The Secret of Excalibur

‘Uh, bye,’ she said as he left, taken aback. Al-Jafri looked bemused, while Mitchell veiled a smile. She felt her cheeks flush as she turned back to the curator. ‘Okay, well, so . . .’

‘The archives?’

‘Please!’

‘Here we are,’ said al-Jafri. Wearing a pair of white cotton gloves to protect the ancient pages, he pointed at a particular piece of Arabic text within the book he had taken from one of the Center’s climate-controlled underground vaults. Although the tome itself dated from the fifteenth century, it described events from two centuries earlier, collated from other accounts of the many wars that raged across the Holy Land during that period. ‘This is the first mention of Muhammad Yawar.’

Nina’s knowledge of Arabic was limited. ‘What does it say?’

‘Not much,’ said Mitchell, peering over her shoulder.

‘You know Arabic?’

‘Enough to get by.’ He grinned. ‘But Dr al-Jafri’s right - Yawar wasn’t important enough to rate more than a few lines.’

‘Those few lines may have what you’re looking for, though,’ said al-Jafri, carefully running the tip of his finger across the time-browned page. ‘It says, “The barbarian leader himself came forth to challenge Muhammad, his sword shining bright. But like the Prophet whose name he bore, Muhammad was brave and righteous and a true servant of Allah, and with a blow broke his sword into pieces. With the longest of these, he slew the infidel. Their leader dead, the other invaders retreated in fear.”’

‘Barbarians?’ said Mitchell, puzzled. ‘Is this the wrong battle? Sounds like they’re talking about the Mongols.’

Al-Jafri suppressed a mocking chuckle. ‘No, it’s the right one,’ Nina explained. ‘The Muslim perspective on the Crusades is . . . well, kinda different from the Christian one. They saw the Christians as brutal invaders, there to murder the followers of Islam and plunder their lands.’

‘Plus ça change . . .’ al-Jafri said quietly. Mitchell shot him a cutting look. ‘But there is one more line about Yawar here. “Muhammad returned home to Kafashta and gave the blade to the imam of the town, to show that the servants of Allah will always be triumphant.”’

‘Kafashta?’ asked Nina.

‘It’s a small town in southern Syria. Well, it was considered a town in Yawar’s time - it probably barely qualifies as a village now. I can find it on a map for you, if you’d like.’

‘That’s okay, thanks,’ Mitchell told him, straightening. ‘That’s what we needed to know. We’ve got to go to Kafashta.’

‘In Syria,’ Nina reminded him. ‘What was it you said? Something about them not exactly being big fans of Americans . . .’

Chase met Nina and Mitchell outside the US embassy a couple of hours later, accompanied by his local contact, a Jordanian woman named Karima Farran. As Nina had come to expect, she was extremely attractive, her long dark hair wafting in the breeze.

Karima’s Land Rover looked almost as ancient as Amman itself, the military green paint so sand-scoured that it looked like patches of mould on the bare aluminium. After greeting the new arrivals and helping them load the gear Mitchell had requisitioned into the rear of the 4x4, she tied her hair back and wrapped it in a dark headscarf before handing another one to Nina. ‘You’ll need this.’

Nina took it reluctantly. ‘I, er . . . I thought hijabs weren’t compulsory for women in Jordan?’

‘They’re not,’ Karima replied, sharing a look of amusement with Chase. ‘I just don’t like getting sand in my hair.’ She gestured at the Land Rover’s decidedly tattered canvas roof. Nina got her point and quickly followed suit.

They headed northeast along a highway, quickly leaving the city behind and entering a parched landscape of pale sand and rocks. ‘So, Eddie,’ said Karima to Chase, who was beside her in the front passenger seat, ‘when is the wedding?’

Chase half laughed. ‘You know, so many people keep asking us that, I think we might actually have to come up with an answer sometime.’

‘Are you married, Karima?’ Nina asked. The Arab woman was wearing several ornate rings, but Nina wasn’t sure whether they had any significance or were simply jewellery.

‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, glancing back, ‘but there is someone. The problem is getting him to make a commitment.’

‘I know that feeling,’ said Nina. Chase snorted.

They drove for over two hours, Nina using the time to continue the crash course in Arthurian mythology she had begun during the flights. Karima eventually turned off the highway and guided them along a succession of increasingly bumpy back roads. Finally, they bounced to a stop in a village so tiny Nina suspected the handful of tumbledown houses wouldn’t even rate a dot on a map. Around it, the desert stretched off forebodingly in all directions. The sun was a bloated red ball shimmering above the western horizon.

‘This is as far as we drive,’ said Karima, climbing out. The others followed, stretching and working the kinks out of their rattled spines. ‘The border is about eight kilometres north of here.’

Nina stared into the distance, seeing nothing but rocks and the occasional scrubby bush poking above the sand. ‘We’re walking?’

‘No, no! But the Syrians watch out for vehicles that cross the border away from the official checkpoints. So we need another kind of transport.’ She led them round one of the buildings.

‘What kind of transport . . .’ Nina began to ask, tailing off as she saw the answer. ‘Oh.’

Waiting for them were four camels.

An Arab man in dusty robes stood with them, beaming when he saw Karima. They exchanged greetings, then she turned back to the group. ‘This is Attayak - he’s from one of the local Bedouin tribes.’ Nina noticed that in addition to a gun and a knife, he had a walkie-talkie and a GPS handset on his belt: clearly the Bedouin had no problem with incorporating modern technology into their traditional lifestyle. ‘There aren’t many nomad tribes left, but the ones that are cross the border all the time - they have lived here for thousands of years, and don’t care about lines on a map. Most of the time, the Syrians ignore them. Which is very useful if you want to enter the country undetected. As Eddie knows.’

Chase looked innocent. ‘Can’t comment on military operations I may or may not have carried out in a hostile sovereign state . . . but, yeah, I do know how to ride a camel.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘Funnily enough, so do I.’

‘Er, hello, hi,’ Nina said. ‘I don’t.’

‘It’s a doddle,’ Chase assured her. ‘Just as easy as riding a horse.’

‘Which I don’t know how to do either!’

Chase went to the nearest kneeling camel and stroked its forehead. It eyed him, then shook its head lazily and made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yawn. ‘Good lad,’ said Chase, moving back and swinging a leg over the broad padded saddle behind the camel’s single hump. He gathered up the leather reins, then gently tugged on them, calling, ‘Heya, heya!’ The camel shook its head again, then obediently unfolded its legs and rose to its full height.

Nina had seen camels in zoos, but only now fully realised just how large they were. Standing, the animal was considerably taller than her, and Chase’s head was at least eleven feet off the ground. ‘Okay, that’s . . . that’s quite big.’

Under Chase’s guidance, the camel trotted towards her, bowing its head for a closer look. She leaned back nervously. ‘Does Attayak speak English?’ she asked Karima, who replied in the negative. ‘Oh, good. Because this really, really smells. It smells bad.’

‘Oh, you’ll hardly notice it after a few hours,’ Chase said cheerfully. He backed the camel away, then with another command and flick of the reins prompted it to kneel so he could dismount. He and Mitchell retrieved the group’s belongings from the back of the Land Rover and loaded them into the animals’ saddlebags.

‘Here,’ said Mitchell, handing Chase a pistol. ‘Thought you’d find this useful.’

Chase nodded approvingly. ‘Ruger P95,’ he said, quickly and expertly checking the weapon before loading it. Mitchell did the same with his own Ruger. ‘Not bad. I still miss my Wildey, though.’

‘You had a Wildey?’

‘Yeah, a .45 Winchester Magnum. Until some bastard used it to assassinate a government minister and put the blame on me. It’s probably still in an evidence locker in Botswana somewhere. Good gun. You ever used one?’

‘God, no,’ said Mitchell, shaking his head vehemently. ‘Bulky, heavy, limited ammo capacity, insane amounts of recoil? I’ll stick with something that’s actually practical. And you know,’ he went on, a teasing glint in his eye, ‘I’m sure you could draw some psychological inference from a man using a gun with an eight-inch-long barrel.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t expect a navy man to know anything about proper guns,’ Chase replied with a scowl. ‘The recoil’s no problem if you’re not limp-wristed . . .’

‘Now, now, boys,’ said Nina, stepping between them. ‘Enough with the inter-service rivalry.’

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ Chase said grudgingly. He looked at Mitchell. ‘At least you weren’t in the air force!’ Both men laughed at that.

‘We should get moving,’ said Karima, tipping her head towards the setting sun. ‘We’ll cross the border before nightfall, and then we’ll set up camp.’

The camels loaded, Karima said her farewells to Attayak before mounting one. Nina regarded her own slobbering beast with trepidation. Though the smallest of the four, it was still almost eye to eye with her even while kneeling. ‘Y’know, maybe I’ll just jog alongside it.’

‘Ah, get on there,’ said Chase. ‘You’ll be fine. All you’ve got to do is not fall off.’

‘Don’t worry, Nina,’ Mitchell assured her. ‘Camels really are very easy to ride. You’ll get the hang of it in fifteen minutes.’

‘And how many times will I fall off in those fifteen minutes?’ she asked.

‘You won’t fall off. Here, let me help you get on.’

He held out a hand, but Chase hurriedly interposed himself. ‘Nah, I’ve got her. Just get your leg over.’ He cackled at the double entendre. Nina tsked and warily hoisted herself over the saddle, gripping it tightly as the animal shifted position beneath her. ‘You sorted?’

‘If I say no, can I get off ?’ The saddle was actually more padded than Nina had expected, but its width forced her legs uncomfortably wide. Chase gave her the reins; she took them in one hand while keeping the other firmly clenched round the raised front of the saddle. ‘So what do I do now - aaah!’ she cried as Chase barked a command and slapped the camel’s rump, and she found herself being pitched back and forth as it clambered to its feet. ‘Whoa, I’m slipping!’

‘Squeeze your legs tighter,’ Mitchell suggested.

‘I can’t, they’re open so wide it feels like I’m being split in half - and don’t you even think about coming out with some horrible innuendo!’ she warned Chase.

‘Would I?’ said Chase, clapping a hand to his chest in feigned offence as he walked back to his own waiting camel. ‘She says that every night,’ he added in a stage whisper as he hopped on to the saddle.

‘Eddie, I am so going to kill you!’

‘You’ll have to catch me first! Heya!’ He tugged the reins, and his camel set off at a trot. Nina’s animal followed suit, bouncing her on the saddle with every step.

‘Eddie-ee-ee-ee-ee!’

The last faint red glow on the western skyline had faded, the diamond shimmering of starlight taking its place overhead. The four camels were kneeling again, lined up near the small campfire opposite a pair of collapsible tents, grunting and mumbling to each other in contented camelese as Karima fed them.

Mitchell, sitting beside Nina at the fire, glanced over at Karima. ‘So, Eddie, just how many women do you have stashed away around the world ready to help you out? First Mitzi, now Karima . . .’

Chase, on Nina’s other side, shrugged. ‘A few.’

‘More than a few,’ said Nina. She began counting on her fingers. ‘Let’s see, there’s Shala, Maria, TD, Mitzi, Karima . . . and those are just the ones I’ve met!’

Chase shrugged again, smirking. ‘What can I say? Women can’t resist me.’ He put an arm round Nina’s shoulders and pulled her to him. ‘And that’s before they experience the thrill of the Chase. If you know what I mean.’ He leered at her.

‘Everyone knows what you mean, Eddie,’ Nina chided, pushing him away. ‘All the time.’

‘Tchah!’

‘Yeah, subtlety and the army never really mix, whatever country you’re from. No offence,’ Mitchell added with a grin as Chase glowered at him. He turned to Nina. ‘So what about you? You got dozens of hunks all over the world waiting for your call?’

She shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’

‘Good,’ Mitchell said quietly, smiling again. ‘But you’re not jealous of Eddie’s ladyfriends, I take it.’

‘No, I’m used to it by now. I know that Eddie’s got a past - even if he never tells me about any of it,’ she said pointedly. Chase grunted. ‘But after everything we’ve been through, I know I can trust him.’

‘You’ve been through quite a lot, from what I’ve heard. Saving New York, finding the Tomb of Hercules, discovering Atlantis . . .’

‘I know! I’m sometimes amazed we’re both still alive. But it’s how we met.’

‘Ah,’ said Mitchell, nodding knowingly.

Chase regarded him suspiciously. ‘“Ah”? “Ah” what?’

‘Just that, well, considering how different you are, I wondered how you’d got together. But I guess that sharing a really intense experience is one way to break the ice, huh?’

‘You could say that,’ Nina answered. ‘Although your approach of bonding over a Monty Python movie was definitely more like how I’d expected to meet someone. You said you met your wife at college?’

‘Ex-wife.’ Mitchell indicated his empty ring finger.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ He looked away, at the crackling fire. ‘It was one of those two-careers-on-different-paths things - it happens. And we didn’t have a huge amount in common. You and Eddie aren’t the only ones with very different backgrounds. So . . .’ A shrug. ‘There weren’t really any bad feelings, it just didn’t work out. We’ve both moved on.’

‘Still, I’m sorry,’ Nina said again. She turned to Chase, to see that he was already looking at her. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said after a moment.

‘Things turned out okay in the end,’ Mitchell said, noting the exchange but not remarking on it. ‘She went into law, and I got my doctorate.’

‘You’re a PhD?’ Nina asked, surprised and impressed. ‘What field?’

‘High-energy physics. Thought I might as well put my experience on a nuke boat to good use. And it eventually brought me into DARPA’s earth energy experiments.’

Nina was still highly dubious about the entire concept, but decided not to voice her doubts again. ‘I gotta admit, Doctor Mitchell,’ she said instead, ‘you’re a lot more dashing than the average physicist.’

Mitchell beamed, a megawatt movie-star smile. ‘Dashing, huh? I like that. And I have to say, Doctor Wilde, you’re definitely in my top three favourite archaeologists.’

‘And who are the other two?’

‘Indiana Jones and Lara Croft, of course!’

‘And am I above or below Lara?’

He smiled again. ‘Definitely above.’

‘A-hem!’ Chase fake-coughed loudly enough to attract even the attention of the camels. ‘So, Jack, get us the map, will you? I want to check where we’re going tomorrow.’ With a playful look at Nina, Mitchell stood and went to one of the tents. The moment he was out of earshot, Chase poked Nina in the side. ‘Oi!’

‘What?’

‘Pack that in!’

‘Pack what in?’

‘Bloody flirting!’

Nina couldn’t really deny it. Instead, she grinned. ‘What’s the matter, Eddie? Jealous?’

Chase didn’t return the smile. ‘What, of him? Don’t be daft. It’s just that he’s a bit of a pretty boy.’

‘Oh, you think so too? I’ll tell him you said that.’

‘No you bloody won’t!’

Mitchell returned with the map. ‘We’re about here,’ he said, indicating a point on the southern Syrian border. ‘Kafashta is . . . here.’

Chase looked more closely. ‘Maybe eighteen or nineteen miles north. If we set off at dawn, it should only take us about three hours to get there.’ He studied the map for a little longer, then sat up. ‘In that case, we should grab a bite and then get some kip.’ He faced Nina, eyeing her suggestively. ‘See if you can do anything new now that camel’s stretched your legs.’

Nina wasn’t impressed. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘Like what?’

‘There are only two tents.’

‘Two tents, four people, two to a tent. Seems fine to me.’ The others regarded him silently, waiting for the penny to drop. ‘What?’

‘Two men, two women, only one couple,’ Nina reminded him. ‘I’ll be sharing with Karima.’

‘Wait, you mean I’ve got to share with ’im?’ cried Chase, pointing at Mitchell.

‘I’m also thrilled,’ Mitchell sighed.

‘Buggeration and fuckery!’ Chase paused, realising what he’d just said. ‘And no, that’s not a suggestion!’

10

Syria

Though the desert landscape was indistinguishable from that of Jordan, it somehow seemed indefinably more hostile, menacing, now they had crossed into Syria. Nina surveyed the horizons as best she could from her rocking mount as the group headed northwards, fearing the appearance of a patrol.

But nobody approached over the stony dunes. They were truly in the wastelands, the nearest town of any size many miles away. The camels padded on through the sands for an hour, two, nothing breaking the monotony of their surroundings, until . . .

‘That’s it,’ Mitchell announced, pointing at the unassuming blocky structures rising from the shimmering haze ahead. ‘Kafashta.’

‘Doesn’t look like much,’ Nina observed. If not for the presence of a mosque, easily identifiable by its single minaret standing tall above everything around it, she could easily have imagined it as something from a Western, missing only a nameless gunslinger in a poncho.

‘So what’s the plan?’ said Chase. The village was barely more than a couple of streets intersecting at a square, rundown houses hunched around it. The mosque was by far the largest and best-maintained building, but even it was fighting a losing battle against time and weather, sporting a rickety platform of scaffolding round the top of the minaret where a wall was being repaired.

‘I’ll speak to the imam,’ said Karima. ‘You’ll need his permission to go into the mosque, but there are over two hours before the next call to prayer, so hopefully he’ll allow it.’

They dismounted and tethered the camels, then walked along the short street to the mosque. Karima went through the gates. Nina looked round. The village was so quiet it almost felt abandoned. Remove the telephone poles, she thought, and Kafashta would look little different from how it had in the time of the Crusades.

The sound of raised voices within the mosque caught her attention. ‘Ay up,’ said Chase, opening his leather jacket wider for quicker access to his gun. ‘Trouble.’

Karima reappeared, looking angry, followed by a young man with a rather feeble attempt at a beard. He yelled at her in Arabic, robes flapping as he gesticulated. His outrage grew when he saw the three Westerners.

‘A slight problem,’ Karima informed them thinly. ‘The imam doesn’t want anyone from “the Great Satan” - his exact words - in his mosque.’

‘This is the imam?’ said Nina, surprised. The young man, still ranting, seemed to be barely twenty.

‘No, he is not the imam,’ said a new voice. A much older man, probably sixty but with the sun-hardened wrinkles of his face adding a good decade more to his appearance, padded towards them across the mosque’s inner courtyard. He drew heavily on the stub of a cigarette before flicking it out on to the street. The younger man glared at him in disgust. ‘He would like to be, he thinks he is, but he is not. Not yet. I am the imam of this magnificent place of worship,’ he said, sarcasm clear in his voice. ‘My name is Mahmoud al-Sabban, and this boy,’ he jerked a dismissive thumb, ‘is Rami Hanif, recently arrived from Damascus to drive me to an early grave with his maddening book-learned piety so he can have my job!’

‘Your English is very good, sir,’ Nina said politely.

Al-Sabban smiled crookedly. ‘Thank you. I taught myself, Berlitz tapes. I have been here for over thirty years, and I already know every word of the holy Koran - I needed new ways to fill the time.’ He regarded his visitors with amusement. ‘So, you are from the Great Satan?’

‘I’m not from the Great Satan,’ Chase objected. ‘I’m from the Little Satan.’

Al-Sabban examined him more closely. ‘You do not look Israeli.’

‘Israeli? No, I’m British.’

‘Israel is the Little Satan, my friend,’ al-Sabban told him with a mocking laugh. ‘Britain is, hah, an imp at most.’ Ignoring Chase’s peeved expression, he waved them inside. ‘But that does not matter. Come in, come in.’

Hanif shouted at the imam, but Al-Sabban dismissively waved him away. Lips quivering, the younger man whirled and stalked across the courtyard into the depths of the mosque. ‘Children!’ al-Sabban spat. ‘No respect. And a poor scholar too - the Koran tells us to welcome all strangers as friends. Even strangers from the Great Satan.’ He chuckled. ‘So, what brings you to my mosque?’

The imam had a private room, an office-cum-study with a copy of the Koran open on a desk, at the rear of the mosque. The low-ceilinged space smelled strongly of coffee and nicotine, the narrow windows tinged with yellow. Used to the smoke-free establishments of New York, Nina couldn’t help coughing as al-Sabban lit up his third cigarette in a row. ‘I thought the Koran was against smoking,’ she said hopefully.

‘There is some dispute among scholars,’ al-Sabban replied, taking a long draw before carefully blowing out a smoke ring. ‘And as a scholar myself, I say . . . it is fine.’ He leaned back in his threadbare chair. ‘Yes, I know the item you have told me about. I will let you see it. For a . . .’ He reached over to close the Koran as if shielding it from what he was about to say. ‘Donation.’

‘We’re willing to pay, of course,’ said Mitchell. ‘Will dollars be okay?’

