The Camelot Code (15 page)

The two bodyguards are not as tall as Marchetti but they’re more muscular and much younger.

In contrast, their employer is a small, slender man in his mid-forties. The Italian can hardly believe this unassuming figure is the notorious Josep Mardrid. He walks them through to the lounge area of the suite.

Mardrid sits on a cotton sofa, while the muscle stand around him like bookends. ‘Are you disappointed, Marchetti?’ He unbuttons his jacket. ‘Did you expect me to come wearing a black cape and have the horns and tail of a devil?’

‘I didn’t expect anything. Your intermediary gave you one of the burial crosses. Do you want to do business or not?’

‘What do you have for me?’

Marchetti slips a hand onto the shelf beneath the table and produces a Celtic cross.

Mardrid takes it and turns it in his palm. ‘You promised me valuable artefacts and secret information, Mr Marchetti. All I see there is a lump of old iron.’

‘It’s more than that. It’s an Arthurian burial cross.’

There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. ‘Tell me more.’

‘When one of their knights is killed, he is buried with a cross placed on his chest. It is said they are forged from the same ore as Excalibur.’

‘A quaint story. How is this any use to me?’

‘It’s more than quaint, it’s true. Thousands of these men have been buried for centuries on land owned by Gwyn. They are laid in what the Order knows as Knight’s Graveyards. Sacred plots in secret places, all over the world. I imagine that if I were to give you their locations, and you were to make them public, then as the police and press began their enquiries, it would be advantageous to you to see Sir Owain exposed in such a way.’

‘Go on.’

‘I can do that.’ He picks up the cross. ‘This circle in the middle of the crucifix isn’t Celtic; it symbolizes the Arthurian round table. You can expose Gwyn as a fantasist, or whatever you like.’

‘I may have misjudged you, Mr Marchetti. If this cross is all you say it is, why did one of your men try to sell it, or one like it, to a Jew dealer in America and then have him killed?’

‘A mistake. Some idiots I employed acted out of turn. It was a question of money.’

‘Idiots do that kind of thing.’ He turns the cross over in his hands. ‘I would like to do what you said. It would be pleasing to see Gwyn’s warriors dug from the earth, and amusing watching him cope with the press fervour.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘Give me the details of these burial grounds.’

Marchetti laughs. ‘I may have employed idiots, but I am not foolish enough to have such details here with me. They are safe and tradable.’

‘Then let’s trade. What do you want for them?’

‘Ten million dollars for every graveyard.’

Mardrid smiles. ‘A ridiculous price. But not unreasonable for the ruin of Owain Gwyn.’ He gets to his feet and straightens out his suit. ‘Mr Marchetti, know this: there is now no going back on this deal.’ He wags the cross at him. ‘If you do not deliver as promised, I will have my men dig you a grave and bury you alive with your cross. Good day.’

Mitzi tips the water cooler and drains the last drops into a blue plastic cup. It’s enough to swill down another dose of painkillers.

Kirstin Collins stares at a monitor. She’s waiting for the national lottery of databases to play out and tell her if she’s struck lucky with matches to the two DNA profiles created from blood found at the diner near Dupont Circle.

‘How we doing?’ Mitzi drags a chair next to her.

‘Still searching. I like how on TV cop shows it’s all done in a single click.’

‘Yeah, and the guys in the squad are so handsome and have hearts of gold.’

The screen pings up the first result.

‘Profile One is not a winning ticket,’ says Kirstin. ‘No matches to any known offender.’

There’s an agonizing pause before the second profile result is revealed.

‘We have ourselves a hit! Bradley John Deagan. Forty-two years of age. One previous conviction for fraud.’

‘What kinda fraud?’

Kirstin scrolls down. ‘Something to do with a painting.’ She reads on, ‘Looks like he tried to sell one that never existed.’

‘What?’

‘Hold on. Let me click through to find the rest.’ Kirstin follows a link to supporting documentation. ‘Okay, here we go – the artwork was done by a guy named Eyck. It’s called
The Ghent Altarpiece
and was made up of different paintings – what they call panels. One of these was stolen and never found. Deagan tried to con a man called Christie by saying he had it and wanted to sell it.’

‘I think you mean Christie’s – it’s an auction house, not a person. They specialize in art and antiques.’

‘My bad for not knowing. I don’t buy a lot of art. Not unless you count my Chippendale poster.’

‘I don’t.’

‘If you saw it, you’d change your mind.’

‘I’m sure I would. Does the report say anything more about the piece he tried to sell?’

