained crimes.’

‘FBI, eh?’ He wipes his hands on an oily rag and takes the glossy ID card she’s offering. He examines it with amusement and hands it back. ‘This is a long way for the Eff-Bee-Eye to come.’

‘It certainly is. I’d like to speak to you about Sir Owain Gwyn.’

‘Really?’ His eyes widen. ‘Now that’s funny, isn’t it? You want me to talk about the very thing I’m legally not allowed to talk about. How do you suppose we do that, then?’

‘How about we have one of those conversations that afterwards we both deny ever took place?’

‘Off the record, you mean?’

His habit of answering her questions with a question starts to grate. ‘Yes.’

He waits a second and then nods his assent. ‘Follow me round the back of the house. You might as well have a cup of tea while we’re not having that conversation.’

107

Instead of tea, Mitzi settles on a glass of lemonade made by Mallory’s wife, Bethan. She’s a dumpy brunette with streaks of red in her waist-length hair and has breasts that sag beneath a long, chin-to-toes black dress, broken by a necklace of multi-coloured beads.

‘It’s awesome,’ Mitzi says appreciatively. ‘I could have done with this two hours ago, when I was halfway between here and London.’

Bethan looks pleased. ‘Would you like something to eat? We have rabbit stew on the stove.’

‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ Mitzi dreads to think what rabbit might taste like.

The professor’s wife takes this as her cue to leave the American with her husband in the cosy glass lean-to built on the back of the cottage.

Mitzi sits on a brown fabric settee that has an old ginger tomcat perched on the other armrest. She puts her glass on the terracotta floor tiles and gives her host her full attention. ‘So, Owain Gwyn — what can you tell me about him?’

‘He’s a liar, a deceiver, a duplicitous denier of the truth. No friend to history. No ally of openness.’

Mitzi’s taken aback. She didn’t expect such an outburst. ‘And what exactly would he be lying about?’

‘His whole life is a lie. Him and his wife and that mad old man who lives with them; none of them are what they seem.’ Mallory leans forward, his brown eyes shining. ‘What do you want with him? Why have you come over here to snoop around and ask me about him?’

She knows she has to provide more than a standard brush-off. ‘We have a homicide in the States that has links to one of his staff.’

His eyes widen. ‘To Gwyn?’

‘No, to his staff. Sir Owain is not a suspect.’

Mallory sits back and assesses her, much in the way he did students when he was a lecturer. ‘Do you know what patronymic means?’

‘I think so. It refers to the practice of descendants taking the name of the father.’

‘That’s exactly what it is. Williamson, for example, would suggest son of William. Names and heritage are important, Lieutenant. Especially Owain Gwyn’s.’

‘Why particularly his?’

‘Because that’s what he wants to cover up.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘My research and my book, the one he stopped being published, told the truth about him and King Arthur, the links to his family, the secret activities of his company and how governments turn a blind eye to what he does.’

‘You mean he’s cashing in on the Arthurian legend?’

He laughs. ‘No, no. This is much more important than mere commercial exploitation.’ He can see that she doesn’t have a clue. ‘Let me explain. There are three commonly held views as to who King Arthur might have been. Firstly, a Roman soldier, left behind to help the Britons fight the barbarians who flooded the country when the Romans left in the sixth century. Some say he was Ambrosius Aurelianus, others Lucius Artorius Castus. The centurion Castus has even been associated with a cavalry unit that worshipped a sword embedded in the earth.’

‘This would be Excalibur, the famous sword in the stone?’

He smiles, ‘That’s probably just misunderstood history, as most Arthurian legend is. Back in the Dark Ages, heavy broadswords were made by pouring molten metal into stone casts. If the cast was good, then when it cooled a child could easily pull the sword free and it was said to be fit for a king.’

‘And the legend of the lady in the lake — her giving Excalibur to Arthur?’

‘More historic misinterpretation. When kings died in those days their bodies were put on pyres and their swords offered to a water goddess to protect them in the afterlife. Ambrosius, incidentally, is said to have been buried at Stonehenge, a structure that according to some legends was created by the prophet Merlin.’

Mitzi tries to steer away from what she suspects is a bottomless pit of superstition and myth. ‘You said there were three views of who Arthur was?’

‘Yes. The second is that he was a Romano-British warlord called Riothamus. I believe Riothamus is a Latinization of the Brythonic personal name Rigotamos, meaning “king-most”, “supreme king” or “highest king”. As well as fighting valiantly against the Goths, Riothamus is thought to have crossed the channel and fought his final battle in a field in Burgundy — one that has great resonance to the Arthurian legend. That place was Avallon, with two l’s — one more than Avalon, the place legend has it that Arthur was laid to rest.’

Mitzi’s fast-reaching bored. ‘All fascinating, but what has the ambassador and his family got to do with this?’

Mallory is determined not to be rushed. ‘To answer you, we must go back to AD 500 and the story of the Welsh warrior Owain Ddantgwyn. He was a great leader and back then such fighters associated themselves with beasts. For example, you’ve heard of Richard the Lionheart?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, Owain Ddantgwyn was known as the Bear. The Welsh word for bear is Arth, while the Latin name is Ursis. It’s easy to see how he came to be called Arth-Ursis and that got shortened to Arthur.’

He gives her a second then continues, ‘Historic record has Owain Ddantgwyn — which as I’m sure you agree is not a long way away from Owain Gwyn — referred to as “the once and future king”. This is a phrase you will constantly hear associated with Arthur. Well, Owain had a son and his genealogy can be traced into the medieval period, where a more familiar and noble name emerges as direct descendants.’ He pauses for maximum effect. ‘You know the Spencers?’

‘As in Diana, Princess of Wales, daughter of Earl Spencer.’

‘Indeed. And the twisted roots of royal genealogy don’t stop there. Look into the family history and you’ll see that William was given the middle name Arthur, just as his father Prince Charles was.’ He examines the American with curiosity. ‘Are you aware that the title “Prince of Wales” is always given to the heir to the British throne?’

‘I guess you know that I’m not.’

‘Well, it is. And it dates back to post-Roman and pre-Norman times when the most powerful Welsh ruler was also taken to be the true King of the Britons. In the twelfth century, a man named Owain Gwynedd stopped using the title King of Wales and called himself Prince of Wales. As a detective, I presume you are drawing some conclusions here.’

Mitzi tries not to be angered by his condescension. ‘You’re saying that our modern-day Sir Owain Gwyn is a direct descendant of King Arthur.’

He looks exasperated with her. ‘At least that.’

Mitzi frowns, ‘What do you mean at least?’

For the first time since they met, he grows uncomfortable. ‘For God’s sake, look at the damned evidence. The bear is on his heraldic arms, as is the round table and the triple crown of Arthur.’

‘Professor, I have a cousin in Texas who is a Scottish lord. He bought the title online because he liked the idea.’

‘It’s a stupid comparison. Owain Gwyn bought no title. This man was and is—’ He stops mid-sentence and looks pained to hold back the remaining words.

‘What?’

‘I can’t say. Even in a conversation that never took place.’ He nods irritably to the slate clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. You must go and I must get on.’ He sighs as he raises himself from his chair and ushers her towards the back door. ‘History knows more about Owain Gwyn than the modern world does. Be careful in your dealings with him.’

She stops in her tracks. ‘What do you mean by that? You think he’s a danger to people.’

He tries to explain. ‘Imagine Jesus Christ was on earth, but he didn’t want to be discovered. Imagine history had been written to hide his existence. Would you see it as your duty to expose him? And if you did, would you think such disclosure might put your life at risk, Lieutenant?’

108

The evening sky is lit by a falling scarlet sun as Mitzi books into the Norton. The guesthouse is an imposing sandstone manor and her bedroom has a panoramic view across the valleys and a never-ending soundtrack of fast-flowing streams beneath her window.

While she runs a bath to soak off the aches of the long day, she calls Bronty and finds he’s just got off the ferry in Lundy.

‘I’m exhausted,’ he says over crashes of breaking sea and squawking gulls. ‘You can get to heaven quicker than reach this place.’

Mitzi laughs as she tests the bathwater and adds more hot. ‘I promise you, Wales was as difficult to reach.’

He looks around the jetty. ‘I think I just saw seals in the water. Grey seals — eight, maybe ten feet long.’

‘Stop sounding like you’re having fun. I’ve had a day from hell and couldn’t even find Caergwyn Castle.’

‘How can you miss a fortress?’

‘Believe me, out here it’s easy. When you call me on a secure line I’ll tell you what Mallory had to say about the ambassador.’

‘Will do. The light’s virtually gone here, so I’ll take a look around the island in the morning and then get back to you.’

‘That’s fine. Sleep well.’

‘You too.’

Mitzi ends the call and checks the bathwater. It’s now hot enough to boil a lobster. She runs the cold full blast, then kicks off her clothes and calls her daughters.

No one picks up.

She gets the answerphone for a second time.

Ruthy has no doubt taken them all out for the day. She’ll call again after dinner.

She eases herself into the water. It feels too good to remain silent. ‘Aa-a-h, that’s soo-o good.’

The guesthouse has provided her with little bottles of bath foam, body scrub, shampoo and hair conditioner. Mitzi uses the lot. It feels great just to be lying in a big pool of soapy spa bubbles and smells.

Her phone rings.

She looks across the other side of the bathroom, and sees it on the shelf over the sink. Too far away to reach.

The water is working its therapeutic magic and for a moment she thinks about ignoring the call.

‘Damn it!’

She climbs out and takes a gallon of water with her.

‘Fallon.’ She grabs a white towelling robe from behind the door.

‘Lieutenant, it’s Owain Gwyn.’

‘Hang on.’ She puts the phone down and quickly pushes her arms into the robe and ties it up. ‘Sorry, I was just getting out of a bath.’

‘My apologies for disturbing you. Outside your hotel, there is a black Range Rover and one of my men. When you are ready, please get in and you’ll be brought straight to my home.’

‘I thought I’d come by in the morning.’

There’s no answer.

‘Sir Owain?’ She looks at the phone to see if she’s accidentally cut him off.

She hasn’t.

He’s hung up.

109

An ice-blue quarter moon hangs above the Range Rover as it speeds down unlit country lanes.

Mitzi snatches a grab-handle as they hit a bump and she clears the back seat. ‘What’s wrong with this country? I thought the Romans laid roads for you?’

The driver doesn’t answer. He hasn’t spoken since he checked her name at the guesthouse and held the vehicle’s door open for her.

‘Any chance of slowing down? You know, maybe just below warp speed so we get there alive?’

Again, there’s no reply from the broad-shouldered man in the front.

She settles back as best she can and listens to her stomach grumble. Now she wishes she’d accepted Mrs Mallory’s rabbit stew.

Lights appear in the distance. The 4 × 4 crunches to a halt. Through a gap between the front seats, she sees shadows inside a gatehouse. A man comes out and walks to the driver’s side.

The silent lunatic behind the wheel slides down the window and shows his ID. A flashlight shines in her eyes. ‘Hey!’ She puts up her hands to block the glare. Darkness returns. There’s a tap on the roof and the vehicle crunches gravel. Metal gates clank shut behind them. The tyres rumble more smoothly now. They’re on asphalt but the road is unlit. Mitzi peers out into the darkness. Sheep appear in the headlights like a crop of woolly rocks.

The luminous fingers on her watch tell her it’s half past ten and they’ve now been driving seven minutes along the driveway. That’s as long as it used to take her to drive from her old house in LA to the mall.

The soft yellow lights of Caergwyn Castle appear in the velvet night. The building is uplit by powerful ground beams. She sees syrup-coloured sandstone walls, soaring towers and crenulations that run like a gap-toothed border in the sky.

The Range Rover stops and the mute driver gets out and opens her door.

She stands for a moment in the cool evening air, picks up the smell of lavender and pine. It’s easy to imagine kings and queens living here, being waited on hand and foot, dining in fine halls and celebrating glorious battles and conquests.

Metal clunks against metal. Heavy bolts slide behind the huge, arched oak entrance doors facing her. A round-faced servant dressed in a smart black suit strides out. Behind him hurries a younger man in cream-coloured trousers and a red jacket.

‘Good evening. I am Alwyn, Sir Owain’s butler. Please follow me.’

He leads the way inside.

She’s struck by an array of new scents. Brass polish. Silver polish. Marble polish. Thick, waxy wood polish.

‘Sir Owain said to show you to the library.’ Alwyn opens a door and stands to one side.

Mitzi steps in and double-takes the endless walls of books. ‘Look at the size of this! Man, has he never heard of the Kindle?’

110

The butler leaves Mitzi staring in amazement at what appears to be a cathedral filled with books.

The oak-beamed library is two storeys high and its top level is an octagonal gallery reached by spirals of wooden staircases almost fifty yards apart. There are twenty stone archways on either side of the room, all creating deep alcoves filled with twenty rows of shelving. Sliding ladders are propped against each of the racks so books at the top can be more easily reached.

Along the centre of the stone floor stand various large display cases, all showcasing ancient folios. Only now, as Mitzi wanders the cool, musty room does she note the surveillance cameras, flashing red lights and sensors of a very sophisticated alarm system.