‘I would have preferred euros, as dollars have been devalued recently - every refugee from Iraq comes with an armful of dollars! But they will do, I suppose. For a good price.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘We were hoping to do more than just look at the piece, sir - we actually came here to buy it.’

‘Then the price will have to be excellent!’ He carefully stubbed out the cigarette, balancing it on the side of his ashtray for later, and stood. ‘Come with me.’

Al-Sabban led them through the mosque to its central prayer hall. ‘Parts of this building are over eight hundred years old,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, it shows.’ He indicated the base of the minaret at the corner of the hall. A pile of loose bricks lay at the bottom of a ladder, beside a wooden pallet attached to a dangling rope. ‘At least there is one good thing about having Rami here. I can make him climb the ladder to call for prayers!’

‘It’s impressive,’ Nina told him. Although the mosque as a whole was shabby, the decorations on the prayer hall’s ceiling were mostly intact, needing only proper cleaning to restore their beauty.

‘You think?’ said al-Sabban, shooting her a look of incredulity. ‘If I could, I would flatten the whole place and build something that was not falling apart!’ He came to a stop at the prayer hall’s southern end. An ornately decorated arched recess was set into the wall: the mihrab, indicating the direction of Mecca, towards which the faithful would pray. Beside it was a small flight of wooden steps leading up to a pulpit - the minbar, from which the imam delivered his sermon.

The sides of the steps were panelled, but al-Sabban crouched and fiddled with what at first seemed to be a piece of painted ornamentation, before it moved with a click. He swung open a small door, shifting round so the others could see inside. ‘Down here,’ he said, tapping on a flagstone, ‘is where the relics are kept.’ He straightened, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘We need tools to open it. I will get them, and bring lights. Wait here. Although, Mr Mitchell, this would be a good time for you to fetch your donation!’

‘Well, that was easy,’ Chase observed once the imam had left.

‘At least we know the Russians didn’t beat us to it,’ said Nina. ‘How much money do you think he’ll want?’

‘Unless he’s insanely greedy, I’ve got enough to cover it,’ Mitchell said.

Karima wasn’t happy. ‘I can’t believe an imam would openly take a bribe like that. No wonder they want to replace him, if that’s how he behaves.’ She narrowed her dark eyes. ‘Allah will judge him.’

Mitchell shrugged, turning to go back to the camels. ‘The important thing is that he’s willing to help us.’

He returned with a messenger bag a few minutes later. Al-Sabban reappeared soon after, carrying a rusty crowbar, a lantern and a pocket torch. ‘Here,’ the imam said, pointing to a spot on one side of the flagstone, where a small gap was visible. ‘One of you, open it.’

Everyone looked at Chase. ‘Oh, like that, is it?’ he complained, taking the crowbar. ‘Eddie the packhorse.’

‘I was thinking more Eddie the strongman,’ Nina reassured him, patting his arm. Chase slid the end of the crowbar into the gap and pulled it back. The flagstone rose a couple of inches with a dry rasp, enough for Mitchell to get his fingers underneath to lift it. The two men quickly moved the stone aside.

Al-Sabban pointed his torch down the hole, revealing a low cellar beneath the floor. ‘I keep the few treasures of the mosque down there,’ he said. ‘They may not be much, but being here for over thirty years has taught me that there are always men who want to steal them. Dr Wilde, you come down with me. The rest of you, wait here.’

Chase’s reluctance to let Nina go without him was clear, but he stood by as first al-Sabban, then Nina, lowered themselves into the cellar. ‘Watch yourself,’ he told her.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Nina. ‘See you soon.’ She switched on the lantern and ducked into the low passage.

The cellar was more extensive than she had expected, a central corridor with chambers on each side. The ceiling was barely five feet high, the arched entrances to each side room lower still. Al-Sabban hunched down ahead of her, kicking up dust with each step as the circle of his torch beam swept back and forth. ‘Down here.’

She followed him to a chamber near the cellar’s far end. It was occupied by battered cardboard boxes and old wooden planks stacked haphazardly against one wall. Al-Sabban carefully lifted the planks aside to reveal another box behind them, a metal chest that from the faded stencilling on its side Nina guessed had once been used to hold ammunition. He blew cobwebs from the handle, then opened it.

‘This is the blade that Muhammad Yawar used to kill the leader of the infidels,’ he said, reaching into the box. Whatever the mosque’s other treasures were, they were apparently hidden elsewhere in the cellar, as the metal case was empty except for the length of steel he carefully withdrew.

Nina brought the lantern closer. It was definitely part of a sword, almost three feet long, but jagged and broken at each end, missing both the tip and the hilt. Although grubby, the metal still appeared in good condition.

It was not plain, though: patterns had been inscribed along its length, just as she had seen on the stained-glass window in Peter’s tomb. Could they really hold the clues that Rust had believed would lead to Excalibur?

‘May I hold it?’ she asked.

Al-Sabban nodded. Nina put down the lantern, then he handed it to her. Turning it to pick out the inscriptions in the lantern’s glow, Nina saw a faint line of text in Latin: ARTURUS REX. ‘King Arthur . . .’ she whispered.

In any other circumstances, that would have immediately convinced her the sword was a fake: it was extremely unlikely that Arthur would have inscribed a nametag on his own sword. But in this case, she was actually searching for a fake, created by the monks of Glastonbury Abbey to convince their king that he had been given the real thing. The nobility of the twelfth century were far more wealthy and ostentatious than their counterparts from six hundred years earlier, and would have expected their symbols of power to be just as showy. ‘Pimp my sword . . .’

‘What?’ asked al-Sabban.

‘Sorry, just thinking out loud.’ Her gaze moved on to the other markings scored into the metal. Most seemed to be purely decorative, florid loops and curls, but there was also a repeated symbol: a labyrinth, a tightly wound path contained within a circle. Unlike a maze, there was only one route from the outside to the centre. Along the path were dots marking particular points. The number and position of the dots varied on each symbol, but there was no readily apparent pattern.

Nina turned the sword over, finding more of the same markings. She associated the symbol of the labyrinth with Greek mythology, the legend of Theseus and the Minotaur, but it also appeared in other cultures, the particular form of this one nagging at her memory. It had appeared somewhere amongst her cram studies of Arthurian legend . . .

Sudden shouting broke her reverie and she looked round, startled. ‘Rami!’ cried al-Sabban, annoyed. The commotion was coming from the prayer hall. ‘Wait here, I will deal with him.’

Above, Chase and Mitchell stood helplessly as Hanif, more angry than ever, screeched at them in Arabic. Karima tried to speak, but barely got a few words out before being shouted down. ‘Guess we really pissed him off this time,’ Chase muttered.

Al-Sabban’s head popped up through the hole like a gopher. ‘Rami!’ he snapped, beginning a vocal exchange with the younger imam. He finally managed to shout Hanif into silence, then clambered out of the cellar entrance. ‘He is angry because you two are in the prayer hall,’ he told Chase and Mitchell, ‘and also because you are with her.’ He indicated a curtain at the other end of the room that could be drawn to divide the prayer hall into two sections. ‘Men and women are kept apart during prayer. He thinks you are insulting Islam by being here like this.’

Hanif began shouting again, and al-Sabban listened before irritably conceding some point. ‘It seems I will only be able to shut him up if you wait in the courtyard.’

‘What about Nina?’ Chase asked.

‘She is fine. She is engrossed,’ said the imam. He shook his head, then started for the door. ‘Come, wait outside. Mr Mitchell, this may be a good time to talk about your donation.’ He eyed Mitchell’s bag.

Hanif followed the group, waiting in the prayer hall’s doorway like a guard dog as al-Sabban led Chase, Mitchell and Karima to a small pool in the courtyard. Chase blinked in the sunlight; the cool of the mosque’s interior made returning to the desert heat all the more jarring. Over the gurgle of water from the fountain he heard a car coming along the street outside, the first sign of life in the village.

‘So how big a donation were you thinking, Mr al-Sabban?’ Mitchell asked.

Al-Sabban made a show of considering the question. ‘I was thinking of . . . something in the region of . . . ten thousand dollars?’

‘Done,’ said Mitchell, holding out his hand. Somewhat startled, al-Sabban hesitantly shook it. Mitchell then opened the bag and laid out several bundles of banknotes on a low wall before the imam. Karima looked on disapprovingly, but Chase simply smirked. Al-Sabban had clearly expected to haggle, thinking ten grand was an amount well out of reach, whereas Mitchell had been willing to pay more - probably a lot more.

Karima wasn’t the only person who didn’t approve. Hanif scurried over as al-Sabban counted the money. Chase’s knowledge of Arabic was modest, but he didn’t need a translator to know Hanif was demanding to know what the hell was going on.

Al-Sabban’s answer left the young imam open-mouthed in dismay. He jabbed a finger at the banknotes, then pointed to Mitchell. ‘No! Take back! Take money back!’

‘Well, at least he’s not so angry at us any more,’ said Karima as Hanif continued his impassioned rant in Arabic.

Al-Sabban just smiled. ‘The young, they do not understand. But I have been over thirty years in this horrible place!’ He swept his arms wide to take in the run-down surroundings. ‘Peasants, simpletons, ugh! Now I can finally get away from them, and retire in comfort!’

‘But you’re doing it by selling a holy relic,’ Karima objected.

‘Holy relic?’ al-Sabban scoffed. ‘It has been in a box for years, nobody cared about it until today. It is junk! Who will miss it?’

‘He might,’ said Chase as Hanif returned to the prayer hall in disgust.

‘After he has been here for thirty years, he will feel the same way!’ The imam continued talking, thanking Mitchell, but Chase suddenly stopped listening.

There was engine noise outside the walls of the mosque - not the light vehicle he’d heard before, but a truck.

And a second car—

He pulled out his gun. ‘I think we’ve got a problem,’ he said, hurrying to the gate. After the total inactivity of Kasfashta when they arrived, three vehicles at once was practically a parade.

‘What are you doing?’ al-Sabban protested. ‘This is a place of worship, you cannot bring guns in here!’

Chase ignored him, inching open one of the wooden doors to peer out at the street. ‘Oh, fuck.’ A jeep was pulling up on the other side of the dirt road - a jeep painted in the dull green of the Syrian army, three soldiers inside. ‘Company’s com—’

Company was already there.

The other door burst open as someone slammed against it, knocking Chase backwards. Momentarily dazed, he stumbled before recovering his footing. He brought up his gun—Too late.

Syrian troops poured into the courtyard, rifles aimed at them.

11

Wondering what was keeping al-Sabban, Nina returned to the cellar entrance with the sword. She climbed out, surprised that nobody was waiting. Hanif was lurking at the doors, his back to her, peering out into the courtyard.

His stance was odd, as if he were frozen in shock . . .

Something was wrong.

Hanif turned to face her, his expression no longer angry, but fearful. Noises reached her from outside. Boots on the paving, the clanks and thumps of men laden with equipment.

The Syrians. Somehow they had discovered they were here.

Hanif was the obvious suspect, but as he ran to her she saw something in his eyes that instantly convinced her otherwise. He was as horrified by the arrival of the soldiers as she was. ‘Quick, quick!’ he said, his accent so thick the words were barely understandable. ‘You, hide!’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Mahmoud - bad man! He, he . . .’ He shook his hands in frustration, unable to find the right words, before miming holding a telephone receiver to his ear.

‘Phone?’

‘Yes, yes! He phone army! Sell you!’

‘He sold us out?’ Hanif nodded frantically. ‘Son of a bitch!’

‘You hide! I stop them!’ He raced back to the door, robes flapping.

‘Shit,’ Nina gasped. The young imam may not have approved of their presence in the mosque - but he clearly approved of al-Sabban betraying them for money in a house of worship even less. She could only assume that al-Sabban’s plan had been to take Mitchell’s money in exchange for the sword and then tell the Syrians they’d stolen it, allowing him to keep both the sword and the money after they were arrested.

She hunted for an escape route. The cellar was out - it had no other exits, and nowhere she could hide that would not be discovered almost immediately. Nothing she had seen going to and from al-Sabban’s office suggested that there were any exits that way either.

That left the minaret.

Most of the mosque was a single storey, but the tower was over twice as high as the rest of the building. Maybe there was a way on to the roof . . .

She ran to the ladder and looked up. Daylight was visible at the top. There had been a staircase running round the interior of the narrow tower at one time, but little now remained, just stumps poking from the walls. The rope tied to the sturdy wooden pallet ran up to a pulley attached to the ceiling. Several electrical flexes dangled loosely from the upper floor, but she had no idea what they were for.

No time to wonder, either. She heard yells from the courtyard, Hanif ’s protests shouted down by deeper voices.

Climb—

She raced up the rungs. Below, the doors flew open. She looked back. Hanif had his arms spread wide, trying unsuccessfully to stop three soldiers from coming in. They saw her.

One of them raised his gun—

Hanif slapped it down. The soldier, an officer, raised an angry hand as if about to hit him, but held back the blow. He may have been young, but he was still an imam.

One of the soldiers, skinny and rat-faced, barely more than a boy, ran to the ladder and leered up at Nina. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he had a long and unpleasant-looking knife in one hand.

Nina tried to climb faster, the broken blade impeding her. The ladder shook as the young soldier scurried after her. ‘Shit shit shit!’

The ladder led to a wooden platform. The power cables turned out to be connected to a tape deck and a large loudspeaker, used to sound the adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, across the village, but Nina ignored them as she searched for a way to stop her pursuer. Maybe she could kick down the ladder . . .

No use. It was tied to the platform.

She hurried to the half-repaired wall, seeing Chase and the others being forced at gunpoint into the back of a truck behind the mosque. But there was no way down, the scaffolding only extending a few feet below the level of the platform, just enough to give the builders a foothold.

The rope around the pulley - could she use it to climb down the outside of the minaret?

She grabbed the hanging length of rope, a knot stopping it from falling back through the pulley, but already knew the plan would fail. At 116 pounds she was hardly a heavyweight, but the pallet used to lift bricks to the top of the tower probably weighed less than a quarter as much. As a counterweight, it would barely slow her.

But it was too late anyway. The soldier had reached the top of the ladder, the knife ready in one hand.

Still holding the rope, Nina backed away. The soldier grinned mercilessly, seeing she was trapped as he clambered on to the platform beside the loudspeaker—

She hit the tape deck’s ‘play’ button.

The adhan boomed from the speaker. It almost deafened Nina - but it was like a physical blow to the soldier. He slapped his hands to his ears with an inaudible scream, staggering, and stumbled over the rope.

Nina pulled with all her might. The rope snapped tight around his ankle. She pulled again . . . and the soldier toppled over the edge of the platform.

The rope shot through the pulley as the man plunged to the ground. Nina stopped the tape, the adhan still ringing in her ears as she looked down. Screaming and flailing, the soldier fell - pulling the pallet towards her at the same speed.

She threw herself back as it slammed into the pulley, shards of wood scattering everywhere. The rope pulled taut with a thwack. The scrawny soldier’s fall had been caught just above the ground, where he was dangling by one leg, screeching and flapping as his two comrades ran to help him.

Their faces turned upwards, guns rising—

Nina grabbed the pallet, flinging herself over the broken wall and into the open air beyond.

She had her counterweight.

The soldier was whisked back up the minaret as Nina dropped down its exterior. She kicked at the wall, trying to abseil down - but was falling too fast, her feet slipping and spinning her out of control. The sword piece fell from under her arm. With a panicked shriek, she swung towards the ground, the military truck rushing up at her . . .

A soldier started to emerge from the back of the truck to investigate the noise - and Nina smashed into him feet first, propelling him inside again. He collided with a second soldier, both of them collapsing at the feet of their prisoners.

Nina landed in a heap on the ground and let go of the rope, which instantly whipped away back up the minaret, the luckless soldier on its other end plunging back down the tower to crash on to the two other men. Winded, she looked up. Chase, Mitchell and Karima stared down at her from the back of the truck. ‘And I thought Mitzi made a good entrance,’ said Mitchell.

Chase grabbed an AK-74 assault rifle from one of the fallen guards. ‘Let’s truck off !’ He jumped down from the vehicle, quickly checking for other soldiers before pulling Nina to her feet and kissing her on the cheek. ‘Oh, and thanks.’

‘Any time,’ she replied, shaken but managing a smile. Mitchell took the other soldier’s AK, and Karima yanked a pistol from his holster before they too jumped down to the ground.

‘How many of them are there?’ Nina asked.

Chase glanced round one side of the truck to check the way was clear, Mitchell doing the same on the other. ‘About ten. Two jeeps and this truck.’ Five down . . . but five still remaining, all armed.

‘Where’s the sword?’ Mitchell demanded.

Nina looked round. ‘Shit, I dropped it - no, there!’ She pointed; the broken blade was sticking out of the sandy ground.

‘Come on.’ He ran with Nina to retrieve it. ‘Time to leave.’

Nina heard more shouting from the mosque’s courtyard as she picked up the sword. ‘You do remember that we’re twenty miles from the border, right?’

‘Then we’d better get started!’ Chase called. ‘Karima, get back to the camels. Nina, go with her.’

‘We can’t outrun them on camels!’ Nina protested. ‘They’ve got jeeps!’

Chase grinned. ‘Not for long.’ He waited until she had started after Karima before firing a single shot to blow out one of the truck’s front tyres. Then he signalled for Mitchell to follow him round the side of the mosque to the street.

The sound of the shot would have told the soldiers where they were - which was exactly what Chase wanted, as it would draw them away from the two women. He and Mitchell jogged down the alley, AKs raised.

A Syrian soldier ran round the corner - and skidded almost comically to a stop in a cloud of dust, getting off a single wild shot purely on reflex before flinging himself back into cover as Chase and Mitchell fired. Stone chipped and splintered where the bullets hit.

Chase knew where the two jeeps were parked, having memorised their positions while he was being taken to the truck. The rest of the soldiers would be just round the corner by now, some of them moving across the street to cover the alley while the others prepared to spring out from behind the mosque and blast anyone in sight.

Chase didn’t give them the chance. Instead he ran to the far side of the alley, the first jeep coming into view across the street. Three of the Syrians were using it as cover, lying in wait - but they hadn’t expected him to sprint right into the open, needing a moment to react—

The moment was all he needed, flicking the AK to full auto and unleashing a thudding burst of bullets - not at the soldiers, but at their jeep. They ducked as its rear wing cratered, hot lead ripping through the metal . . .

Into the fuel tank.

A line of fire spurting on to the dusty road gave the soldiers all the warning they needed that they should run, now. Chase was already racing back to take cover against the mosque as the petrol vapour inside the punctured fuel tank ignited—

The jeep blew up like a small bomb. The fleeing soldiers were thrown to the ground by the blast as the blazing vehicle cartwheeled across the road, flaming fuel spewing out behind it. The two soldiers round the corner desperately hurled themselves out of its path as it smashed into the mosque wall, then bounced back to land upside down in the middle of the street.

One of the soldiers sprawled at the end of the alley looked up, saw Chase pressed against the wall, raised his rifle - and took the butt of Mitchell’s AK to his temple. Chase dropped his now empty gun and picked up the unconscious Syrian’s weapon to replace it. ‘Thanks.’

Mitchell peered round the corner. ‘Did you get ’em all?’

‘We’ll see in a sec,’ said Chase. Two men at his feet, one already out cold: he sent the other to join him by kicking him in the back of the head. It would hurt when he woke up - but at least he would wake up. He had no love for the Syrian military, but nor did he have any personal grievance against these conscripts, most of whom were probably still in their teens.

Of the three men by the jeep, one had been thrown against a wall by the explosion and didn’t look as though he would be moving for a while; another rolled in panic on the ground, his sleeve on fire. The third staggered to his feet, AK in hand, but hurriedly dropped the rifle when he saw Chase and Mitchell coming towards him, weapons raised. Chase pointed between two of the houses across the street at the open desert beyond. The soldier gulped, then with his hands raised high turned and ran for the empty sands.

‘You could have just shot him,’ Mitchell said.

‘We’re not at war with ’em. Hey, your arm!’ Mitchell’s left sleeve was torn, a small patch of dark red slowly spreading through the material. The first Syrian’s lone shot had clipped his bicep.

‘Damn,’ the American muttered, regarding the wound with surprise. ‘Didn’t even feel it!’

