The Camelot Code (20 page)

Angelo Marchetti is buzzing from the line of coke he’s snorted in the washroom of a dingy café behind Tottenham Court Road Tube station.

The full rush hits him as he steps into the street and gets swallowed up in the fast, noisy tide of people. His senses are super-sharp. He can smell the rich, roasted coffees they carry in their hands, the sweet dope some of them are smoking, the colognes and perfumes on their cheeks.

His iPhone pulses and he slaps several pockets until he finds it. There’s no number on the caller display but he knows who it’s from. Right now, no one in the world is more important than the man at the other end of the line.

He hits the green answer button, ‘Tell me all my troubles are over.’

The noise on the street disappears as he listens. It seems for a moment the whole world has stopped. Marchetti’s drug-induced high has just been depressingly blown away. ‘You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure.’

The caller is certain. He insists there is no way he could be wrong.

Marchetti looks around the street. The energy has gone. People are only ghosts to him now. He’s lost all connection and feeling for the world around him.

He’s a dead man walking.

Unless he can think of something new, it’s only a matter of time before either Mardrid or Gwyn end his sorry life.

The caller is still on the phone. He wants a decision. In light of what’s happened, he wants to know what needs to be done.

‘Okay,’ says Marchetti. ‘Do what you have to. But do it quickly and never call me again.’

It’s late evening by the time Owain Gwyn gets back to his company desk.

Melissa Sachs sticks her head around her boss’s door. ‘Do you need me to stay longer?’

He glances at the clock: 21.15.

‘No, I’m sorry. I had no idea it was that late.’

She smiles understandingly. It’s always that late and he never seems to notice.

‘I’m fine, Melissa. Thanks for hanging on.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She starts to leave, then has an afterthought. ‘Would you like me to order you any food?’

‘No thanks. It’ll do my waistline good to miss a meal.’ He playfully waves her away.

Once she’s gone, he presses a button that locks the door and another that slides back a wooden panel in the opposite wall and reveals an eighty-inch LED monitor. He uses his desk computer to pull up live satellite feeds of the carnage near Ashford and at the same time a video link to the SSOA offices in America.

Gareth Madoc slips into a seat thousands of miles away and activates the conferencing facility. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

Owain takes off the mute control at his end. ‘Loud and clear. How are you?’

‘Holding up. Nothing that a night’s sleep wouldn’t solve.’

‘All in good time. Tell me about our friend Nabil Tabrizi.’

‘We’ve had eyes and ears on him and Malek the bomb-maker since the blast. There’s been no movement from either of them and no contact between them.’

Owain grimaces. ‘I’d hoped Nabil would be careless.’

‘He hasn’t been. Not yet. I think Malek still being around is significant.’

‘Why?’

‘It confirms that the suicide vest wasn’t his handiwork. If it had been, they’d have moved him out of the area for fear of any connection.’

‘Meaning they still want him in NYC to do something else.’

‘I think so.’

‘Then we have to find out who the other bomb-maker is. Do the Americans have any idea?’

‘The CIA is all over the two terrorists seized in the raid on the body shop. They’ve introduced them to a whole new world of pain but neither have given anything up.’

‘They will,’ says Owain. ‘Providing of course that they have anything to give up and the CIA don’t kill them in the process.’

‘We have one lead that might prove fruitful, but I don’t want to raise your hopes prematurely.’

‘They need raising, even if it is only temporary.’

He gives it his best shot. ‘Antun’s death was caught on CCTV cameras at the station. We were able to work backwards, block-by-block following him on street surveillance systems. He came to Grand Central in a white van that had been parked at the back of a group of old row houses down Westchester Avenue. There’s a shot of Antun and the man he fought with and killed getting into it.’

Owain had to cast his mind back ‘Hadn’t we been watching one of Nabil’s safe houses near there?’

‘Yes, but it’s not where he is now. We do however have footage from there showing a young Muslim woman going in, looking terrified.’

Poor kid.’

‘
Lucky
kid, more like. When she comes out, she’s on her knees, kissing the ground. Praising Allah for something.’

‘Her life.’

‘That’s what I thought. My guess is she was the original candidate for the suicide vest, then Antun volunteered to take her place.’

‘Let’s hope she stayed lucky.’

‘She has so far. I’ve got a crew monitoring her. If we can offer her a new start somewhere far away then she might be turnable.’

‘Does the CIA know about her?’

‘Not yet. But they’ll be doing the same surveillance back-trace that we did, only with more primitive equipment.’

Gwyn drums his fingers on the big table. ‘I’m hesitant because I’m trying to see the bigger picture. Lance has intelligence pointing at an al-Qaeda strike in Rome and I’m trying to reconcile the two locations.’