On the far wall is an impressively large oil of a medieval battles. The canvas covers more than three hundred square feet and in the foreground, the body of a fallen king is being carried away by soldiers. Under a shimmer of almost heavenly light, a fully robed bishop is picking up his crown.

There’s another painting, a fraction of the size, above the door she just came through. It’s a portrait of a man with long hair and a moustache, dressed in a black cloak with a white ruffle collar and a large black, floppy bow tie. He has brooding, dark eyes that strongly remind her of Sir Owain.

As though cued by her thought, the door beneath the portrait clicks open and the ambassador walks through. He’s dressed in black trousers and a crisp white open-necked shirt worn beneath a black cashmere jumper. ‘Lieutenant Fallon, how are you?’ He steps forward and offers his hand.

She shakes it then points to the painting. ‘I’m fine, Mr Ambassador. I was just looking at the portrait. An ancestor, I presume?’

‘That’s Saint Richard Gwyn; the library is named after him. Please walk with me, there are things I wish to show you.’

She tags alongside. ‘Saint as in a real saint, or as in a surname, like David St John?’

‘As in real saint. He was martyred — executed in the sixteenth century for an act of high treason, otherwise known as refusing to say Jesus Christ wasn’t the Son of God. He was hung, drawn and quartered — you know what that is?’

‘I guess after the lynching they drain the body then cut it up?’

‘Not quite; the drawing is pre-mortem, not post. It involves tying the condemned man to a horse then dragging him from his prison through the streets until he is in agony. Then he’s carried up the scaffold and hanged until almost dead. He is cut down and emasculated — his testicles cut off. Then they disembowel him, sever his limbs and sometimes his head. The entrails and genitalia are burned in a public fire, the skull spiked and displayed. The four limbs — the ‘quarters’ — would either be nailed in prominent places in the city, or dispatched to different corners of the country.’

‘Jeez, and I thought Californian executions were gruesome.’

‘Britain has a past more brutal than most.’ He stops walking and turns to her. ‘But it’s the present and the future you should be afraid of. Unfortunately, you’re caught in the middle of something you shouldn’t be.’

She fixes him with a challenging stare. ‘Please don’t patronize me. Getting into the middle of things, as you put it, is the nature of my job.’

‘Perhaps, but I suspect we’re talking at cross purposes.’

‘How so?’

‘You think I’m referring to your homicide investigation.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘Not directly.’

‘Then enlighten me.’

‘I will.’ He paces along the library and gestures at the upper floor. ‘Every book in this room is a first edition and almost all are priceless. Some are the only ones in existence. Others are so rare, experts in their field don’t even know they exist.’

‘And I suppose that includes the Camelot Codex?’

He ignores the question and taps the glass of a display case. ‘This book here is the oldest illustrated bible in the world. It’s older than the Garima Gospels, recovered from Ethiopia and older and much finer than the Book of Kells created by Celtic monks.’

Mitzi looks down at a large volume lying open on an ornate brass stand. It is the size of a giant, thick atlas and the pages are covered in lavish illustrations and copperplate handwriting.

Owain swipes an electronic card across a sensor on the side of the cabinet and lifts off the glass cover. The air fills with a tobacco-like fragrance caused by the mass of musty pages and ancient wood they’ve been bound in. ‘This is the Arthurian Bible. It is written on the best of velum, a form of stretched and dried sheepskin.’

She inspects the pages as he continues. ‘The animal’s hair was removed by soaking the stripped skin in lime and excrement and then scraping it with a semi-circular knife called a Luna. The skin was then tensioned on special frames and cut to size by velum-makers. It is a real art.’ He touches the sides of the book. ‘More than two hundred blessed lambs were slaughtered to make this book.’

The main illustration staring up at her is that of a man who looks like a Roman emperor. He is shown in battle on horseback, only he’s not holding a legion’s standard but a large, gold crucifix identical to the drawing Irish had sent her. Around the horse lie corpses, skewered with pikes and swords.

‘It represents God’s never-ending battle for souls,’ says Owain. ‘The text was written by an order of holy men who guarded Christ for the forty days he walked the earth after his resurrection.’

She looks at him sceptically. ‘I suspect you might have a tough time proving that.’

‘I don’t have to. I do not intend to sell the artefact; therefore, the provenance only matters to my family and me.’

She circles the book, inspecting the shape and texture from multiple angles. In places, she can even see hair follicles on the velum. ‘I imagine the person who had this before you also once said that he had no intention of selling it, but he did.’

‘Actually, you’re mistaken. It’s never been sold or stolen. Nor robbed from a grave, if that’s what you are thinking. It was delivered into the hands of my family by Josephus of Arimathea when he came to Britain after Christ’s death.’

Mitzi doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. ‘Joseph of Arimathea — as in the rich guy who persuaded Pilate to allow Christ’s body to be laid in his own private tomb?’

‘No, not Joseph. His son, Josephus. History frequently mixes them up. As it does whether the Holy Grail was a chalice, a sacrament salver or, as a few believe, a sacred and secret text written in the blood of Christ.’

‘And are you one of those believers?’

‘I am.’ He turns a page and reveals a painting of knights riding across open green countryside.

It shows King Arthur and a priest carrying a bible and cross. Mitzi realizes it’s identical to the one found on the Ghent panel in Bradley Deagan’s apartment.

‘To make this folio,’ he adds, ‘a metalworker applied pure gold leaf and silver to the capital letters that start each paragraph. A portrait painter of highest regard drew the figures, and the most accomplished landscape artist of the time completed the background illustrations.’

He turns over a leaf and it crinkles so dangerously Mitzi fears it may crack. On display now is a double-page spread of blood-brown script covered in a matt varnish cracked with time.

The ambassador reads her mind. ‘In a distrusting moment I had a scraping of the letter analysed. It is human blood and the carbon dating puts it in the first century. Every letter written here was done while the manuscript was wrapped in the sanctity of a tabernacle cloth blessed by St Peter. The quills the scribes used came from the tail feathers of birds that Christ himself had blessed before his death. And the wooden binding that holds the folio together was crafted by the carpenter Joseph, Jesus’s mortal guardian.’

The script hypnotizes Mitzi. She can’t understand a word of what’s in front of her but she can tell that it has been painstakingly prepared and such care has to be indicative of a powerful message.

‘The text,’ continues Owain, ‘begins in pre-Christian times. It starts with the birth of the world and the genesis of forces of good and evil. It describes the constant struggle for life and how out of the universal clash between hunter and hunted, oppressor and oppressed, one man has to step forth and become a just and honourable leader, a setter of standards and morals.’

He glides a hand above the pages in an almost reverential motion. ‘These passages explain how that leader must choose followers and how those followers must be divided into disciples, men of words and knights, men of action.’

Owain folds back the pages, then replaces the glass cover and locks the case again. ‘On the gallery above you are scrolls and scripts that pre-date the bible I just showed you. They are written in ancient languages such as Etruscan and they all carry the same message.’

Mitzi casts her gaze up to the top floor and then back to where they are standing. ‘And the other display cases, the ones on this floor — what do they hold?’

‘They are also Arthurian works. They have all been copied into encoded script and kept digitally. Extracts of which have been stolen from me.’

‘The Camelot Codex?’

‘I believe that is what the person who made the copies is calling it.’

‘And this is what Amir Goldman and his assistant Sophie Hudson were killed for?’

‘It is. Lieutenant, do you still have this copy?’

‘I do.’

‘Then I must insist you give it to me immediately. It is an illegally made copy of a digital transcript of four of the books in this library.’

She feels a shift of mood. ‘At the moment, that’s not possible. It’s an intrinsic part of my homicide investigation and it will remain so until the case is closed.’

‘For your sake and your family’s — you really must give it to me.’

She tilts her head and frowns accusingly. ‘Say that again, because from where I’m standing, it sounded like a threat.’

‘It is. While you are in possession of that copy, you are putting your life and that of anyone who matters to you in serious danger.’ He dips his right hand into his pocket and produces a small black battery zapper, which he presses.

The room fills with the thunder of iron shutters closing off the doorway, the alcoves and staircase.

Within seconds, the library is transformed into a giant metal cell.

111

The display cases sink into armoured recesses until they are flush with the stone floor. Red lights flash. An alarm sounds.

Sir Owain walks calmly to an archway and holds his hand against a fingerprint scanner. ‘This room is protected,’ he explains to Mitzi. ‘But sadly, you are not. I can give you security, the best in the world, but only if you return what is rightfully mine and you understand the causes that I am involved in and respect the reasons to keep them secret.’

He types a code on an alphanumeric pad below the scanner and the middle display case disappears below floor level. Lights flicker in the dark space and Mitzi sees stone steps leading down below ground.

Sir Owain walks over to her. ‘Lieutenant, the threat to your life and those of your twins and your sister Ruth is not from me. It is from people who seek to hurt me and those who work with me for the greater good.’

‘And who exactly are those people working for the greater good?’

‘I hope, in good time to have you meet them — even become one of them. From what I know about you—’

‘You don’t know anything about me apart from a few names you’d find online and quite honestly, I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘I know you’ve worked more than a hundred homicides, three of them serial killings. You’ve been lead detective on sixteen rapes and five child sex abuse cases, all of which resulted in successful prosecutions. In your earlier days, you cleared up more robberies than any other detective on the force.’

‘Okay, you’ve had some private dick pull my service record. Big deal.’

‘Your beautiful twins, Amber and Jade — they were born five minutes apart. From what I’m told, they were not your first pregnancies. You lost a child, a boy, during the first trimester. You hadn’t told anyone about the pregnancy, so you didn’t tell anyone about the loss. I believe you were back at work twenty-four hours after leaving hospital.’

Mitzi feels violated. Only her confidential medical and employment records could have shown him those facts.

‘Your ex-husband Alfred has been unemployed since you had him sent to prison for the last in a long line of assaults on you. And he will probably still be out of work a year from now. Jack, the man your sister Ruth has thrown out of her house, yesterday engaged one of San Francisco’s most aggressive divorce solicitors and right this moment he has investigators searching for easy ways to make sure she gets the worst settlement.’

‘How do you know these things?’

‘Knowing things is my business.’ He gestures, palm open, to the staircase running below the library.

‘You’re joking, right?’ She gives him a wary look. ‘No way am I going down there with you.’

‘You are not in danger from me, Mitzi. Far from it. You came here because of questions about an iron-age cross and a series of deaths. The answers are down there.’

‘I’m still not going.’

Owain reaches into his jacket and produces a gun.

Mitzi backs off.

‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s for you, not me.’ He holds it by the short barrel and extends it. ‘It’s loaded.’

She snatches it and checks the magazine. It’s a Glock 23 packed with .40 rounds. ‘I thought hand weapons were banned in Britain.’

‘They are. I have a special licence for that, and for many other weapons.’ He turns his back to her and starts to descend the staircase. ‘Please be careful; the steps are steeper than you might imagine and I don’t want you to trip and shoot me accidentally.’

Mitzi watches him disappear and feels her heart pound. She looks around the sealed-off library, takes a deep breath and steps down into the darkness.

112

The stairs from the library lead into a long and wide stone tunnel dimly lit by recessed amber lights. Everything is watched over by innumerable ceiling-mounted surveillance cameras.

To Mitzi’s surprise, there is what looks like a glass and metal security lodge ten yards ahead of her. Sir Owain is stood there, talking to two men in black uniforms. They are almost as tall as the ambassador and have holstered guns on their belts and automatic weapons racked on a wall behind them.

She stuffs the Glock he gave her into the band of her slacks. There’s no point carrying it. It would be as much use as a peashooter against the level of firepower down here.

‘Mitzi.’ He calls for her to hurry up.

The men in black give her a polite smile as she walks past them and through a shuttered door they’ve opened for their boss.

To her surprise, there’s a second set of stairs beyond the checkpoint leading to what at first glance looks like a chapel. A raised, candlelit altar covered in a white cloth stands thirty yards ahead of her. Behind it, a large wooden crucifix, complete with the sagging wounded body of Christ. As her eyes become accustomed to the light, she notices the cross is identical to the one she saw in Irish’s drawing.

Now she sees the tombs.

Dozens of them. So many, that at first she they look like stone benches. Each of the sarcophagi is three feet high and topped by a marble sculpture of a knight in armour, complete with sword and shield. His arms are folded across his chest and lying over his heart is a small replica of the cross behind the altar.

‘What is this?’ asks Mitzi. ‘Some kind of family crypt?’

‘It’s a knights’ mausoleum.’ He walks towards her. ‘Not the only one in the world, but undoubtedly the most secret and secure.’ He runs his hand over the smooth marble head of a carved figure. ‘This, here, is my father. All down this side of the crypt, is my bloodline. Along the opposite side is my wife’s.’

Mitzi surveys the rows of carved sarcophagi. ‘And the rest — the ones in the middle?’

‘They are the bravest of the brave. Centuries of men and women who secretly served their countries and gave their lives in the battle against evil.’

She walks around the back of a tomb and sees an inscription dating back to the thirteenth century. ‘So all these dead folk, they’re what, some religious militia?’

‘I’ve never heard it called that before. We like to think of our movement as a circle of people who, like yourself, are dedicated to keeping the world safe. In medieval times they were called knights. These days we don’t like anyone to know we exist, let alone call us anything. Anonymity is our strongest shield.’

‘But what do you call yourselves?’