Chase quickly assessed the injury as minor, nothing a simple bandage couldn’t fix. Mitchell had been lucky. ‘You’ll live, tough guy. Okay, let’s move.’ He fired a couple of rounds to blow out a rear tyre of the second jeep, then rapidly surveyed the scene. Movement in the mosque - al-Sabban, peering fearfully round the gate. Chase glared at him. The imam hurriedly tossed the bundles of dollars out into the street, then slammed the wooden doors.

Satisfied that nobody would be in a position to challenge them before they reached Nina and Karima, Chase moved to pick up the money, but Mitchell shook his head. ‘Leave it. We got what we came for.’

‘You’re just going to chuck away ten grand?’ said Chase, reluctantly following him at a jog towards the edge of the village.

‘Uncle Sam’s paying for it.’

‘You mean me and Nina are paying for it. That’s come out of our taxes!’

Mitchell made an amused noise, and they continued along the road until they reached the camels. Karima and Nina had already mounted their animals, the sword blade protruding from one of Nina’s saddlebags. The other camels were standing, spooked by the gunfire.

The two men clambered on to their saddles. ‘Okay,’ Chase yelled to Nina, ‘we’re going to have to hoof it! Just grab on as tight as you can!’

Mitchell brought his camel round to head south. ‘Come on, move!’ he shouted, flicking the reins. His camel grunted and broke into a run, Karima right behind him.

‘I don’t wanna do this . . .’ Nina muttered through clenched teeth. But she followed Mitchell’s example and snapped the reins, clinging as tightly as she could to the saddle. The camel reared up, almost throwing her off its back, then started running. ‘Ow - ow - ow - son of a - ow!’

Chase set off, staying behind her so he could help if she got into trouble. But she was holding on well enough despite her staccato complaints. He looked back at the receding village. Some of the soldiers were recovering, the officer in charge limping out of the mosque and taking in the burning jeep with dismay before spotting his erstwhile prisoners disappearing into the desert.

‘Come on, shift your arses!’ Chase yelled to the others as thumping AK fire echoed off the buildings. Little geysers of sand burst up around them, shots smacking into the ground. But they were already beyond the AK-74’s effective range: the Russian weapon was valued more for its qualities as a near-indestructible bullet hose than its accuracy.

They kept riding, the ungainly gallop of the camels belying their impressive pace through the soft sand. Kafashta dropped away into the heat haze, the soldiers swallowed with it.

Nina was finally getting some degree of control over her charging camel, drawing alongside Mitchell. ‘Oh, my God, you’re hurt!’ she cried, seeing his bloodied arm.

‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said with a smile. ‘A flesh wound.’ Nina smiled back.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Chase groaned from behind them. ‘More bloody Python.’

They kept up their pace until it became clear that there was no immediate sign of pursuit. Still keeping a watchful eye out for Syrian helicopters, they slowed the camels to a brisk trot as they continued south towards the border.

Chase drew level with Mitchell. ‘Got to admit,’ he said, slightly grudgingly, ‘you did all right back there. For a sailor.’

Mitchell gave him a thin smile. ‘I did more in my military career than just sit inside a steel tube.’

‘Oh? Like what?’ Nina asked.

The smile broadened. ‘Can’t say. Classified.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Great, another guy full of secrets. You’re as bad as Eddie!’

An hour and a half later, they crossed the border, Mitchell taking a GPS handset from a saddlebag to confirm they were safely back in Jordan. They had made it.

And they had the first piece of Caliburn. The first clue to the location of Excalibur.

12

Austria

The contrast could hardly be any more stark: from the stifling, parched desolation of the Arabian desert to the cool, clean air of the Tyrolean Alps. The view from the picture windows of the coffee house in the village of Rasbrücke was spectacular, looking up the valley at the towering peaks to the south. The valley floor was carpeted in forests so vividly green that they almost seemed fake, while above them rose the pristine white slopes of the little ski resort. Even the chill edge in the high-altitude air was a relief after the inescapable heat of Syria.

After returning the camels to Attayak, Karima drove Nina, Chase and Mitchell back to Amman and the State Department jet. Now, a day later, they were waiting to find out if Mitzi Fontana had discovered anything that might help them locate the second piece of the sword.

‘Here she is,’ said Chase as a bright red Porsche Cayenne pulled up outside. Mitzi, wrapped in a puffy skiing jacket that matched the colour of her SUV and carrying a satchel, climbed out and waved at him before entering the coffee house.

‘Hi!’ she said brightly, greeting Nina and Mitchell before sitting next to Chase and kissing his cheek. ‘How was Syria?’

Chase shrugged. ‘Kind of boring, actually.’

‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘Yes,’ Mitchell told her in a clipped tone that made it clear he wanted that line of discussion to end as quickly as possible. ‘But what about you, Mitzi? Did you have any luck?’

She smiled and opened her satchel, taking out several large sheets of paper. ‘I did, actually! It took a little while, but I persuaded someone in the local records office to help me.’

‘A man, by any chance?’ Chase asked casually, looking at a point several inches below Mitzi’s face. Her jacket was only half fastened, revealing her scoop-necked sweater - and her cleavage within it.

‘Actually, yes. How did you know?’

He shrugged. ‘Oh, just a hunch.’

‘What did you find?’ Nina asked Mitzi, jabbing Chase with her elbow.

She unfolded the papers, revealing them as photocopies of old architectural plans, all the text written in a heavy Gothic script. ‘These are plans of Staumberg Castle from their archives. I was hoping to find older ones, but these were all they had. They were made in 1946, when the castle was returned to the Staumberg family after the war.’

‘These are great,’ Nina assured her. From the plans, the castle appeared to be T-shaped, the foot extending into a courtyard surrounded by high walls. Three floors above ground, and what looked like two levels of cellars . . .

‘So what exactly are we looking for?’ Chase asked.

‘That’s something I did find out about,’ said Mitzi excitedly. ‘There’s a story that when the Germans shipped stolen treasure back through southern Europe, some of it ended up at the castle. The commandant was supposed to have secretly hidden it. But nobody ever found it after the war, and now the owner refuses to let anyone else look.’

‘Maybe he wants to look for it himself,’ mused Mitchell.

‘Or maybe he just doesn’t want treasure hunters smashing up his home,’ Chase countered. He put on a German accent. ‘“You vant to tear ze place apart looking for Nazi gold? Ja, go ahead!” I don’t think so.’

‘Did you manage to contact the owner, Mitzi?’ asked Nina.

‘I spoke to him, yes. Briefly. I talked mostly to his butler.’

‘He actually has a butler?’ Chase laughed. ‘I bet he’s got a monocle too.’

‘His name’s Roland Staumberg, and he’s one of the owners of this resort. The castle’s been his family’s home for generations. He seemed very nice - he just didn’t want any visitors.’

Nina picked up another page of the plans. ‘Did you find out anything about him?’

‘A little. He’s well liked around here, but the man at the records office said he is very private. He’s apparently quite a sportsman, though. Skiing, of course, but he also goes snowmobiling, scuba-dives, races yachts—’

‘Diving?’ Nina asked.

‘Yes. Is that helpful?’

‘Maybe. He might at least talk to us, if we’re lucky. But that won’t get us anywhere unless we can convince him we know exactly what we’re looking for.’ She examined the plans again, turning the sheet in her hands so that it was aligned along the castle’s long axis. The layout of the rooms was a perfect mirror image . . .

‘Ay up,’ said Chase, noticing her thoughtful expression. ‘She’s got something.’

Nina pushed everybody’s cups aside to clear more space on the table, laying out the pages so they were all oriented the same way. ‘Look how symmetrical it is. But if there really is a hidden room, it won’t be on these plans, because they were made after the war. We need to look for anything that’s not mirrored.’

She carefully scanned the pages, the others shifting round the table to look for themselves. ‘This isn’t the same,’ said Chase after a short while, indicating a door that only appeared on one side of the castle’s second floor.

‘There’s a spiral staircase that isn’t mirrored here,’ Mitchell added, tapping a finger on another sheet.

‘But they’re not rooms, they’re just alterations,’ Nina said. ‘We need to see if there’s a difference in the actual physical layout of the building . . .’

‘Like this?’ Mitzi asked. ‘The lowest level of the cellars, there are two long rooms on each side of this passage.’

‘Probably wine cellars,’ said Nina, looking more closely.

‘Yes, but look!’ Mitzi used her phone as a makeshift ruler, lining it up across the end of one of the rooms. ‘The one on the right is shorter than the one on the left.’

She was right, Nina saw. The difference was not much, no more than a few feet on the scale of the plans . . . but it was definitely there. ‘My God, it is!’

Chase gave Mitzi an admiring look. ‘Bloody hell, love, I think you’ve got it! Nice work!’

She beamed proudly back. ‘Thank you!’

‘I guess your mum was wrong - it’s a good job we asked you to help. Come here.’ He leaned over to hug her. She returned the gesture enthusiastically. ‘So now what?’

‘Now?’ said Nina, scrutinising the slight asymmetry of the plans, ‘I think it’s time I talked to this Roland Staumberg.’

‘Dr Wilde,’ said Roland Staumberg, bowing to Nina before taking her hand. ‘An honour. It is a thrill to meet the discoverer of Atlantis!’

Leaving Mitzi - to her disappointment - waiting in the village, Nina, Chase and Mitchell had driven further up the valley to Staumberg Castle. As Nina hoped, her current celebrity status had piqued his interest. Though a little surprised that she was already in Rasbrücke, he nevertheless agreed to meet her.

The castle was an imposing, starkly beautiful structure perched atop a ridge protruding from the mountainside. It overlooked the resort’s ski slopes and forests from the end of a steep zig-zagging road that despite having been ploughed was still coated with snow. Mitchell’s four-wheel-drive Chevrolet Suburban SUV, another vehicle laid on by the US government, was much appreciated.

When the castle’s outer gates whirred open, they entered the courtyard and parked near a pair of snowmobiles, to be met by a tall, whip-thin man in dark clothes who introduced himself as Kurt, Staumberg’s butler. Staumberg himself, waiting at the castle’s door, was in his forties, sand-blond and barrel-chested, with an air of refined intellect. To Chase’s barely contained glee, he was indeed wearing a monocle.

‘It’s good to meet you too, Herr Staumberg,’ Nina replied. She introduced Chase and Mitchell, then took in the large hall they had entered. Just as the plans had suggested, it was symmetrical, stone stairways rising up on each side to a balcony that ran round the side and rear walls, stained glass windows lining it. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and large and heavy tapestries reached almost to floor level, suits of armour standing stiffly between them. The whole room was panelled in dark wood, its varnish so thick and warm that it almost seemed like a coating of amber. ‘This is . . . wow, this is very impressive.’

‘Thank you,’ said Staumberg, ‘but it costs so much to heat!’ Everyone laughed politely at the ice-breaking joke. ‘Please, follow me. There is a warmer room upstairs.’

He led them up one of the flights of stairs and along the balcony, where more suits of polished armour were on display. At the end was a wrought-iron spiral staircase leading down, one of the asymmetrical elements they had seen on the plans. The butler opened a door beside it and ushered them into the room beyond.

It was a study, a log fire snapping in a stone fireplace. A tall window looked down the valley towards the village, although the arrangement of the leather armchairs made it clear that Staumberg spent more time looking at the rather incongruous plasma TV than the stunning view outside.

‘For the football,’ he explained as he gestured for the others to sit before taking his own seat. ‘Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, schnapps?’

Deciding it was a little early to start drinking, Nina politely accepted coffee, Mitchell and Chase doing the same. Kurt bowed and exited.

‘Thank you for seeing us, Herr Staumberg,’ Nina said.

‘Oh, it is my pleasure! I was reading about you just the other day.’ He riffled through a small stack of magazines, pulling out a diving title. ‘Here, you see?’ He opened the magazine; Nina’s IHA publicity portrait grinned from the page beside a larger photo of a minisub over one of the Atlantis excavation sites. ‘I enjoy wreck-diving - exploring sunken ships. But what you have done is much more exciting! So what can I do for you, Dr Wilde? Much as I would love to hear about your discovery of Atlantis, I do not think that is why you have come to see me, no?’

‘I’m afraid not. Although we are looking for something else, another ancient legend.’ She glanced at Mitchell. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you about it . . .’

‘Let me guess,’ sighed Staumberg, skin folding around the rim of his monocle as he frowned. ‘You are looking for Excalibur.’

Nina blinked in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘I was pestered by a man about it some months ago. He had a mad theory that part of it was hidden here in a Nazi treasure-trove. But I have lived here all my life, and there is no such hidden treasure. I explored every centimetre of the castle as a child, so I would know! But this man, what was his name, Rust?’

‘Bernd Rust.’

‘You know him?’

‘I knew him,’ said Nina. ‘He was murdered.’

Staumberg was shocked. ‘Murdered? I am sorry. I did not like the man, he was annoying, but I did not wish him harm.’

‘The thing is,’ Nina continued, ‘he was murdered because of his search for Excalibur. I didn’t believe him at first either, but since then . . . well, we think he may have been right. That’s why the IHA is looking for the other pieces, so we can find them before his killers do.’

The Austrian was now decidedly uncomfortable. ‘And you think one of these pieces is here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which means his killers may also think it is here.’

‘That’s a distinct possibility,’ said Mitchell. ‘Which is why we’d like your permission to search for it.’

‘But search where?’ Staumberg asked. ‘I cannot think of anywhere it could be hidden that would not already have been found.’

‘What about the cellars?’ Nina asked. She unfolded the plan of the castle’s lowest level. ‘Here, you see? The castle is perfectly symmetrical, except for this one room that’s slightly shorter than the other.’

Staumberg took the plan and examined it with interest - then blanched. ‘Oh. The wine cellar.’

Kurt entered at that moment bearing a tray of steaming coffee mugs. He caught Staumberg’s expression and asked him a question in German, getting a somewhat agitated response. Nina picked up enough to know they were discussing the cellar. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I would . . . ah, prefer not to show you that room,’ Staumberg answered.

‘Thought you said there wasn’t anything hidden here,’ said Chase.

‘There is not, that I know of, but . . .’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It is just . . . I would rather not have visitors in that room. But Kurt and I, we can search it again and see if we find anything, ja?’

‘You could,’ said Mitchell, ‘but the thing is, the people who murdered Rust also stole his research. The same research that brought him here in the first place,’ he added pointedly. ‘If they’ve got it, they’ll probably pay you a visit, just like us. But they won’t ask to search the castle.’

‘We can keep them out,’ said Staumberg unconvincingly.

‘If they want to get in here, they will,’ Chase said. ‘They’ve already killed people looking for this thing - and tried to kill us, too.’

‘If this piece of the sword really is here, we have to keep it out of their hands,’ Nina pleaded. ‘It’s very important that the IHA get it first - it could lead to a discovery as important as Atlantis.’

Staumberg stared out of the window for a long moment before responding, his shoulders visibly slumping. ‘Very well, I will let you see the cellar. But before I do . . . I must insist on your complete discretion.’

‘You have it,’ Nina assured him. ‘Everything will be absolutely confidential.’

‘Very well.’ Still reluctant, Staumberg spoke in German to Kurt, who nodded and opened the study door to show them out.

They descended the spiral staircase and went through double doors at the back of the great hall, passing along a corridor before descending two flights of stairs to the lowest floor. Kurt switched on the lights, dim bulbs illuminating a low stone passage. ‘This way,’ said Staumberg, going to a heavy oak door on the right. He swung it open, revealing the room beyond. It was a wine cellar, as Nina had expected - but on a grand scale, wooden racks holding literally thousands of bottles lining both sides of the room.

‘So his big secret’s alcoholism?’ Chase whispered to Nina.

Kurt led the way to the far end of the long room, Staumberg behind him. He looked back at Nina. ‘The reason I ask for secrecy is . . . well, my reputation, both as a member of the Staumberg family and as a businessman. Only a few of my most trusted friends have seen what is in here.’

‘As I said, this will be confidential,’ she said, now intrigued.

‘Good. Good.’ They reached the end of the room, where there was a door. For a moment Nina wondered if what lay beyond was the hidden room on the plans, but that made no sense. The back wall was made from wooden planks, not stone; no attempt had been made to disguise it, and it seemed relatively recently built.

Kurt took a key ring from his pocket and flicked through it, finally selecting a particular key and unlocking the door. He opened it, revealing nothing beyond but darkness. Nina sniffed the air as an odd mix of scents emerged from the mysterious room. Wood, leather, some sort of polish, the faint tang of old candle smoke . . .

Staumberg took a long breath as Kurt entered the room. ‘Well . . . come in.’ He stepped aside for the others to enter as the butler switched on the light.

Nina, first in, stopped abruptly as she took in the contents of the room. ‘Oh . . . my,’ she muttered, struggling for words.

Chase, on the other hand, could barely contain his laughter. ‘Bloody hell.’

They had entered a dungeon.

But not some medieval torture chamber; this was a thoroughly modern affair, blood-red walls and a floor of glossy black tile, full-length mirrors strategically placed so the occupants could always see themselves reflected. A wooden bench, padded with red leather and fitted with numerous thick restraining straps, dominated the centre of the room. A long rack by the door held dozens of whips and paddles, and on a table near the back wall was a row of what Nina at first took to be oversized black candles before realising they were in fact quite terrifyingly large dildos.

Chase couldn’t hold it in any more. ‘Oh, Christ!’ he cackled. ‘Your own personal S&M dungeon? No wonder you wanted to keep it quiet!’

Staumberg’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger. ‘You promised you will not tell anyone about this!’

‘I won’t, I won’t! Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping secrets. But Jesus, this is a pretty impressive setup.’

‘Not quite the word I would have used,’ said Nina through her fixed grin.

‘Hey, come on, every man’s got a hobby. Some blokes play footie, some’ve got model trains, and some . . . well, it takes all sorts.’ He glanced at Kurt, who was standing silently by the door. ‘So, Kurt, are you the master or the servant in here?’

‘Eddie!’ Nina cried. But the tiniest hint of a smile on the butler’s otherwise impassive face made it perfectly clear there was one room of the castle where the roles were reversed.

‘This is all very . . . personal,’ said Mitchell impatiently. ‘But can we get back to why we’re here?’ He strode past the bench to the back of the room. ‘If there really is a hidden chamber, it’s behind this wall.’

Avoiding Chase’s amused gaze, Staumberg joined him, putting a hand on the red paint. ‘This is stone, as far as I know. I never noticed anything different about it.’

‘We’ll need to knock through it.’

‘With your permission, of course,’ Nina quickly added to Staumberg.

He considered it, then gave a resigned grunt. ‘Very well, ja . . . But you will repair it after?’

‘Send the IHA a bill,’ Chase advised as he and Nina walked to the wall. He bumped a clenched fist against the painted stone. ‘Seems solid.’

‘Do you have any tools?’ Mitchell asked. ‘Hammers, or pick-axes? ’

‘Yes,’ Staumberg replied. ‘Kurt can get them.’

‘Or we could just whack it with this,’ said Chase, pointing at the largest of the dildos. ‘One hit with that’d knock anything down. Christ, it must be three inches thick.’ He smirked at Nina. ‘Nearly as big as mine, eh?’

‘Widthways or lengthways?’ she replied, deadpan.

‘All bloody right,’ scowled Chase, one-upped, as Mitchell laughed. Even Staumberg briefly smiled. ‘Let’s see what’s on the other side, then.’

Kurt brought a long-handled rubber mallet and a pickaxe. Chase delivered the first blow, slamming the mallet against the wall. Staumberg winced, but the damage immediately revealed that Mitzi’s theory had been correct - there was indeed a space behind the wall, the stones caving backwards. Another blow, and one fell away into the blackness beyond with a crunch.

Chase waited for the dust to settle, then shone a torch through the hole. ‘It’s not that deep; I can see the back wall. Less than three feet.’ He shifted position, angling the beam downwards. ‘And there’s something in here! Looks like boxes under a tarp.’ He moved back. ‘Jack, give me a hand.’

Mitchell obliged, hooking the pick behind more of the stones and pulling them out until the hole was just large enough for Chase to edge his upper body through. Torch in one hand, he carefully lifted a corner of the dusty tarpaulin.

Grubby wooden crates rested underneath. The stencilled symbol of a swastika immediately told him the local legends had been true all along.

‘I think what we’ve got here is . . . Nazi gold,’ he announced as he slid back out.

Staumberg appeared to be stricken by a sudden migraine, and Nina understood why. There were international laws relating to the discovery of Nazi materials - especially those which had been stolen from other countries. ‘We’ll have to tell the Austrian government about this. I’m sorry.’

