The Camelot Code (12 page)

Lance Beaucoup makes his way out into the lawned gardens, near where he and Owain fenced. He follows several hundred yards of twisting, biscuit-coloured pathway that takes him past an ancient maze, a hilltop orchard and down to the south lake.

The Frenchman’s feet clump on the teak decking as he approaches an elegant Victorian summerhouse that overhangs the fish-stocked water. Green painted rowing boats are moored beneath the decking and as he spots them he remembers how he and Owain caught salmon far out in the sparkling waters spread around the estate.

The curtains are closed and the summerhouse door is locked. He uses his key and enters the darkness.

She is here.

He knows she is. He smells her perfume. Her body. Her hair. Being so close and not seeing her makes his pulse race.

‘Don’t speak.’

The voice is followed by an elegant female hand, cold and soft, that covers the heat of his lips. ‘I’ve been thinking all morning about what this was going to be like.’

Lance turns into her. Feels her soft body press against him.

She kisses his neck. His ear. Her hand stays across his mouth. ‘Don’t say anything. Not until you’ve finished making love to me.’

Aasif rolls up the suicide vest and slips it back into the black garbage bag that it had come in.

Nabil steers the big man to the door and the wooden stairs leading to the room where ‘the Chosen One’ is waiting.

‘Wait,’ calls Antun.

They stop and turn.

‘Let
me
.’

Nabil regards him with curiosity. ‘What?’

‘Let me wear the vest. It is why Allah saved me when the Americans came. My cowardice was meant to prepare me for this moment.’

‘No,’ says Malek, the bomb-maker. ‘Do not do this.’ He looks across at Nabil. ‘He is too valuable to make this sacrifice.’

‘Please,’ says Antun, falling to his knees. ‘Let me redeem myself by writing this page in our glorious history. Let me be the one.’

To Mitzi’s surprise, Irish is sat at a round table in the corner of the bar, with only a cup of black coffee in front of him.

No beer. No wine. No spirits.

Just coffee.

He’s deep in thought and doesn’t see her until she pushes back a stool opposite him. ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’

‘Good.’

‘To be honest, you don’t look good. In fact, you look so far from good I’m not sure Google Maps would be able to find you.’

‘Thanks.’ His eyes trip to the silver object in her hand. ‘Anything on the stick?’

‘Not that makes sense. I’ve copied it and uploaded it to my office to crawl all over.’ She holds it out to him. ‘You should keep the original.’

‘Give it me later. I have a history of losing things in bars.’

‘Like your reputation?’

He palms her off.

Mitzi slips the stick into her purse. ‘From what I saw, it’s like Sophie said: everything on it is in some batshit code.’

‘That’s an official type of cipher, is it?
Batshit.
Like Enigma and Caesar.’

‘How do we get food and drink in here?’

‘Old-fashioned way. I go to the bar and pay.’ He points over her shoulder. ‘There’s a chalkboard behind you with what might be edible. While you’re looking, can I get you a drink?’ He reads her mind. ‘Remember, you can have coffee, coffee or coffee.’

‘Then I’ll have coffee. I like mine big and black.’

He bites back a reply that would earn him a slap.

The bar is busy as hell and it takes an eternity for him to get her a drink and a refill for himself.

Irish’s hands shake as he carries the coffee back to the table and he hopes she doesn’t notice the spills as he puts the mugs down. ‘Waitress will be over in a minute for our food. Anything on the cross?’

‘Experts think it’s Celtic but not worth a lot.’

‘I thought it was ancient?’

‘
Old
doesn’t necessarily mean valuable.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She laughs.

Irish thinks back to what the girl told him. ‘Strange thing is, Sophie Hudson said Amir Goldman had been ready to pay thousands for it.’ He sips his refill and wishes he’d left it to cool. ‘How much exactly did your
expert
say it was worth?’

‘A few hundred bucks.’