Kirstin scans the text. ‘Not much. Says part of the altarpiece shows four groups of people gathering in a meadow to worship the Lamb of God and Deagan claimed his painting showed a fifth group, one that had never previously been identified.’

‘Any values on there? Either for the real painting or what Deagan wanted for his fake?’

She reads as she scrolls. ‘The altarpiece was fifteenth-century – and wow was it big – eleven feet by fifteen.’ Kirstin spots a dollar sign. ‘Ten million. Deagan wanted a minimum of ten million bucks for his fake. Man, it must have been good.’

Mitzi mentally lists her catalogue of clues:

The panels of
The Ghent Altarpiece
.

A Celtic cross.

A memory stick full of code.

A murdered antiques dealer.

A dead crook.

A missing art fraudster linked to a British diplomat who’s left the country.

A man’s voice breaks her concentration. ‘Listen up.’

‘Hang on,’ she says to Kirstin. She looks around and sees Captain Fulo in the doorway.

He lifts his pitch, so the cops and clerks at the back of the room can hear him, ‘People, give me your attention. I just got a call from the hospital. Lieutenant Patrick Fitzgerald died ten minutes ago.’

There are gasps and he waits a respectful second or two.

‘Anyone want to talk privately, I’m in my office.’

There are things that Angelo Marchetti had forgotten to tell Josep Mardrid. Things that could now get him killed.

Sat in a run-down pub, next to a seedy strip joint, he throws back his third shot of vodka and tries not to think of the mess he’s in.

He lied when he said he had the details of all the Knights’ Graveyards. He hasn’t. Truth is, they were on a digital file that he made on an SSOA memory stick when he was based at Caergwyn Castle in Wales. He copied them from the master computer along with scans of sacred books kept in the Arthurian Library.

The plan was to demand money from Gwyn in return for the stick. But he lost his nerve and looked for another way of making cash without directly exposing himself to the wrath of the Order.

His chance came when he returned to America.

He was put in charge of the burial of a young knight killed by arms traffickers. The internment was close to Glastonbury inside the Meshomasic State Forest in Connecticut.

After the ritual he sent his men away, telling them he needed time alone with his fallen brother. Only instead of paying his respects, he stole the man’s burial cross and those of his father and grandfather, who had been laid to rest in the same tomb.

Marchetti had connections who could sell them for him. Men who supplied him with drugs. Gang bosses who were likely to kill him if he didn’t settle his debts soon.

Out of financial desperation, he ended up giving one of the crosses and the original SSOA memory stick to Kyle Coll, the head of the Mara Salvatrucha family. He’d separately transcribed parts of the books on to a sheet of paper, so a dealer would be interested in the extracts, but he’d kept back the key to the code.

What he hadn’t realized, until he checked the copy he’d made for himself, was that whenever the data was copied to non-SSOA software or hardware it corrupted. The copy he’d kept for himself became worthless.

Despite that setback, for a short while, it looked like things were still going to work out. The gang found Goldman, who specialized in religious artefacts. He came up with a deposit and was keen on buying all three crosses. When they threw in the extracts of the books he saw big dollar signs.

Then the old man did something stupid. He chipped his offer price at the last minute and threatened to expose them to the cops if they didn’t accept it. The bluff cost him his life.

Things lurched from bad to worse.

Angelo had arranged to meet Brad Deagan at the Dupont diner, but he got wasted on crack and arrived late. So late, that all he saw was George Dalton leaving the parking lot. He watched the Lincoln go, then the tow truck come for Deagan’s SUV. It was then that he knew the game was up and he had to flee the country before the Order got to him.

Now he has another chance.

A final one.

He finishes his drink and prays he doesn’t blow it.

There’s no way Mitzi can sit at Irish’s desk. It wouldn’t be right. Neither would hanging around while colleagues badmouth him.

She grabs a cab and gets to thinking she could have developed a soft spot for Irish. Bad boys and broken-downs have always been her type. And he was certainly a renovation job.

Back in her room at Silver Fall Lodge, she flips open the minibar, finds a bottle of the hard stuff and unscrews the top. ‘Here’s to you, Lieutenant Fitzgerald. I hope heaven has a free bar and a good woman to love you.’ She jolts back enough brandy to burn her throat, then grabs a dose of painkillers and lies down for a five-minute rest.

Two hours later, she’s woken by the jangle of her phone.

Her heart hammers as she grabs it from the bedside table. ‘Hello.’

There’s a pause before a man answers, ‘Is that
Lieutenant
Fallon?’