‘I know, I know.’ Staumberg rubbed his forehead. ‘But can you please give us time to move our, ah, equipment to another room before you do?’

‘I think that would be fair, considering how helpful you’ve been.’

He smiled in faint relief. Meanwhile, Chase and Mitchell expanded the hole, pulling out more stones to reveal six crates in all. Chase removed the tarpaulin, finding a leather-bound ledger hidden beneath. A brief flick through the pages revealed an itemised list, all in German. ‘What do you reckon this is?’

Staumberg examined it. ‘It is a list - a list of everything in the crates!’

‘German efficiency,’ Chase joked.

Staumberg’s eyes widened as he read further. ‘It really is treasure - there is gold, silver, jewellery, religious relics . . .’

‘What about the sword?’ Mitchell demanded. ‘Does it mention a sword?’

The Austrian kept reading. ‘Yes, here! “Jewelled sword hilt with gold and silver decorations, blade broken. Obtained Koroneou, claimed to be of historic significance.” There is also an estimated value in marks, and - and it even says which crate it is in.’ He looked through the hole as Chase directed the torch beam over the stencilled numbers on each box. ‘That one!’

Mitchell and Chase quickly removed the crate and placed it on the floor, using the pickaxe as an impromptu crowbar to prise it open. Inside were several objects wrapped in waxed paper.

‘It’s got to be this,’ said Chase, taking out the largest. He unwrapped it . . .

‘Wow,’ whispered Nina.

It was indeed the hilt of a sword, gemstones set into the steel, lines of gold and silver twined around them. But they weren’t what caught Nina’s eye: instead, she looked at the broken stub of the blade, sheared off some five inches below the ornate guard. Inscribed in the metal was a symbol.

A labyrinth. Just like the ones on the piece they had recovered from Syria.

She took the sword from Chase, holding it up to the light. ‘I think we have a match,’ she announced.

‘Awesome,’ said Mitchell. ‘Now we need to—’

The door was kicked open with a bang.

A rangy, hollow-cheeked man with hair shaved down to a black stubble stood outside, a pistol aimed into the room. Everyone froze. The man entered, momentary surprise at his surroundings quickly vanishing as he focused on his objective. He pointed at Nina. ‘You,’ he said, accent thickly Russian, ‘give me sword.’

Mitchell moved in front of her, hands raised. ‘Stay calm,’ he ordered. He took another step, passing Chase. The Russian regarded him suspiciously. ‘We already have the blade, and without it your boss will never find Excalibur.’ He added something in Russian.

The man replied in kind. Nina had no idea what he said, but he was certainly vehement about it. ‘Worth a try,’ Mitchell sighed, backing away. ‘Nina, give him the sword.’

‘You just want to hand it over?’ Chase said.

‘It’s that or get shot. Nina, go on.’

Hesitantly, Nina stepped forward. The Russian nodded: Come here. She advanced again. ‘You want the sword?’ she asked. ‘Catch!’

She tossed the hilt at his face.

He instinctively snapped up his own hands to catch it, the gun clanging against the ancient metal. But it only took a moment for him to recover, anger flaring as he brought the gun back down—

Whock!

The Russian abruptly spun through ninety degrees, wobbled, and slumped face first on to the black tiles. Chase looked down at him with satisfaction . . . then gave a startled ‘Ugh!’ and dropped his makeshift cosh - the largest of the dildos - as it occurred to him what he was holding and where it had probably been.

He picked up the unconscious man’s gun. ‘Bloody hell. I’ve done a lot of weird stuff in my life, but I never, ever thought I’d break a man’s jaw with a foot-long rubber cock.’

‘We need to get out of here and call the police,’ said Mitchell. He took out his phone. ‘Shit. No signal.’

‘We are in a cellar,’ Nina reminded him as she retrieved the sword hilt. She turned to Staumberg and Kurt. ‘They’re after us and the sword, not you. Is there anywhere down here you can hide?’ Staumberg nodded.

‘Go there and wait for the police,’ Chase told him. He checked the gun, a Steyr M9 - fifteen 9mm rounds, fully loaded - and moved to the door. Nobody else in the wine cellar, and no sounds of movement. ‘Nina, Jack, come on.’

They hurried back through the cellar. ‘How the hell did they find us?’ Nina asked. ‘They couldn’t have gone through Bernd’s notes this quickly!’

‘Guess they weren’t as hard to decipher as he thought,’ said Mitchell. ‘No point worrying about it now, though.’

Chase stopped at the door to check ahead. Still no one. The Englishman taking point, they headed for the stairs.

Halfway up, they heard a door slam. ‘Wait,’ Chase whispered, creeping upwards until he could see the main passageway on the upper cellar level. Nobody there, though he could hear activity off to one side. He warily peered round the corner and saw an open door, lights on beyond it and the bangs and rattles of somebody looking through cupboards. Presumably Rust’s notes hadn’t offered any specific suggestions about where the Nazi hoard might be hidden. ‘Okay, come on.’ Nina and Mitchell advanced as quietly as they could, Chase keeping the gun trained on the open door as they passed him and ascended the next flight of stairs.

‘What’s the plan?’ Nina asked as he followed them.

‘Get to the car and get out of the Schloss Adler here. Soon as we’re clear, we call the cops. We just need to stay ahead of them until we can get help.’

‘Maybe, but we still have to reach the SUV,’ said Mitchell as they reached the top of the stairs. Chase made sure the way was clear, then they ran to the double doors of the great hall.

He eased them open and looked through. He couldn’t see anyone in the hall, but his view of the balcony above was limited, and the main doors at the far end were open. There could be intruders in the courtyard.

Mitchell looked over his shoulder. ‘Is it clear?’

‘Have to chance it.’ He darted through the doors, whipping the gun from side to side. ‘Okay, come on.’

They ran down the hall towards the exit—

Someone shouted in Russian.

‘Shit!’ Chase yelped, whirling to bring up his gun. Another man was on the balcony to his left, a sinister little Czech ‘Skorpion’ machine pistol in his hand. Chase unleashed four rapid shots, splintering the wooden railing and forcing the Russian to dive to the floor. He shouted again, this time for help.

‘Get into cover!’ ordered Chase - but Mitchell had already done so, pulling Nina between the hanging tapestries and suits of armour into the area beneath the damaged balcony, the spiral staircase at its rear. Chase quickly backed across to the opposite side of the hall, gun at the ready. The moment his opponent showed his head, he was going to lose a chunk of it . . .

More shouts, but now from the far end of the hall. Three people ran in through the front doors.

All armed.

‘Oh, fuck!’ Chase gasped, hurling himself behind one of the thick oak pillars supporting the balcony as a spray of sub-machine gun bullets ripped into it.

13

‘Shit! What do we do?’ Nina cried, looking across at Chase. He was in the cover of the pillar, but it would only take a few seconds for the new arrivals to reach a position where they could either shoot directly at him, or force him into the line of fire of the man above them.

‘There’s nothing we can do!’ Mitchell told her. He pulled her towards the metal spiral staircase. ‘Come on!’

Chase saw them move. On the stairs, they’d be visible to the bad guys at the other end of the hall, easy targets as they climbed . . .

He leaned round the ravaged pillar and let off three shots, as much to distract as to kill. As he’d hoped, the Russians ran for cover.

The Skorpion’s high-pitched clatter echoed from the balcony, another burst of bullets tearing chunks out of the oak. Chase shielded his face as splinters flew around him. He had to find better cover.

Nina scrambled up the stairs, Mitchell right behind her. She looked down the hall as Chase fired another two shots. ‘Jesus! It’s her!’ One of the trio running towards the stone staircase at the end of the balcony opposite was the female sniper she’d seen in Bournemouth, her hair now dyed a vivid red.

‘Dominika Romanova,’ said Mitchell.

‘She killed Bernd—’

‘I know. Keep going!’

Chase blasted two more suppressive shots up at the balcony. Metal clanged as one hit a suit of armour. The Skorpion stopped firing as the Russian ducked again.

Move—

He sprinted for the pair of broader wooden columns supporting the corner of the balcony at the hall’s rear. More bullets flew after him, setting the tapestries flapping and causing one of the suits of armour to crash in pieces to the floor. He dived, rolling behind the rectangular base of the two pillars. From here he was shielded from the balcony and the far end of the hall, and had a better firing angle at both.

Though with only four bullets left, he’d have to make each of them count.

The man above saw that he had lost his target. He ran for the stone stairs at the end of the balcony to join his comrades.

Nina reached the top of the spiral staircase. A chill of fear hit her as she saw the gunman on the balcony - but his back was to her as he descended the stairs.

The door leading to Staumberg’s study was only a few feet away. ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Through here—’

The door opened.

Nina found herself face to face with yet another of Vaskovich’s thugs, a squat man with his hair tied in a topknot. They both flinched at the unexpected close encounter - then the Russian smiled malevolently as he brought up his gun—

Mitchell swept Nina aside, whipping round with shocking speed to deliver a roundhouse kick. The gun flew from the Russian’s hand and spun over the railing. Before the startled man could react, Mitchell kicked him again, driving a heel into his stomach and sending him flying back through the door. There was a nasty crack as his head hit a wall, and he collapsed.

Dominika heard the commotion and shouted an order. The man descending the stairs reversed course, heading back to the balcony. One of her companions fired a burst at Chase to pin him down, then sprinted up the stairs after his comrade, long black coat swirling like a cape.

Chase looked up - and saw Nina and Mitchell, unable to see what was happening on the staircase, running along the balcony towards the Russians. ‘No, go back!’ he shouted - but was drowned out as Dominika and the other man opened fire with their MP-5Ks. Chunks of the pillars protecting him blew apart under the onslaught. ‘Jesus!’

Nina reached the stairs - and stopped as she saw the Russian running back up, another man a few steps behind. Both men were armed, and the only weapon she and Mitchell had between them was a broken sword.

If they couldn’t attack, they had to defend . . .

A suit of armour stood guard at the top of the stairs, empty arms crossed over its chest above a broad shield. Nina shoved the whole display over. The armour tumbled down the stairs, exploding into a cascade of gleaming metal pieces. The steel wave swept the first Russian back down the steps with a pained cry.

The second man leapt over him - and kept leaping, propelling himself off the wall across to the banister, then back to the wall and finally into a somersault that brought him to a perfect landing in front of Nina. His overcoat swirled around him with a dramatic fwumph.

‘ Ah . . . ’kay,’ said Nina, startled by the gravity-defying display. ‘Jack, what now?’

Mitchell pushed past her, hands raised in a martial arts form. ‘I’ll take care of him.’

‘He has a gun!’

‘It’s not his style. Is it, Zakhar? Think you can take me?’ To Nina’s surprise, Mitchell was right, the slick-haired young man slipping his compact sub-machine gun into his coat. The two men sized each other up - then both moved at once, fists snapping out and feet slicing in a flurry of strikes and blocks. They seemed evenly matched . . . but then Mitchell started to be driven back along the balcony.

Chase saw the whirling brawl from below. What the hell was Mitchell doing? But he had no time to think about it as he came under fire again. The oak columns now resembled well-gnawed apple cores, his cover being eaten away. He snapped off two shots, firing practically blind. Only two bullets left now—

One of the double doors in the rear wall flew off its hinges with a crash and landed several feet away. The gunfire ceased. Chase whirled to take in the new threat. The giant scar-faced Russian who had stolen Nina’s laptop - Maximov, ‘the Bulldozer’ - leered through the gap at him.

‘Oh, fuck off, Zangief,’ said Chase, pulling the trigger.

Maximov jerked back, but not fast enough. The bullet ripped into his thick bicep, splattering the remaining door with blood. Chase heard a groan from the corridor.

An almost orgasmic groan.

He suddenly remembered what Mitchell had told them about Maximov’s scrambled nervous system. ‘Buggeration . . .’

The heavy door swung back - and vanished into the corridor, wrenched from its frame. A moment later it reappeared, a huge hand clamped round each edge as the Russian held it in front of him like a shield.

Chase fired his last shot at the centre of the door, where Maximov’s chest would be. The giant jerked and came to a standstill - but only for a second. The bullet had been slowed so much by two inches of dense old oak that it lacked the power to penetrate his ribcage. Instead, the impact only seemed to spur him on. ‘I come for you, little maaaaaan!’

He rushed at Chase, swinging the door like a colossal fly-swatter and sending the Englishman flying, demolishing another suit of armour. Pieces scattered cacophonously around him, the blade of the long-handled halberd it had held thunking an inch deep into the floorboards.

Groaning, Chase looked up. Dominika and her comrade had advanced - but though their MP-5Ks were still raised, their fingers were off the triggers. Both were smiling. They wanted to watch the show.

The man laughed and nudged Dominika, saying something mocking in Russian. Chase sat up, one hand falling on a piece of curved metal - and he hurled the armour’s high steel collar at the snickering man like a Frisbee. Its edge slammed into his face, crushing his nose with a splintering wet crunch. He shrieked and staggered backwards, blood spurting from both nostrils.

Dominika snapped up her gun - but Maximov had now reached Chase. She held fire, waiting for a clear shot.

Blood seeping down his chest where the bullet had struck, Maximov effortlessly lifted Chase so they were practically face to face, grinning at him with yellow teeth—

Chase head-butted him.

And wished he hadn’t. ‘Ow, fuck!’ he gasped as coloured starbursts flared in his vision. The bastard really did have a metal plate in his skull! Maximov’s demented grin widened, a rumbling laugh escaping his throat as he tossed Chase back down into the pile of debris.

Chase yelled as the spike sticking up from the back of the halberd’s axe-head stabbed into his arm. He jerked away, leaving blood on the steel.

Maximov advanced again, plate-sized hands reaching out for him. Chase seized the halberd just beneath the axe-head and tugged it free, bounding to his feet. Dominika raised her gun, Maximov’s proximity making her hesitate . . .

Chase cracked the end of the halberd’s shaft against her kneecap. She stumbled. Before she could recover, he swept it up and caught the woman a vicious blow under her chin. She fell against one of the hanging tapestries.

‘Dominika!’ yelled Maximov, his concern rapidly turning to rage as his mad eyes locked on to her attacker.

Chase swung the halberd again.

Maximov raised a tree-like arm to block it, the handle snapping in two to leave Chase clutching just a stump of wood with a blade attached. He hurriedly flipped what was left of the weapon over to wield it like a hatchet, but unless he took Maximov’s entire head off with a single swipe he didn’t fancy his chances.

He didn’t try. Instead, he grabbed the rope holding up the tapestry with one hand - and slashed the axe-head through it with the other.

Chase was no featherweight, but the weight of over a hundred square feet of thick, richly embroidered cloth on a sturdy wooden hanger was more than enough to whisk him upwards as the tapestry fell. It knocked Dominika to the floor beneath its folds.

Chase grabbed the balcony railing. He pulled himself over and took in the scene below. The man with the broken nose was still blindly reeling as he tried to staunch the blood gushing down his face. Dominika was engulfed by the tapestry, while Maximov scowled impotently up at him, the idea of retrieving one of the guns apparently too complex for his brain to accommodate.

Nina—

She was on the opposite side of the balcony, watching as Mitchell fought the Russian in the long coat.

One of Zakhar’s kicks finally broke through the American’s defences, a heel smashing into Mitchell’s shin. He lurched, face twisting with pain. He knew another blow would be coming and tried to raise his arms to intercept it - but not quickly enough. Zakhar ploughed his knuckles into Mitchell’s throat. He collapsed, choking.

‘Jack!’ Nina cried, but the Russian stepped over him, one hand smoothing his long hair. He looked down at the broken weapon she was clutching.

‘Hello, sexy lady,’ he said. ‘Give me sword, please.’

Nina backed away. ‘I’d rather not.’

He pouted theatrically, running his hand through his hair once more. ‘Okay, I ask again.’ He pulled out his gun and pointed it at her. ‘Now give me sword. Please.’

Nina hesitated, and heard a sudden clash of metal - from above. She looked round, as did Zakhar - who was abruptly swept off his feet as Chase, swinging from a chandelier, scooped him up between his legs and sent him flying through one of the stained glass windows. He screamed as he fell, the shriek abruptly truncated by a breathless ‘Oof !’ as he slammed down on the roof of an outbuilding in the courtyard.

Chase had problems of his own. He was already spinning back out over the hall - and a sharp crack from above warned him that the chandelier was about to pull loose from the ceiling.

He flung himself at the other balcony . . .

And fell short.

Chase grabbed desperately at a tapestry as the chandelier tore free and smashed to the ground. One hand caught the edge of the thick cloth. Flailing for another handhold, he dangled from the tapestry some fifteen feet in the air . . .

Rrrrrrip.

‘Oh, shit.’ The cloth was tearing away from the beam on which it was hung. Even as he watched, the ragged gap raced across the width of the tapestry. ‘Oh, shit!’

Chase swung wildly as the tapestry tore. He was heading right at Maximov, whose arms were eagerly raised to grab and crush him—

He slammed his outstretched legs into Maximov’s chest.

There was a thud of impact, then Chase fell painfully to the floor. His kick had only knocked Maximov back, not down. The Russian was a bearded Terminator, seemingly invincible.

Nina ran over the shards of broken glass to help Mitchell. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Won’t be singing in the choir for a while,’ he wheezed, rubbing his bruised throat. ‘Where’s the sword?’

Nina held it up. ‘Right here.’

‘Eddie?’

‘Oh, Christ.’ Chase was scrambling on his back along the floor below, Maximov stomping after him. ‘Come on!’ She vaulted Mitchell and ran down the stairs as the Russian grabbed Chase and yanked him up like a child.

The armour she had knocked over was scattered all around, the man it had hit on all fours, just recovering. The Skorpion was inches from his hand. He looked up as he heard Nina’s footsteps—

She swung the knight’s shield at his head. There was a ringing thud of metal against bone, and he dropped to the floor. Another of Vaskovich’s mercenaries stood nearby, both hands clamped over his bloodied face; another swing, another clang, and he too went down.

Nina threw away the dented shield and picked up the gun. Across the hall, Maximov was busy slamming Chase repeatedly against a pillar. ‘Hey!’ she shouted.

Maximov turned his head, saw the gun - and threw Chase at her like a balding missile.

She tried to dodge, but he hit her shoulder, sending them both to the ground. The gun went off as she fell. The bullet ricocheted off something with a high-pitched twang.

Nina opened her eyes to see Maximov looking up cross-eyed at his own forehead. For a moment, a dull sheen of metal was visible behind the torn skin before blood flowed over it, dripping on to his nose. The huge Russian’s knees trembled and he slumped on to his backside with a thump. A vacant grin spread across his face.

It dawned on Nina that - for the moment - they had taken down all their opponents. But the buzz of a helicopter outside the broken window told her how the Russians had entered the castle - and that there were still others. ‘Come on, Eddie,’ she said, pulling him up, ‘gotta go, gotta go!’

Mitchell reached the bottom of the stairs, regarding the two fallen men with surprise. ‘You did that?’ he asked her, voice hoarse.

‘I’m a real bitch when anyone messes with my man,’ she said, grinning.

They ran outside and crossed the courtyard, seeing that the castle’s gates were now open. Two more trucks were parked near their SUV.

‘That was some pretty fancy martial arts back there,’ Nina said to Mitchell as they reached the Suburban. ‘Eddie usually just punches people.’

Mitchell rubbed his throat again. ‘Not fancy enough.’ He got into the driving seat, Nina helping her battered fiancé into the back before running round the truck and hopping in the passenger seat. ‘Call the cops,’ Mitchell told her, tossing her his phone.

A shadow swept over them, the roar of the helicopter echoing round the courtyard as the Suburban set off. Chase tracked the aircraft as the SUV passed through the gates. ‘Chopper’s coming around.’

Nina looked up. ‘You think they’ve got guns?’

A snowbank at the roadside suddenly burst apart as a line of small explosions stitched through it. The helicopter buzzed overhead before pulling up sharply to turn for another pass. ‘Never mind!’ She shoved the sword hilt inside her jacket, fastened her seat belt and raised the phone. ‘What’s the emergency number in Austria?’

‘One three three,’ Mitchell told her, braking hard as the SUV approached the first hairpin turn. Even with four-wheel drive, the big vehicle still fishtailed on the snow.