‘Arthurians. We follow codes and principles close to those historians have attributed to King Arthur.’ Owain walks on and Mitzi tails him until they stop just before the altar.

Four of the stone tombs have had their ornate lids removed and bodies are visible. As well as skeletons, each coffin contains photographs, jewellery, letters and mementos of the individual’s life.

‘This is all one family,’ he explains. ‘Son, father, grandfather and great-grandfather.’

She looks closer and sees they are all laid out in the grey tunics and tights she imagines knights wore beneath their armour. Three red lions run over cloth where hearts once pounded. Across the ripples of bony rib cages lie iron crosses of the exact type that started her investigation.

‘The old gentleman who ran the antiques store in Maryland was killed by people trying to plunder and destroy the tombs of our knights in America. Three crosses like those you are looking at were stolen from our mausoleum near Glastonbury, inside the Meshomasic State Forest in Connecticut. I can take you there and show you, if you wish me to validate what I’m telling you.’

She looks across the bodies. ‘No need. I believe you.’

‘The man who robbed those tombs was once one of us. A trusted member of our group. Now, he seeks to destroy everything we stand for.’

‘Why such a change of heart?’

‘Money. Greed. Weakness and desperation. All the usual factors in the downfall of a man like him.’

‘But how can a couple of stolen crosses represent so big a threat to you?’

‘The people who are paying him want to destroy us. To do that they need to prove we exist. Exposing the graveyards is laying our history bare to the world. We cannot allow them to name the knights. Our order would die.’

Mitzi begins to see the dangers. ‘So I guess you got injunctions on Professor Mallory because you feared he was also about to expose you?’

‘Let’s say that some of the links he was making were too close for comfort. He could have begun a chain reaction that we might not have been able to stop.’

‘And the murders I’m working on…’ — there’s scepticism in her voice — ‘are they all down to this mysterious grave-robbing ex-knight of yours?’

Owain knows he’s being tested. ‘Not all. George Dalton will be here in the morning and he will be able to discuss in detail the homicide you have connected him to.’

‘And you think by bringing me down here, showing me all this and telling me those things, I’m going to view his answers — perhaps his admissions — in a different light?’

‘That’s exactly what I hope you’ll do.’

‘Then I’m afraid that despite all your research, you really don’t know me at all, Sir Owain. In my book, murder is murder. No excuses. No escape. Not if you’re a petty crook who made a mistake, or if you’re a finely educated diplomat who really should have known a whole lot better. Now can you get me a ride home? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut and you don’t want to see what happens when I get any hungrier than this.’

113

It’s gone midnight by the time Mitzi gets back to the guesthouse.

The night manager, a greasy-haired thin man, says there’s no chance of anything to eat before breakfast.

‘What kind of freakin’ country is this? Life doesn’t run nine to five any more — you should know that yourself.’

‘I’m very sorry, madam.’

‘Sorry doesn’t fill my goddamned stomach.’ She stomps upstairs to her room.

Everything in the minibar is ridiculously expensive.

She guiltily opens two packs of candy and a small bottle of white wine. Her completely unsatisfactory supper costs twenty English pounds. She daren’t even convert it into dollars.

By the time she gets into bed, she’s calm enough to call her sister. To her surprise, Amber is beyond excited because Ruth’s promised to take them to the Bay Aquarium tomorrow, which apparently is made up of more than three hundred feet of underwater tunnels where you can see more than twenty thousand fish.

Mitzi would kill to see a fish. A big juicy trout. Grilled with a slice of lemon and maybe sides of fries and vegetables.

She finishes the call and turns off the phone and looks up to the heavens. ‘You listening, God? I really need your blessing and some deep and decent sleep.’ Just to make sure, she takes the last of the painkillers the hospital gave her and hunkers down beneath the sheets.

114

Owain Gwyn pours a glass of Vieux cognac and carries it from the walnut cabinet at the back of his office to his desk.

On his monitor is an icon marked NIGHTBRIEF. For once, he finds the intel hard to digest. His mind is on other matters. Not just the Californian cop and her homicide crusade but also Mardrid, Marchetti, the terror attacks in the US and UK. Jennifer’s pregnancy. Her relationship with Beaucoup.

His own mortality.

Time is running out. His time. He has to make sure the Order is in good shape to run without him.

The secure phone to New York rings and breaks him from his thoughts. ‘Hello.’

‘I hoped I’d catch you before you turned in.’ Gareth Madoc’s voice is raw from working days without sleep. ‘Our girl got a tracker on Khalid Korshidi.’

‘Well done.’

‘It gets better. He led us to a safe house out in East Flatbush. We got ears on the place, and it was a good job we had. There were already three other people in the basement. One of them was Imam Yousef Mousavi.’

The name is enough for Owain to put down his cognac. ‘You’re certain?’

‘We’ve run voice recognition software on the recordings. We’re ninety per cent sure.’

‘Did anyone use his name?’

‘No. But Nabil Tabrizi was there and he referred to him as Imam. Antun always believed Nabil reported to Mousavi.’

‘Who was the other person? You said there were three others.’

‘We don’t know, but the imam was in overall command. He led the conversations and was most reverently spoken to.’

‘The CIA and CTU would sell their souls just to get their hands on Mousavi, let alone anyone above him. Please tell me they spoke about something more important than the price of halal meat.’

‘Trinity.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what the “unknown” said. Hang on; I’ve got the transcript here. He said, and I quote: “In forty-eight hours’ time the Trinity will be no more.” Then the “unknown” asked if they all understood what was being demanded of them. They said they did. After that everything quickly slid into prayers.’

‘I’m just trying to make sense of this Trinity reference. Did the Americans get anything helpful from the men they locked up after the raid on Nabil’s body shop?’

‘I spoke to the CIA about an hour ago. They’ve got nothing so far.’

‘Pity. Trinity sounds religious but it could mean three of anything. Remember that intelligence we had about al-Qaeda targeting sports stars?’

‘I do, it was a hit list based on Forbes top earners.’

‘See if we’ve got three stars together anywhere soon.’

Gareth makes a note to himself.

Owain has another thought. ‘I’ll get some of our analysts to draw up a matrix that shows the movement of all leading politicians, sports heroes and religious leaders over the next twenty-four hours.’

‘At least you know the new Pope will be safe.’

‘I hope so. I’ll be with him in Wales for the first papal visit for more than thirty years and not even the Devil himself will be able to get through security down there.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘Any developments with the Korshidi girl?’

‘A little. I’ve pushed her to fit the recorders while her father is out. If he’s as important as she says he is, then we may get lucky.’

‘We need to.’ Owain takes a long pause before continuing: ‘Gareth, I sense that the next few days will shape our destiny — mine, yours, Lance’s and the Order’s. If for some reason it turns out that I cannot — how shall I say this? — be around, then you and Lance must guide our members until the next of my line is ready to step forward.’

‘Owain, I—’

‘No, please let me finish. You have been like a brother to me, and I love you deeply for all your support, your friendship and loyalty. Consider me foolish and this unnecessary, but I just want to say thank you.’ He leaves no opening for discussion. ‘Now let’s talk no further on this matter; I have cognac to finish and a bed to go to. Goodnight, dear friend, goodnight.’

115

Mitzi’s dreams are filled with flashes of medieval knights on horseback, Irish’s tumbling car and fish.

Millions of tropical fish.

Her daughters are swimming in the San Francisco aquarium with them. They’re all down there together. Horses. Knights. Irish. His trashed car. The Ford’s windows are busted. Fish and her girls are swimming in and out of the holes.

Somewhere above water, back in the real world, a phone rings.

Mitzi breaststrokes an arm out of bed and grabs it. ‘Urmgh,’ is the best she can manage.

‘Good morning, Mrs Fallon. It’s the front desk. There is a driver waiting for you in reception.’

‘What?’

‘A driver, madam. From Sir Owain Gwyn.’

She squints at the bedside clock. 08.55.

‘Crapolla. Tell him I’ll be ten minutes.’

‘Yes, madam.’

She bangs the phone down, flies to the bathroom and quickly showers and dries. A look in the mirror shows her black eyes have morphed into large purple stains. Make-up deadens the ugliness a little but nowhere near enough to completely hide them. She drags a comb through her hair. Attacks it with hairspray. Dresses in black slacks and an unironed grey top, then grabs a jacket and heads downstairs.

The same driver is waiting in reception. The one that says nothing and throws the vehicle around like it’s a cocktail shaker. He smiles and walks outside.

116

It’s rained all night and is still raining when Bronty sticks his head out of the tiny farmhouse where he’s staying. It’s not the kind of warm, light drizzle that makes you feel good to be out in it but torrential rain that soaks you to the skin and leaves you cold and shivering for the rest of the day.

The American hurries to the Marisco Tavern, the island’s only hostelry and a place where a full English breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried bread and mushrooms costs less than a cappuccino in London.

Within minutes, he’s pointed to a man breakfasting in the corner of the tavern’s main bar, a ferryman from the Oldenburg called Dan Smallfellow. The old sailor is a personification of his surname. He’s a tiny sparrow of a man, with a bent back and wisps of white hair that refuse to lie down on his mottled bare skull.

‘So what do you want to know?’ he says, after Bronty has introduced himself. ‘Are you looking for oil, gold or legends? It’s usually one of them things.’

Bronty is amused by his candour. He takes out a copy of the sketch of the cross seen by Sophie Hudson. ‘Does this mean anything to you? Does it have to do with the island?’

Old Dan looks at it and takes a swig of tea. ‘It looks Celtic but different. Like it belonged to a special sect or clan.’ He puts the drawing down. ‘So it’s legends you’re chasing. There are plenty of them here.’

‘Like King Arthur and his knights?’

‘You’re a Yank, aren’t you?’

‘I’m American, yes.’

He takes a bite of toast. ‘And you’re trying to link that there cross with King Arthur and Lundy?’

‘Is it a ridiculous suggestion?’

‘Not at all. There are them that say the island is Avalon — Arthur’s resting place.’

Bronty suspects he’s being strung along. ‘I thought that was supposed to be in England, near Glastonbury?’

‘Propaganda. The English claim it’s in England. The Welsh claim it’s in Wales and the French claim it’s there.’ The ferryman looks at rain hitting the window. ‘They are all liars when it comes to legends. They smell the tourist dollar and lie, lie, lie. Not for nothing is Lundy known as Annwyn, the gateway to the Otherworld.’

Bronty valiantly refrains from launching into a theological lecture about heaven. ‘So if Arthur is here, where exactly would I find his grave?’

Old Dan slurps more tea before answering. ‘That would be a secret, wouldn’t it? Think of how King Richard the Third’s bones lay for centuries beneath common ground in Leicester; perhaps King Arthur lies out here in an unmarked grave.’ There’s a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Go and visit the Giants’ Graves or the Celtic Stones — you might find him there. Or, look out to sea and figure if he were rowed out from shore and laid to rest with the fish and sunken ships.’

‘I get the feeling you’re making fun of me.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not ribbing you. Everything is possible on Lundy. It’s a place of magic. The longer you stay here the more you’ll find I’m right.’

117

Deer mooch at the edge of a copse of beech then scatter as a speeding Range Rover breaks the morning peace. Hares and rabbits skittishly head for cover. Fat sheep rise from slumber and plod damp morning grass.

The 4x4 stops by the main entrance.

Mitzi’s out of the back before the driver can walk round to her door. She flaps it shut and without looking round, heads towards the castle.

‘You’re the American, aren’t you?’

The deep male voice has come from nowhere.

She turns and is startled to see an old man, shrouded in long white hair, straggly beard and full-length black coat.

‘Holy friggin’ hell! Where did you come from?’

‘I am Myrddin.’ His skinny hand levitates towards hers. ‘It is my pleasure to have encountered you.’ His eyes roam her face and he remembers his vision at the Font of Knowledge — two women, one known, one a complete stranger. Both in danger. Both will see death.

She takes a long stare into his pale green eyes as she shakes his hand. ‘Mitzi Fallon. In future, you should go easy with your surprise encountering.’

‘Eyes tell you very little,’ he says, disarmingly. ‘If you are searching for the true nature of a person you should look instead to their mouth. The lips and tongue are the slaves of the brain; they are stupid and far more likely to make mistakes than the eyes.’

Unwittingly, she shifts her attention to his mouth. The teeth are plentiful, well-shaped and unstained. The lips youthful, plump and moist. All features more fitting a far younger man.

In return, Myrddin pointedly studies her. ‘Your mouth is well used to truth. You are a good person, but it is not right that you are here.’

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘You seek the men who entered the Cave of Past and Present, those who slayed the Keeper of Time—’

‘I seek what?’

‘—you pursue them and also the silent brown beast that carries the disciples of Death.’

‘Aah.’ She gets it now. The poor old guy has a screw loose. ‘Very nice to have met you, Mervyn.’ She smiles politely and shakes his hand again. ‘I have to go now and see Sir Owain in the real world, you take care.’

Mitzi wants to walk away but for some reason she can’t. Her feet are so heavy she can’t move them.

Myrddin lets her hand drop. His eyes narrow and those soft lips of his speak slow and persuasive words. ‘You must return the shadow of knowledge. Give back the light of tomorrow or else you will cry endless tears.’

‘Lieutenant!’ The voice is Owain’s.

