The Camelot Code (17 page)

The street names flashing past the windshield of the vintage Rolls are places Mitzi’s only ever heard about. Piccadilly Circus. Oxford Street. Covent Garden. Leicester Square. The Strand.

Traffic slows as they approach a giant building of blasted white stone, tall arched windows, heavy black gates and soaring spires. It looks like a wing of Hogwarts. An impression compounded by an isolated stone plinth and grotesque sculpture of some kind of bird. She presses the button that Harold the chauffeur said would get his attention.

‘Excuse me. Can you tell me where the hell we are and what all these buildings and freaky statues are about?’

The driver glances back as he answers. ‘We’re on Fleet Street, ma’am. That’s the Royal Courts of Justice alongside us. Sir Owain’s office is just around the corner.’ He glances at the priceless Charles Bell Birch sculpture standing proudly on its column and tries to prevent a tone of cultural superiority from creeping into his voice. ‘This is the Temple Bar monument; it used to denote the edge of the city. The statue you mentioned is a heraldic dragon. You will find there are two on the crest of the City of London, along with the cross of St George.’

Bronty is listening with interest. ‘You said Temple – is that connected to the Knights Templar?’

‘Yes, sir. Its name comes from the Temple Church and the Temple area. They were once in the ownership of the knights but are now home to the legal profession.’

‘Saints and sinners,’ adds Mitzi, sarcastically. ‘A modern-day lawyer is about as far as you can get from a chivalrous and honourable knight of old.’

‘You might well be right about that, ma’am.’ The traffic starts to move a little faster and Harold manages to get into second gear. ‘It may interest you to know that each year the monarch customarily stops at Temple Bar before entering the City of London, so that the Lord Mayor may offer up the City’s pearl-encrusted Sword of State as a token of loyalty.’

‘I confess to being completely uninterested,’ replies Mitzi, ‘until the point you mentioned pearls. Then you got me. Next life, I’m sure as hell coming back as a British queen.’

‘I wish you luck, ma’am.’ He glides the car silently around a corner then noisily over a cobbled backstreet that ends at a gated archway. The Rolls stops until the metal slides back, then it effortlessly slips into a long passage.

Mitzi watches the gates close and the sunlight disappear. The narrow passage gradually becomes a spiralling underground ramp that makes tight twists and turns into a vast underground parking lot where it stops.

The chauffeur gets out and opens the door for them. ‘Please follow me.’

He leads the way into a smart reception area of glass and steel, and an elevator guarded by two blue-suited men. Words are quickly and pleasantly exchanged then Harold swipes a finger over a print scanner near the elevator’s call button.

‘This will take you to reception. I or one of my colleagues will be here for you when your business is finished.’ He nods courteously and steps aside as big steel doors slide open.

The door closes automatically once Mitzi and Bronty are inside and the lift rises without any sensation of movement.

When it stops and opens, they’re facing a large picture window with a panoramic view of London.

‘Wow,’ says Bronty as they step out. ‘We must be what, two or three hundred feet above ground.’

‘Three hundred and sixty,’ says a slim brunette in a business suit. ‘Welcome to CEI. I’m Melissa Sachs, Sir Owain’s personal secretary.’ A gold bracelet shimmers on the bronzed skin of her elegant wrist as she extends her hand to greet them. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Lady Gwyn crosses the cobbled courtyard to the south-eastern wing and what’s always been known as the Augur’s Tower. Generations of servants have assumed the name comes from an old wives’ tale that if you stood at the top you’d be so high you could see into the future.

Despite the modern security cameras and armed guards around her, the walk always takes Jennifer back in time. It’s easy to picture the battlements filled with archers and the thick walls running red with the blood of her ancestor’s enemies.

She takes a calming breath as she pushes the old oak door that has been left open for her and enters the cold, sparsely furnished space that constitutes Myrddin’s living quarters.

The old man is sat in a seven-foot-high wooden throne. A large heraldic coat of arms hovers over his head. It depicts two fiery dragons back to back, divided by a broadsword. His green eyes shine from beneath wrinkled hoods of flesh and his liver-spotted, bony hands hang over the ends of the arched armrests.

‘I expected you earlier.’ His tone isn’t critical. It has no trace of disappointment or judgement in it.

Jennifer understands it well. She’s listened to it all her life, learned how to decipher every decibel of speech. ‘I had to settle my lover.’

It is no shock to him. He’d had visions of the affair long before she tilted her head at the young man and he’s sure she realizes that. ‘Have you no warm embrace to raise the cold spirit of your old confidant?’

She smiles and goes to him.

Myrddin folds her into his musty robes. For a moment, they hold each other tightly, then she takes his icy fingers in her warm palms and opens up to him. ‘I am frightened. Afraid of the changes that I know you and Owain sense are coming.’