‘Jesus, watch it!’ Chase warned. ‘You don’t want to roll us over—’

Bullet holes punched through the SUV’s bonnet with a plunk-plunk-plunk of cratered metal, followed a fraction of a second later by a bang as one of the front tyres blew out. The shredded wheel bit into the road surface, spinning the entire truck round and slamming it broadside-on into a bank of ploughed snow. The Suburban flipped over on to its roof, slithering to a halt at the very brink of a steep, snow-covered slope.

‘Told you,’ said Chase after a moment of silence.

He and Mitchell were both now on the cabin’s erstwhile ceiling. Nina awkwardly hung suspended by her seat belt, ponytail swishing back and forth against the roof beneath her. Through the cracked windscreen, all she could see were the dizzyingly inverted mountains across the valley and a blank white expanse dropping away to a thin line of trees - and what looked like a cliff edge just beyond them.

Chase, surrounded by the scattered items that had fallen from the SUV’s now open emergency compartment, peered out of the rear window. As well as the helicopter, he could hear another sound, a harsh rasp.

Rapidly growing louder.

‘Snowmobiles,’ he said. ‘They’re coming after us.’

Mitchell looked outside. ‘Where did the chopper go?’

‘Dunno, but it sounds like it’s coming back.’

‘Then we’d better get out of this thing,’ said Nina. She put one hand against the ceiling to support herself as best she could and raised the other to the seat-belt release—

Chase realised what she was about to do. ‘Nina, wait!’

Too late.

The buckle popped free, and Nina dropped heavily on to the roof . . .

The SUV shifted.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ Chase said as the overturned 4x4 tipped over the edge of the slope.

14

Nina stared in horror as the landscape through the windscreen tilted sharply - and started moving past her.

‘Nice one!’ Chase shouted sarcastically.

‘Don’t start! I didn’t know that would happen!’

Mitchell grappled with his door handle. ‘It’s jammed. The frame’s bent.’

Nina tried her door, but with the same lack of result. Snow slid past the window as they picked up speed. Behind her, Chase crawled towards the rear door. ‘I’ll open the tailgate. Jack! Find the bonnet release!’

‘What?’

‘The hood, the hood release! It’ll drop down and act like a brake!’

Mitchell hunted for the lever as Chase batted aside the coiled tow-cable dangling from the emergency compartment. The roof shuddered beneath him as the SUV bumped over the snow.

‘Got it!’ Mitchell shouted. He pulled the lever and the bonnet slammed down in front of the windscreen, its broad front edge digging into the snow. The Suburban slowed, but didn’t stop. Snow sprayed up from each side of the bonnet, gravity and three tons of upside-down truck continuing to drag them down the mountainside.

‘Shit, we’re spinning!’ Nina shouted. The bonnet was scooping up snow unevenly, slewing the SUV round. The trees further down the slope drifted into view through her side window.

An idea flashed through her mind. She squeezed under her seat’s headrest, straining to reach the handle of the door behind her.

Chase reached the rear door and tugged the handle. The tailgate popped open; he braced himself and pushed it down like a drawbridge.

A sound reached him over the thumps of the truck’s descent - engines, rasping and raw. Snowmobiles.

And the helicopter, swooping down to pass them . . .

Nina pulled the handle. The rear door opened slightly. She forced it wider. Snow spat into the cabin, biting at her eyes. Wincing, she pushed harder as the Suburban continued to turn sideways, picking up speed . . .

It swung back, the door acting as a rudder. They straightened out, slowing again as the bonnet gouged into the snow—

The open door hit something under the snow and the window burst apart. Nina shrieked and jumped back. But her idea had worked, and the Chevrolet was back in a straight line - for now.

A large bump threw Nina and Mitchell against the seats, loose items bouncing around them as the slope steepened. Even with their makeshift brake, they were still gaining speed. She looked back - and saw Chase clambering on to the open tailgate. She thought he was going to jump off, but instead he leaned forward, reaching for something on the SUV’s underside. ‘Eddie! What’re you doing? Jump, get off !’

Squinting into the spraying snow, Chase had no intention of jumping, however. Instead he bent over the rear bumper for the spare wheel mounted under the cargo bed, all the while aware that the top of the cliff was rapidly getting closer.

The helicopter moved into a hover past the cliff edge, wanting a grandstand view of their deaths. And from behind, Chase heard the rattle of automatic weapons fire, the snowmobilers trying to bring them about even sooner—

The Suburban hit a rock hidden beneath the snow, throwing the entire vehicle into the air. It crashed down nose first, ripping the bonnet loose. The windscreen shattered. The SUV immediately picked up speed on its hellish sledge run down the mountain.

Nina fought her way up the cabin as snow flew all around her. Chase had somehow managed to keep hold, silhouetted in the open tailgate. ‘Eddie!’ she yelled. ‘Save yourself, jump!’

He crouched. ‘Not without you!’ Another side window exploded as the truck smashed over a rock. ‘Give me that line!’

Nina used the headrests to pull herself along. The tow-cable hanging from the emergency compartment twitched crazily at every bump, just out of reach. She stretched for it . . .

Bullets clanked against the Suburban’s flank, one of them piercing the thin steel and hitting the seat above her with a whump. She flinched, then grabbed for the cable as it continued its mocking dance. This time, she caught it.

She used it to pull herself closer, then untangled it. Chase leaned into the cabin, arm outstretched. Nina reached out for him . . .

‘Oh shit,’ said Mitchell in a voice of imminent doom. Chase looked ahead. The line of trees was coming up fast - as was the cliff edge just beyond. ‘Whatever you’re doing, do it now!’

Chase’s gaze met Nina’s.

With a final effort, she lunged forward. Chase snatched the cable from her hand and straightened, the wind slashing at his face as he leaned over the rear bumper. He had already freed the spare wheel from its recess; now, he rapidly uncoiled the cable and threaded one end between the alloy spokes before knotting it.

Another window shattered, snow and glass showering around his legs. He ignored it, tying the other end of the cable around the SUV’s towhook. The treeline was only seconds away—

He hurled the spare wheel.

It spun off to one side, the cable snaking behind it. Snow sprayed into the air as it bounced down the slope parallel to the Suburban.

The snowmobiles closed in. Chase ducked, gripping the towhook tightly as another bullet blew out a light cluster just inches from him. The whining chatter of the helicopter rose ahead, chainsaw snarl of the snowmobile engines behind as the Chevy hurtled towards the cliff.

The spare wheel bounced past a tree - on the opposite side from the Suburban.

The cable snapped taut, whipping the spare wheel round the trunk once, twice, before it smashed into the bark. The SUV suddenly jerked round, sweeping across the clifftop at the end of the line, so close to the edge that there was nothing below the frame of the broken windscreen but empty space. Nina screamed as centrifugal force tore loose her grip and threw her towards the hole—

Mitchell’s hand clamped round her wrist.

The Suburban continued along its arc, swinging back up the slope. One of the snowmobilers had swerved to avoid the trees - now he found three tons of battered steel whooshing straight at him like a giant’s hammer.

The two vehicles collided, the sheer momentum of the SUV swatting the lightweight snowmobile backwards. The rider was flung skywards as its rear end flipped up. He somersaulted over the Suburban, over the cliff . . .

And into the blades of the hovering helicopter.

The man instantly became nothing but a red haze spraying out from the whirling rotor. The helicopter reeled from the impact. Its nose dipped sharply, pulling the aircraft into a steep descent despite the pilot’s desperate attempts to level out.

Rotor blades slashed against the sheer rocks, shattered—

The helicopter ploughed into the cliff, smashing the cabin and its occupants flat before the rest of the fuselage tumbled down the wall and exploded.

Chase finally lost his hold, thrown from the tailgate into the snow as the SUV swung round the tree. It hit a rock broadside-on, the roof caving in and rolling the Suburban back on to its side. Its wheels dug into the snow, flipping it upright and bouncing it into the air—

The second snowmobiler had stopped his stolen vehicle short of the cliff - only to be smacked from his seat as the Suburban tumbled over it at chest height. He hit the ground, - and the SUV landed on top of him. Roof crushed, chassis bent, it finally slid to a stop, upside down once again.

Chase shakily stood and picked his way across the steep slope. He passed the idling snowmobile and reached the wreckage of the Suburban, a long red smear marking where the rider had been scraped along beneath it. ‘Nina! Nina! Are you okay?’

No reply. He crouched and looked inside.

The flattened interior was filled with snow and dirt. He peered round the seats. ‘Nina!’

Movement from the front. ‘Eddie?’ grunted Mitchell, dazed.

‘Jack! Where’s Nina?’

‘I dunno. I . . . I couldn’t keep hold of her.’

A cold stone formed in the pit of Chase’s stomach. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, forcing himself to check on the closest person first when every part of his mind was screaming at him to search for Nina.

‘Think so . . . banged up, but I don’t think anything’s broken . . .’

‘Good. I’ll be right back.’ Chase stood, looking for any sign of his fiancée.

He stumbled round the wreck, eyes hunting desperately for anything that wasn’t white or brown or green. ‘Nina!’ He turned, and kept turning, the mountainous landscape around him becoming a blur—

Red.

Not blood, but the subtler shade of her hair poking above a snowdrift a few yards away.

He ran to it, snow crumping under his feet. Nina was sprawled on the cold ground, thrown out of the SUV as it flipped over. She lay face down, not moving.

Chase reached her and dropped to his knees, feeling for signs of life - or death. It was impossible to pick out a heartbeat through her thick jacket, and he couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. His hands moved to her neck, brushing her ponytail aside as he pressed his fingertips under her chin. She was still warm to the touch, but he didn’t feel a pulse.

His own heart racing, he tried a different spot.

A pulse.

He waited, holding his breath.

Another, and another. Steady. Gasping in relief, Chase carefully supported her head and turned her on to her back. Her face was cut in several places, red lines running down her cheek and chin.

He quickly unzipped her jacket. The sword hilt weighed down one side as he opened it, but he ignored the hunk of metal as he hunted for signs of other injuries. No blood, no spikes of broken bones as he ran his hands over her chest—

‘There’s . . . a time and a place for that, Eddie,’ she whispered.

Chase realised both his hands were on her breasts. Her eyes flickered open, and she managed a weak smile.

‘Hah!’ gasped Chase, the exhalation somewhere between relief and annoyance. ‘Very fucking funny!’ He withdrew his hands. ‘Are you hurt anywhere?’

‘I’m hurt everywhere . . . but I think I’m okay.’ She tried to raise herself. ‘Ow, ow.’ Chase helped her to sit up. She caught sight of the mangled Suburban nearby. ‘Oh, my God! Where’s Jack? Is he all right?’

An arm waved from the open tailgate in reply. Mitchell wormed his way between the seats of the overturned SUV into the cargo space. ‘I’m fine,’ he called. ‘The sword! Have you still got the sword?’

Nina pawed at her open jacket. ‘Shit, it was right—’

‘It’s here,’ Chase told her, holding it up. ‘We’ve got it, don’t worry.’

Mitchell crawled from the Suburban. He looked at the nearby cliff edge, and the swathe of snow the truck had scraped from it. ‘Jesus! That was close.’

‘We’re not done yet,’ said Chase, as he looked back up the mountainside and saw reflected sunlight flash from one of the Russians’ SUVs as it rounded the first hairpin. ‘Got to keep moving.’

Nina eyed the snowmobile. ‘You’re not thinking . . .’

‘ ’Fraid I am, love.’ Chase pointed down the valley: the sheer cliff gradually shallowed, becoming a steep but traversable slope down to the valley floor - and the road leading through it. ‘We can get down that way, and we’ll do it a lot faster than those Russian twats. Did you call the police?’

‘I lost the phone,’ Nina admitted.

Chase looked back at the path of their wild ride down the mountain. ‘Suppose I can let you off, considering.’ Unzipping a pocket, he took out his own phone and gave it to her. ‘Call the cops. As long as we can stay ahead of those arseholes until they arrive, we’ll be okay.’

Mitchell joined them as Chase lifted Nina to her feet. ‘Three people on a snowmobile? We should split up. You two go on ahead - I’ll take the sword into those trees over here and call the embassy, get them to send a chopper.’

‘Do a lot of alpine survival training in the navy, did you?’ Chase asked. Mitchell looked irked.

‘We should stick together,’ Nina insisted as she dialled the Austrian emergency number. On getting through, she explained the situation as best she could in fractured German while Chase checked the snowmobile for damage. ‘Okay, the cops are on the way,’ she said, finishing the call. ‘They don’t know how long it’ll take to get here, though.’

Chase climbed aboard the snowmobile. ‘Call Mitzi, the number’s in the memory. If she picks us up we can drive back and meet ’em halfway. Okay, let’s go.’ He revved the engine. Nina clambered on behind him, Mitchell sandwiching her. ‘Hold tight!’

He set off in a spray of snow, pointing the snowmobile’s nose uphill at an angle for maximum traction on the treacherous surface. Nina glanced nervously up the mountainside. The Russian SUVs were still descending, but Chase was right: the snowmobile would reach the road below long before they could negotiate the winding route.

Mitzi answered the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Mitzi, it’s Nina! Sorry, this is an emergency - we’re coming back from the castle and we need you to pick us up.’

The young Swiss woman’s voice filled with concern. ‘Are you okay? What’s happening? Is Eddie okay?’

‘Mitzi, sorry, there’s no time to explain right now - please, just meet us on the main road as quick as you can!’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes, less!’

‘Okay, thanks. See you soon.’ Nina rang off. ‘She’s on her way,’ she told Chase.

‘Great! Told you she was a top lass, didn’t I?’

It took them only a few minutes to reach the valley floor through the thickening stands of snow-laden evergreens. Nina looked uphill again as they crossed the road to the castle. The Russians were well behind.

‘There’s Mitzi!’ Chase cried. Ahead on the main road was her red SUV, flashing its headlights as it approached. He skidded to a stop beside the churned line of snow thrown up by the ploughs. ‘Everybody off !’

The Cayenne halted a short distance away. Mitzi jumped out. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Tell you on the way,’ said Chase as Mitchell and Nina hopped off the snowmobile. ‘The police are coming. We need to meet ’em, fast!’

Mitzi saw the cuts on Nina’s face. ‘You’re hurt!’

‘I’ll live,’ she replied as Mitchell opened the rear door for her.

Chase jumped over the snow bank and ran to the SUV’s passenger side. ‘Come on, Mitzi, let’s go!’

‘Okay, okay!’ She turned to climb back into the Porsche.

Nina was about to slide across the seat to let Mitchell in when she realised he wasn’t following her, instead looking back up the mountain. She followed his gaze. One of the Russian SUVs had stopped, a figure with hair of unnatural red standing beside it.

A flash of pure green light . . .

There was a flat, wet thump. Something drummed against the Cayenne’s windscreen like thick rain.

But it wasn’t water.

Mitzi fell against her open door, slamming it shut as she dropped to the ground. On the other side of the Porsche, Chase was frozen, staring in shock at the empty space where a second before there had been a beautiful young woman, then an explosive cloud of grey and red—

The crack of Dominika’s sniper rifle reached them, trailing behind the supersonic bullet.

Nina screamed and scrambled out of the back seat in terror and revulsion at the spray of blood and brain and bone and hair across the windscreen. She stumbled away from the Porsche, collapsing to her knees and spewing acid vomit into the snow.

Chase broke free of his paralysis, training and experience automatically kicking in as he dropped behind the cover of the Cayenne to avoid the next shot.

It didn’t come. Instead, the distant flame-haired figure leapt back into her SUV, which roared down the road after its twin.

The Russians were still coming after them. Chase knew he should take the wheel of the Cayenne and get Nina and Mitchell to safety, but instead he ran round the Porsche to Mitzi. Mitchell was crouching as if to lift her up—

‘Don’t touch her!’ Chase roared. Mitchell jumped back. Chase knelt beside her and checked for a pulse.

But he already knew he would find none. The entry wound was a scorched black circle just behind Mitzi’s temple, no wider than a pencil. He didn’t need to look to know that the exit wound on the opposite side of her skull would be far bigger, the size of his clenched fist. The nauseating splatter across the Cayenne’s windscreen confirmed his worst fears.

‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘No, shit, no, no . . . I promised, I fucking promised . . .’

In the distance he heard the echoing wail of a siren. The police.

The Russians reached the junction with the main road . . . and sped away up the valley, leaving behind the red Cayenne and the three figures next to it.

A smaller figure lay at their feet, unmoving.

The journey back to Zürich in the State Department jet was a sombre one, Chase barely saying a word the entire time. Mitchell took the sword hilt to the security of the US embassy, while Chase and Nina went on to the penthouse apartment of Erwin and Brigitte Fontana.

Nina watched from the door of the rooftop terrace as Chase spoke to Mitzi’s parents. She had wanted to stand with him, to share the blame, but despite her pleas he had refused, insisting he talk to them alone.

Mitzi’s father, a tall, stern man, had returned from Shanghai. He stood upright and silent with his hands on the back of Brigitte’s chair, knuckles slowly tightening. Brigitte too remained still, at first. Then her hands began to shake as she spoke. Nina was too far away to hear what she was saying, but her expression of disbelief, then anguish, spoke as clearly as any words. She stood, quivering hands to her mouth as Chase said something else. Erwin flinched, scraping the back legs of the chair against the balcony floor.

Brigitte let out a keening wail - then lashed out at Chase, slapping his face with a crack that echoed across the terrace. He stood there unmoving as she hit him again and again, screaming in German before staggering back and slumping on to the chair, weeping. Erwin placed his hands on her shoulders and said something to Chase through tight lips.

Wordlessly, Chase turned and walked stiffly from the terrace. He passed Nina without speaking, unable even to look at her as a tear rolled down his cheek.

15

London

‘So, we’ve got two pieces of Caliburn,’ said Mitchell, gazing at the hilt and broken blade laid out on a table in the US embassy. He indicated the missing tip. ‘And Vaskovich has the third. Question is, is that enough to let him find Excalibur - and is what we have enough for us to find it?’

‘I know where we’ll need to look,’ Nina told him. She and Mitchell were alone in the room; Chase had stayed at their hotel. She had wanted to comfort Chase on the flight back to London, to assure him she was there to help in any way she could . . . but he had said nothing. Nothing at all.

She had never seen Chase act that way before, but knew him well enough to realise that Mitzi’s death - and the blame her parents had placed on him, and that he had accepted - had wounded him deeply. But she also knew trying to force him to respond to her would only make things worse. All she could do was wait.

Wait, and return to her research of Arthurian legend. And it had borne fruit. Nina knew she’d seen the symbol of the labyrinth inscribed on the sword before, and it hadn’t taken long to discover where.

‘Glastonbury,’ she continued, opening one of the books and placing it by the sword. The page showed the same labyrinth - distorted, stretched diagonally, but the winding line following exactly the same turns. ‘It’s a representation of the path to the summit of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset.’ Another book provided a colour photo of a small hill rising almost unnaturally from the surrounding flat English landscape, a stone tower at its peak. The hill had an unusual stepped appearance, a rounded grassy ziggurat. ‘These terraces run all round it, but if you follow the path up from the foot of the hill, it leads to the top along exactly the same route as the one on the sword.’

Mitchell examined the photo. ‘That doesn’t even look real. Is it man-made?’

‘The Tor’s natural, but the terraces have been shaped by man over millennia. The site’s been populated since the neolithic era, over six thousand years.’

‘What about the tower? Is that part of the Arthurian legend?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s a lot more recent - it’s what’s left of a medieval chapel called St Michael’s. But the Tor itself has definite links to Arthurian mythology.’

Mitchell tapped one of the symbols on the sword. ‘So you think these are some kind of clue to finding Arthur’s tomb, and Excalibur? A map?’

‘Of some sort, yes. I don’t know exactly how it works or what the dots on the labyrinth represent, but I’m sure I’ll be able to figure it out on site.’

‘You want to go to Glastonbury?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Nina. ‘Today, if we can.’

‘Better let the Brits know what’s going on, I suppose - if we’re going to dig up one of their country’s greatest legends, they’ll probably have something to say about it.’

‘What happens if we do find Excalibur? The Tor’s part of the National Trust, like a national monument. Anything we find there technically belongs to the British people.’

‘I think we can persuade the government to bend the rules,’ Mitchell said with a smile. ‘I’ll get them to find a local expert for us as well; it’ll be useful to have somebody who knows the place. You really want to go today?’

‘The sooner we go, the more chance we have of finding Excalibur before Vaskovich’s people.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘I’ll make the arrangements. Where’s Eddie?’