She turns her upper body to find him.

‘Good morning.’ He walks briskly towards her. ‘How are you today?’

Her feet free up and she stumbles forward. ‘I’m, er… I just met Merv, here—’ She turns back to gesture to the old man.

Only he’s gone.

‘Are you all right?’ Owain takes her arm and steadies her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

118

Ruth Everett wakes with what feels like the mother of all hangovers. First comes the agonizing pain in her head. Then a whoosh of sickness, followed by the realization she is fully dressed and lying on the kitchen floor staring up at the ceiling.

But the worst is yet to come.

The moment when she remembers what happened.

The nice woman who had broken down outside her house…

…had attacked her.

She’d let her use a landline to call the vehicle rental company and while they waited for the breakdown truck, she’d started to make some coffee. She’d been stood at the window getting mugs out of the dishwasher when the woman stuck something sharp in her neck. That sneaky bitch had spiked her, slapped a hand over her mouth and then forced her to the floor where she passed out.

Ruth gets to her feet. Struggles to the sink to pour some water. She pictures what’s she’s about to find. Her purse will have been emptied of cash and credit cards. No doubt all her jewellery will be gone. Maybe even the car off the drive.

The twins.

She hadn’t thought of them at first because she was so messed up by the drugs, but she does now.

‘Jade! Amber!’

Her throat hurts as she shouts. ‘Girls — where are you?’

They were on the patio when the woman rolled up. Maybe they’ve run to neighbours for help. She rushes to the hall. Looks in the lounge and TV room. There’s no sign of a disturbance. No fight. Nothing stolen.

‘Girls — you upstairs?’ She feels dizzy as she hauls herself up the treads.

In the master bedroom, Jack’s books are still piled high on the table next to his side of the bed, a page marker stuck a third of a way through a novel he never got to finish. Bracelets and rings shine out from a crystal jewellery holder in the middle of her dressing table. ‘Oh my God.’ She sinks on to the bed as reality hits her.

A note lies on the quilt.

It has a simple seven-word message.

119

Sir Owain guides Mitzi to a teak garden bench on a paved pathway a few yards from where he found her. ‘Sit a minute, then I’ll walk you inside.’

‘I’m fine. And I’m not a dog that needs to be walked.’ She looks out over the empty lawn. ‘Who was that old guy and where the hell did he go?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I bet it is.’ Her cell phone rings. ‘You mind if I take this?’

‘Please.’ He steps away to give her privacy.

Caller display says it’s her sister. Probably unable to sleep and needing to rant about Jack and his wandering hands. ‘Hey Ruthy, I’m kinda busy right now — can I call you back?’

There’s a tense silence before she answers. ‘Mitzi, it’s the girls.’

She picks up the fear. ‘What’s the girls?’

‘They’re gone. They’ve been taken from the house.’

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ She thinks of Alfie. Maybe he’s picked them up without permission.

‘I let this woman in…’ Ruth starts to choke. ‘She said her car had broken down — and while we waited for the rescue truck she stuck something in my neck.’ She’s almost unable to speak now. ‘I just came round and found a note. It says if I call the cops the kids will die.’

Mitzi’s heartbeat goes off the scale. ‘Have you called them?’ She has to remind herself to stay calm and act professionally. ‘Who’d you call, Ruth?’

‘Just you.’ She breaks down now. ‘Just you, that’s all.’

‘Okay.’ Mitzi struggles to breathe and hears herself saying, ‘Do nothing. Lock the doors, sit tight and let me get back to you.’ She looks up at Gwyn. He’s stood a few yards away, his back to her, his eyes fixed on one of the castle towers.

Could he have done this? A follow-through on the warnings he’d given her?

She pockets the phone and charges at him. Hits him square in the back. The blow knocks Owain forward but not down.

He staggers and turns to see her wide-eyed with rage.

‘You motherfucking son-of-a-bitch. You think you can hurt my fucking kids?’ She throws a raw right-hander.

He plucks it out of the air like he is catching a baseball tossed by a toddler.

Mitzi boots out at his legs. A crippling kick, hard enough to shatter a shin bone.

He leans effortlessly away from it. Gently twists her hand so the wrist and elbow lock and she is forced face down onto the grass.

Mitzi knows the manoeuvre well enough. If she shifts an inch her wrist will break.

He bends close to her face. ‘I’ve done nothing to your children. Do you understand me?’

She doesn’t answer.

His grip stays tight and his voice calm. ‘Lieutenant, do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’ He lets go of her arm and helps her to her feet. ‘I’m very sorry I had to do that. Now please tell me what has happened.’

120

It’s a shack of a place. Way off the beaten track. Made from cheap clapboard and is little more than a big shed divided into a living room and kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

Just perfect for their needs.

‘Kidnapping sure is thirsty work,’ says Chris as he brings in a six-pack from the RV. ‘You want a beer?’

The twins are laid out on the floor, back to back. Tess is sat opposite them in a cheap chair, with a handgun on her lap. ‘Yeah, but get me a glass. I don’t like drinkin’ straight from the bottle.’

Things had pretty much gone to plan.

She’d stuck Ruth Everett with a sedative then called Chris, who’d been waiting in woods half a mile away. Once he’d gotten himself in position in the house she’d shouted the girls in from the patio, saying their aunt was sick. Chris had spiked them as easy as popping sausages on a BBQ.

Together they bundled them into the RV and headed out to where they’re now having a celebratory beer.

Chris takes a tumbler from a cupboard, rubs a dishtowel in it to get rid of dust and froths out the Bud for the love of his life.

Tess gets on her knees, puts her fingers across the wrists of the girls and checks their pulses. Too much of the sedative and they die. Too little and they’ll be a handful.

Seems from the throbbing vein beneath her fingers that she dosed them just right.

She checks their restraints again. Chris handcuffed and bound them, sealed their yaps with Duck tape and for good measure stuck loose, black hoods over their heads.

Everything’s just tickety-boo.

She sits back down and takes the glass from him. ‘Thanks.’ Tess enjoys a long drink before putting it on the floor.

He looks down at the twins as he raises his beer. ‘Pretty kids. It’ll be a real shame when we have to kill them.’

121

Owain closes the study door and listens carefully to Mitzi’s account of how her children were abducted.

By the time she finishes, it’s plain she’s in need of some reassurances. ‘As an investigator, you know the note means that the kidnappers intend to make contact with you. Probably sooner rather than later.’

Mitzi nods and stops biting a thumbnail. ‘I need to call my boss and tell her what’s happened. The FBI has a special unit that deals with this kind of thing.’

He gestures to a Victorian desk of golden mahogany. ‘Feel free to use the phone. Though you may want to consider waiting another hour. I’m sure these people will reach out directly to you.’

‘I can’t wait.’ She gets to her feet. ‘I’m already crazy with worry. These are my babies. They’re everything that matters to me.’

‘I understand.’ He gets up and walks over to her. ‘I’ll leave you while you make the call.’

She picks up the phone and hears no tone. ‘How do I get an outside line?’

‘Zero, zero.’

‘Thanks.’ Her fingers shake as she enters the numbers for her boss’s direct line.

Owain walks down the corridor into the west wing. He passes through a full-body scan operated by two armed guards. Only then is he allowed into the suites of private offices that contain SSOA staff and the order’s main data banks and network systems.

At a curved desk, topped with a fan of high-definition 3D screens, the ambassador talks to Lance Beaucoup. ‘Lieutenant Fallon is in the guest office talking to her superior on the phone. Her children have been abducted.’

The Frenchman punches a button and Mitzi’s voice pours out of a black speaker grille built into the desk.

She sounds strained. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to anyone but Ruth. We need to get a female officer over there to support her.’

‘See it as done,’ says her boss. ‘Soon as you hang up, I’ll talk to the Kidnap Unit and get traces set up on your sister’s phones and your cell.’

‘I have to tell their father.’ Mitzi makes the announcement as much to herself as to her boss. ‘He’s going to lose it when he finds out.’

‘Give me a location and we’ll send an officer to wait outside his dwelling, then he can follow up as soon as you’ve told him.’

Owain signals to his colleague. ‘Turn it off. I don’t need to listen to any more of this.’

He kills the volume. ‘You want me to put a team on it?’

‘Straight away. Who was the young operative who did the background for me on Fallon and that Irish policeman?’

‘Ross Green. He was working with Eve Garrett. They’re both ex-cops who I’m sure will one day make Inner Circle members.’

‘I hope you’re right; we always need new blood. Put him on this — and her if she can be freed up.’

‘I’ll talk to Gareth and fix it.’

‘And tell him to make sure they take care. You can rest assured Mardrid is pulling Marchetti’s strings and he’s going to try to use Fallon’s girls to pull ours.’

122

An under-tens soccer match is finishing at the Met Oval in Queens, a public ground hailed as the oldest continuously used soccer facility in America.

Brooklyn Knights are two-nil up against Westchester on a pitch that boasts a skyline view of Manhattan and lies just a third of a mile and a three-minute walk from Zachra Korshidi’s house. Stood among the small crowd of cheering parents is Gareth Madoc. On the opposite touchline are two armed members of his team. Six more are stationed along the approach roads to the ground.

Zachra is twenty minutes late for their secret meeting and Madoc is getting nervous. South of the pitch, he sees the shadowy shape of a black burqa slide through a patch of trees. He whispers into the transmitter clipped to the cuff of his baggy brown pilot jacket. ‘Standby. We have target approaching from south side.’

Bodies move in the crowd. Unseen hands click the safety catches off their weapons. Zachra may be being followed; she may not. No one is taking any chances.

Madoc makes sure she sees him, then wanders away from the cheering parents and up a bank heading back to the streets. He slips into the shade and watches.

In one hand she carries a brown paper bag bearing the Burger King crest, and in the other a half-empty beaker of cola. Through the slit of her black niqab he sees her fearful eyes flicking everywhere.

‘You okay?’

The covered head nods.

‘Anything you can tell me?’

‘My father ordered my mother and me out of the house. He said he’d be receiving a very important guest and we were not to be there to shame him. We had to clean the back room, then he told us to stay away until he calls.’

‘Did you ask how long that might be?’

A laugh tumbles through the head cloth. ‘You don’t ask my father things. You just do what he tells you.’

‘Did you manage to fit the devices I gave you?’

Zachra doesn’t answer. She lifts her cola, forces a bent straw into the slit in her headdress and takes a long drink.

Madoc watches the liquid rise and notices the knuckles of her right hand are swollen. He glances at the bag held in her left hand and sees her other fingers are also damaged.

Zachra catches his stare. ‘He beat me for being in his room. The back room where you wanted me to go. He made me kneel like a dog, then stamped on my hands.’

Madoc’s heard enough. ‘We need to take you to hospital.’

‘Hospital can wait.’ There’s steel in her voice. She throws the finished cola into a trash bin and lifts up the Burger King bag so he can see it. ‘I’m taking this somewhere quiet to eat.’ Before she turns and walks away, she adds, ‘And yes, your camera and microphones are now hidden in his room.’

123

Mitzi puts the phone down and sits in stunned silence. The door opens and Owain walks in with George Dalton.

It’s just her luck that the man she has most wanted to interview turns up when she can least afford to talk to him.

‘I heard about your daughters.’ Dalton looks genuinely sympathetic. ‘I’m very sorry about what has happened.’

She addresses the ambassador. ‘I need to leave right away and catch a flight back to California. Can you tell me what’s the nearest airport?’

He shakes his head. ‘That’s not necessary. My helicopter will get you to Heathrow and from there I have a jet that will fly you across the Atlantic.’

She looks shocked. ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’

‘There’s no need to thank me. Please excuse me while I make arrangements.’

Mitzi watches him go. Her eyes settle on Dalton. If nothing else, she’s going to throw one question at him before she leaves. ‘Did you kill Bradley Deagan?’

He takes a long beat before he answers. ‘Sir Owain informed me that you know a little about our cause. About the good we try to do.’

She strides into Dalton’s space. ‘I have your DNA.’

The consul’s face reddens.

‘I lifted the bottle you drank from when we met in London and ran it through the labs. Guess what? It matches the DNA found mixed with Deagan’s on the washroom floor in the All Night All Right diner off Dupont Circle.’

He thinks for a moment. ‘I’m not sure what you are surmising from that. I have already told you that I was there.’ He looks unconcerned. ‘The bathroom would have been filthy. I imagine there was DNA from a hundred other people as well.’

‘Bad luck there. It had just been cleaned. The hygiene rota was signed ten minutes before you came in for your bleed.’

Dalton licks his dried and nervous lips. ‘Last time we met you said you had surveillance footage and that was a lie.’

‘You were at that diner with a man you had followed all the way from a crime scene.’

‘You could be lying now.’

‘I’m not.’

Owain walks back into the room. ‘Pilot says he’ll be ready for take-off in about twenty minutes.’

‘Thank you.’ Mitzi turns back to Dalton. ‘Come on, George; you and I both know you killed Deagan and hid his body and vehicle somewhere. Today of all days, save me the dance.’

Dalton glances at the ambassador, who gives him a telling nod.

Finally, he opens up. ‘I tailed a brown SUV from the antiques store where the owner died. Deagan and another man pulled up a couple of miles away. They both went into the woods, but only Deagan came out. I followed him to the diner. He went in and ate. When he came out I asked him to return our property.’