‘So why would someone kill for something worth so little?’ His phone rings and he glances at the display. ‘The office.’

She watches him take the call and scribble in a dog-eared pad he’s pulled from his crumpled brown jacket. He has all the hallmarks of someone who’s fallen hard and is still crawling the sidewalk trying to get up.

Irish clicks off his phone. ‘Vic in the woods was one James T. Sacconni. A twenty-six-year-old ex-con with a string of previous for aggravated assault with a knife.’

‘Where’s he from?’

‘Originated New York. Has a juvenile rap sheet from there. Did two years in a Big House in Chicago.’

‘Mob connection?’

Irish is impressed. ‘Were you listening in?’

‘Italian-sounding name plus Big Apple and Windy City usually equals mob or gangs.’

‘Maybe both. He’s a known associate of Kyle and Jordan Coll, two brothers who head MS-13 – that’s the Mara Salvatrucha mob. It started independent but is now mafia-run.’

‘I’ve heard of it. They tangled with the Bloods back in Compton.’ Mitzi picks up her coffee. ‘You get a look at the plate on the SUV he was in before he got whacked?’

‘Yeah. We ran that. Came up cloned. Some whiter-than-white businessman out in Annandale owns the original and an Escalade that’s never seen anything dirtier than the paws of his Labrador.’

‘So let’s summarize what we’ve got. A missing Escalade that’s probably in the Potomac. Two dead guys – one an old antiques dealer, the other a known mob affiliate.’

Irish chips in. ‘A religious cross of indeterminate value and a memory stick full of “batshit code”, if I remember your words correctly.’

‘The code’s the clue,’ says Mitzi. ‘No point using batshit unless you want to hide something. And you only hide what’s valuable.’

‘Then we have the Lincoln, driven by a British consular official who follows our mobster’s SUV and the next day flies out of the country.’

Mitzi puts it together. ‘So, we need to talk to this George whatever-he-was-called.’

‘Dalton,’ says Irish. ‘But he’s back in London and will have diplomatic immunity.’

‘He’s key, though. Question is – do we make the approach through your boss or mine?’

Irish drops his head in his hands. He knows what the answer is. It’s his case. It has to come through his boss. And his captain is gonna love him for it.

Outside the building, the young woman breaks down and sobs.

Not out of disappointment that she can no longer be a martyr, but because by some incredible twist of fate she’s been saved.

She falls to her knees and kisses the ground.

Unbeknown to her, the man she will forever thank in her prayers is standing nervously in a ‘clean room’ above the basement.

After washing, Antun and the three others roll out prayer mats. They face Makkah and perform Salat al-’Asr, the afternoon dedication that is fourteen hundred years old.

Nabil leads the prayers by raising his hands to his ears and praising God. ‘
Allahu Akbar.
’

The others respond and follow him as he runs through Takbir,
Qiyaam, Ruku, Sujud, and Tashahhud. Each stage is marked with readings, prayers and exhortations.

As they near the end, they turn their faces, first to the right and then to the left. Each movement sees them address the angels that follow all Muslims and record both their good and bad actions with the exhortation, ‘Peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.’

The mats are rolled away. It is time to fit the suicide vest.

Antun strips to the waist. The packs of explosives feel cold against his skin. The canvas of the garment is rough. Hard wires press his flesh.

In the midst of these final preparations, he has to remind himself who he is, what he stands for and where he came from. He is Antun Bhatti, a proud member of the SSOA, the Sacred and Secret Order of Arthurians. Put simply, he’s a Christian soldier, prepared to lay down his own life to save others.

This vest is his crucifix. It is the holy instrument of death that he must carry to the end of his mortal road.

He remembers being a child in India. Eight years old, an orphan in the slums of the Punjab, running barefoot towards a squalid block of concrete that is his church. A giant wooden cross stands out at the end of a track covered in dusty black sewage, multi-coloured trash and fried grass. Muslim children throw rubble and stones as he races towards the sanctuary. He hears the missiles whizz in the air and clunk on the ground alongside him, feels the sting of those that connect with his flesh and bones.