‘At the hotel.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nina admitted truthfully.

‘I’ll phone you once I’ve arranged everything,’ Mitchell told her. He carefully placed the pieces of the sword inside a padded metal case. ‘You go see Eddie, check he’s okay.’

‘I will,’ said Nina as he picked up the case and left the room.

But she couldn’t help thinking that Chase wasn’t okay - and that nothing she said would improve matters.

‘Eddie? Are you in here?’

‘Yeah,’ came the flat reply.

At least he was talking, Nina thought as she closed the hotel room’s door. She found him lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

‘Nothing. Just . . . thinking.’

She knew what was on his mind, but didn’t want to bring it up yet, worried about his reaction. Instead she sat next to him and held his hand, stroking it softly. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, I’m fine. Where’ve you been? The embassy?’

She nodded. ‘I think we figured out where Excalibur is.’

‘We? You and Jack?’

She picked up a new edge in his voice at the mention of Mitchell, but chose to ignore it. ‘It’s at Glastonbury. Probably somewhere under the Tor. We’re going to go and check it out.’

‘You and Jack.’

‘No, all of us,’ she insisted. ‘You and me.’

He looked directly at her for the first time since she entered the room. ‘No. I’m not going.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not going. And you’re not either.’

Nina stared at him. ‘Excuse me, what?’

‘I said, you’re not going. All of this, it’s over.’

‘What do you mean, “this”?’

‘I mean,’ said Chase, sitting up sharply, ‘all this running around the world, treasure-hunting, looking for bits of worthless old crap! Let this fucking Russian have his sword, who gives a shit?’

‘You know we can’t do that,’ said Nina, trying to keep down her own anger. ‘It’s a national security issue.’

‘I don’t know that! You said yourself, you thought this business about earth energy and ley lines and all the rest of it was bullshit!’

‘I’m not sure any more. Whether it is or not, Vaskovich obviously believes it - which is why we’ve got to find Excalibur before he does!’

He pulled his hand away and got off the bed. ‘Even if it means dying for it?’ he said, voice bitter.

‘Eddie, what happened to Mitzi wasn’t your fault,’ Nina protested.

‘Then whose fault was it? I promised Brigitte I’d look after her, that I’d take care of her, and now she’s dead! If I hadn’t got her into all of this, she’d still be alive! For fuck’s sake!’ His voice cracked. ‘She was just a kid! She wasn’t a professional, it wasn’t like when Hugo got killed - he was doing a job, he knew the risks. But it wasn’t her job to take risks, she didn’t even know there were going to be any risks! She just wanted to help me out - and it got her killed! I got her killed!’

‘You didn’t!’ cried Nina. ‘It was that bleach-haired bitch who shot Bernd who killed her! You - you are not to blame here, Eddie! You are not responsible for this!’

‘Yes I am. I was responsible for Mitzi, and I’m responsible for you. The whole thing’s got too dangerous. So you’re not going. And that’s that.’

Nina stood and faced him, almost toe to toe. ‘You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Eddie,’ she said, the coldness in her voice barely masking a trembling rage. ‘If that’s the way you think, then maybe it’s a good thing we hadn’t set a date yet.’

Chase regarded her silently, then his stone face returned. He snatched up his leather jacket and went to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Nina demanded.

‘Out.’

‘Eddie, wait—’ But the door had swung shut behind him with a decisive clack.

Nina stared at the blank wood for a long moment, unsure what to do. Then, reluctantly, she backed away and returned to the bed. She perched on its edge, struggling to untangle her conflicted emotions.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ said a warm Scottish voice over the lunchtime bustle of the pub.

Chase looked up to see Mac standing by his table, a glass of Scotch in his hand and a faint smile on his face. Chase didn’t return it. ‘If Nina sent you, she’s wasted your time.’

‘I spoke to Nina a couple of hours ago, yes,’ said Mac, taking a seat opposite him and putting down his glass, ‘but she didn’t ask me to do anything. She just wanted to know if I’d seen you. I told her I hadn’t - but I had a feeling you might have come here.’ He surveyed the surroundings. The Jug of Ale was a fairly generic central London pub, lined with fake olde-worlde wooden beams and shelves of faux-antique bric-a-brac bought by the yard, but it held meaning for Chase. ‘This always used to be your bolt-hole when Sophia was being difficult at home. I see old habits die hard. It’s been a while since we had a drink together here, though. Five years?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It looks quite different since the smoking ban. I can actually see the back wall.’ He raised an eyebrow and turned back to Chase. ‘Good God, was the wallpaper always that hideous?’ Chase’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Hrmm. Not even a hint of a smile - things must be worse than I thought.’

‘Any particular reason you’re here, Mac?’ Chase asked impatiently.

‘Actually, yes. The first one is that I wanted to offer my condolences about Mitzi. I’m sorry. I only met her the once, but she seemed a very nice girl.’

Chase looked down at his drink. ‘She was,’ he said leadenly, taking another mouthful.

Mac regarded the half-empty glass. ‘Not like you to drink during the day. How many have you had?’

Another swig. ‘This is the fourth.’

‘So you’re drunk?’

‘What, on only four pints?’ Mac stared at him unblinkingly. ‘Yeah, a bit,’ Chase finally admitted.

‘Now I know something’s wrong,’ said Mac, his tone somewhere between amusement and mild concern. ‘You would never have owned up to feeling drunk so soon when you were in the Regiment.’

‘Things change,’ Chase told him dismissively, shaking his head. ‘I’m getting old.’

Mac picked up his drink and downed it in a single gulp. ‘I’ll join you in the ongoing march of the ageing process, then.’

‘Not really sure I want any company right now, Mac.’

‘Well, you’re going to have some anyway. You see, the second reason I wanted to talk to you is that Nina sounded rather upset when she called me.’

Chase’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘Not so upset that it’s stopped her from wanting to carry on fucking tomb-raiding.’

‘You don’t think she’ll be safe?’ Mac asked. Chase shook his head again. ‘She knows the risks.’

‘I don’t think they’re worth it.’

‘She does.’

‘Doesn’t mean she’s right.’

‘If you’re so worried, why don’t you go with her?’

Chase took another mouthful, then put the glass down with a bang. ‘Because I don’t want her to go at all. But she still wants to anyway.’ He scowled. ‘With Jack Mitchell. We had a big fight about it.’

‘The man I met at your sister’s?’

‘Yeah, that’s him. The tall, dark and handsome one.’ Chase slumped back in his chair, letting out a long and unhappy breath of frustration.

Mac leaned forward, his voice taking on a forceful edge as he addressed the younger man. ‘Jack Mitchell’s not the problem, though, is he? He’s not why you’re sitting in a crappy pub getting pissed at one in the afternoon.’

Chase was silent for a moment. ‘No, not really,’ he said finally.

Mac’s expression suggested that he already knew the answer, but he asked the obvious question anyway. ‘Then what?’

Another pause. ‘It’s Mitzi. I never . . . I never lost someone I was looking after before. It’s not just that she died, I’ve seen friends die before, but . . . not like that. It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t got her involved.’

‘So you blame yourself ?’

‘Who else is there?’

‘The person who pulled the trigger,’ said Mac. ‘The person who sent out that person in the first place. They’re the ones you should be looking to hurt. Not yourself.’

Chase raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re saying I should go for some revenge? Not very professional.’

‘If you still think Nina’s in danger, then your mission isn’t over yet. These people are hostiles, Eddie. They’ve proved that. Eliminating a known threat to a mission is entirely justified, in my opinion.’

Chase let out a bitter laugh. ‘My mission? It’s Nina’s mission, not mine. I was just along for the ride - and she doesn’t even want me there any more.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ Mac said sternly. ‘She loves you. And I know you love her.’

‘And that’s the problem! Losing Mitzi was fucking horrible enough, but what if I lose Nina?’ His voice caught. ‘I do love her. I love her so much I’m scared of losing her. I’m actually scared of it. I don’t know what I’d do.’

He lowered his head. Mac watched in silence, then reached across and put his hand on Chase’s arm. ‘I’m not the person you should be saying this to.’

‘I know, but I . . . I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want her to see me in this state.’

‘In what state? Drunk?’

Chase looked up. ‘No, Christ, she’s seen me drunk before. No, I mean . . . you know.’ His voice fell to little more than a whisper, the admission struggling to be heard over the noise of the room. ‘Weak.’

Mac leaned closer, fixing Chase with an intense gaze. ‘Eddie, you’re going to get married. She’s going to see you in every state, whether you like it or not. “For better or for worse”, I remember. And you were married to Sophia, for God’s sake - you know there are always going to be fights in a marriage. There’s nowhere to hide - you either have to face any problems head-on, or walk away from them. And you’ve never struck me as the kind to walk away from anything. As I said in the Regiment, “Fight to the end.” And you always did.’

‘Not always,’ Chase said, another quiet confession. ‘Not until you taught me. There was one fight before I met you that I . . . that I walked away from. And I shouldn’t have done.’ He sat up, contemplative. ‘Nina was right.’

‘About what?’

‘About family. She said it was a shame I didn’t get on with mine. And it didn’t have to be like that.’ He straightened. ‘Yeah, I need to talk to Nina, and I will. But there’s someone else I need to talk to first.’

‘Who?’

‘My sister. All this’s made me realise I need to tell her something. Face to face.’ He glanced at his glass. ‘I’ll have to take the train, though. Might have a problem hiring a car if I turn up pissed - assuming anyone’ll even let me after what happened to the last one.’

16

Warm late afternoon sun, a perfect clear blue sky, and dazzlingly verdant surroundings . . . yet they were just the icing on the cake for Nina as she took in the ruins at the heart of the parkland. ‘This is beautiful!’

‘Bit of a fixer-upper, though,’ Mitchell joked.

They stood within the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey, an oasis of tranquillity surrounded beyond its walls by Glastonbury itself. The village, about 120 miles west of London, was an odd mix of the everyday and the exotic, ordinary shops and businesses sharing streets with outposts of New Age expression and outright tourist traps, jugglers and street musicians and hippies mingling with residents carrying their groceries, who ignored the colourful strangeness around them with traditional British reserve.

But the abbey, or what remained of it, had an atmosphere of nothing but calm, the grey stone walls so weathered by time they felt almost a natural part of the landscape, as integral as a rock or a river. ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ said their companion. Dr Chloe Lamb was a rosy-cheeked, broad-hipped woman slightly older than Nina, straw-coloured hair tied back almost in a copy of Nina’s own ponytail. ‘So tragic that it was destroyed. Henry the Eighth may have been one of England’s most important monarchs, but he was a disaster for monastic architecture!’

‘It’s still pretty incredible,’ Nina said, pausing to take a photo as they passed between the remains of two still-towering pillars into the abbey’s former vaulted choir. Where there had once been stone flags was now just grass, a neatly mown lawn leading to the broken stubs of the eastern walls.

‘But it hardly compares to some of the other places you’ve been,’ said Chloe. ‘I mean, Atlantis! You turned the studies of history and archaeology on their heads overnight - and then you did it again when you discovered the Tomb of Hercules!’ Her already pink cheeks flushed a little more. ‘To be honest, I was surprised the IHA asked for my help. I have to admit that I feel a little intimidated by you.’

‘Oh, God, please don’t be!’ Nina said, laughing. ‘When it comes to Arthurian legend, I’m only really a step above anyone who’s watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail.’ That was false modesty, considering her recent immersion in the subject, but she decided the self-conscious academic would benefit from an ego boost. ‘We needed help from someone who specialised in that area - particularly with regard to Glastonbury.’

Chloe smiled. ‘Well, hopefully I can provide it. And this is the ideal place to start.’ She indicated a sign at the head of a stone rectangle marked in the grass.

‘“Site of King Arthur’s tomb,”’ Mitchell read. ‘“In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel . . .” Only “said” to have been found?’

‘Unfortunately, there’s an awful lot “said” about King Arthur here at Glastonbury. The abbey monks were . . . well, notorious,’ Chloe said conspiratorially, as if concerned they would somehow overhear her. ‘They were extremely good at turning legend into gold. For example, the Holy Grail is now intimately entwined with Arthurian myth - but the two weren’t even remotely connected until the twelfth century, when Robert de Boron wrote Joseph d’Arimathie.’

‘Not the Joseph, surely?’ Mitchell asked. ‘As in Mary and Joseph?’

Nina shook her head. ‘Joseph of Arimathea was the man who donated his own intended tomb to bury Jesus after the crucifixion. He was sent the Grail by a vision of Christ and brought it to Britain as a pilgrim.’

Chloe nodded. ‘Since the abbey was already connected with Joseph because of the story of the Holy Thorn,’ she glanced towards the part of the abbey grounds where a hawthorn tree was said to have been planted by the pilgrim, ‘the monks took advantage of that to join two entirely separate legends, both of which conveniently happened to cross paths right here, into one.’

‘So they got a twofer,’ Mitchell realised. ‘The Christians come in the footsteps of Joseph, the Brits want to pay respect to their legendary king - and both groups give generously to the abbey.’

‘Absolutely. Glastonbury was second only to Westminster Abbey in terms of wealth.’ Chloe looked at the sign again. ‘And now the legends are inseparable. But so much of what we now think of as Arthurian legend is just the same - either merged with material from other sources, or simply made up by the twelfth-century romantic writers.’

‘Things like Lancelot,’ Nina said.

‘Lancelot wasn’t real?’ asked Mitchell.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Chloe. ‘He first appeared in a poem by Chrétien de Troyes in the 1160s - no mention of him anywhere before then.’

‘Huh.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘So much for the legends. Next you’ll be telling me the Round Table wasn’t real either.’ Both women looked at him apologetically. ‘Aw, come on!’

‘It didn’t appear until 1155, in Robert Wace’s Roman de Brut,’ said Chloe.

‘And the knights didn’t eat ham and jam and Spam a lot?’

‘Sorry,’ Nina replied with a grin. She turned back to Chloe. ‘But as for the aspects of the legends that do have a historical basis . . . how does Glastonbury Tor tie in with the story of King Arthur?’

‘Ah!’ said Chloe. She led them out of the ruined abbey, strolling across the rolling parkland. ‘Now Glastonbury Tor really does have an interesting part to play in the mythos.’ She swept a hand towards the flat, lush English countryside to the south. ‘You see, this whole region is a flood plain. Until the marshes were drained for farmland, it would only need a small rise in the water level for it to disappear under water.’

‘How deep?’ Mitchell asked.

‘Not much, maybe as little as a couple of feet. But it would make almost the entire area inaccessible for a good part of the year. Glastonbury, and the abbey, were high enough to escape most of the floods.’

Nina tried to picture her idyllic surroundings as they would have looked over a thousand years earlier. ‘So where we are right now, it would have been an island?’

‘Yes. Although sometimes even this might have been at risk from flooding. But there’s one place the water could never reach.’ She stopped, pointing east. Their walk had taken them past a line of trees, giving them a clear view of . . . ‘Glastonbury Tor.’

Seen for real rather than framed within a photograph, the hill seemed to Nina even more out of place, rising up with the unexpectedness of a child’s lone sandcastle on an otherwise flat beach. The lowering sun gave its terraces an even more exaggeratedly unnatural look, the hillside striped in alternating shades of green. The isolated tower on its peak only increased the almost fairytale feel of the landmark.

‘It’s been associated with English folklore since even before the time of King Arthur,’ Chloe explained. ‘A lot of magical mumbo-jumbo as well. I’m sure you saw plenty of it in the village. Fairies, ley lines, UFOs and all that.’

‘Some of it might not be mumbo-jumbo after all,’ said Mitchell.

Chloe gave him an odd look, as if expecting a punchline and being surprised at his sincerity. ‘Well, anyway. According to legend, after Arthur was mortally wounded at the battle of Camlann, he was brought to a place called the Isle of Avalon, which is where he died and was buried. “Avalon” is one of the earlier names of Glastonbury - and since the surrounding marshes were often flooded . . .’ ‘. . . there’s your isle,’ Nina finished, indicating the Tor.

‘Precisely.’ They all stared up at the strange hill before Chloe turned to address the others. ‘Would you like a closer look?’

Holly opened the front door, reacting with pleased surprise when she saw who was standing there. ‘Uncle Eddie!’ ‘Hi, Holly,’ said Chase, managing something that was more or less a smile.

‘I thought you’d gone abroad?’

‘I did. Now I’m back. Is your mum in?’

‘Yes, in the kitchen.’ She ushered him inside and led him through the house. ‘How was your trip? Did you have a good time?’

‘Had better,’ he said stiffly.

They entered the kitchen, and found Elizabeth loading the washing machine. ‘Eddie?’ she said, surprised and far from thrilled to see him. ‘What’re you doing here? Come back to destroy the rest of town, maybe?’

‘Hi, Lizzie. How’s Nan?’

‘She’s all right - no thanks to you. But I’m sure she’ll appreciate your belated concern.’ She slammed the washer’s door. ‘What do you want?’

‘Can I talk to you? In private.’ Holly looked peeved, but exited the room.

Elizabeth leaned against the counter, arms folded. ‘Well?’

Chase took a long, slow breath. ‘I wanted to tell you that . . .’ He paused. ‘That you were right all along. About me.’

She was confused for a moment; then a triumphant, almost gloating expression spread across her face. ‘Well, I never thought I’d hear you say that! Eddie Chase finally admitting that he’s wrong, that he’s not perfect! I should get Dad on the phone. I’m sure he’d love to hear you own up—’

‘Elizabeth.’ The hardness of Chase’s voice as much as his use of her full name stopped her mid-sentence. ‘Someone’s died.’

‘What?’ The triumph faded, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Oh, my God! Not - not Nina?’

‘No,’ said Chase, feeling a deep shame and guilt for the relief the single word brought him. ‘Not Nina. But somebody else I cared about, and . . . and she’s dead because of me.’

‘How?’

‘Doesn’t matter. But she’d still be alive if I hadn’t got her involved. And it made me realise you were right - about me walking away rather than . . . rather than facing up to losing someone,’ he said, the admission almost physically painful. ‘But I couldn’t walk away this time. I had to go to two people I knew, friends - and I had to tell them their daughter was dead. And that - that it was my fault.’

‘My God,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need for you to be - you were right all along. I did just walk away when Mum died. But I was never able to admit it before. And . . . fuck!’ He turned away, banging his hands down on the worktop. ‘I just walked straight out after the funeral and joined the army without even looking back, and left you to deal with everything else, with Dad, fucked up your degree . . . Christ, no wonder you hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you, Eddie,’ Elizabeth said, crossing the room to join him. She hesitantly extended a hand, then placed it on his arm. ‘You’re my brother. That doesn’t mean I don’t still have some very strong feelings about the things you’ve done . . . but I never hated you.’

‘Yeah, but it still messed things up for you, didn’t it? You were the smart one, had all the big plans for after university, and if you hadn’t had to quit to sort things out at home—’

‘If things had turned out differently,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘I wouldn’t have had Holly. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.’ She squeezed his wrist. ‘I’m sorry about your friend, Eddie, really. And I know you feel guilty about it - but it’s normal to feel guilt when someone you love dies. I did when Mum died, even though there was absolutely nothing I could have done to change things. It was cancer, what was I going to do?’

‘But I didn’t feel guilty,’ Chase protested. ‘I just left and joined the army because with Mum gone I didn’t see any reason to stay in that house a minute longer. I was too busy with training to feel guilty. I hid from it. But this time, I couldn’t hide. I had to face it.’

‘And it hurts.’

He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Yeah. It really fucking hurts.’ ‘Eddie,’ she said softly, ‘there’s nothing wrong with that. I know you’ve been this tough, fearless super-soldier for all these years . . . but you’re also a human being, you’re still my little brother. You had all these feelings, all the time - you just kept them hidden. But the time to be worried would be if there was nothing to hide, if you really didn’t care. And I know you’re not like that.’

He had no real answer to that. Instead he stood silently, contemplating her words.

‘Have you talked to Nina about this?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No.’ Chase sighed. ‘I don’t . . . I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘Say what you feel. She deserves to know. You’re going to be marrying her - she should know what her husband’s really like.’

‘But what if I lose her, too?’ Chase said. ‘What if I can’t protect her either? I couldn’t handle that, I wouldn’t be able to cope!’

She moved her hand over his and gripped it. ‘Eddie, whatever you think, it’s not your job to protect everyone.’