‘Surely it’s an either or?’

Owain grimaces. ‘Maybe not. Mardrid is pumping money into AQ like never before. For some time, he’s been riding the coat tails of the Muslim Brotherhood, helping them build powerbases in Egypt, Syria, Algeria and Libya. If you couple that with his activities in Africa, you can see an ambitious plan of destabilization.’

‘Good old-fashioned monetary warfare.’

‘War always is, Gareth, and for centuries the Mardrids have funded the most brutal of them. I’ve told Lance I want Josep Mardrid dead, and I mean it. We have to cut the head off the serpent. If we don’t, many innocent lives will be lost.’

A simple meal of roasted lamb, new potatoes and summer vegetables is served in a wainscoted room decorated with a hundred and fifty medieval shields. Each one comes from a Blood Line knight, a founding member of the secret Arthurian Order.

The room is wide and tall, with heavy crimson drapes and leaded ceiling-to-floor windows to three walls. In winter, a raging fire would roar in the massive inglenook hearth that dominates the fourth wall.

Lady Gwyn, Lance Beaucoup and Myrddin sit at a long table made from a giant oak that grew for centuries in the castle’s grounds. Down the length of its noble grain stand ten silver candelabras, all dripping candle wax.

Myrddin puts down a silver jewelled wine goblet that he’s owned all his life and blots red wine from his lips with a white cotton napkin. His green eyes settle on Lance as though reading his thoughts. ‘I believe it was February of last year.’

‘What was?’ The Frenchman puts down his knife and fork.

‘This was the first time that you were bold enough to declare your affections to the good lady.’

Lance picks up his wine and drinks nervously.

‘Since then, you have thought of her every morning and every night. You are so hopelessly in love you would die for her. You’d give up your own life in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t you?’

He knows there is no point denying it. ‘I would.’

‘It is good to know there is honour in dishonour, because one day you most probably will have to lay down your life for her. I believe it is something Owain knows as well.’

Lance looks alarmed, ‘Does he —’

Myrddin cuts him off with a mocking smile. ‘You insult both him and me with your question. What is important is that he thinks much of you. He sees you as brave and…
gallant.
’

The comment angers him. ‘In days of old such
gallantry
would deserve more than ridicule from an old man.’

Myrddin runs a finger across his throat. ‘In days of old cold steel may have been drawn across warm flesh in response to indiscretion such as yours.’

Lance looks to Jennifer. ‘Was this why you arranged tonight’s dinner? To have me lectured and embarrassed in this way?’

Myrddin prevents her answering. ‘No, it is for me to remind you that discretion is the better part of valour. Some things in the great Cycle are inevitable and it behoves me to instruct those central to its motion to behave in a manner that does not cause concern among the circles. Do you understand, my young and
gallant
knight?’

‘Enough,
monsieur
. I am done with this.’ Lance drops his napkin on the table and pushes back his chair. ‘It is better I go and swallow my words, than stay and spit out poison that sickens our future relationship.’

‘As you wish.’

Lance nods at Jennifer and leaves.

Myrddin stretches out his hand and takes hers. ‘He has made a wise decision. In the mathematics of the heart, love and goodness are multiplied by sacrifice and so far your lover has made but a small contribution.’

‘Don’t chide him so.’

‘My child, soon you will be called upon to make the greatest of sacrifices and I need to ensure your account is not empty of love when life withdraws all that matters to you.’

She squeezes tight. Holds on like she did when she was a child and ran to him, frightened. ‘How long has Owain known?’

‘Long enough to prepare and not so long to be immune to hurt. The blackest of times is coming and both your husband and I believe your fiery French friend is best suited to guide you to the light.’

At the end of what seems a long day Mitzi and Bronty eat in the hotel restaurant. Soup. Steaks and fries. Nothing fancy. No dessert but one too many glasses of wine. Bloated and sleepy, they crash out as soon as they’re finished.

Mitzi climbs into bed and calls her sister.

Ruth still sounds angry with her. ‘I was wondering if you were going to bother to call.’

She fights back a curt reply. ‘Busy day, Ruthy. You may have noticed there’s been a bombing in the UK. On top of that, I’m still working a double homicide.’

‘I wasn’t criticizing.’

‘Sounded like you were warming up to it. How’s Amber?’

‘A little better.’ Her tone softens. ‘She’s not eating yet but we got her a prescription and she’s moved from the bathroom to her bed. She’s on the mend.’

Mitzi tries to build bridges. ‘Thanks for looking after her. I’m really sorry I’m not there.’

‘Yeah. I wish you were here too. I know what happened with Jack wasn’t your fault.’ There’s an awkward lull before she adds, ‘I just needed someone to blame. Other than me.’