‘Asked?’

‘Yes, asked. He could have given it me and nothing would have happened. He went crazy, pulled a knife and we fought. I got stabbed, he got killed.’

‘And the body and the vehicle?’

‘Must have got moved.’

She smiles in disbelief. ‘You were doing well with the openness and honesty, until then.’

Owain steps into the conversation. ‘From what I told you yesterday, you can imagine why we wouldn’t want to be caught up in a homicide investigation. It’s imperative that George’s admission — and everything else I confided in you — stays between us.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Owain. My job isn’t to keep secrets, it’s to disclose them.’

‘I really hope you don’t do that.’ He glances at his watch. ‘We should get you down to the helipad; the pilot will be about ready.’

Mitzi’s cell phone rings.

Her heart jumps. The display says: ‘Number withheld’.

She presses the accept button. ‘Mitzi Fallon.’

The voice is electronically distorted and chillingly slow. ‘Which of your daughters do you love most?’

The words make her light-headed. She sits on the back of a leather sofa to steady herself. ‘What do you want?’

‘The codex. If I don’t have it within twenty-four hours, I’m going to kill one of them. You can choose.’

124

CARDT, the FBI’s Child Abducted Rapid Deployment Team, has an office two floors below HRU. Donovan rings unit boss Bob Beam, fills him in and says she’s on her way down with one of her lieutenants.

Within five minutes, she and Eleonora Fracci are sat in a briefing room.

Beam is late forties and looks like a college prof in his leather patched brown blazer and square-framed spectacles.

With him are two contrasting colleagues: a tall, broad man with black, soldierly hair and a petite, blonde woman in a grey business suit. He introduces them as they pull up chairs around the small table in the glass-walled room. ‘This is Damon Spinks. He’ll lead the operational side of any recovery we get to stage. And this is Helena Banks; she’s our psychologist and negotiator. She can talk the devil into singing in a church choir.’

Donovan reciprocates. ‘My colleague here is Eleonora Fracci, one of our lead investigators. She works alongside Mitzi Fallon and I want her to be the link on this — to you, me and any other agencies we include.’

Beam writes her name at the bottom of the notes he made when the AD called him. ‘Right now, everyone’s in what we call the sit-and-shit mode. It’s the most unnerving phase there is. Given the warning that the kidnappers left, we can’t get a full team to the house the girls were taken from because the unsubs might be watching.’

Spinks jumps in to give a little reassurance. ‘I’ve got an unmarked surveillance helicopter flying high and sweeping surrounding areas. We’re also asking for real-time satellite access and rollback replays, but we’ll be lucky to get them.’

Donovan blows a sigh. ‘What about traces on the house landline and family cell phone numbers?’

‘Those we can get,’ says Beam. ‘You know the game, though. The kidnappers will use burners and ditch them straight after a call.’

‘Worth a shot.’

‘Always.’ He rolls the pen across his fingers as he thinks. ‘And you figure the girls might have been taken because of this case their mom’s working?’

‘That’s right. She’s handling two homicides connected to an old cross and a memory stick taken from an antiques store near Washington DC.’

Beam makes notes. ‘What’s on the stick?’

‘Coded information.’

He looks interested. ‘As in spies?’

Donovan shakes her head. ‘We don’t think so. Seems to be something else. Fallon didn’t go into great detail.’

‘Then she needs to.’ He looks at Eleonora. ‘Can you call her and get the full picture for me?’

‘Si.’ She dips into her voluminous Fendi bag and produces a clutter of photograph frames. ‘I took these from her desk. I thought you’d need photographs of the girls.’

‘Thanks.’ He takes them and carefully lays them on the table. ‘Nice kids. I hope we can keep them that way.’

Helena, the psychologist, picks up one showing the girls with their mom at Disney. They’re all wearing mouse ears. ‘Can you tell me something about the family? It would be good to get an idea of how the girls might be acting right now.’

‘Not sure how much we can help,’ answers Donovan. ‘Fallon’s new to the unit. Came from LAPD Homicide after a messy divorce and brought the kids with her.’

‘Their father is a bum,’ adds Eleonora.

They all give her a look that demands further detail.

‘I checked on her a little. He used to beat her. One day she beat him back, called the cops and filed for divorce.’

‘Good for her,’ says Helena.

‘She’s a tough cookie,’ adds Donovan. ‘That’s part of why I wanted her on this unit.’

‘She’ll need to be,’ says Helena. ‘Her girls, too. Let’s hope some of Mom’s survival instinct has rubbed off on them.’

Beam is examining a seaside shot of a younger Mitzi carrying twin toddlers, one on each arm, into the sea. ‘Any chance of Fallon trying to solve this on her own?’

Donovan thinks out loud. ‘She called it in straight away. Means she’s trying to do things by the book; she wants us involved.’

The psychologist smiles sceptically. ‘Make no mistake — a mother will do anything to save her kids. And one like Fallon will only go by the book as long as she believes the book is worth it. After that, then there isn’t a line she won’t cross.’

125

Mitzi hangs up.

Owain and George Dalton stare expectantly at her.

She’s almost in a trance as she talks. ‘I have to hand over the codex within twenty-four hours or they’ll kill one of my girls.’ She almost breaks down. ‘But hey, I get to choose.’

The ambassador guides her to a nearby sofa. He knows there’s no point lying about the dilemma she’s in. ‘What you decide to do now is critical. Unfortunately, as you have two daughters, they will, if necessary, kill one of them, to increase their leverage.’

Mitzi stares at her hands. It’s a long time since she’s seen them shake. She looks up at the tall Welshman. ‘Once these sons of bitches have got what they want, they’re most likely going to kill them both, aren’t they?’

He knows she’s right. ‘What instructions did they give you?’

‘Said again not to phone the cops. I’m gonna get a call within the hour telling me where to go. I told them I was in England and they said they knew that. Then they hung up.’

‘You said England?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You’re not in England. You’re in Wales. It means they know you crossed the Atlantic and came to London, but not that you came out here to see me.’

‘Or,’ adds Dalton, ‘it means they don’t know they are separate countries.’

Owain sees tension on Mitzi’s face. ‘I’ll stand down the helicopter. Given the developments, you’re better off here than anywhere. Certainly, there’s no point flying you back to the US.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’ She becomes visibly more nervous. ‘I want to be as close to the girls as possible.’

‘I understand. But what if by travelling you miss vital contact with the kidnappers?’

She sees his point. ‘I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight. Give me a minute.’

‘What are you going to do about the FBI? Are you going to tell them about this call?’

‘I have to.’

‘Keep in mind that we’re better placed to help than they are. If they make one slip, then you know this gang will kill your daughters and flee.’

Mitzi chews a nail. ‘The bureau have a standard trace on my phone. They’ll have picked up that I received a call.’

‘They haven’t. There’s a communication shield around the castle. It makes it impossible for anyone to track your location or listen in.’

A thought hits her. ‘Were you? Were you recording and tracking that call?’

‘We were, but the kidnapper’s location is masked. There are anti-trace software programs that make it look like calls are coming from hundreds of miles away from where they are made. We can break it down, but it’ll take time.’

She looks desperate. ‘I don’t have time.’ Her phone rings. She looks down and sees that it’s Donovan’s direct line. ‘This is my boss. I have to take it.’

‘It’s up to you.’ He touches her arm. ‘You have to decide whether to trust the FBI, who’ve been dealing with kidnappers for decades — or us — an organization that’s been doing such things for thousands of years.’

126

Sandra Donovan explains that she’s with Fracci and is putting her on speakerphone.

‘Mitzi, it’s Eleonora.’ The Italian leans over her boss’s desk and talks into the spider-shaped conferencing unit. ‘We’re going to do everything to get your children back, I promise.’

‘I know you will. Has anyone called the local precinct?’

Donovan answers. ‘No. They’re in the dark and we’re keeping them that way. Have you fixed a flight?’

She hesitates. ‘I thought I might stay here for a while and see if the kidnappers make contact. I don’t want to be mid-air if they call. Have you got any breaks?’

‘Not yet,’ says the assistant director. ‘We’re figuring this woman who approached your sister was working with at least one man, probably more. Eleonora’s just spoken to Ruth and she said she thought she had a Californian accent.’

‘Ruthy is smart on accents; she used to be a teacher and could pick out exactly where every kid came from.’

‘We’re going to work on a sketch too. We can do a lot over a secure video link to Ruth’s home computer. It’s not as good as being there with her, but it’s close.’

The Italian leans towards the mic again. ‘We got a trace on your husband. He’d been in a bar brawl and spent the night in a cell in Oakwood. The custody sergeant knows you from way back and is about to kick him out without charge.’

Mitzi huffs in exasperation. ‘Alfie never changes. I’ll give him half an hour, then call. Can you have someone look out for him?’

‘We will,’ confirms Donovan. ‘We’ve met with the Child Abduction Response Department and they need to go through your case. I’ve asked Eleonora to get the files from Vicky and bring them up to speed. I know this is tough but can you think of anyone who might bear a grudge and be behind this — guys you’ve locked up, gangs you’ve crossed?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure this is down to whoever killed Sophie Hudson for the memory stick she took from Goldman’s store.’

‘Which you’ve still got?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got it all right.’ She can feel Owain’s eyes on her. ‘It’s in a place where no one’s gonna find it.’

‘If you’re right,’ says Donovan, ‘this stick is what you’re going to have to trade for your girls.’

‘I know. And to be clear, evidence or no evidence, if it means I get the girls, I’ll trade it in a blink.’

Eleonora senses the call’s about to wrap up. ‘Can you have Bronty call and bring me up to date?’

‘He’s not here. He’s following some religious leads on Lundy.’

‘Lundy? Where is that?’

‘Off the west coast. I’ll have Bronty contact you.’

‘No, leave it. I’ll call him. You have enough to deal with.’

‘Thanks.’ She finishes the conversation and looks around.

Dalton and Sir Owain have left the room.

In their place is the tall, thin, white-bearded man she saw in the garden.

127

The storm the weathermen predicted is now battering the tiny island.

Most of the thirty people who live here are holed up inside cottages in the south, but Bronty is braving the elements, in an all-too-thin waterproof borrowed from the tavern.

So far, he’s come across the remains of a granite quarry, scattered farm buildings, a small camp site, a couple of dozen holiday cottages and that’s about it.

To many people Lundy would be hell, but not him. The peace and seclusion bring a spiritual satisfaction he’s not felt outside of the seminary.

As well as the Giants’ Graves where skeletons up to eight feet tall were said to be found, Old Dan listed other places with rich historical or religious connections. They come with exotic names, like Needle’s Eye, Devil’s Slide and Shutter Point, but for now he’s making do with a rain-lashed walk along the low stone walls of Beacon Hill Cemetery. Like many graveyards, it’s been built on the highest available peak, the point ancients thought closest to the gods and the heavens.

Bronty takes a slow look around. He gazes out over the sodden green pastures to the endless miles of surrounding waves. Somewhere out there is the confluence of the Bristol Channel and the Celtic Sea, a mixing of great waters and stirring of untold myths and legends.

As the minutes pass, he becomes aware that all that separates him and his homeland in America is water. He looks around and remembers the ferryman’s remarks that to ancient Celts this must have looked like the end of the world.

The rain stops. Grey clouds shift. Shafts of sunlight warm his face. There’s a glorious wind-free silence. Then comes the sound of screaming birds, flapping high and wheeling across the brightening sky. He makes a visor out of his hand and picks out herring gulls, starlings and blackbirds.

He lowers his gaze to the glistening grass and spots the graves. Four isolated standing stones you wouldn’t give a second glance if you didn’t know their history.

He walks closer.

The severely weathered pillars remind him of the Celtic crosses that adorn Cornish and Welsh churchyards. He struggles to read the inscriptions. On one, he makes out the letters OPTIMI, which is similar to the Latin male name Optimus. Another looks like RESTEVTAE or RESGEVT, which could be the female name Resteuta or Resgeuta. The third and fourth are even harder to discern. One looks like POTIT, or it could be PO TIT and the other IGERNI, TIGERNI. He wonders if it was originally Tigernus.

‘If only the dead could tell their tales.’

Bronty turns to see a redheaded woman in a yellow anorak and black waterproofs studying him. ‘I’m Geraldine Brummer.’ She puts out a hand. ‘And I’m guessing you’re Mr Tomlinson, from the National Trust?’

‘No. No I’m not.’ Bronty shakes her hand anyway. ‘Jon Bronty. I’m — err — just an American visiting the island.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. I’m from Natural England. We manage the marine conservation and I’ve come out for the diving.’

‘I guess if you’re a diver then the rain doesn’t bother you.’

‘Actually, I love the rain. Makes me feel more alive.’

Bronty’s phone rings. ‘Excuse me for a minute?’

‘Sure.’ She smiles understandingly. ‘You’re lucky to get a signal.’

He smiles back and turns away to take the call. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Eleonora. Can you speak?’

‘Hang on.’ He walks away from the woman. ‘Go on.’

‘Mitzi’s children have been abducted.’

‘What?’

‘They were taken from their aunt’s home in San Mateo. I’ll go into everything afterwards. Right now, I need you to give me a full brief on her case, everything you and she found and anything you think might help us.’