Inside the cool of the church, young Antun sits on one of the old dark wooden pews, his feet not touching the floor, and counts the cuts and bruises on his bare legs and arms. Fourteen this month. The same number as the Stations of the Cross.

He puts a finger in the blood of a fresh cut on his knee and licks it. It tastes of iron and reminds him of the metal cross the priest put to his mouth at his confirmation.

The memory is vivid. As though it happened only yesterday.

Not a whole lifetime ago.

‘It is done.’ Nabil’s voice bridges past and present. He looks earnestly at Antun. ‘My brother, the Garden of Allah awaits you.’

Irish calls his boss and says he needs to see him.

Only when Zach Fulo hears the words ‘British Embassy’ does he tell his least popular cop that he’s got a slot at five-thirty p.m. and bad traffic or no bad traffic he’d better be on time and bring the Fed with him.

Before they head to Washington, Irish and Mitzi order the house special of deluxe quarter pounders, fries and onion rings.

The cuisine is more ballast than food and once the warm orgy of salt, carbs, fat and protein is over, they both wish they’d had the chicken salad.

He gets the check, while she takes a walk outside and calls her daughters. To be precise, she calls Jade, knowing that Amber won’t be far away and Jade will be annoyed if she doesn’t get called first, while Amber never thinks of such things.

‘Hi there – how are ya, honey?’

Jade is half-reading a magazine and answers in a bored and distracted voice. ‘All right.’

Mitzi tries not to be dispirited. ‘What’ve ya been doin’?’

‘Nothing much. Just hanging at Aunt Ruth’s.’

She really wishes her daughter wasn’t such hard work. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Don’t know. Uncle Jack’s gone to stay at a friend’s. I heard him and Aunt Ruth arguing this morning.’

‘About what?’ Her heart thumps.

Jade finally abandons the article on teen sex entitled ‘Should She, Shouldn’t She?’ and concentrates a little. ‘It was something about you. Uncle Jack said you’re a fucking bitch and then Aunt Ruth slapped him and told him to get the fuck out of the house.’

Mitzi takes a deep breath. ‘Wow. I wonder what I did to piss
him
off.’

‘Maybe the same thing you did to piss Dad off?’ She knows she’s now on borrowed time before she gets an earful. ‘Amber! Mom’s on the phone; she wants to talk to you.’ She drops the handset on a table.

Mitzi’s left seething.

Her other daughter picks up the phone, ‘Mom?’

She swallows the anger. ‘Hi, baby. How are you?’

‘I’m okay. When you coming home?’ She corrects herself. ‘I mean back to Aunt Ruth’s.’

‘Maybe tomorrow. Latest the day after. Are you having fun there?’

‘Yeah, we are. Well, me and Aunt Ruth are. Jade’s being – well, you know, Jade’s being Jade. We’re making cupcakes. Aunt Ruth’s baked a giant one. Wait ’til you see it, Mom. It’s bigger than the top off a trash can.’

‘Sounds great. What flavour?’

‘Chocolate. I mean – could it be anything other than chocolate?’

She laughs. ‘No, I guess not. Chocolate’s good and giant chocolate is super-good.’

‘Right! Do you want to talk to Aunt Ruth? I can go get her.’

Mitzi hesitates. ‘No. I’m okay. Don’t interrupt her if she’s busy in the kitchen. Just send her my love. Love you too, baby.’

‘Love you as well, Mom.’

‘Amber, give your sister a hug and kiss from me, and tell her not to be such a sourpuss.’

She laughs. ‘I will. Love you, Mom.’

Mitzi hears her shouting ‘sourpuss’ across the room as she hangs up.

Irish is stood by the Taurus, hands on the hood, looking as though he’s going to throw up.