‘Then blame him. Not you.’

‘I know. Hey, what I said about you finding another place. There’s no rush. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.’

‘I’ll find somewhere soon. Promise.’

‘Not too soon. I’m gonna miss having people round.’

‘Oh, we’ll still be around – just not under your feet. Do either of my daughters want to talk to me?’

‘I think Amber’s asleep, but I’ll put Jade on.’ She holds the phone and shouts across the open-plan room. ‘It’s your mom; she wants to talk to you.’

Mitzi hears the sound of the dishwasher being emptied and her daughter’s voice in the background: ‘I don’t want to talk to her. If she can’t be bothered to be here, then I can’t be bothered either.’

‘Jade!’

There’s a pause before Ruth comes back on the phone. ‘Sorry, she’s doing stuff.’

‘Yeah, it sounded like it. I heard her, Ruthy. She’s clearly still mad at me.’

‘She’s a teenager; she’s mad at most things. I’ll try to get her to call you later.’

‘Thanks.’ Mitzi doesn’t want to hang up without acknowledging her sister’s wish to put things right between them. ‘And thanks for not being mad with me any more. I hate it when we row.’

‘Me too.’

‘Then we won’t. Not any longer. Tell the girls I love them and I can’t wait to see them.’

‘Will do.’

She hangs up and feels horribly sad and lonely. Maybe taking this job was the wrong thing. It’s provided the new start she needed but now it’s torturing her with guilt about not being with the kids.

Her cell phone rings. She looks at the number and sees it’s a Washington area code. ‘Fallon.’

‘Lieutenant, it’s Kirstin Collins. I hope I haven’t woken you?’

‘No. But me and my beaten-up face are about to turn in for the night.’

‘Then I’ll try not to keep you. Sophie Hudson, the assistant at Goldman’s, has been found dead in her apartment. Her neck’s broken and her home has been trashed.’

It’s gone two in the morning when Angelo Marchetti staggers out of Experientia, a basement club regarded as the West End’s coolest.

He’s more wasted than he’s been for years and is uncertain he can find a cab, let alone his hotel.

Today’s been a shitter. A Grade One crap-a-doodle-dandy of badness.

And even now, out of his brain on poorly cut coke, he can’t bury the thought that he had a young girl killed and still hasn’t recovered the digital data that would have been his passport to an unworried life of plenty.

He staggers down a narrow, dark side street and heads towards the haze of lights at the far end.

He hears the click, a second before a voice demands, ‘Give me your fucking money.’

Marchetti doesn’t answer.

‘Your money, phone ’n’ watch, or I’ll fuckin’ shoot you.’

He doesn’t speak because he’s wondering if it would be a good thing to get shot. To put an end to all the crap he’s in. If the stick-up guy is any good, it’ll be over real quick. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘I mean it, man.’ The voice gets closer. ‘Empty your fuckin’ pockets, or I’ll waste you.’

Marchetti’s SSOA training kicks in. He sobers up fast. The loudmouth is a punk but he’s not alone. There are two, maybe three others shuffling in the shadows. In a second, someone will grab him. They’ll throw punches and kicks and pile in on him and have their fun.

‘Okay. Okay!’ He holds up his hands. ‘I’m doing the watch. I’m taking it off.’ He steps forward placidly and then snaps a full-blooded punch into one of the hazy outlines.

‘Fuuuck!’ A shadow reels back holding a broken jaw.

Marchetti drops to the floor and grabs an ankle. He tugs hard and the body goes down. He keeps hold of the foot and twists until the ankle breaks.

There’s a roar of gunfire.

Stick-up boy has finally found the balls to pull the trigger. But it’s only a warning shot. And that’s his big mistake. He’s given away his position.

Before the goon recovers from the recoil, Marchetti is at him. He smacks the weapon away with his right hand and smashes his skull into the shooter’s face.

Someone punches Marchetti in the side. A dull pain registers. He drives an elbow into the attacker’s head and sends him crashing into a wall.

It’s getting messy now and he knows that, even sober, three against one is eventually going to turn bad unless he wants to start killing people.

The blow in his side is achingly painful. He puts a hand down and realizes he’s been knifed not punched.

Marchetti goes after the stick-up guy while he still has the strength. He throws a disciplined right-hander that cracks the gunman’s ribs. The punk gasps for air. Marchetti plucks the gun from his helpless fingers and shoots him in the leg.

The muzzle flash shows the whereabouts of the other two men. He swings and fires low. Leg shots, aimed to cripple, not kill.

The air fills with the smell of cordite and screams of wounded men.

Marchetti jams the gun in his belt and hobbles out of the alley. None of them is going to be rushing after him. Not now. Not ever.