128

Mitzi almost loses it when Myrddin appears barely a yard from here. ‘Hellfire, Mervin, where did you come from? You shouldn’t go creeping around like that.’

The old man approaches her, his face full of kindness. ‘I have come to give you strength.’

‘Excuse me?’

He takes both of her hands before she can back away. Holds them as intensely as he holds her stare.

She feels a strange sensation in her fingers. It rises into her arms and chest like a deep bass note. Mitzi tries to remove her hands from his, but they’re locked there, as heavy and immovable as her feet were in the garden. A deep warmth spreads through her.

‘Close your eyes for me.’

Normally a guy would get a crack for a line like that, but Mitzi doesn’t feel as though she can stop herself doing as he asks.

‘Slip back in time. Think of the moment you gave birth to your daughters. Remember how in your weakest physical time you created the greatest of all things. Remember their first breaths and cries. How they felt when you held them. How you felt, when you kissed their faces and touched their skin. Remember that magic.’

Myrddin takes her hands and places them behind her back as though they are cuffed together. ‘See your children. See them as newborns entering the light of the earth for the first time, being carried towards you, about to be placed in your arms for the first time.’

Mitzi wants to speak but she can’t. Her mind is flooded with the exaltation of motherhood.

He puts his leathery hands on her shoulders. ‘Kneel.’

Her legs bend and the cold, hard floor touches her knees.

‘The ground gives you strength. It renews you, absorbs your fears and from it you grow.’ He pushes a little harder on her shoulders. ‘Lie.’

Mitzi slumps the rest of the way, conscious now of the floor, of the cold against her side and face.

‘The ground gives you energy and protection. It feeds you when there is no food and hides you when there is nowhere for you to be hidden. Those looking at you will see only your physical form. Your spirit will be below ground, protected and nourished like the roots of a thousand-year-old tree.’

Mitzi feels like she’s having an out-of-body experience. She knows she’s being subjected to some form of hypnotism but at the same time it feels so empowering she has no urge to fight it.

‘When you get up you will be strong. So strong that no man alive will ever be able to cut you down. When you stand and hear your name, you will not remember that you spoke to me or even recall that I was here. But when the time comes, when you are bound or pained, you will remember your power. Now unclasp your hands. Feel the ground. Thank it for becoming your friend. Kneel on it and worship it. Stand proudly upon it, as the greatest tree in a forest stands, and then open your eyes.’

129

A white flag with the red cross of St George flutters against the blue-grey rain-soaked sky. Beneath the square stone tower upon which it stands is St Helena’s church and at the foot of it, the forlorn figure of Jon Bronty.

The former priest has just finished briefing Eleonora and is trying to get through to Mitzi. All his calls are tripping to her voicemail. An economical recording tells him for the third time, ‘It’s Mitzi; leave a message and a number and I’ll get back to you, thanks.’

‘Hi, it’s Bronty. I just heard the news. I’m so terribly sorry. I’m going to finish up here and get back to the mainland as quickly as possible, but I don’t think the next ferry is until tomorrow. I wish you much strength and I shall pray for you and your girls.’

He hangs up and slips inside the church to deliver on his promise.

The church is much grander and more impressive than the grey slate and harsh stone exterior had hinted at. The warm red brick of the interior and old dark wood pews feel familiar and welcoming to him.

There’s a quaint chancel with a transept vestry to one side, Purbeck marble colonnettes with alabaster carvings depicting the Last Supper. In front of him is a large lectern carved from wood in the shape of an eagle, an old stone pulpit and square baptism font. A modest red-clothed altar stands near a stained-glass centre window depicting the crucifixion. He walks over and kneels before the god he walked out on. It wasn’t a loss of faith in the Supreme Being that saw him quit, but a lack of belief in himself and his worthiness to wear the cloth.

He prays that Mitzi’s children will be safe and quickly reunited with their mother, that the experiences will leave none of them scarred and that she and all her family will have the strength and belief to get through the ordeal without any lasting damage.

It’s a lot to ask for.

He opens his eyes, looks up at the gleaming brass crucifix on the red altar cloth and feels at home. The church. The island. The people. Everything feels right to him. He could live here. This tiny land, of apparently so little, offers so much more than people can easily see.

As he gets to his feet and turns around to leave, he sees Geraldine Brummer praying quietly at the back. For a moment, he realizes he came to Lundy with a head full of questions and he’s going to leave with answers — but maybe not the ones he was looking for.

130

Owain returns with his wife and Lance Beaucoup. To his surprise, Mitzi is stood trance-like by the far window.

‘Lieutenant.’ He raises his voice to get her attention. ‘This is my wife, Jennifer, and my colleague Lance.’

She comes alive. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’ She takes Lady Gwyn’s hand. ‘Mitzi Fallon.’

Jennifer adds a reassuring hand to the one being shaken by the detective. ‘You must be worried sick; let’s sit together and talk awhile.’

Owain drifts towards the door as his wife comforts Mitzi. ‘Please forgive me; I have a call in the office that I have to take.’

The ambassador returns to his study where George Dalton is on the phone, talking to Gareth Madoc in New York.

‘Owain is here,’ says the consul. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone.’

The ambassador sits in his desk chair. ‘Gareth.’

Madoc comes straight to the point. ‘Khalid Korshidi has just met with Ali bin al-Shibh.’

‘Bin al-Shibh in America?’ Owain instantly pictures the man tipped to lead al-Qaeda one day. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘He mentioned the CIA black site that he was held at en route to Guantanamo. The voice and facial match we’ve run came back with one hundred per cent confirmation.’

‘A creature like this doesn’t crawl out from under the rocks unless there’s a major target.’

‘Three targets,’ says Lance. ‘Hence the code word Trinity. He’s running Yousef Mousavi and Nabil in the US and no doubt someone else, someplace else.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘No. He only mentioned the US, but he confirmed dates.’

Owain hopes he’s wrong, ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Timings?’

‘No. We didn’t get that lucky.’

‘Any sense of whether they are fixed for the same day, same hour, or consecutive days?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Damn.’ He tries to look beyond his frustration. ‘What’s Korshidi’s role?’

‘He’s a bigger player than we thought. Part of the smart new regime that al-Zawahiri constructed post-bin Laden. Seems he’s handling all the publicity because right now he’s unfurling banners and is preparing to shoot a video message with al-Shibh.’

‘Can we intercept the upload?’

‘Better than that. We have eyes and ears in the room — we’ll be able to see it being recorded.’

Owain gives Dalton a look that shows how impressed he is. ‘We’re going to have to share this intel with the Americans. I suspect Mardrid’s money is behind all this. As soon as you have the tape and some more solid information I’ll contact Ron Briars at the NIA and give him the heads-up.’

‘Understood.’ Madoc focuses on the video feed fizzing into life on a monitor at his desk. ‘Looks like we’re in “go mode” here. I’ll get back to you shortly.’

The line drops.

Owain kills the speakerphone and turns to Dalton. ‘Three separate attacks, all within the next twenty-four hours. What do you think?’

‘Unusual but not impossible. Did you see the matrix of VIP movements that the Watch Team put together for you?’

‘I did.’ The ambassador pulls it up on his computer screen. ‘I spent much of the early hours of this morning looking at it and narrowing it down.’

The consul gives his opinion. ‘The most obvious hit seems to be the new Pope. The pontiff has long been a moving target for all manner of groups and individuals, but with no ultimate success.’

Gwyn remembers Paul VI almost being stabbed by a Bolivian artist, John Paul II being shot in St Peter’s Square and Benedict, the last Pope, being attacked during Mass on Christmas Eve. ‘I see your point, George, but you know as well as I do that papal security is so tight that tomorrow when the Holy Father visits Wales he will undoubtedly be the most protected man on the planet.’

‘Maybe they’ll go for the old Pope and the new one?’

‘That’s a terrifying thought.’ Owain pictures the security inside the Vatican. ‘Benedict is well protected in retirement by the Swiss Guard, but I shall talk to them and flag the possibility.’

Dalton’s thoughts have moved on. ‘What about the US president? He’s always a target.’

Owain remembers the matrix. ‘He is in New York tomorrow at a fundraising concert for those affected by floods and hurricanes. Give me a third target.’

‘God’s banker,’ says Dalton. ‘Marco Ponti. The newly appointed CEO of the Vatican Bank will be holding his first board meeting with a committee of cardinals in Rome. Compared to the Popes and the president, he’s a soft target, but high-profile enough to be on a hit list.’

Owain pulls a face. ‘Why kill the Vatican banker and two Popes? The statement that all Christians are evil isn’t enhanced by shooting a banker. Nor, come to think of it, does the US president fit into a true religious trilogy.’

He’s about to re-examine the Watch Team’s list when the study door opens and his wife walks in.

Jennifer sees he is worried and is sorry that she has to add to it. ‘The policewoman — she’s taking another call from the kidnappers.’

131

Mitzi leans over a desk, pen in hand, notepad just below it. ‘I’m listening.’

The voice on the other end of the phone is the one she’s heard before. Male. Deep in tone. Electronically slowed down and distorted. ‘Do you have the files?’

There’s no hesitation in her answer. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Be in Borough High Street, Southwark by seven. Come alone. And be in no doubt: we will know if anyone is with you.’

Owain and his wife enter the room as she scribbles down the instruction. ‘I need to speak to my girls.’

There’s the sound of the phone being put down. Movement away from the receiver.

‘Mom, I’m all right.’

The sweet pain of hearing Jade’s voice sucks the air from Mitzi’s lungs.

‘They haven’t hurt me. I’m all right, Mom.’

‘Baby, it’s all going to be okay.’ She feels tears sting her eyes. ‘Honey—’

There’s a click and the kidnapper is back on the line. ‘Be there and have your phone on, or it will be the last time you’ll hear her.’

‘Amber.’ Mitzi shouts the name out. ‘I talk to Amber, or there’s no deal.’

A distorted laugh rolls down the line. ‘You don’t say what happens.’

Mitzi digs deep, finds the courage she’s looking for and cuts the kidnapper off.

She feels herself shake.

An antique clock ticks twice in the heavy silence. Mitzi realizes she’s holding her breath and lets out a long sigh.

The phone rings.

She answers in a split-second. ‘Fallon.’

A young girl’s scream can be heard. It’s long and piercing. The cry isn’t of someone frightened. It’s of pain. Mitzi’s eyes tear up as the scream becomes muffled. It’s followed by the sound of someone being dragged away. Then, the noise of a chair being knocked over.

‘M — om,’ Amber’s voice fills the line. It’s broken, weak, barely audible. ‘They’ve c — ut me — Mommy!’

The phone goes dead.

Mitzi feels the world sway. Her stomach turns. She grabs the waste paper basket beside the desk and throws up.

Jennifer rushes to her side. Owain pours a glass of water for Mitzi and gives it to his wife. He stands back and waits until the American has composed herself, then he pulls a chair up close. ‘Are you okay?’

Mitzi takes a tissue from Jennifer. ‘I’m sorry for the mess.’

‘No reason to apologize. We have to talk about what to do now, how to respond to them.’

‘I know.’ She wipes her eyes and nose.

‘I presume you intend to give up the memory stick. Do you have it with you, or is it somewhere else?’

‘It’s with me. Very much with me.’

‘What do you mean “very much”?’

‘It was small enough for me to do what drug mules do. I swallowed it. They want the stick, they’re going to have to take me as well.’

132

Ali bin al-Shibh bears more than a passing resemblance to the late Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, his hero. He’s every inch as tall and equally thin. His facial features are so similar that there is speculation that the thirty-five-year-old is one of the terrorist’s twenty-plus children.

As he stands in Khalid Korshidi’s back room and wraps a white turban around his head, he looks exactly as he intends to — a chilling reincarnation of al-Qaeda’s founder.

‘I am ready,’ he announces with a final adjustment of the headpiece.

‘Please, take the seat.’ Korshidi guides the bearded leader to a stool in front of a cloudy backdrop of male faces, what the terror group calls ‘The Martyr’s Wall’. It includes bin Laden, his former number two Saeed al-Shihri and renowned propagandist Samir Khan, who was killed in a US drone strike.

‘I’ll only be a moment.’ Korshidi adjusts small portable lights and returns to the digital camera he’s mounted on a tripod. He puts on a pair of headphones, lifts the sound level a little and hits a button. ‘The camera is recording.’

Bin al-Shibh’s eyes close. His head tilts down and hands raise in adulation as he starts his message. ‘All praise is due to Allah, who built the heavens and earth in justice, and created man as a favour and grace from Him. And from His Law is retaliation in kind: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and the killer is killed.’

The terrorist sits straight and his dark eyes burn into the centre of the lens. ‘People of the West, of capitalism, of false gods, of evil, you were warned. You were offered the Solution and you ignored it. Islam opened its doors and you turned away. You were given chances to avoid unwinnable wars and still you spilled the blood of our children. With it dripping from your infidel hands, you asked your priests to celebrate your innocence and heroism. The wise among you must have known that a Day of Reckoning was coming.’