‘My child, you and your family have been through such things so many times before. The seasons change. Winter kills and spring gives life.’ He drops his gaze pointedly to her stomach. ‘Have you told him yet?’

‘You know I haven’t.’

‘Then you must.’

‘And how will he react? With joy or sorrow?’

‘With understanding. I have told him I have seen the child. He knows the vision points to his own mortality. Remember, in the birth of the new, the spirit of the dead is born again and grows stronger.’

‘I wish this wasn’t our way.’

‘But it is and always will be.’

She steels herself to ask the most awful of questions. ‘How will it come?’

‘I have not yet seen.’ He looks kindly on her. ‘It will be honourable and brave; of that alone you can be certain.’

Jennifer closes her eyes to stop the flow of tears. It is too soon to feel sad.

He sees her fighting her emotions and bends to comfort her. ‘There, there, my child. A love like yours and Owain’s never dies. That is the point of the Arthurian Cycle. Your children perpetually recreate the spirit and goodness that is needed to project the old Order into the new world.’

‘I know. But it does not stop my heart and soul from hurting.’

‘Then let us hope that the other man you share your bed with is as good at drying tears as he is at coaxing sighs.’

She blushes. ‘I trust tonight you will not be as shocking with him as you are with me.’

‘Only if you promise to come and see me every day that you are here.’

‘Then I promise.’ She leans forward and kisses him. ‘Now be sure to keep your side of the bargain.’

He smiles as she starts to leave. ‘Soon, Jennifer. Tell Owain sooner rather than later. Time is not feeling kindly towards us.’

At the end of the top floor, Melissa Sachs stops in front of a set of double oak doors, pushes one open and steps aside to let the visitors through.

The room they enter is breathtaking. It is a giant dome of glass that overhangs the edge of the building. Reinforced panes and floor panels give the impression of walking on air.

Mitzi and Bronty move apprehensively towards the centre.

‘Please come all the way in – it’s perfectly safe.’ The amused reassurance is from an exceptionally tall and broad man in a bottle-green suit and waistcoat. ‘I’m Owain Gwyn and this is my colleague, George Dalton.’

‘Mitzi Fallon.’ She stares nervously through the floor onto the sidewalk hundreds of feet below. ‘This is my colleague, Jon Bronty.’

Owain shakes hands then leads Mitzi to two leather settees where there is a stretch of solid floor around her. ‘Please, sit here. I know some people find the room a little daunting.’

She lowers herself onto a seat. ‘Thanks. I get a little vertigo. Especially when there’s nothing between me and a splat, save an inch or two of glass.’

He smiles. ‘It looks like you’ve already had some kind of
splat
.’

‘I have. A car accident back in the States.’

Bronty and Dalton join them on the sofas.

‘Help yourselves to drinks.’ Owain gestures to bottles of juice, soda and water laid out on a small table between them.

‘Thanks.’ Mitzi pops the cap on a squat bottle of water and takes a swig.

He waits for her to put it down before he continues. ‘Lieutenant, both George and I wish to be as helpful as
possible
. I stress the word
possible
because there may be matters of national security that prevent us giving you complete disclosure and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand the reasons for that.’ He angles his body towards Bronty, who’s just produced a notebook and is digging around for a pen. ‘I must also stress that this conversation is purely “off the record”. We are seeing you without the presence of embassy lawyers and without reminding you of the rigorous defence that can be presented by diplomatic immunity.’

‘Except of course you just did.’ Mitzi smiles politely. ‘I get the picture. You’re both going to clam up; it’s just a question of when.’ Without hurrying, she takes out a deck of photographs from a file she’s brought. Like a Vegas croupier, she places them face down on the table, alongside the bottles.

As she looks up, she notices a stark contrast in the two men opposite her.

Owain Gwyn is relaxed and attentive. George Dalton, who is still to utter a word, looks as nervous as a kitten on a lake of ice.

Bronty is studying them as well. As a priest, he developed a strong intuition about character, almost as though he could tell who was struggling with the weight of sin and who wasn’t. Neither of them seems to be carrying heavy loads, but there is something unusual about Gwyn.

More than charisma.

He seems to radiate peace and gentleness. It’s the kind of intensity Bronty felt around missionaries in Africa, only more so.
Considerably
more so.

‘This is Amir Goldman.’ Mitzi plays her first card. Face up. A post-mortem shot of the old man. Naked. White. A clear view of the wounded stomach. ‘Knifed to death in his antiques store in Maryland last Friday night.’

She turns over the second. Another PM shot. Taken in the woods just as the body had been pulled from worm-infested earth. ‘This gentleman is James Tiago Sacconni, an ex-con with previous for knife attacks. He was seen coming out of Goldman’s on the night the store owner was murdered. He got into a brown SUV, an Escalade hybrid and was killed minutes later. His body was buried in nearby woods.’