‘It is, though,’ he insisted. ‘It’s what I do.’

‘You’re going to be Nina’s husband. Not her bodyguard. You know you’ve got to tell her all of this.’

‘I know, I know,’ Chase admitted wearily. ‘It’s just tough. I’m not exactly good at this sort of thing.’

‘You did okay.’ A hint of humour, the no-limits commentary of siblings. ‘You know, considering it was the first time you’ve ever talked about your feelings.’

‘Always have to get in a jab, don’t you?’ Chase warned, but there was a glimmer of lightness in his voice too.

‘It’s still progress. Maybe you should call Dad.’

‘Now that’s not funny.’

‘Yeah, somehow I thought that wasn’t going to happen.’ She let go of his hand. ‘But you definitely need to talk to Nina.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘I will. Just need a bit of time to think through what I want to say to her.’

‘Well, in that case, you might as well at least be comfortable. Go on, go and sit down.’ She nodded at the door. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’

Chase finally managed a small but genuine smile. ‘Thanks . . . Elizabeth.’

A brisk twenty-minute walk brought Nina, Mitchell and Chloe to the foot of the Tor. Even though the route they were about to take to the summit was the easiest, Nina realised it was still deceptively steep. The even steeper alternative path on the northern slope was probably less suited to humans than to goats.

Or cows. She was surprised to see several black and white Friesians making their languid way around the terraces, munching on the grass. ‘A lot simpler than mowing it,’ Chloe told her. ‘You just have to watch out for the - oops!’

‘Eurgh!’ wailed Nina, extracting her right foot from a recently laid cowpat.

‘For the poo,’ Chloe concluded. ‘Sorry. Although it’s supposed to be good luck.’

Nina scraped her foot through the grass. ‘Funny, I don’t feel lucky.’

The shoe as clean as it was going to get, they continued up the hill. ‘Is this the path of the labyrinth?’ Nina asked.

Chloe shook her head and pointed at one of the terraces to their side. ‘No, but you can still see where it was - most of it, anyway. Some parts have been eroded to the point where they’re barely climbable. And if you did follow it, it’d take you over four hours to reach the top.’ She looked sidelong at Nina. ‘The Glastonbury labyrinth doesn’t have any connection to King Arthur - at least, not that I know of. Are you just asking out of curiosity, or . . .’

Nina stopped walking. ‘There might be a link, but we’re not sure. Which is why we needed the opinion of an expert.’ She took out several photographs. ‘What do you make of these?’

Chloe examined the first photo, a close-up of one of the symbols of the labyrinth inscribed on the blade they had found in Syria. ‘It looks like the same basic path . . .’ She checked the next image. ‘So does this. And - what is this?’ she asked, reaching a picture showing the whole blade.

Nina took a breath. ‘We think that’s Caliburn.’

‘You’re joking,’ Chloe gasped. She waited for a response, and got none. ‘You’re not joking? Oh, my God, you’re not joking!’

‘We’re not joking,’ Nina assured her.

Chloe hurriedly flicked through the rest of the photos. ‘If it were anyone else but you, I wouldn’t believe them. But - you really think this is Caliburn?’

‘As far as we can tell. But the reason we’re here is that . . .’ She paused and looked round. Although there were other people on the Tor, none of them were within earshot. ‘We think these symbols are a clue to something hidden here.’

Chloe eyed her. ‘Something?’

‘Or someone. King Arthur.’ Chloe let out a little excited squeak. ‘There’s a chance Arthur’s tomb could be here, under the Tor. Problem is, we don’t know where.’

‘But you’re the Director of the International Heritage Agency, you could get whatever equipment you want!’ said Chloe, her eyes lighting up at the thought. ‘A complete ground-penetrating radar survey, or even a gravimetric—’

‘Unfortunately, there’s a time factor involved,’ Mitchell cut in. ‘I can’t go into details for security reasons, but if the tomb is here, both our governments have agreed we need to locate it as soon as possible.’

‘We think you’re the best person to help us find it,’ Nina said to Chloe. ‘Do you think you can?’

‘Well - well, I’m flattered,’ Chloe stammered, blushing again. ‘But I don’t know. I mean, I know the Tor very well, but . . .’ She examined the pictures again. ‘Unless you’ve got something specific to work from, I don’t know how much help I can be. This is the pattern of the Glastonbury labyrinth, yes, but - how did you find this? How does finding Caliburn lead you to Arthur’s tomb?’

‘It’s . . . complicated,’ said Nina. ‘And that’s the understatement of the year. But long story short: we think those symbols were inscribed on Caliburn by the Glastonbury monks as a way to find Arthur’s tomb - his real tomb, not the one they dug up for show in 1191. It’s where they hid Arthur and Guinevere, to keep them safe . . . and it’s also where they hid Excalibur.’

‘Excalibur?’ Chloe’s mouth hung open for a moment. ‘Blimey. That would be a hell of a find.’ She suddenly looked worried. ‘If you find it, you will . . . you will mention that I helped, won’t you?’

Nina gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You’ll get full credit, believe me. But the main thing is actually finding it in the first place.’ She pointed at one of the symbols in the topmost photo. ‘We assume it’s got something to do with these dots marked on the labyrinth, but we don’t know what they represent.’

Chloe scrutinised the picture, brow furrowing. ‘If you account for the real labyrinth being distorted by the shape of the Tor,’ she said, ‘then the nearest of the dots would be . . . on the third terrace. Over here!’ She picked her way along the narrow, scrubby terrace to one side, Nina and Mitchell following, then came to a sudden stop. ‘Of course!’

‘What is it?’ Nina asked, catching up.

‘It’s a marker stone!’ At Chloe’s feet was an unassuming lump of rock, half buried in the ground. ‘They were used so people walking the labyrinth could tell how far they still had to go. Most of them are missing now, but there are still a few in place.’

‘So the tomb’s under one of the markers?’ said Mitchell.

‘Maybe,’ Nina said, ‘but which one? Each of the symbols has different stones marked. And we’re missing the symbol on the sword’s tip.’ She took the pictures back from Chloe, fanning them out like a hand of cards. ‘How many of these marker stones were there originally?’

‘Nobody’s sure,’ Chloe replied, ‘but probably about thirty.’

The number of stones marked on the various symbols of the labyrinth seemed to confirm that. Nina looked back and forth between the photos. Each symbol countained a different number of stones, in different positions, but there was definitely a crossover between them. Some stones appeared on more than one labyrinth, and of those some showed up more frequently than others . . .

‘I need a pen and paper,’ she said, an idea taking form.

Chloe rummaged through her little rucksack. ‘I always come prepared,’ she said, taking out first a Thermos flask, then a large ham and egg salad sandwich wrapped in plastic, before finally producing a dog-eared notebook and a biro. ‘Here.’

Nina took the pen and notebook. ‘What’re you thinking?’ Mitchell asked.

‘That we can narrow down where to look even if we don’t have enough information to find it exactly.’ She drew a large copy of the labyrinth on a clean page, then added the positions of the marker stones from the symbol in the first photograph. ‘Okay, that’s the first one. Now, let’s add the second . . .’

From each picture in turn, she marked the stones on her drawing of the labyrinth. It took several minutes, but gradually the clues hidden by the monks became clear. Only three stones appeared on all of the labyrinths.

Nina regarded the final result - not merely a drawing, now a map. ‘I bet the symbol on the missing piece of the sword would only have one of those three marked on it,’ she said, circling them. ‘That’s where the tomb is, that’s how to find the entrance. It just looks like a decoration, but if you know what it means, it leads you right to the door!’

Chloe took a closer look. ‘I know how to find those points, but none of them have marker stones any more. And if there really is an entrance, it won’t be easy to find - thousands of people follow the labyrinth every year, but nobody’s ever discovered anything this major.’

‘But they didn’t know where to look, did they?’ said Mitchell. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’

Nina gave the notebook to Chloe. She turned it to match the orientation of the crude map with the Tor. ‘The fifth terrace, west side. This way.’ She led them back to the path uphill.

Once they reached the terrace, Chloe guided them round the Tor’s flank. ‘Somewhere around here,’ she said finally, coming to a stop. The hillside was steep, only the very top of St Michael’s tower visible above. But there was nothing unusual about the spot, just rough grass and rabbit holes.

‘I don’t see anything,’ complained Mitchell.

‘If anything’s here, it’ll be buried. Here, give these a try.’ Chloe opened her rucksack again, taking out a handful of thin steel tent pegs, eight inches long with hooked ends, and handing one each to him and Nina. ‘Have a poke.’

Nina bent and shoved the spike into the earth. It was quite dense, offering resistance, but she kept pushing until it was as deep as it could go. ‘Well, nothing there,’ she said, pulling it back out and trying a different spot a few feet away. Mitchell got the idea and joined in, as did Chloe.

But nearly half an hour of probing discovered nothing but stones: certainly nothing that might conceal an entrance. ‘So much for that,’ Mitchell said.

‘There’re still two more sites,’ Nina reminded him.

The next was on the sixth terrace, looking northwest. Now within sight of both the summit and the steep zigzag path up the Tor’s north side, the group attracted some curious looks from tourists as they jabbed at the ground. But again they found nothing.

‘Third time lucky,’ Chloe said hopefully as she checked the map once more. ‘Okay, the last one is . . . first terrace, on the southeastern side. All the way back down and around, I’m afraid.’

Nina eyed the sun, which was steadily dropping towards the western horizon. ‘Will we still have time to get there?’

‘We should, although we won’t have a huge amount of time to look around before it gets too dark. Where are you staying, by the way?’

‘London,’ Mitchell told her.

She looked horrified. ‘You’re going to drive all the way back to London? Oh, don’t be silly, it’ll be the middle of the night before you get there! I live in Shepton Mallet, it’s only about ten miles away. You can stay with me tonight, I have a spare room. And a sofa,’ she added to Mitchell. He appeared less than impressed at the prospect.

‘Are you sure?’ Nina asked.

‘Oh, it’s no problem. And how often do I have the discoverer of Atlantis at my house? It’ll be an honour.’

‘In that case, we accept. Don’t we, Jack?’ He grunted noncommittally.

‘Brilliant! Okay, we’d better get going.’

Shadowed from the sun, the southeastern face of the Tor was colder, more ominous. The steepness of the hill meant the tower above was now completely out of sight, and even Glastonbury itself was blocked from view, adding to the feeling of isolation. The chatter of sightseers was gone; apart from the croaks of distant birds, the only sign of life was a lone cow in the field below, completely oblivious of the visitors.

‘This is where the marker stone must have been,’ said Chloe, looking at the map again.

Nina examined the hillside. It seemed no different from the two other spots they had already searched. ‘If the tomb’s here at all, it’s got to be near.’ She took her steel peg and stuck it into the earth. The others followed her example.

They searched for ten minutes, twenty, finding nothing out of the ordinary. The sky beyond the Tor gradually took on a salmon-pink shade, slipping to a vivid orange as the sun neared the horizon. Another five minutes. Still nothing.

Then—

Nina’s probe stopped abruptly, only four inches beneath the surface.

To begin with, she didn’t react. It wasn’t the first rock she’d found. Instead, she withdrew the peg and tried again, six inches away. If it were just a stone, a small change of position would be enough to miss it.

But the peg stopped again. Four inches deep.

She moved again, tried again. Four inches. Pushing harder, she heard a faint clink of metal on stone through the soil. ‘Hey, guys,’ she said, feeling a growing sense of excitement, ‘over here.’

‘What?’ Mitchell asked as he and Chloe joined her.

‘Something quite big. Could just be a rock, but it seems very flat. Help me see how big it is.’

They stabbed the pegs into the Tor, moving further apart. Every attempt stopped four inches deep, until they had covered a width of over four feet. Checking perpendicularly, whatever lay under the soil was just as tall.

A square.

‘There’s no way that’s natural,’ muttered Nina, seeing the pattern of holes marking the object’s edges.

Chloe took a trowel from her pack. ‘Here, let me.’ She knelt and scooped out several clumps of soil from the centre of the square, working more carefully as she got deeper. The tip of the trowel scraped against stone. She exchanged a look with Nina, then widened the hole, brushing loose soil away with her hand.

What lay beneath the ground was clearly man-made, smooth and flat. But that wasn’t what set Nina’s heart racing. Instead, it was a word, inscribed in the stone.

MERLIN.

Chloe sat back, stunned. ‘Blimey.’

Nina brushed more of the soil away, revealing additional words in Latin. ‘“The wrath of Merlin”?’ she translated incredulously. She snatched the trowel from Chloe’s hand and hacked at the hole to widen it. ‘No, wait. It’s part of a sentence. “... the wrath of Merlin, which strikes -” ’ More frantic digging. ‘ “- which strikes only those who see his face. Those who know the truth may find ...” ’ She fell silent, amazed.

‘What?’ Mitchell demanded. ‘What does it say?’

Nina looked up at him, awed. ‘“Those who know the truth may find the tomb of Arthur.”’ She placed her hands on the ancient stone slab, barely able to believe what she had discovered. ‘It’s real. It’s actually real.’

Nina held up her hands. ‘No, really, I couldn’t eat another thing.’

‘Are you sure?’ Chloe asked. She pushed a plate towards her guest. ‘Another slice of cake?’

‘No thanks, really.’

‘Some ice cream? After Eights? Cheesy nibbles?’

‘No, thanks!’ Forced to abandon further excavation by lack of light, they had covered the exposed stone with soil once more and driven to Chloe’s house with the intention of returning to the Tor the following morning. Nina looked round at the door of Chloe’s dining room, through which she could hear Mitchell talking. He had told the two women that he needed to make a phone call, though Nina suspected he was really trying to escape Chloe’s constant offers of more and more rich, fatty food.

Chloe regarded the last piece of cake hopefully. ‘You don’t mind if I ...’

‘Help yourself !’

Mitchell came back into the room as Chloe slid the cake on to her plate. ‘Oh, all finished? Shame.’

‘You can have this slice if you’d like,’ Chloe offered. ‘Or some ice cream? Cheesy nibbles?’

‘That’s okay, thanks!’

‘Who were you calling?’ Nina asked, just as her own phone rang. ‘Oh, excuse me.’ She took it from her pocket, seeing Chase’s name on the screen. So he’d finally deigned to speak to her, had he? ‘Eddie?’

‘Hi, love.’ He still sounded glum, but at least he was no longer angry. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. What about you?’

‘Better than I was. Listen, there’s something I need to tell you, but I want to do it in person. I’m about to get a train back to London.’

‘Back? Wait, where are you now?’

‘In Bournemouth. There was something I had to tell Lizzie as well. Are you still at the hotel?’

‘No, I’m, ah . . . in Somerset.’

A pause. ‘What?’

‘I came to Glastonbury.’

‘What?’

‘No, listen, we found something! There’s something underneath Glastonbury Tor. We think it’s King Arthur’s tomb - we found the entrance!’

Another, longer pause. Then: ‘For fuck’s sake, Nina!’ The verbal explosion was loud enough for her companions to hear. ‘I told you not to go!’

‘Yes, and I told you you don’t tell me what to do, Eddie! We’ve got a job to do, remember - finding Excalibur? Well, that’s what we’ve been doing.’

‘We? Is Jack there?’

‘Yes, Jack’s here,’ Nina snapped. She glanced at the others. Chloe, embarrassed, was regarding a clock with intense feigned interest, while Mitchell had a questioning expression. ‘For God’s sake, Eddie. Is that why you’ve been so territorial with me when he’s around? You might as well have been cocking your leg.’

He fumed silently for a few moments. ‘Look, just get back to London, all right? I still want to talk to you.’

‘It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m staying here overnight.’

‘With Jack?’

Nina ground her teeth in frustration. ‘Yes, Eddie, with Jack.’

‘That’s it, I’m coming up there. Lizzie, I need to borrow your car.’ In the background, Nina heard Elizabeth tell him in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t have it. ‘All right, I’ll get a bloody taxi! Where are you?’

‘Eddie, you’re being completely ridiculous - look, I don’t even want to carry on with this conversation until you stop acting like a damn child! Okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow when you’ve got a grip on yourself.’ She stabbed at the button to switch off the phone before Chase could say anything else. ‘Aargh!’

‘I’ll, er, put these plates in the dishwasher,’ said Chloe, hurriedly clearing the table. She bustled into the kitchen, leaving Nina and Mitchell alone.

‘God damn it!’ Nina was about to bang her phone down on the table before remembering she was a guest and settling for smacking it against her thigh instead. ‘I’d forgotten how mad he can make me. I sometimes wonder what the hell I see in him.’

‘Must be that whole opposites attract deal, I guess,’ suggested Mitchell. He reached across and patted her upper arm.

‘Yeah, well, sometimes he’s a bit too opposite, y’know? I mean, I’m engaged to the guy, but we’re hardly anything alike. Sometimes I worry that . . .’ She tailed off.

‘What?’

‘I shouldn’t really be talking about this. It’s my problem, not yours. You probably don’t even want to hear it.’

He gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Maybe I can help.’

Nina scrunched up her face, confused. ‘I don’t know, it’s just . . . I’m just worried we might be too different!’ she blurted, the admission filling her with a mixture of catharsis and guilt.

‘You think that if you get married, it might not work out?’

‘Exactly! Eddie’s already been married once, and . . . Well, maybe that’s an extreme example of things going bad, but at least he and Sophia were from the same country. They had that much in common.’

‘Have you talked about this with him?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Nina scoffed. ‘It takes a near-death experience before Eddie’ll discuss his feelings without making some stupid joke out of everything.’ She let out a frustrated growl. ‘Oh, what do I do? Did you go through anything like this before you got married?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Mitchell. ‘We thought we were a perfect match. Naivety of youth, I guess.’

‘Great, I really needed to be reminded that I’m not officially young any more.’ But there was a hint of humour behind her words. ‘God, he infuriates me sometimes. Why can’t he be a bit more, more . . .’

‘Like you?’

‘Exactly! Well, not exactly, that’d just be weird and narcissistic.’ Mitchell laughed; after a few seconds, Nina managed to join in. ‘Heh. But yeah, there have definitely been times when I’ve wished he could be less . . . Eddie-y.’

Mitchell moved his chair slightly towards her, looking into her eyes. ‘And more . . . PhD-y?’

Nina laughed again, giving him a knowing grin. ‘Eddie was right about you, you know. You do flirt.’

‘You got me,’ said Mitchell, putting a hand to his heart in mock contrition. ‘It’s a grave personality flaw, I admit. But the only thing that matters is: do I flirt well?’

She smiled, enjoying the attention. ‘I’d have to say . . . not bad.’

‘Room for improvement?’

‘Mmm . . . maybe.’

‘Then I guess I’ll have to keep practising.’ He smiled back, leaning a little closer to her . . .

Chloe entered the dining room, doing a slight double take when she saw her guests sitting much closer together than during the meal. The moment broken, Nina blinked and pulled back. ‘Well, the dishwasher’s loaded!’ Chloe said, a little too loudly. ‘I’ll go and sort out some bedclothes for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nina. ‘And get Jack an extra blanket - we don’t want him getting cold on the couch.’

‘Ah, well,’ Mitchell sighed, ‘practice makes perfect.’

17

Early morning sunshine lit up the southeastern side of Glastonbury Tor. Of the hole in the ground and the stone slab beneath, there was no trace except for some disturbed earth - and the hooked end of a steel peg poking from the soil. ‘Here we are,’ said Chloe, pointing at it. She laid down the rest of her equipment on the terrace.

Mitchell looked on dubiously as she marked out a cordon round the dig site with wooden poles, then tied a length of red and white striped plastic tape between them. ‘Are you sure that’ll make any difference?’

‘This is England,’ Chloe told him with a smile. ‘Never underestimate the power of a simple piece of stripy tape to keep people away. Besides . . .’ She held up a fluorescent yellow safety jacket. ‘Nothing makes a person more invisible than a workman’s coat!’

Mitchell didn’t seem convinced, but kept quiet. Instead, he put down his black holdall. ‘I got the embassy to deliver some gear of my own,’ he remarked as he unzipped it and showed Nina two heavy-duty flashlights and a pair of walkie-talkies.

‘Oh, so that’s who you called last night,’ said Nina.

‘Yeah, I wanted to be prepared. We don’t know what’s inside there.’

‘If there is anything inside there.’ Nina’s initial enthusiasm had faded overnight, her fight with Chase still dwelling on her mind.