She’s not ready to walk over to him. Her mind’s still on her kids and how Jade blames her for the break-up with her father. And it’s on Ruth and how she might well be blaming her for her break-up with Jack.

The armour-plated Bell is cleared to enter the secure airspace around Buckingham Palace and land on the royal helipad.

Visual security checks are conducted by armed protection staff before Owain is even allowed to step outside the craft.

Once he’s been cleared, he’s whisked inside by what seems a battalion of guards and footmen.

As he enters the Grand Hall, he remembers that it’s fifteen years since he was here for his investiture and how back then he’d realized his own family had frequented the building when it was no more than a town home for the Duke of Buckingham.

Such familiarity doesn’t stop him admiring the priceless works of art hung on the walls. Paintings by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Dyck and Rubens that form part of the Royal Collection.

He passes the Throne Room, its proscenium arch supported by a pair of winged figures of Victory holding garlands above the chair of state. Then the giant ballroom along the East Gallery, the site of state banquets and diplomatic receptions.

The security escorts leave Owain to wait in the White Drawing Room, a name that amuses him because it is so non-white. The ceiling-to-floor drapes and pelmets, the chairs and sofas, cushions and footstools, fire screens and even the surrounds of the giant ornate mirrors that amplify every expansive wall are either a rich yellow or glistening gold.

The Prince of Wales enters.

He’s in a slimly tailored, light-grey suit with a white shirt and pink and gold silk tie, looped of course in a Windsor knot.

‘I hope you don’t mind us meeting here instead of Clarence House.’ He holds out a hand to the knight.

Owain bows as he shakes it. ‘Of course not, Your Royal Highness.’

‘Please, not so official when we are alone.’ The prince motions towards two three-seater sofas arranged opposite each other. ‘I know my father wants to say hello, so don’t be surprised if he bursts in on us.’

‘I won’t. It would be delightful to see him again.’

‘Have you been asked if you would like tea?’

‘I have, and I don’t but thank you.’

‘Owain, I asked you here to discuss your new position, that of ambassador-at-large, with responsibilities for defence and counter-terrorism.’

‘I’m honoured to serve and highly delighted to do so from British soil.’

‘I know. One can only exist in America for so long without going slightly crazy. It’s like holding your breath under very pleasant tropical water. You still have to come up for air.’ He unfastens his suit jacket and cuts to the chase. ‘I’d like to speak bluntly.’

‘Please do. I’m keen to know what flow of information you’d like and how often you’d like it. Being kept in the loop is one thing – getting strangled by it is quite another.’

‘Indeed. And this is where I have a problem.’ He tries to choose his words carefully. ‘It’s that I know so little of the inner workings of the SSOA.’

‘It is perhaps best that way.’

‘Perhaps, but please credit me with the intelligence to decide that for myself.’

Owain doesn’t respond. He knows there is more to come.

‘I wish to join your Order.’

‘With respect, I think it best that we operate at arm’s length from your good self.’

‘And I think it best you don’t.’

The gold-cased antique clock on the marble fireplace beside them ticks three times before the prince adds, ‘You know my military background, Owain, so please don’t give me some guff about any refusal being a way to protect me. I have spent most of my life on the hit list of some terrorist group or other and I’ve been in more than my fair share of trouble spots.’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘Then what
exactly
is it?’

‘Unless there is a genetic link to an original knight, the Blood Line is closed to you. And membership of the Inner Circle is not mine alone to grant. It has to be sanctioned by others.’

‘Then have them sanction it; I’m sure you have the influence.’

‘I do. But even then, it is only possible to become a member if you pass the initiation.’ He lets the word sink in, then adds, ‘There have never been any exceptions and can never be.’

‘I seek none.’ The prince looks pleased to have made some progress. ‘What exactly do these initiations involve?’ He smiles like a child anticipating a dare. ‘I still have some scars from the rites I endured during my military days.’

‘Blood, Your Royal Highness. The ritual spilling of yours and the fatal spilling of our enemy’s.’