Mitzi notes that neither diplomat flinches when shown the pictures. She dips into her folder and pulls out a printed Google map. ‘Please look at this for me, Mr Dalton. On there, you’ll see the antiques store. It’s marked “A”. The woods where Sacconni was found are marked “B”. You’ll notice there’s a “C”. This is Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, where the British Embassy is.’

She watches the younger man fixate on the map. Spots how he crosses his ankles to stop his foot tapping. Doesn’t miss the way he pushes his lips together to wet them as discreetly as possible. She slides her gaze over to Gwyn and finds he’s not at all interested in the map, only in his colleague and how he’s holding up.

Mitzi sits back and relaxes.

There are still cards to play but now it’s time to bluff a little and raise the stakes.

She waits until the consul lifts his head and catches her penetrating stare. ‘My question, Mr Dalton, is this – where were you between nine-thirty p.m. Friday last and daybreak Saturday?’

The lips are licked again. ‘I’m not sure. So much happened just before I left Washington to return to the UK.’ He looks towards the ambassador. ‘I think I was collecting something for Sir Owain. Something confidential.’

The knight gives a confirmatory nod.

The collective evasiveness encourages Mitzi not to rush things. ‘What vehicle were you in?’

‘The embassy Lincoln.’

‘That’s a silver MKZ with a panoramic roof?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you say if I told you that an eyewitness saw
that
Lincoln follow a brown Escalade, driven by Mr Sacconni, away from Goldman’s store just after he was murdered?’

‘I’d say your witness might be confusing my car being on the same road at the same time as the other vehicle, with the notion of me deliberately following it.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Mitzi plays her next cards. She flips over the third, fourth and fifth photographs. ‘This is a sequence of shots taken of the Lincoln, with you at the wheel, heading south from the Beltway intersection. For some reason, you are always a quarter mile behind the SUV.’ She taps the last photograph. ‘And when it comes off at Dupont, so do you.’

The consul shrugs dismissively. ‘I can see half a dozen cars in your shots there. You could say any one of them was following that target vehicle. And I’m absolutely sure I wasn’t the only person to exit at Dupont.’

Mitzi makes mental notes. He just gave her two valuable insights. But she’s not going to mention them. Not now. Not until the time is right and the advantage high. ‘It’s a nine-mile stretch from Kensington to the diner. You were the only driver that joined the road within sixty seconds of the Escalade and you didn’t overtake it during that short journey south. A little strange, don’t you think?’

Again the shrug. And another confident answer. ‘I’m a safe driver. I represent the British Government and I’m conscious of that honour, so I stick to the speed limit.’

The door opens and Melissa Sachs appears and looks pointedly towards her boss.

‘Excuse me.’ Sir Owain gets up and walks to her.

They talk briefly.

The ambassador returns to his guests. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to carry on without me for a moment. I have an urgent call I need to step out and take.’

Mitzi turns back to Dalton. Time to play her trump card. She flips over a grainy photograph of the All Night All Right Diner that she had Kirstin take and make look as though it had come from a security camera. ‘This is a fast food joint off Connecticut Avenue, out from Dupont, down seventeenth near Stead Park. Not the kind of place I’d imagine a person like you would visit. But you did.’

His eyes flick from it to the two remaining face-down photographs on the table and guesses that they show him both inside and outside the diner.

‘What were you doing there, Mr Dalton?’

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. ‘It was a call of nature. I used their washroom.’ He picks up a bottle of water and casually drinks, then adds, ‘We Brits are a bit old-fashioned. We can’t just go urinating in the wild.’

‘Hell, no!’ says Mitzi. ‘What would the world come to?’ She opens her own bottle and mirrors his actions. ‘How did things go in the men’s room?’

‘What do you mean? I went to the toilet. How do you think it went?’

She notes his touchiness and puts her bottle down next to his. ‘Talk me through it. Tell me.’

His face flushes with anger. ‘I went in. Used the urinal. Went out and drove home.’ He sits back and glares at her. ‘Did you really come all the way from the States to ask about my toilet habits?’

‘You’d better believe it, buddy.’ The guy’s as guilty as hell. If she gives him a little more rope sure as night follows day he’s going to hang himself.

The office door opens.

Sir Owain enters. There’s purposefulness in his stance. ‘I’m very sorry; I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Something of extreme importance and urgency has happened.’

Mitzi collects the photographs, drops them in her folder and grabs her bottle of water. She’s as mad as hell and struggles to hide it. Sir La-de-da was probably watching on a hidden camera and didn’t like the fact his boy was in trouble. She gets to her feet and walks over to him. ‘Is whatever just happened
really
more important than the Code X files, ambassador? I was
so
looking forward to discussing them with you.’

‘It is, Lieutenant.’ His eyes narrow. ‘You will learn soon enough what detained me and why this meeting had to be curtailed. I only hope that when you do, you will apologize for that remark and then it may be possible for us to meet again.’