The camera shot tightens and his bold eyes dominate the frame. ‘Al-Qaeda is the Reckoning. We are sent by Allah to destroy your false gods and false lives.’ The aggression dies from his face. ‘Take up the Koran, turn your backs on the Catholics and Jews and their lies about the Prophet of Allah Jesus. Do this and you will be saved. All praise is due to Allah, who awakened His slaves’ desire for the Garden, and all of them will enter it except those who refuse. Whoever obeys Him alone in all of his affairs will enter the Garden. Whoever disobeys Him will have refused and will perish.’

He lowers his hands and locks his eyes on the lens. ‘You were warned. You have been punished and will be punished again.’

133

Beam and his team pull together their basic Child Abduction Response Plan. While Helena Banks works on a psychological profile of the kidnappers, she has a geographical analyst map out the most likely exit routes from Ruth’s house.

Kay Podboj, a bright young academic fresh from Quantico, has been studying mileage, terrain and the location of airports and seaports. She approaches her boss’s desk with a folder full of aerial photographs and a face that says the early findings aren’t good.

Helena looks up from her own jottings and recognizes the signs. ‘That bad?’

‘Maybe worse.’ She spreads out the shots. ‘The Everett ranch is in a prime position. Must have cost a fortune. It’s remote but within striking distance of all major roads. They could have gone anywhere.’

‘Show me the most likely anywheres.’

‘Here.’ She fingers the first photograph. ‘The San Mateo Bridge is five miles away and on the other side is five thousand acres of the Eden Landing Ecological Reserve.’

‘Isn’t that just salt ponds?’

‘Mainly, but a whole lot of reclamation work’s been done. There are plenty of places to hide and miles of airstrips to fly from.’

Helena shakes her head. ‘I don’t think they’ve flown. Not yet.’

‘I agree. They could be out at West Waddell Creek State Wilderness. It’s an hour from the snatch point and has six thousand acres of dense redwood and Douglas fir to give them good cover.’ She glances at a map on the wall. ‘An hour would also get them out to Napa.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yep, the Lord himself and all his disciples could hide out there and never be found. It’s eighteen square miles of sparsely populated valley. South is bad. Within two hours they could have reached Austin Creek.’

‘How big’s that?’

Kay looks at the map again. ‘More than twenty miles of countryside, with camp sites and remote cabins all over the place. The girls were taken late at night, right?’

‘Not so late. We guess between nine and ten. They’d come back from a day at the aquarium. Their aunt had been clearing up after dinner and they were outside playing a board game when the unsub pulled up.’

‘Okay. My point is this — the kidnappers did the pro thing. They knew within an hour of the snatch they’d have cover of darkness, meaning they could drive further in a shorter period of time because there’s less traffic and fewer cops on the road. There are also fewer night flights and they would know that the authorities would be able to quickly search overnight manifests for planes leaving California.’

‘I buy all that, but so what?’

‘Well, driving far at night means you have to know where you’re going and you must already have a place to go to. One owned or rented.’

‘Not owned,’ insists Helena. ‘They wouldn’t mess on their home lawn.’

‘So, we’re looking for a rented safe house, lodge or cabin somewhere out in the wilds. Ideally, they’d go for something a good hour from the ranch but not too far from an airport.’

Helena nods. ‘I agree. Once this is finished, they are going to fly. Possibly out of the country rather than just the State.’

Kay taps several of the pictures in front of her boss. ‘Then for me, the most likely exit airports are Oakland, Half Moon and San Fran International.’

Helena makes the first cut. ‘I’d rule out Half Moon. There are a lot of private planes and hangars there, but the coast guard, air ambulance and Medevac also fly from that old strip and I think the local sheriff as well.’

‘That leaves San Fran and Oakland.’

The psychologist crosses to the map on the wall. Oakland sits almost directly across the Bay from San Fran and she knows in recent years it’s become a booming airport with hundreds of flights per day across the States, Mexico and Europe. ‘Let’s start here,’ she says decisively. ‘Give me a geo profile on where the kidnappers would hide out in this area. I’m going to recommend to Beam that this is where we centre our resources.’

134

Gareth Madoc watches a replay of the al-Qaeda footage in the office of Troy Hemmings, the chief analyst from the SSOA’s North American Watch Team.

The former Harvard graduate is a thoughtful, bespectacled man who always wears a white shirt under a brown or black jumper and matching slacks. Today is a brown day and he crosses his suede shoes under his desk as he hits pause on the remote control in his hands.

‘Well?’ Madoc is anxious for his expert opinion.

‘It’s interesting for three reasons. First, it is Ali bin al-Shibh saying this and not al-Zawahiri. It means there must have been some power shift, otherwise Ayman would have been making this keynote, not one of his more promising lieutenants.’

‘Maybe al-Zawahiri is trying to take more of a back seat. He’s old now and perhaps recognizes the need to have a younger man front the organization.’

Hemmings nods. ‘That’s very possible. He’s extremely bright and undoubtedly was the brains behind bin Laden.’

‘But is al-Shibh really ready to step up?’

The analyst takes a second before answering. ‘Yes, I think so, especially with Ayman al-Zawahiri and other grey beards behind him. Mokhtar Belmokhtar was expected to fill that void, but he got killed in Mali.’

‘Old one-eye was a good hit.’

‘Certainly was. Did you recognize anything familiar about the opening and closing of al-Shibh’s speech?’

‘Educate me.’

‘Back in oh-seven, on the sixth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, bin Laden released a video entitled The Solution. It was a long message made directly to the American public. He told them to abandon capitalism, condemn their government for military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan and cleanse themselves by joining Islam.’ Hemmings points to the freeze frame of al-Shibh on the monitor. ‘This guy opened and closed with almost verbatim quotes from that speech. Just as Obama borrowed from Kennedy, he’s borrowed from bin Laden.’

‘So you think al-Shibh is being cast as the new bin Laden?’

‘That’s what it seems like to me.’ He warms to his theory. ‘This address of his is very clever. It’s going to win the support of the old guard as well as new recruits. If al-Shibh’s Trinity operation is successful this video will signal the resurrection of al-Qaeda.’

It’s not a thought that sits well with Madoc. ‘You said there were three reasons why this speech is important. I’m hoping the third is a clue to where any impending attacks might be.’

‘It could be. I’d like to watch it a few more times before giving you a definite answer, but it seems to me that post the appointment of a new and more likeable Pope they’re turning their anger on religious leaders and intend to make them targets rather than government buildings or members of the public.’

‘What about the attacks on Grand Central and the Eurostar?’

‘Distractions. Attention-grabbing distractions that are merely steps towards the big event, the one that will be most historically remembered.’

The SSOA leader is sceptical. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I can’t, Gareth. I can’t ever be sure. But look at the speech. It was full of religious references. Praise for Allah. Condemnation for those who turned their backs on Islam. Reminders of old sayings such as “an eye for an eye” and “kill the killer”. At least twice he mentioned the worshippers of false gods and then there was that plea for people to turn their backs on the Catholics and Jews and all the lies about the Prophet Jesus.’

The analyst clears the video from his computer screen and types a command in a search box. ‘And don’t forget this.’ He leans back so his boss can see.

A folder marked ‘Fatwa’ appears on screen and out of it comes a document entitled ‘World Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders’.

‘This was published under bin Laden’s name,’ says Hemmings, ‘but everyone knows Zawahiri was the author, just as they know no other terrorist on the planet has launched as many successful assassinations and terror attacks as he has.’ He turns to Madoc. ‘Al-Shibh is following in his footsteps. He’s restarting an age-old war — the Holy War.’

135

Sir Owain’s helicopter flies him, Mitzi and George Dalton to London. They pick up the south bank of the Thames around West Kensington and follow it down to a private helipad east of Vauxhall.

A black cab takes them the final three miles to Southwark. The taxi and the two nondescript cars in front and behind it are all owned and manned by members of the SSOA.

Mitzi barely speaks as they head past the Elephant and Castle roundabout and down the A3 for the final part of the journey. Her mind is filled with the sharp sound of Amber’s screams. She plays nervously with the thin silver chain around her neck and the steel Rolex pinching her wrist. Both pieces of jewellery contain hidden microphones, receivers and tracking devices. Further trackers are concealed in her silver stud earrings and the heels of both shoes.

Dalton is sat next to her in the back of the cab. Owain is on a flip-down seat opposite them and is keen to settle her nerves. ‘George and I will get out in a moment and the cab will drive to the middle of the High Street and park. Stay inside until they call you. Don’t forget to ‘pay’ the driver when you get out — they may be watching. The cab will go and wait around the corner and be ready to collect you.’

She nods hesitantly.

‘Remember, we have a lot of good people already out walking this street or sat in cars. There’s no way you’ll ever be out of our sight.’

‘Thanks.’

He turns and talks to the driver. ‘Colin, pull over when you can; we need to be on foot.’

The cabbie indicates left and slides the old black taxi into a bus stop.

Mitzi watches the two men get out. They shut the door, shake hands and part like friends going separate ways.

Two minutes later, the cab is drawing to a halt again. Mitzi checks her phone for what must be the hundredth time. It’s on. Fully charged. The mute button hasn’t accidentally been pressed. She hasn’t missed a call.

Seven o’clock comes and goes.

So does ten past.

And twenty past.

Five minutes later it rings.

‘Fallon.’

The distorted male voice gives her a simple instruction: ‘The George Pub — walk through every room. We will find you.’

136

Bob Beam, Damon Spinks and Eleonora Fracci are studying a 3D map on a wall monitor in the briefing room. They look away as Helena Banks walks in and takes a seat at the long table.

Beam explains that he thinks the search should concentrate on an area east of San Francisco Bay. ‘This particular rectangle of dense forest lies within a forty-minute drive from the ranch where the girls were abducted.’ He traces a hand across the monitor. ‘The grid that’s marked runs horizontal along the 580 from Castro Valley to Dublin, then vertical down the 650 from Dublin to Sunol, horizontal across the 84 to Niles, then up from Niles along the 238 back to Castro. It takes in a lot of public parks and places to hide. You’ve got Hayward Memorial, Pleasanton Ridge, Recreation, Garin and Dry Creek. That’s more than a hundred square acres of land.’

Helena doesn’t agree with his strategy. ‘I think you’re off. Concentrate the search there and you could make a big mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Our geo profile suggests the kidnappers struck at night because they wanted to drive long, not short.’

‘Makes sense,’ says Eleonora. ‘They are professionals so they would know to strike when people are most tired and law-enforcement resources are weakest.’

Helena continues, ‘We estimate that they drove for a minimum of an hour. Which, if they went through the back roads, would take them up to Shepherd Canyon Park, or if they mixed freeway and minor roads they could get as far as Mount Diablo.’

Spinks looks pained. ‘Diablo is what, twenty thousand acres?’

‘At least,’ confirms Helena. ‘If you take into account the surrounding lands, you’re closer to a hundred thousand.’

‘And it’s high,’ says Beam, warming to the idea. ‘Diablo is about three thousand feet above sea level. If you hole-up in a cabin out there you can see people coming for miles.’

‘We like it because of Oakland,’ adds Helena. ‘Both Kay and I think Oakland is the chosen evac point. We believe that when it’s over, they’ll ignore San Fran International and try to get out from there.’

‘How far is the airport from Diablo?’ asks Eleonora.

‘Forty miles. It’d take them about an hour to get there.’

Beam studies the map on the monitor and the original grid he’d marked out. It no longer seems as viable as it did. ‘Okay, let’s prioritize our actions in the area that Helena suggests. But listen, that doesn’t mean we totally ignore anything that comes in pointing to other zones.’

‘I’ve already asked for camera footage from San Mateo Bridge,’ says Eleonora. ‘And from Bay Bridge too, in case they took a scenic route.’

Spinks has a bonus for them. ‘I called a friend running a helicopter flight business out at Camp Parks. He’s promised to help out, under the cover of running tourist trips, so I’ll give him locations near Diablo to scout.’

Beam checks his watch. ‘We need to get moving. Let’s have search teams briefed and out within the hour; I’ll fix for some of our people to start searching for rentals — cars, lodges, houses and whatever else is out there. Everyone get praying; we need a break and need it quickly.’

137

Mitzi hands over ten English pounds to the cab driver. She walks along Borough High Street and through large green gates announcing, ‘The George — London’s only surviving galleried coaching inn and the home of fine cask beers’.

The hostelry is a long three-storey building painted in white and black. Two of the upper storeys have wooden galleries from which dangle flower baskets. Mitzi passes over a large cobbled area filled with dozens of drinkers at rough wooden tables.

She enters through a side door near a sign showing St George slaying a dragon. People are squashed into a warren of tight downstairs rooms. The noise is so loud she’s scared of not hearing her phone. She holds it up so she can see the flash of any incoming calls as she pushes her way through an old bar with hard bench seating into one that looks even older and less comfortable.

Both areas are brimming with either bemused tourists or drunken Londoners. Some have food on tables, others are stood drinking.

The next room is more modern — a long and bright bar of blonde wood, gleaming brass pumps and blackboards offering fresh food. The crowd hanging here looks more family orientated, with mums, dads and kids grabbing the best tables by the windows.

Her phone rings.

‘Hello.’

No one answers.

‘Damn!’ Mitzi looks at it accusingly. Only two of those little signal lines. The reception must be bad.

She moves into a hallway to get better reception.

After five minutes and no call, she climbs a set of paint-chipped stairs to a series of uneven floors and private function rooms. Several people pass her. None have the alertness she’d expect of someone involved in a kidnapping.