With the shovels Chloe had brought, it didn’t take long to expose the whole of the stone slab. Nina used a brush to clean the soil from the chiselled letters. The entire inscription was in Latin, several lines long.

‘“Know you that behind this stone lies the one true tomb of Arthur, king of the Britons, and his second queen, Guinevere,”’ Nina read. ‘“Only those who know the history of Arthur and the legend of Arthur shall be worthy to reach his presence and pay respect. The one shall see you through the labyrinth to face the trial of Nivienne . . .” Nivienne?’ she asked Chloe.

‘One of the possible names of the Lady of the Lake,’ she replied.

‘Right. “. . . the trial of Nivienne, who shall hold the unworthy in the place where she dwells, and the wrath of Merlin, which strikes only those who see his face. Those who know the truth may find the tomb of Arthur; those who do not . . .” Oh boy.’

‘What?’ Mitchell asked.

‘ “... shall never leave.” Yeah, this isn’t good. Sounds like the monks left a couple of booby traps.’

‘But the tomb’s hundreds of years old,’ Mitchell objected. ‘The traps wouldn’t still be working after all that time.’

‘You’d think, wouldn’cha?’ said Nina with sarcasm born of painful experience.

‘That might explain one old legend,’ Chloe said. ‘There’s a story that a group of thirty monks once entered tunnels they found beneath the Tor, and only three came out alive.’

Nina winced. ‘Oh, I don’t like those odds.’ But she still took a spade and began to dig.

Once the soil around the stone slab had been cleared away, Nina and Mitchell carefully inched its upper end clear of the deeper-set stones on which it was resting, then tilted it back to reveal . . .

‘Oh, my God,’ said Nina. ‘Would you look at that.’

It was a tunnel, narrow but passable, descending into the Tor. More Latin text was inscribed on one of the stone supports framing the entrance. Nina immediately converted the Roman numerals. ‘1191,’ she said. ‘The same year the Glastonbury monks said they found Arthur’s tomb in the grounds of the abbey. But this was the real tomb . . . the real treasure.’

Mitchell shone a light into the passage. ‘These props look kinda iffy.’ While the entrance was stone, inside the tunnel support was provided by wooden beams set into the clay and sandstone walls, and they had succumbed to rot from the damp earth over the centuries.

Nina picked up another torch and checked for herself. ‘They lasted this long,’ she said, hoping she wasn’t cursing herself by speaking. She quickly touched her pendant to be safe. ‘As long as nobody kicks them out, they should be okay.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Chloe said nervously. ‘I think I’d prefer to wait out here, hold the fort. If that’s all right with you?’

Nina gave her a reassuring smile as she picked up a yellow hard hat from Chloe’s gear. ‘You’ve probably got absolutely the right idea. But we’ve got to check it out as soon as we can, so . . .’

Mitchell donned a second helmet, then switched on one of the walkie-talkies and handed it to Chloe. ‘You know how to use one of these?’ She nodded. ‘Great. We’ll tell you what’s down there, step by step.’

‘Good luck,’ Chloe offered as Nina and Mitchell gathered up their gear and ducked through the entrance.

‘Thanks - just hope we don’t need it!’ Nina replied.

The first thing that struck her as she edged down the steep slope was the smell, a damp, all-pervading stench of rotting vegetation. Chloe had said the surrounding countryside used to be marshland, and it certainly smelled that way. The second was that while the tunnel was extremely confined, it hadn’t been made in a hurry. It had been carefully and diligently dug from the Tor, the walls smooth, the wooden props regularly spaced. Even though it had been intended to remain hidden, the monks still wanted it to be a tomb fit for a king.

Behind her, hunched low, Mitchell raised the walkie-talkie. ‘Okay, radio check. Dr Lamb, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear,’ came the reply. ‘How is it so far?’

‘In a word? Stinky.’

Nina smiled at his unscientific description, then focused on the tunnel ahead as she reached the foot of the slope. ‘Okay, it’s flattening out.’ She stopped, seeing that the path ahead branched. ‘Oh, great.’

‘What?’ said Mitchell.

‘It’s not a labyrinth, it’s a maze.’ Above the path to the left was a small carved slab embedded in the clay. ‘Give me the radio.’ Mitchell complied. ‘Chloe? I think we need your expert opinion here. There are two routes - the left one’s marked with a plaque that reads “Morgain”.’

‘More commonly known as Morgan le Fay,’ Chloe replied over the walkie-talkie. ‘Arthur’s sister, according to legend. What does the other route say?’

‘Nothing, and it doesn’t look like it ever did - there’s no hole where another plaque might have fallen out. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Chloe. ‘It doesn’t mean much on its own.’

Nina shone her light down both passages. They seemed identical, curving away sharply after a few paces. ‘Guess we’ll just have to see where they lead, then.’ She looked back at Mitchell. ‘Morgain, or not-Morgain?’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. This is your line of work!’

‘Yeah, I was afraid you’d lay it on me. Okay . . . Morgain,’ she decided, starting down the left tunnel.

Water had pooled on the thick red clay of the floor. Nina splashed through it and rounded the first corner. Not far ahead, the passage twisted again, leading out of sight. The ground here was drier, though the walls and wooden props had the same damp sheen as the rest of the tunnel. She slowed, something about that niggling. Why were there no puddles?

Mitchell pressed up behind her. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Not sure, just . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Let’s see where this goes.’

She stepped forward - and the floor collapsed beneath her foot.

She shrieked as she pitched over, her wildly spinning torch revealing a deep, dark hole below as it fell away—

Mitchell grabbed her, yanking her to a painful halt just before she plunged into the hole. Straining, he pulled her back up.

‘Shit!’ she gasped, heart kicking inside her chest as she hugged Mitchell for support. ‘Oh, Jesus, those son-of-a-bitch monks.’

‘Are you okay?’

Nina took several long breaths, trying to calm herself. ‘Yeah, I think. Shit!’ She cautiously looked into the hole, and saw how she’d been tricked. A flimsy wooden square had been precariously balanced over the top of the pit, then a thin layer of clay smeared over it to blend it into the floor. Only a single footstep had been needed for it to break free - and drop into a waterlogged hole with several long and sharp wooden spikes poking up from its base.

‘Nasty,’ Mitchell noted with considerable understatement.

‘Help me across it,’ Nina said, her composure returning.

‘You sure? If there’s another . . .’

‘We’ve got to see where this passage goes.’ The gap was some four feet wide, the crossing made more awkward by the low ceiling, but with Mitchell’s aid Nina was able to traverse it. He tossed the remaining torch across to her, and she looked round the corner. ‘Okay, I hope whichever asshole monk came up with this is having a good laugh! It’s a dead end.’

Mitchell helped her back over the pit. ‘So what does that mean?’

‘It means,’ said Nina, bringing up the walkie-talkie, ‘we need somebody who knows the difference between Arthurian history and legend.’ She thumbed the talk button. ‘Hello, Chloe?’

‘Hi, Nina,’ said Chloe cheerfully, oblivious of what had just happened underground. ‘Have you found something?’

‘You could say that. Listen, I think I know what the inscription on the stone meant, the part about history and legend, and the one seeing you through to the tomb. The route marked with Morgain . . . well, it didn’t turn out so good. My guess is that at each junction, we’re going to find the name of someone or something connected to Arthur. The ones which are based in historical fact are the proper route, and the ones which are myth . . . we don’t want to go down them, put it that way.’

‘I’ll do what I can, but the line between Arthurian history and myth is very blurred.’

‘Just give us your best guess.’

‘Think you’re right?’ said Mitchell.

‘If I’m not, you’re gonna have to pull me out of a lot of pits.’

They returned to the first junction and took the unmarked passage, Nina warily testing the floor with each step. It remained firm. Nevertheless, she advanced cautiously along the winding tunnel until a second junction eventually presented itself.

‘Okay, Chloe,’ she said. ‘I was right, there’s another plaque.’

‘What does it say?’

Nina brought the torch closer to read the text on the flat stone above the left passage. ‘“Bedivere.”’

‘Oh, Sir Bedivere is absolutely genuine,’ Chloe announced. Her voice was now more distorted, interference worsening the deeper they went into the Tor. ‘If anything, he appears in more historical accounts than Arthur himself. He was called Bedwyr in the earliest Welsh references, and . . .’

‘I guess we go left,’ Nina told Mitchell as Chloe rambled on. They entered the new tunnel. Nina started paying attention to the walls and ceiling as well as the floor. Experience had taught her that trap builders rarely used the same trick twice.

But her theory seemed to be holding out as they wound deeper underground to reach yet another junction. This time, the sign was above the right-hand exit. ‘Chloe, you’re up again. This one says “Badon”.’

‘The Battle of Badon,’ Chloe replied immediately. ‘Arthur’s greatest victory over the Saxons. Either late fifth century or early sixth - the dates given to it vary, but it was definitely a historic event.’

‘Then Badon it is,’ said Nina, going right.

They continued cautiously through the maze, stopping at each successive fork in the path for Chloe’s advice. The distortion of her voice grew steadily worse, the hiss of static at times almost swallowing it. But they could still make out her answers: Llacheu, Arthur’s son, was considered a person of historical truth by the Glastonbury monks, while Arthur’s knight Sir Karados and Bron, the Fisher King, were consigned to the status of myth. Nina and Mitchell pressed on, the air growing more foul the deeper they went. Then:

‘Aah!’ Nina gasped, flinching back in surprise as she rounded a corner - and came face to face with what she thought for a moment was a woman. As her shock faded, she saw it was actually a statue, a slender, graceful figure standing at the edge of a pool of water, the iron-rich soil turning it a muddy reddish-brown. The chamber beyond was considerably larger than the tunnels, the pool filling its entire width.

‘It must be Nivienne - the Lady of the Lake,’ Nina said. She took out her camera and snapped several pictures; even if they couldn’t progress any further, she would still have something to study when they returned to the surface.

‘Not much of a lake.’ Mitchell rolled up a sleeve and dipped his arm experimentally into the murky water. It was clear that it was deep. He shook off the water, then directed his light at the far side of the pool. ‘Check this out.’

In the reflected torchlight, Nina saw the tops of two tunnel entrances just barely rising above the water, another stone plaque over the opening on the left. But that wasn’t what Mitchell meant. Instead, he was shining the beam at the water itself. Small bubbles rose and popped intermittently on the surface. ‘Fish?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Gas,’ Mitchell answered. ‘That’s why the damn place stinks so bad - it’s got swamp gas bubbling up through it!’

‘We must be near the level of the water table,’ Nina realised. The Somerset marshes might have been drained on the surface, but the earth beneath was still sodden, the build-up of decomposing vegetation producing a repellent by-product: methane. Had the monks known this, or was it a coincidence?

She told Mitchell to illuminate the statue. Nivienne had one arm held out, inviting them to step into the water, but Nina was in no rush to do so. ‘This must be the trial of Nivienne. But what’s the trial?’

‘I think we’re gonna have to get wet,’ Mitchell grumbled, pointing at the two tunnels across the pool.

‘What does the stone say?’ Nina squinted to read the small text across the pool. ‘Looks like . . . “Anna”.’ She used the radio to describe the chamber and the plaque to Chloe; the reception was now so bad that her reply was barely audible.

‘Anna was Arthur’s sister,’ Nina made out through the crackling distortion. ‘But I’m not sure how strong a historical basis she has. She’s generally considered to be the mother of Sir Gawain, but in the early Welsh accounts - the ones that included Bedivere - a woman called Gwyar is Gawain’s mother. Anna could be another name for the same person, but . . .’

‘So you don’t know if she was real or myth?’ Nina asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Nina took her thumb off the transmit key, muttered ‘Perfect!’ then pushed it again. ‘Which is more likely, though? Could she have been real?’

‘Possibly. There are other references to her, but they date from later.’

‘After 1191?’

‘No, but some of them are from earlier in the twelfth century, including Geoffrey of Monmouth - and in terms of historical veracity I’d put Geoffrey about on a par with Monty Python!’

Nina and Mitchell shared a quick smile at the reference. ‘Does finding the tomb add any extra weight to either option? There’s obviously some truth to the Arthurian mythology.’

Chloe considered this. ‘I suppose it does make it a bit more likely that Anna really was Arthur’s sister, but it’s still hard to be sure. The Glastonbury monks were willing to lie about aspects of the legend for their own benefit, so we can’t entirely rely on any of their accounts.’

‘They were willing to kill, as well,’ Nina said. ‘Chloe, I’m getting the feeling that the trial of Nivienne is kind of a life-or-death deal. Pick the wrong tunnel and you don’t get to the other end before you run out of air.’

‘Maybe you should come back out,’ Chloe suggested. ‘Wait until you can get some diving gear.’

‘We can’t wait,’ Mitchell insisted. ‘If Excalibur’s here, we have to get it as soon as possible - the longer we wait, the more chance there is of Vaskovich’s people using Rust’s research to find the tomb.’

Nina sighed. ‘Yeah, I thought you might say that.’ She spoke to Chloe again. ‘Can you give us anything?’

‘You’ll have to decide for yourself, I’m afraid. Sorry.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ Nina glumly broke contact. ‘So, what do you think? The first of Arthur’s sisters we met was a myth - you think this one was real?’

‘Don’t ask me, you’re the historian,’ Mitchell said. ‘It’s your choice.’

‘Why does everything have to end up as my decision?’ Nina moaned.

Mitchell pursed his lips. ‘I seem to recall a woman with red hair demanding to be in charge of the operation . . .’

‘Y’know, I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t remember that.’ Nina frowned at the plaque. ‘Okay, so either Anna was King Arthur’s sister, or she wasn’t. No pressure.’ She closed her eyes, running through every scrap of information she could remember on the subject. ‘I say that she . . . was.’

‘Educated guess?’

‘Just the second word,’ she admitted. ‘So, how are we going to do this?’

‘Take off anything that’ll get waterlogged,’ Mitchell said, already slipping out of his jacket. ‘Your coat, shoes, that sweater.’

Nina baulked. ‘Um . . . there’s not a lot else under the sweater.’

‘Wait, you’re not wearing a bra?’

‘Yes, I’m wearing a bra! But it’s a bit, y’know, thin.’

Mitchell stripped off his shirt, standing naked to the waist. He handed the garment to her. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Nina said hurriedly, trying not to look too impressed by his bare - and muscular - torso.

He smirked. ‘Different from Eddie?’

‘He’s more . . . densely packed, I guess you could say. And kind of hairy. Oh, God, I’m going to shut up now.’

Mitchell chuckled and turned away as she took off her sweater and donned his shirt in its place. ‘Leave anything valuable here as well - wallet, phone, whatever. The flashlight’ll be fine underwater. Is your camera waterproof ?’

Nina nodded as she removed her shoes, then hesitantly dipped her toes in the water. ‘Oh, crap, it’s cold.’

‘This is nothing,’ proclaimed Mitchell as he stepped into the pool, holding the torch. ‘I’ve been in the Atlantic in the middle of winter. Now that’s cold! Come on, I’ll help you in.’

‘Oh . . .’ With great reluctance, Nina took his hand and entered the water. It was as frigid as she had feared. ‘Son of a . . .’

‘It’ll feel better in a minute.’ He kicked away from the bank and swam to the tunnel entrance. ‘So, Anna. You’re sure about this?’

‘Nope.’ She joined him. The pool was deeper than she could feel with her feet, which was a concern. What if the tunnels went even lower?

‘You could wait here while I go through and check it out,’ Mitchell suggested. ‘If it’s the right tunnel, it can’t be all that long. The monks would have had to swim through it, and I’m guessing they weren’t exactly at the peak of physical fitness.’

‘But if it’s the wrong tunnel, you might need help to get out. We should stay together.’ Nina paused, then frowned. ‘Hmm. Did I really just volunteer to swim through a dark tunnel that might be a dead end?’

‘I’ll look after you,’ Mitchell assured her. He handed her the torch. ‘You hang on to this, and hold my belt. I’ll pull you through. Trust me,’ he added, seeing her look. ‘You don’t get far in the navy if you’re not a good swimmer.’

‘So basically I’m going to be grabbing your ass?’

He grinned. ‘I can live with that. You ready?’

‘No.’ But she gripped his belt anyway.

‘Okay, now get as much oxygen into your system as you can.’ He took several deep breaths, Nina following suit. ‘Ready?’

She shook her head, saying ‘Nuh-uh’ through closed lips. Mitchell smiled again . . .

And dived.

Nina was pulled after him as he swam into the tunnel. Eyes closed, all she could hear was the rhythmic whoosh of each of his powerful strokes as he advanced through the opaque water. He had been telling the truth about his skill as a swimmer; even though she was kicking as strongly as she could to keep up, she was still being hauled along like baggage.

Mitchell changed direction, going left and slightly downwards. Her flashlight brushed against a wall as the tunnel turned. Another few strokes, and he paused before turning again, feeling for the way ahead.

The pressure in Nina’s chest began to rise. Thirty seconds had passed since they entered the tunnel, she estimated. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold her breath; she had once lasted for over a minute, but that had been a long time ago, when she was still a kid . . .

Mitchell seemed to be slowing, the force of the water over her face lessening. Another turn, still going down. Not good. She wanted to go up. Close to a minute by now, surely. A burning sensation was spreading through her lungs . . .

Mitchell stopped suddenly, Nina drifting into him from behind. She held out an arm to steady herself and touched a wall. She could feel him twisting in the water, searching for the turn in the passage.

Shit! What if she’d made the wrong choice, if this were the dead end meant to trap and drown those who didn’t know myth from history?

A gulp of air tried to escape from her throat; she choked it back, her body twitching. Mitchell felt it. He swam to the right, then the left, still groping blindly for the way forward.

A hissing sound, not in the water but in her ears as her heart beat faster, struggling to extract what little oxygen remained in her lungs. She bumped against Mitchell again. Well over a minute, and she could barely hold out as it was, never mind swim all the way back through the darkness.

He moved. Not upwards, or back to the entrance, but down, deeper into the murky water. Nina wanted to protest, but all she could do was hang on as the hissing rose to a roar . . .

Mitchell changed direction again - and went up.

His strokes became harder, less precise, more frantic. Nina felt the tunnel narrowing as it rose, her limbs brushing the walls as they ascended towards either a fatal dead end or—

Air!

Mitchell broke the surface, immediately grabbing Nina’s arm and pulling her up beside him. She whooped for breath, water streaming down her face as she filled her lungs.

And coughed. The air was anything but pure.

The chamber they had emerged in was full of gas.

18

Chase was in a very irritable mood by the time he reached Glastonbury Tor. Still unable to persuade Elizabeth to lend him her car, he had been forced to take the train from Bournemouth, a tedious journey requiring two changes en route - and Glastonbury was almost ten miles from the nearest station, requiring an expensive taxi ride for the final leg.

Adding to his annoyance, he realised on arriving that he didn’t know where Nina was. Somewhere under the Tor, presumably, but seen in person the hill was considerably larger than it had appeared in Elizabeth’s road atlas. Picking his way through the squishy minefield left by the wandering cows, he strode round the base of the strangely terraced hill until he spotted something on the next level up. He climbed past another couple of cows to find a plump blonde woman sitting inside a cordon of stripy tape. She stopped eating her sandwich and regarded him uncertainly as he approached.

‘Hi,’ said Chase. ‘You haven’t seen an American archaeologist round here, have you? About yea high, red hair, pain in the arse?’

The woman stood. ‘Would you be . . . Eddie, by any chance?’

‘I would,’ Chase replied. No sign of Nina or Mitchell - but the hole the woman was guarding gave him a pretty good idea where they were. His displeasure returned. Nina had completely ignored him. Again.

‘Hi. I’m Chloe, Chloe Lamb. Dr Chloe Lamb.’ She extended her hand.

Chase shook it. ‘Eddie Chase,’ he said curtly, glancing at the hole. ‘So, she’s in there, is she?’

‘Yes, with Jack.’

‘Oh, with Jack. Great.’

Chloe shifted uncomfortably, wanting to stay out of any personal disputes. ‘Yes, they’ve made some very interesting discoveries. But I haven’t spoken to them for a bit. They’ve been out of contact.’ She held up a walkie-talkie.

‘How come?’

‘Well, she said they’d reached a flooded tunnel and were going to swim through it.’

‘It’s flooded down there? Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Chloe was taken aback at his swearing, but he ignored her reaction. He noticed a torch amongst the pile of equipment beside the hole, and picked it up. ‘Really can’t bloody take her anywhere.’