She struggles to sit up. Pain drives a stake through the middle of her face. ‘Yeah, it is.’ She sees the number is withheld. ‘Look, if you’re another cold-calling asshole trying to sell me insurance or a car loan, then I warn you buddy, now is NOT the time.’

‘This is Sir Owain Gwyn, former UK ambassador to America.’

She closes her eyes and begs for the floor to open up and swallow her.

‘You called me and several of my colleagues saying you needed help with regard to a homicide investigation. How can we assist you?’

Mitzi is
so
not ready for this. The sleep and painkillers have left her mind all fugged. ‘My apologies. The case I’m working involves the death of two people and there’s a link to one of your staff, a Mr George Dalton. I’d like to ask him a few questions.’

‘What questions, Lieutenant?’

‘Where he was at certain times, who he was with and what he was doing. The
usual
kind of questions.’

‘He was most probably with me. He’s a senior member of my staff and I’m afraid I work him very hard. How about I have my secretary call you and you submit a list of questions for Mr Dalton? I will see that he answers them for you.’

‘How about I talk to him directly?’

‘I don’t think that’s preferable or convenient for us. There are certain protocols we have to follow.’

Mitzi senses she’s being shut down. ‘Your consul and my homicides are linked to a religious relic, a Celtic cross; would that mean anything to you, ambassador?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘What about Code X?’

He pauses. ‘I’m sorry; someone distracted me with a message. Can you repeat what you said, please?’

Mitzi knows she’s struck a nerve. ‘Code X. Does that mean something to you?’

‘It does, Lieutenant, but I can’t speak about this on the telephone. It is somewhat complicated, and delicate. Is there a way we can talk face to face?’

She lets out a long sigh and faces up to the inevitability of a painful flight to the UK. ‘I can be on a plane tomorrow.’

‘Good. My secretary will call you to make arrangements. I’ll have a driver meet you at the airport.’

The phone goes dead.

She slaps it down on the table and collapses on the bed. ‘Shit. Shit. Shittety-shit.’

It rings again.

She gives it a sideways look that could melt iron then takes the call. ‘Hello.’

‘Mom, it’s Amber.’

‘Oh, hiya, honey. How are you?’

‘I’m sick. Aunt Ruth says I have gastro-something.’

‘Gastroenteritis?’

‘Yeah, that. I’m just living in the bathroom and Jade’s driving me crazy. When are you coming home? I really need you, Mom.’

It takes Mitzi twenty minutes and a whole lot of bribery to persuade Amber that she isn’t the mother from hell. It takes twice as long to do the same with Jade.

Ruth is predictably cold when she’s told that the overnight stay in Washington is going to be stretched into a transatlantic trip that most likely will last another week.

Years of being a cop tells Mitzi her younger sister is more than just pissed about being put on. She sounds depressed, angry and confused and Mitzi wishes she were there to help her work through the mess with Jack.

Once the call’s done, she sinks another brandy miniature and bins the bottle. A mirror on the wall of her tiny hotel room throws back an almost unrecognizable woman with black eyes, a fire-truck-red nose and unattractive strap of white plaster. The only consolation is they straightened a crooked break delivered by her ex’s fist half a decade ago.

Mitzi thumbs through a room-service menu and intends to order only a chicken salad and milk but somehow a side of fries and a slice of pecan pie get added.

While waiting for the food, she calls Donovan and updates her on everything from Irish’s death to her conversation with Gwyn and the need to go to London.

‘Your timing’s good,’ says her boss. ‘Eleonora got a break on the satanic killing. She’s with the cops and they’ll be bringing charges within the hour.’

‘Lucky her. Who was it down to?’

‘Brother of the husband. You weren’t far off with your initial guesswork. She’ll tell you the story when you’re back. Point is, Bronty can be freed up, if you think he’d be of help to you.’

‘Given all the religious connections, I’m sure he would be.’

‘Thought so. You want him here, or do I send him UPS to London?’

‘London would be better. Is he going to be okay with making a trip like that with so little notice?’

‘About as okay as you were.’ Donovan waits a beat. There’s something she needs to make her lieutenant aware of. ‘You know that we’re going to draw heat on this. British diplomats have friends who are American diplomats who have friends in the justice system who pull strings in every puppet theatre from the grubbiest station house to the Oval Office.’

‘Yeah, I can imagine how it might play out.’

‘Good, then you know that I need you to be smart. I’ll keep them off your back as long as possible, but if I tell you we have to pull out, you pull out. No tantrums. No shit storms. Agreed?’

She’s too tired to fight. ‘Agreed.’

‘Remember you said that, because if you leave me hanging on this one, that car crash you’ve been in will feel like a day at the spa when I’m done with you.’