By the time she finds the Gallery Bar, she’s uncomfortably hot and orders a glass of mineral water with ice. While waiting, she hears tourists discussing how Shakespeare and Dickens used to drink here. Given how long it takes to be served she wonders if they’re still around.

She takes her change and is dropping it in her purse when the phone rings again.

Mitzi almost drops her cash as she answers. ‘Fallon!’

Again, there’s no pick-up.

She scans the bar. No one is looking at her. The place is full of regular-looking thirty-somethings, a few business types and a group of young guys in the far corner. None of the waiters or waitresses is paying her any attention.

Mitzi tries to stay calm. She sips the drink at the bar. After ten minutes she starts walking again. Back downstairs, she puts her now-empty glass on a table and goes to the only place she’s not yet visited.

The restroom.

It’s cold and smells of damp plaster and cheap air freshener. She uses a stall, then washes her hands. The mirror above the sink gives a cruel reminder that her face is still bruised and her panda eyes now bloodshot.

She waits patiently for a thin brunette in black jeans, matching waistcoat and white T to finish drying her hands under a noisy wall-mounted blower.

Their eyes lock. Mitzi glances towards the door. An athletically built woman, mid-thirties with short blonde hair, has her back against it.

In her hand is a gun.

The brunette smiles, holds out a palm and waggles her fingers. ‘Give me the memory stick.’

138

Owain Gwyn slides into the shadows of a thin passageway off the main street, just down from The George and takes the call. ‘Gareth, I’m on foot and in public, is this urgent?’

‘It is,’ confirms Madoc. ‘I’ve this minute sent you a digital file. It’s of the al-Qaeda video that’s just been shot.’

Owain watches a silver Mercedes halt near the pub entrance and two burly men slip out. ‘Do we know the targets?’

‘No. It was a revealing speech, but not in that kind of way. I had Hemmings watch and he thinks the main target is likely to be a religious leader.’

The men disappear into the pub but the Merc stays on double yellow lines, its hazard lights flashing.

‘We’ve been over this. I’m not willing to approach the Vatican with a view to cancellation unless you can give me more specific intel.’

‘I can’t do that. Not at the moment.’ On his desk monitor, Madoc sees al-Shibh thank Korshidi and prepare to leave the house where they’ve been filming. ‘Our new friend is on the move, so I’m going to have to go. Before you dismiss the risk completely, please look at the recording and make your own mind up.’

‘Okay, I will.’ Owain watches the Mercedes pull away from the kerb and head down the street towards London Bridge. ‘I’ll find time in the next hour.’ He glances at his watch. It’s even later than he thought. ‘The Pope is already in Wales, but his first public appearance isn’t until the morning. If he’s in danger, that’s when any attack will come.’

139

Mitzi ignores the big blonde with the gun and gets in the face of the wiry brunette by the row of basins. ‘You ain’t getting anything. Not until Amber’s at a hospital being treated. Only when I know that, when I can call her and talk to her, do you get what you want.’

The brunette scowls. ‘We’re not here to negotiate.’ She nods to the blonde guarding the door.

Mitzi feels the persuasive jab of a gun in her side. She smashes her left heel into the big woman’s right knee, hooks a hand around the back of her neck and slams her head into the edge of a sink. There’s a sickening thunk of skull bone on ceramic and Mitzi knows she’s unconscious by the time she hits the floor.

The brunette thinks of grabbing the spilled gun.

‘Go ahead,’ says Mitzi. ‘If I needed a weapon I’d have brought one.’

The bathroom door opens and two men appear. They’re unmistakably ‘muscle’.

‘She’s got a fractured skull.’ Mitzi nods to the comatose woman. ‘I heard it pop. Best get her to a hospital before the brain bleed’s too bad.’

The brunette turns cardiac-red. She grabs the gun and points it with shaking hands. ‘Now give me the stick, you fucking bitch.’

‘Calm down, honey.’ Mitzi raises her hands. ‘Things are already screwed here. You’ve gotta get some focus.’

‘Give me the fucking stick!’ She pushes the gun towards her.

‘You want it, lady — you’re going to have to pick it outta my poop.’

The brunette looks lost.

‘I swallowed it.’

One of the guys smiles, steps forward and grabs her hands. He loops a plastic tie around her wrists and pulls it skin-nipping tight.

Mitzi goes with the flow.

The other muscle drapes his sweatshirt over her hands to conceal the cuffs, then bends over the injured blonde. ‘She’s totally out of it. I’ll do what I can and follow in a minute. Take the mouthy bitch to the water and don’t wait for me.’

140

Owain and Dalton are sat in the cab monitoring developments via the pendant microphone around Mitzi’s neck.

‘We’ve got boats on the Thames,’ says Dalton. ‘Both east and west of London Bridge pier.’ He taps on the glass screen dividing them and the driver. ‘Colin, get off the High Street and head down to the Thames; they’re moving her. I can hear street noise — they must be coming outside.’

Owain stares through the front windshield as the cab pulls into the traffic. ‘It’s about a third of a mile from the pub to the pier — they could walk that in less than five minutes. If you see a silver Mercedes on last year’s plates, it could be a follow car.’

‘Got it.’

‘My money is on them going east.’ Dalton follows a signal from Mitzi’s tracker on a laptop map of London. ‘Over here,’ he points to the right of the screen, ‘near the Millennium Dome.’

Owain isn’t convinced. ‘Maybe.’

The consul presses his case. ‘There’s a lot of open land and unused buildings down there. Remember, Mardrid’s company bought into the post-Olympic regeneration boom.’

‘I know, but he also owns properties around Chelsea Harbour, Battersea Park and Kew Gardens.’ As he talks, Owain dials the operations room at Caergwyn Castle. ‘Lance — Fallon is on the move. Do you have a visual on her?’

Beaucoup is sat in front of a bank of monitors showing feeds from cameras in cars, people on foot and a helicopter hovering high over the river. ‘Eye in the sky has got her. She’s with one man and a woman almost at London Bridge pier. They’re side by side and she has something over her hands, probably to cover some cuffs. I can see a small boat moored there.’

‘What kind of boat?’ asks Dalton.

He squints at the screen. ‘Six or eight berth, built more for speed than cruising.’ He recognizes it now. ‘It’s the same type the marine police use, a twin-engine Targa capable of thirty to forty knots.’

‘What have we got on the water?’ asks Owain.

‘We have a big water slug of a canal boat, fully spec’d with operational equipment and rescue team. And a Hustler Rockit with twin Mercuries that will clear a hundred knots in the blink of an eye.’

‘Only use the Hustler as a last resort. Once that thing cuts a wave, we’ll have river police all over us. Let’s take this one nice and slow. How are we doing on the American side?’

‘The FBI are all over Fallon’s sister’s ranch in San Mateo. They sent agents out there disguised as maintenance men and I’m told they’ve done a full forensic search but have no fingerprint or DNA matches with known criminals.’

‘Hardly a surprise,’ says Owain. ‘This is the work of top-end pros, the kind with no previous—’

‘Marchetti!’ shouts Beaucoup. ‘I just saw Angelo Marchetti on the pier. He’s with a party that got off the boat.’

141

Mount Diablo fills the rear-view mirror as Eleonora Fracci parks her Chrysler Crossfire in the lot of a small mall. She’s working her way through a list of people who paid cash on short, last-minute holiday lets and car rentals.

In front of her is a spread of fast-food joints, nail parlours, a grocery store, upmarket Chinese restaurant and a bar.

It’s the bar she’s interested in. That and the two guys twenty yards ahead of her who just disappeared inside.

An hour ago, Eleonora had driven past one of the target properties and seen a hulk of a man arguing with a woman in her thirties. He got to the point where he was done shouting and decided a punch would win the argument for him.

Eleonora had wanted to stamp on the brakes, get out and teach him a painful lesson. Only she would have blown her cover. While she was waiting and cursing, two more men came out of the rundown old shack and pulled the big guy and the battered woman inside.

The Italian was left looking at what was on the driveway and is now on the lot. A People Carrier with blacked-out windows. Perfect for four adults and a couple of teenage girls.

Eleonora waits until Mitch Conway, her assigned backup pulls up in his Chevy. She tosses her jacket in the back of the Crossfire and heads inside.

The bar is dark and moody. There’s a long slab of hardwood with saloon-style mirrors and shelves behind it. Neon signs on the wall advertise Bud. A jukebox plays country.

‘Mineral water,’ she says to a middle-aged bartend.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ His eyes register his interest in her shapely figure. ‘You want anything to eat? We got the best chicken in the valley.’

Her smile says she’s going to pass on that.

Eleonora takes her BlackBerry out and busies herself with mail. At least that’s what she hopes it looks like to the two guys on stools a few feet away. Without looking up, she knows their eyes are all over her.

The door opens, light spills in and she hears Mitch order a beer and ask where the washroom is.

The bartend puts down her drink. ‘You don’t want the chicken, I’m sure we could do something special for you.’

The comment is enough to prompt the woman-punching hulk into joining in. ‘Pretty sure I could do something very special for you, honeycakes.’

His friend laughs.

Eleonora puts her phone down. ‘No food thanks, I’m just waiting for a girlfriend.’

Hulk hitches his stool towards her. ‘I’m Jake and this here is Randy.’

His buddy chimes in. ‘You know what they say, Randy by name…⁠’

‘You guys local?’ she asks.

‘Hell no,’ says Jake. ‘We’re from Fresno. Just come over for some fun.’

She sips her water and leaves her lips glisteningly wet. ‘What kind of fun?’

Jake’s eyes turn greedy. ‘’Bout any kind we can get.’

Eleonora leans back and blatantly checks him out. ‘And what do you big, muscled men do for a living?’

‘Meat packers.’ He nods to his colleague. ‘Randy here is about to open his own business.’

‘Love to show you my meat sometime.’ He breaks out laughing again.

She’s heard and seen enough. Professional criminals don’t pick up women in the middle of a job. Nor do they not wear watches. Jake has the sleeves of his checked shirt rolled up and his arms are tanned, with no sign of a timepiece ever being around any wrist. But both him and his jerkoff buddy have marks on their fingers where their wedding bands were. Most likely, they’re away on a boys’ holiday. Hunting, shooting, fishing and whatever else they can get. The woman she saw was probably a hooker, stupid enough to grab their cash and get passed around.

Eleonora takes a final sip of her mineral water and puts a five-dollar bill down to settle the tab. ‘Sorry, guys. I have to go.’

‘Hey, not so quick, babe.’ Jake grabs her arm as she gets up.

‘Get your hand off me.’

He doesn’t take the hint. ‘C’mon, sit down baby.’

She pulls her arm but he holds tight.

Eleonora smashes an elbow into his face.

He grabs his broken cheekbone and lets go of her.

She snags the barstool and pulls it from under him.

Hulk hits the floor spine first.

She slips out her gun and trains it on him. ‘Follow me outside and I’ll kill you. And if I ever see or hear of you hurting another woman, then I’ll find you and break more than just your face.’

142

Armed men hustle Mitzi off the quay and along the back of the bobbing boat. They squeeze her into a covered cabin and force her to sit on a narrow padded bench.

Through a window, she sees a young blonde man in a red T-shirt pull a thick rope back down onto the decking. The craft’s noisy engine coughs into life. The floor vibrates and the Targa pulls out into the choppy grey river.

A good-looking man with trimmed beard and long black hair comes into the cabin and sits on the bench opposite. He unfastens the jacket of his shiny blue suit and smiles at her. ‘Welcome on board, Mrs Fallon.’ He stretches his hand out and rips the silver necklace from around her neck. ‘A woman like you shouldn’t wear such cheap jewellery. Earrings too. Glad I didn’t miss those.’ He grabs both studs and forces them out.

Mitzi yelps as her flesh tears.

Marchetti grabs her wrist and unfastens her watch. He opens the back door of the boat and throws everything into the inky water. ‘That’s better.’

He returns to the bench and looks towards his men. ‘Someone give me a blade.’

Mitzi watches one of the thugs produce a knife for gutting fish.

Marchetti takes it and nods towards the brunette. ‘My friend here tells me you’ve swallowed the digital files. So why don’t I just use this lovely piece of steel, cut you up like a tuna and take it out your guts?’

Mitzi doesn’t flinch. ‘Because of the mights.’

He screws up his eyes. ‘The what?’

‘I might be telling the truth and might have swallowed it. Or, I might have stored it or mailed it somewhere. Kill me and you’ve only got a fifty per cent chance of being right. Release Amber, let her get treatment at a hospital, and I promise I’ll tell you the truth.’

‘You promise.’ He laughs, then lunges forward and stabs the tip of the blade under her right collarbone.

This time she can’t hold the scream back.

Marchetti keeps the steel wedged there. Far enough in to cause excruciating pain but not so deep as to start a fatal bleed. ‘Give me the stick!’

Shock hammers her chest.

‘Give it me!’

She stares through him.

Marchetti pulls back the blade and punches her face.

Mitzi feels her already damaged nose break again. Blood rushes through her nostrils. Lightning flashes in her head. The boat lurches to the right and she doesn’t have the strength to stop herself falling to the floor.

The boards smell of teak oil and soap. That’s the last thing she remembers before she blacks out.